PRIVATE LIBRARY | 
 
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 I JAMES H. BURKE. . 
 
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GEMS 
 
 FOR THI- FIRESIDE 
 
 COMPRISING 
 
 THE MOST UNIQUE, TOUCHING. PITHY, AND BEAUTIFUL 
 LITERARY TREASURES 
 
 FROM THE GREATEST MINDS IN THE REALMS OF POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY, 
 WIT AND HnMOR. STATESMANSHIP AND RELIGION. 
 
 ||ljC0atxtla ilXustratccl 
 
 Among the Brilliant Men and Women of Genius whose Very Choicest Productions enrich the.se 
 
 PAGES ARE Shakespeare, Milton, Mooee, Burns, Bryant, Byron, Shelley, Scott, Campbell, 
 
 Hood, Wordsworth, Longfellow, Tenny.son, Holmes, Hemans, Whittier, Saxe, 
 
 SiGOURNEY, Dickens, Lovek, Everett, Bret Harte, Franklin, Macaulay, 
 
 and about Two Hundred other Authors of established Fame. 
 
 AL,SO 
 
 MANY RARE AND EXCELLENT PIECES OF PECULL\R MERIT 
 WHOSE AUTHORSHIP IS UNKNOWN, 
 
 ARE INCLUDED, 
 To WHICH ARE ADDED BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE MOST CELEBRATED POETS AND AUTHORS; OVER 
 
 One Thousand Tep^sely put Thoughts from the World's Gre.\^test Thinkers; and 
 Numerous Autograph Album Sentiments, 
 
 MAKING A WONDERFULLY RICH 
 
 TREJISURY FOR THE HOME CIRCLE 
 
 A CHARMING 
 
 LIBRARY OF PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 Rev. 0. H. TIFFANY, D, D., EDITOR 
 
 TECUMSEH. MICH.: 
 
 A. W. Mills. Publisher. 
 1881. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE 9 
 
 INTRODQCTION , '11 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS (Peose) 15 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS (Poetry) 19 
 
 LIST OF FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS .27 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 29 
 
 GEMS OF PROSE AND POETRY 37 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 709 
 
 LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS 781 
 
 SELECTIONS FOR ALBUMS 839 
 
 INDEX OF PROSE (Titles) 845 
 
 INDEX OF POEMS (Titles) 849 
 
 INDEX OF POEMS (First Lines) 859 
 
 1 
 
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 
 
 ppN preparing '' Gems for the Fireside," the Publishers have cooperated 
 «J^ heartily with the Editor in his effort to produce a book of unequalled 
 '^:^^ excellence. He has gathered the "apples of gold;" they have set 
 them in " pictures of silver." 
 
 Particular attention has been given to every detail of the 
 publication. Paper has been prepared expressly for this volume. Its 
 texture is firm and durable ; its surface is elegantly finished ; and its 
 tone is delicate and pleasing to the sye. 
 
 Typographical effects have been carefully studied at every point, the 
 aim being to secure beauty in the page, with the greatest possible com- 
 fort to the reader. In the matter of binding, materials have been 
 selected with reference to durability and elegant appearance, while the 
 workmanship is in the best style of the art. 
 
 9 
 
10 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 
 
 Illustrative art has been taxed to the utmost in the adornment ot 
 the book, and in its pictorial embellishment. At greatly increased edi- 
 torial and pecuniary expense, the illustrations are all made to elucidate 
 the various poems and prose pieces of the text. They form an artistic 
 commentary on the choice subject-matter, and give a charming and pic- 
 turesque effect to the entire work. 
 
 In addition to the numerous full-page illustrations, and those of 
 smaller size, there is a superb steel-plate Frontispiece of Longfellow, 
 the world-renowned and beloved American poet. In view of the 
 special fitness of "Gems for the Fireside" as a gift book, a beautifully- 
 wrought illuminated Presentation Plate is inserted also. 
 
 Among the distinguished artists whose pictorial gems adorn these 
 pages, are Bensell, Darley, Grey, Hill, Hennessey, Heine, Herrick, 
 Kensett, Linton, Macdonough, McEntee, Moran, Parsons,* Smillie, Sooy, 
 Schell, Sweeney (Boz)., and many others equally skillful. 
 
 A complete double system of Indexing, gives ready access to all 
 the contents of this Treasury. Illustrations, with their titles and des- 
 criptive quotations ; Authors, with their several works as found in this 
 casket; Poems, by titles and by first lines; and Prose articles, by titles, 
 are all given in the copious and carefully prepared indexes. 
 
 In short, whatever care and generous experiditure has been able to 
 do to secure completeness and elegance, has been done in " Gems for 
 the Fireside." And now it is presented to the consideration of an ap- 
 precia.tive public. 
 
■GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE." 
 
 "TREASURY FOR THE HOME CIRCLE." 
 
 "LIBRARY OF PROSE AND VERSE. 
 
 NfnlHESE terms from the title-page of the Publishers, admirably and 
 
 erf^^ sufficiently express the scope and aim of the present beautifully 
 
 Y illustrated volume. It has been the constant endeavor of both 
 
 ? 
 
 Publishers and Editor to gather from the entire range of litera- 
 
 "^ ture the very finest pieces, and the accumulated productions of 
 the ages have been scanned, again and again, in order to secure such 
 Gems as shall reach the high standard of excellence indicated by the 
 Publishers in their prospectus. 
 
 Every unique work in literature has a history which may be 
 thoroughly known and felt by its author, and yet be unknown and unsus- 
 pected by its reader. This history may be an extended one. Great 
 preachers have said of their best sermons, that it had taken them many 
 years to prepare them. They were the product of a lifetime spent in ob- 
 servation and study. Gray's Elegy, revolved in his own mind, was re- 
 written under fresh inspiration, and pruned again and again, until that 
 brief poem stands as the one beautiful monument of his literary life. 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Poe's name and fame live chiefly in that wonderful production " The 
 Raven;" the outcome, doubtless, of some deep, wild, intense, personal 
 experience. Miss Nancy Priest wrote nothing comparable with her 
 exquisite " Over the River," and Mrs. Alexander gave us, to be treasured 
 forever, " The Burial of Moses." 
 
 Exquisite gems of literature, in prose and poetry, are not often the pro- 
 ductions of the cool thought of men and women of genius, but rather they 
 are the outcome of some all-absorbing inspiration resulting from intense 
 personal feeling, or from some momentous event. Patrick Henry's ever- 
 memorable words were fired to the white heat of devotion to his country 
 by the crisis upon which hung the destinies of her three millions of peo- 
 ple, and the question of freedom to this New World. Only the demands 
 of a terrible crisis in the great war of the Rebellion, could have produced 
 the immortal Emancipation Proclamation. 
 
 Not unfrequently the accumulated thought of years is fixed and 
 formulated by the occurrences of an instant. Glowing devotion to our 
 country's flag found quick expression in " The Star Spangled Banner," 
 when, after a night of fierce bombardment, dawn disclosed it still proudly 
 floating over the w^alls of old Fort McHenry. The overwhelming pride 
 of an obedient British soldiery gave expression to the pen of Tennyson, in 
 that intense and thriUing poem, ''The Charge of the Light Brigade," 
 when the noble six hundred made their famous dash at Balaklava. 
 
 As tiie great crises of human history call forth the great utterances, 
 the world may never have another " Uncle Tom's Cabin," or " Fool's 
 Errand." As but few men have been permitted to impress humanity by 
 many heroic deeds, so but few poets, philosophers, statesmen, or orators, 
 have given many " apples of gold in pictures of silver " to the world. 
 
 Because of these well-attested facts one may possess many volumes, 
 in most of which a few beauties form the chief attraction. The gems im- 
 part the value. Without them the volumes would lack their lustre. Not 
 the mass of soil and rock, but the gold and jewels in that mass give 
 value to the El Dorados and the Grreat Bonanzas of the world. And so it 
 is with books. 
 
 In gathering "Gems for the Fireside," real gems only have been 
 sought. Numberless productions of average worth have been passed by. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 Nothing but excellence finds a place in this treasury. By reason of its 
 unique character and wonderful variety, the book will prove a welcome 
 companion ; it will meet every mood of the human heart. The most 
 exquisite humor, the most touching pathos, the most thrilling patriotism, 
 the grandest words of statesmanship, the most impressive utterances of 
 the orator, the profound reasonings of the philosopher, the cutting satire 
 of the critic, indeed every department of literature is fittingly repre- 
 sented in this treasury. 
 
 And these " Gems " are for the "Fireside." Nothing harmful must 
 ever enter that Eden, but all influences of good must shield the purity, 
 and stimulate the holy ambitions, which are so appropriately enshrined in 
 that sanctuary of embowered bliss. 
 
 ''Home," to an ear refined, is sweetest of spoken words; "Home," 
 to an appreciative heart, is fullest of good impulses and holiest memo- 
 ries. " Home " is the goal to which wanderers return in thought 
 and hope; it is the influence which longest retains its hold on earnest 
 youth, casting its starry brightness even over the stormy seas of vice 
 and dissipation ; it is the attraction which oftenest lures weary prodigals 
 back from error and from sin to the peaceful happy isles of the blest; 
 so. Home, which is to all men the symbol of love, and purity, and hope, 
 must have its "treasury" of "gems of purest ray serene." 
 
 To constitute this "Library of Prose and Verse," the literary stores 
 of many lands have been put under contribution; England and Germany, 
 and France and Italy are represented by their choicest Poets. Russia, 
 India, China, Greece and Rome are present in admirable translations. 
 Our own America will be seen to be no whit behind the foremost in the 
 full and copious list of men and women, who have made, and are daily 
 increasing her claims for prominence in the world of letters. We have 
 from Europe, the master mind of Shakespeare, the solid grandeur of 
 Milton, the romantic beauty of Scott, the homely sincerity of Burns, the 
 philosophic meditations of Wordsworth, the impassioned lines of Byron, 
 the delicate fancy of Shelly, the melodious beauty of Moore, the mirth- 
 ful humor of Hood, and from America the " very choicest productions " 
 of the most fiimous of her sons and daughters. The topics and themes 
 are as vaxied as the authors. 
 
14 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Since " freedom's battle once begun " is a perpetual inheritance, so 
 round the fireside the ruddy flame of a loyal patriotism must glow. 
 And heroic sires will find inspiration for their sons in the selections from 
 Campbell, Longfellow, Baker, Everett, Webster and Lincoln. 
 
 As the Home must be the place for holy breathings and for conse- 
 crated hearts, it will be found that a number of selections have been made 
 from Addison, Bunyan, Montgomery, Muhlenburg, Bonar, Willis and 
 others, whose verse and meditations are alike free from pious cant and 
 bigoted sectarianism. 
 
 It is believed that this collection contains vastly more of entertain- 
 ment, culture and inspiration than any other volume of like size and price. 
 It has been prepared at great expense and labor, to meet a want Mt in 
 every home, for a volume, that shall be for every day use, a source of 
 constant instruction, inexhaustible entertainment and permanent good, 
 that will cheer the solitary hour and charm the entire family circle. 
 
 0. H. Tiffany. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS, 
 
 (PROSE) 
 
 Adeleb, Max, (Charles Heber Clarke). 
 
 Catching the Morning Train . . 61 
 
 Andersen, Hans Cheistian. 
 
 The Little Match Girl 156 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 The Generous Soldier Saved . . 91 
 
 Jimmy Butler and the Owl . . . 101 
 
 Good-night Papa, 118 
 
 Too Late for the Train . .... 125 
 
 Yankee and the Dutchman's Dog. 131 
 
 United in Death 137 
 
 De Pint wid Old Pete 143 
 
 Jenkins goes to a Picnic .... 163 
 
 Pledge with Wme 166 
 
 The Old Wife's Kiss 244 
 
 The Last Station 271 
 
 Schooling a Husband 313 
 
 Lord Dundreary at Brighton . . 363 
 
 Regulus to the Roman Senate. . 370 
 
 Hypochondriac 403 
 
 Mariner's description of Piano . 495 
 
 A Husband's Experience in Cook 
 
 ing 519 
 
 The Life of a Child Fairy . . . 529 
 
 Selling a Coat 585 
 
 My Mother's Bible 611 
 
 The Noble Revenge 621 
 
 The Grotto of Antiparos .... 636 
 
 Fingal's Cave 648 
 
 Winter Sports 667 
 
 Bailey, J. M., (Danbury News Man). 
 
 Mr. Stiver's Horse ...... 112 
 
 Sewing on a Button 169 
 
 Baxtee, Richaed. 
 
 The Rest of the Just 545 
 
 Beechee, Henry Waed. 
 
 'Biah Cathcart's Proposal. ... 293 
 
 Death of President Lincoln . . . 598 
 
 Loss of the Arctic 683 
 
 Berkley, Bishop Geoege. 
 
 Industry the Source of Wealth . 180 
 15 
 
16 
 
 AUTHORS OF PROSE. 
 
 Billings, Josh, (Henry W. Shaw). 
 
 Manifest Destiny 457 
 
 Brown, Charles F., (Artemus Ward). 
 
 Artemus Ward at the Tomb of 
 
 Shakespeare 152 
 
 Artemus Ward visits the Shakers 420 
 Burke, Edmund. 
 
 The Order of Nobility 227 
 
 On the Death of his Sou ... . 231 
 BuNYAN, John. 
 
 The Golden City 303 
 
 Baker, Edward Dickinson. 
 
 Worse than Civil War 516 
 
 Chapin, Rev. Dr. Edwi?^ Hubbell. 
 
 The Ballot-Box 617 
 
 Ghoate, Rufus. 
 
 The Birth-day of Washington . 444 
 Clemens, Samuel L., (Mark Twain). 
 
 Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and 
 
 Prayer 121 
 
 European Guides 211 
 
 Jim Smiley's Frog 510 
 
 Buck Fanshaw's Funeral .... 671 
 OozzENS, Frederick S. 
 
 The Dumb-Waiter 279 
 
 Croly, George. 
 
 Constantius and the Lion . . . 239 
 Gumming, Rev. John, D. D. 
 
 Voices of the Dead 298 
 
 Cttrtis, George William. 
 
 Ideas the Life of a People ... 440 
 
 DiOKENS, Charles. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma . . 71 
 
 Death of Little Joe ..... . 134 
 
 The Drunkard's Death ..... 189 
 
 Death of Little Nell 256 
 
 Pip's Fight 287 
 
 Recollections of my Christmas 
 
 Tree 307 
 
 A Child's Dream of a Star ... 345 
 
 The Pauper's Funeral 365 
 
 Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room 375 
 Nicholas Nickleby leaves Dothe- 
 
 boys' Hall 399 
 
 Sam Weller's Valentine 532 
 
 Disraeli, Benjamin. 
 
 The Hebrew Race 67 
 
 Jerusalem by Moonlight .... 568 
 
 De Quincey, Thomas. 
 
 Execution of Joan of Arc. . . . 145 
 Dougherty, Daniel. 
 
 Pulpit Oratory 81 
 
 DwiGHT, Timothy. 
 
 The Notch of the White Moun- 
 tains 423 
 
 Emmet, Robert. 
 
 A Patriot's Last Appeal .... 546 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 
 
 Self-Reliance 607 
 
 Everett, Edward, Hon. LL.D. 
 
 Last Hours of Webster .... 153 
 
 Morning 355 
 
 The Indian to the Settler .... 463 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers 524 
 
 The Clock-work of the' Skies . . 630 
 
 Franklin, Benjamin. 
 
 Arrival in Philadelphia 657 
 
 Froude, James Anthony. 
 
 The Coronation of Anne Boleyn 194 
 
 Garfield, James A., President. 
 
 Golden Gems (Selected from Ora- 
 tions and Writings) .... 640 
 
 Greenwood, Francis W. P. 
 
 Poetry and Mystery of the Sea . 175 
 
 GouGH, John B. 
 
 Buying Gape-seed 57 
 
 What IS a Minority 270 
 
 A Glass of Cold Water 332 
 
 Halibueton, Thomas C. 
 
 Soft Sawder and Human Natur. 646 
 Hervey, James. 
 
 Meditation at an Infant's Tomb 321 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel. 
 
 Sights from a Steeple 470 
 
 Holland, Josiah Gilbert. 
 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 201 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 
 
 The Front and Side Doors ... 43 
 
 Sea-shore and Mountains .... 415 
 Howitt. Mrs. Mary. 
 
 Mountains 427 
 
 Hugo, Victor. 
 
 Caught in the Quicksand .... 223 
 
 The Gamin 275 
 
 Rome and Carthage 350 
 
AUTHORS OF PROSE. 
 
 17 
 
 [rving, Edward. 
 
 
 Phillips, Wendell. 
 
 
 David, King of Israel 
 
 486 
 
 Political Agitation 
 
 506 
 
 Irving, Washington. 
 
 
 PoE, Edgar A. 
 
 
 • Baltus Van Tassel's Farm . . . 
 
 49 
 
 The Domain of Arnheim .... 
 
 433 
 
 Sorrow for the Dead 
 
 88 
 
 PooLE, John. 
 
 
 Rural Life in England 
 
 284 
 
 Old Coaching Days 
 
 579 
 
 A Time of Unexampled Prosperity 
 
 448 
 
 Porter, Noah. 
 
 
 The Organ of Westminster Abbey 
 
 474 
 
 Advice to Young Men 
 
 598 
 
 Sights on the Sea 
 
 The Tombs of Westminster 
 
 b/4 
 621 
 
 Prime, William C. 
 
 Morality of Angling 
 
 39 
 
 Jefferson, Thomas. 
 
 
 Habits of Trout 
 
 643 
 
 The Character of Washington . 
 
 559 
 
 Prentiss, S. S. 
 
 
 Jerrold, Douglas. 
 
 
 New England 
 
 105 
 
 Winter 
 
 55 
 
 PuRCHAs, Samuel 
 
 Praise of the Sea 
 
 
 Mrs. Caudle needs Spring Clothing 
 
 478 
 
 75 
 
 Mrs. Caudle on Shirt Buttons . . 
 
 499 
 
 
 
 Jones, J. William. 
 
 
 Richter, Jean Paul. 
 
 
 The Responsive Chord 
 
 614 
 
 The Two Roads 
 
 109 
 
 Kane, Elisha Kent. 
 
 
 RiDDLS, Mrs. J. H. 
 
 
 Formation of Icebergs .... 
 
 627 
 
 The Ghosts of Long Ago .... 
 
 99 
 
 Arctic Life 
 
 652 
 
 Russell, William H. 
 
 
 Kelly, Rev. William V. 
 
 
 The Light Brigade at Balaklava 58 
 
 Sunrise at Sea 
 
 337 
 
 RusKiN, John. 
 
 
 
 
 Improving on Nature 
 
 503 
 
 Lamartine. 
 
 
 Book Buyers 
 
 660 
 
 Execution of Madame Roland . . 
 
 686 
 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage. 
 
 
 
 
 The Genius of Milton 
 
 487 
 
 Gathered Gold Dust 
 
 48 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham. 
 
 
 Diamond Dust 
 
 521 
 
 Dedication at Gettysburg .... 
 
 141 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bysshe. 
 
 
 Retribution 
 
 162 
 
 The Divinity of Poetry .... 
 
 394 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington. 
 
 
 Shillaber, B. p., (Mrs. Partington.) 
 
 
 The Puritans 
 
 182 
 
 Mouse Hunting 
 
 217 
 
 Milton 
 
 232 
 264 
 
 Sprague, William B. 
 
 Voltaire and Wilberforce . . . 
 
 
 
 661 
 
 
 Tacitus 
 
 390 
 
 Stanley, Arthur Penrhyn. 
 
 
 Massillon, Jean Baptiste. 
 
 
 Children of the Desert 
 
 385 
 
 Immortality 
 
 207 
 
 Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecher. 
 
 
 MacLean, Mrs. Letitia E. 
 
 
 Zeph Higgins' Confession . . . 
 
 248 
 
 The Ruined Cottage . . 
 
 96 
 
 The Little Evangelist 
 
 
 
 
 359 
 
 Milton, John. 
 
 
 Sumner, Charles. 
 
 
 The Freedom of the Press . . . 
 
 172 
 
 Progress of Humanity 
 
 453 
 
 Truth 
 
 198 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter. 
 
 
 Moseley, Litchfield 
 
 
 Rebecca Describes the Siege . . 
 
 539 
 
 The Charity Dinner 
 
 326 
 
 
 Making Love in a Balloon . . . 
 
 590 
 
 Talmage, Rev. T. De Witt, D. D. 
 
 
 Paek, Mungo. 
 
 
 Dress Reform 
 
 550 
 
 African Hospitality 
 
 66 
 
 Mother's Vacant Chair .... 
 
 555 
 
 Parker, Theodore. 
 
 
 Grandmother's Spectacles .... 
 
 675 
 
 The Beauty of Youth 
 
 697 
 
 Shooting Porpoises 
 
 704 
 
18 
 
 AUTHORS OF PROSE. 
 
 Tarson, Charles. 
 
 Scene at J^iagara 234 
 
 Taylor, Jeremy. 
 
 Useful Studies 292 
 
 Warner, Charles Dudley. 
 
 Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer 121 
 
 The Coming of Thanksgiving . . . 148 
 
 Our Debt to Irving 563 
 
 Washington, George. 
 
 Address to his Troops 408 
 
 Inaugural Address 603 
 
 Webster, Daniel. 
 
 Crime Self-Revealed 632 
 
 Whitcher, Frances Miriam. 
 
 The Widow Bedott's Poetry 
 Whitney, Mrs. Adeline D. T. 
 
 The Little Rid Hin . . . . 
 Whipple, Edwin P. 
 
 The Power of Words. . . . 
 Wirt, William. 
 
 The Blind Preacher . . . . 
 Wiley, Charles A. 
 
 Caught in the Maelstrom . 
 Wylie, J. A. 
 
 Defence of Pra Del Tor . . 
 
 82 
 
 • 
 482 
 
 665 
 
 185 
 
 412 
 
 690 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 (POETRY) 
 
 Adams, Charles F. 
 
 The Puzzled Dutchman 151 
 
 Pat's Criticism 154 
 
 The Little Conqueror 165 
 
 Der Drummer 297 
 
 Hans and Fritz 311 
 
 Leedle Yawcob Strauss 418 
 
 Addison, Joseph. 
 
 Cato on Immortality 391 
 
 Akebs, Elizabeth. 
 
 Rock me to Sleep, Mother . . . 274 
 
 Alexander, Mrs. C. F. 
 
 The Burial of Moses 289 
 
 Alger, H., Jr. 
 
 John Maynard 406 
 
 Alger, William R., (TranslatorV 
 
 The Sufi Saint 284 
 
 The Parting Lovers 356 
 
 Altenburg, Michael. 
 
 Battle Song of Gustavus Adol- 
 
 phus 430 
 
 Anacreon. 
 
 The Grasshopper King 42 
 
 Anosymous. 
 
 Shall we know each other there? 69 
 
 Song of the Decanter 87 
 
 The Farmer and the Counsellor . 100 
 
 Charley's Opinion of the Baby . 120 
 
 Socrates Snooks 124 
 
 Papa's Letter .... . . 168 
 
 Betty and the Bear 171 
 
 Love lightens Labor 182 
 
 " Love me little Love me long ". 191 
 
 Scatter the Germs of the Beautiful 195 
 
 Old School Punishment 
 The Poor Indian . 
 Two Little Kittens 
 Motherhood . . . 
 Roll on thou Sun . 
 Twenty Years Ago 
 The Nation's Dead 
 Call me not Dead . 
 The Sufi Saint . . 
 Putting up o' the Stove 
 The Engineer's Story 
 The Baggage Fiend . 
 
 209 
 
 227 
 
 229 
 
 229 
 
 234 
 
 261 
 
 266 
 
 269 
 
 284 
 
 290 
 
 295- 
 
 300 
 
 19 
 
20 
 
 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 
 
 The Song of the Forge .... 304 
 
 Civil War 318 
 
 Go feel what I have felt . . . . 31C 
 
 Paddy's Excelsior 323 
 
 Chinese Excelsior 324 
 
 Father Time's Changeling ... 324 
 
 Prayers of Children 329 
 
 Now I lay me down to sleep . . 332 
 The Frenchman and the Rats . 335 
 
 The Parting Lovers 356 
 
 Annie Laurie 385 
 
 A Kiss at the Door 401 
 
 Clerical Wit 401 
 
 Lines on a Skeleton 417 
 
 Song of the Stormy Petrel ... 440 
 
 Paying her Way 452 
 
 The Cliemist to his Love .... 469 
 
 No Sects in Heaven 500 
 
 Evening brings us Home . . . 502 
 John Jankin's Sermon .... 543 
 
 The Laugh of a Child 549 
 
 Dot Lambs what Mary Haf Got 567 
 
 St. John the Aged 575 
 
 " The Penny ye meant to Gi'e." 581 
 
 The Mystic Weaver 587 
 
 Mrs. Lofty and I 596 
 
 Our Skater Belle ....... 597 
 
 Searching for the Slam .... 602 
 
 The True Temple 615 
 
 The Drummer Boy 616 
 
 Two Views 625 
 
 Our Lambs 629 
 
 Dorothy Sullivan 685 
 
 The Eggs and the Horses .... 694 
 
 The Maple Tree 699 
 
 A Woman's Love 702 
 
 A Mother's Love 703 
 
 Arkwright, Peleg. V 
 
 Poor Little Joe 358 
 
 Allinguam, William. 
 
 The Fairies 515 
 
 Arnold, Edwin, (Translator). 
 
 Call me not Dead 269 
 
 Abnold, Geohoe. 
 
 Tlie Jolly Old Pedagogue. ... 258 
 
 Aytoune, William E. 
 
 The Buried Flower . . . • . ■ 272 
 
 Bache, Anna. 
 
 The Quilting 56 
 
 Barn.vrd, Lady Anne. 
 
 Auld Robin Gray 173 
 
 Beattie, James. 
 
 The Hermit 595 
 
 Law 679 
 
 Bell, Chas. A. 
 
 Tim Twinkleton's Twins .... 106 
 Bernard De Morlaix. 
 
 The Celestial Country 650 
 
 BiCKERSTETH, EdWARD. 
 
 The Ministry of Jesus 703 
 
 Blake, William. 
 
 The Tiger 357 
 
 BoKER, George H. 
 
 Battle of Lookout Mountain . . 570 
 
 BONAR, HoRATIUS. 
 
 Life from Death 170 
 
 Beyond the Smiling and the 
 
 Weeping 268 
 
 Brainard, M.\ry G. 
 
 He Knows 577 
 
 Brooks, Charles T., (Translator). 
 
 Winter Song 596 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 
 
 Sonnet from the Portuguese . . 370 
 
 A Portrait ■ . 388 
 
 The Cry of the Children .... 699 
 
 Brown, Emma Alice. 
 
 Measuring the Baby 520 
 
 Bryant, Wm. Cullen. 
 
 Forest Hymn 37 
 
 Waiting by the Gate 77 
 
 Song of Marion's Men 133 
 
 Thanatopsis 214 
 
 " Blessed are they that Mourn ". 242 
 
 The Death of the Flowers ... 349 
 
 Robert of Lincoln 387 
 
 The Murdered Traveler .... 402 
 
 To a Water Fowl 526 
 
 The Crowded Streets 567 
 
 God in the Seas 694 
 
 Buchanan, Robert. 
 
 Nell 393 
 
 Bungay, George William. 
 
 The Creeds of the Bells .... 309 
 
 Burns, Robert. 
 
 Highland Mary 262 
 
 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo. 336 
 
 John Anderson. My Jo 466 
 
AUTHORS OF POEMS. 
 
 21 
 
 Bybon, Loed Geoege Gordon. 
 
 
 Cooke, Philip P. 
 
 
 The Orient 
 
 224 
 262 
 
 Florence Vane 
 
 Coolidge, Susan. 
 
 •;^8i 
 
 The Sea 
 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib 
 
 296 
 
 When 
 
 450 
 
 His Latest Verses 
 
 484 
 
 Cornwall, Baery, (Bryan W. Procter). 
 
 
 
 
 The Blood Horse 
 
 42 
 
 Campbell, Thomas. 
 
 
 The Poet's Song to his Wife . . 
 
 68 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 
 
 551 
 
 The Sea 
 
 362 
 
 The Soldier's Dream 
 
 578 
 
 The Owl 
 
 422 
 
 Canning, George. 
 
 
 The Stormy Petrel 
 
 439 
 
 The Needy Knife-Grinder . . . 
 
 228 
 
 Cranch, Christopher Peaese. 
 
 
 Cart, Phcebe. 
 
 
 By the Shore of the River . . . 
 
 517 
 
 Kate Ketchem 
 
 461 
 
 Cunningham, Allan. 
 
 
 Dreams and Realities 
 
 485 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 
 
 587 
 
 Gary, Alice. 
 
 
 Cotter, George W. 
 
 
 My Creed 
 
 266 
 
 The Miser 
 
 ?,'>fi 
 
 Carleton, Will. M. 
 
 
 
 Gone with a handsomer Man . . 
 
 139 
 
 Dana, Richaed Henry. 
 
 
 Goin' Home To-day 
 
 265 
 
 The Pleasure Boat 
 
 60 
 
 Betsy and I are out 
 
 381 
 
 Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanovitch. 
 
 
 Betsey Destroys the Paper . . . 
 
 383 
 
 God 
 
 537 
 
 The New Church Organ .... 
 
 588 
 
 DoBELL, Sydney. 
 
 
 Over the Hills to the Poor-House 679 
 
 How's my Boy ? 
 
 353 
 
 Out of the Old House, Nancy . . 
 
 697 
 
 Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes. 
 
 
 Case, Phila H. 
 
 
 Learning to Pray 
 
 331 
 
 Nobody's Child 
 
 302 
 
 The Minuet 
 
 340 
 
 Catlin, George L. 
 
 
 Drake, Joseph Rodman. 
 
 
 The Fire-Bell's Story 
 
 554 
 
 The American Flag 
 
 467 
 
 Bread on the Waters 
 
 612 
 
 Donnelly, Eleanor C. 
 
 
 Chalkhill, John, (Isaak Walton). 
 
 
 Vision of Monk (Jabriel . . . . 
 
 659 
 
 The Angler 
 
 205 
 
 DuFFERiN, Lady. 
 
 
 ClBBER, COLLEY. * 
 
 
 Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 
 
 62 
 
 The Blind Boy 
 
 365 
 
 DuRYEA, Rev. William E. 
 
 
 Cleveland, E. H. J. 
 
 
 A Song for Hearth and Home . 
 
 548 
 
 Shibboleth 
 
 583 
 
 
 
 Clough, Arthur Hugh. 
 
 
 Eager, Cora M. 
 
 
 As Ships Becalmed 
 
 422 
 
 The Ruined Merchant 
 
 197 
 
 Coates, Reynell. 
 
 
 Eastman, Charles Gamage. 
 
 
 The Gambler's Wife 
 
 688 
 
 A Snow-Storm 
 
 409 
 
 Cobb, Henry N. 
 
 
 Effie, Aunt. 
 
 
 Father, Take my Hand .... 
 
 333 
 
 The Dove Cote 
 
 232 
 
 The Gracious Answer 
 
 334 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 
 
 
 Collins, William. 
 
 
 The Snow-Storm 
 
 63 
 
 Sleep of the Brave 
 
 605 
 
 Mountain and Squirrel . . . . 
 
 590 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 
 
 
 
 
 Sunrise in Valley of Chamounix 
 
 663 
 
 Fawcett, Edgar. 
 
 
 Coles, Abraham, (Translator). 
 
 
 A Prayer for my Little One. . . 
 
 682 
 
 Dies Irae 
 
 456 
 
 Fields, James T. 
 
 
 Stabat Mater 
 
 504 
 
 The Tempest 
 
 208 
 
 Cook, Eliza. 
 
 
 Ford, Mary A. 
 
 
 The Old Arm-Chair 
 
 285 
 
 A Hundred Years from Now . . 
 
 187 
 
22 
 
 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 
 
 Feeiligeath, Ferdinand. 
 
 The Lion's Ride 453 
 
 Freneau, Philip. 
 
 Indian Death Song 518 
 
 Gage, Mrs. F. D. 
 
 The Housekeeper's Sohloquy. . 78 
 Gaedette, C. D. 
 
 TheFire-Fiend IGO 
 
 Garrett, Edward. 
 
 The Unbolted Door 129 
 
 Gerot, Paul. 
 
 The Children's Church 602 
 
 GiLMAN, Caroline. 
 
 The American Boy 268 
 
 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. 
 
 The Soul of Eloquence 97 
 
 The Church Window 358 
 
 Goddard, Julia. 
 
 Hide and Seek 454 
 
 Goodrich, Orrin . 
 
 Borrioboola Gha 525 
 
 Grahame, James, Rev. 
 
 The Sabbath 610 
 
 Geat, Thomas. 
 
 Elegy in a Country Church-Yard. 203 
 
 Hart, T. B. 
 
 The Reveille 618 
 
 Harte, Francis Bret. 
 
 Miss Edith helps things Along . 254 
 
 Fate 258 
 
 Jim 339 
 
 Dow's Flat 426 
 
 Bill Mason's Bride ^^8 
 
 Havergal, Frances Ridley. 
 
 The Lull of Eternity 626 
 
 Hat, John. 
 
 The Law of Death 547 
 
 Heine, Heinrich. 
 
 The Fisher's Cottage 253 
 
 Remans, Felicia Dorothea. 
 
 The Homes of England 64 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim.'* . . . 205 
 
 The Meeting of the Ships . . . 230 
 
 Hour of Death 674 
 
 Henderson, William H. 
 
 " No more Sea." 644 
 
 Heywood, Thomas. 
 
 Song of Birds 374 
 
 Holland, Josiah Gilbert. 
 
 Cradle Song 277 
 
 Gradatim 558 
 
 Where Shall Baby's Dimple Be? 689 
 
 Holmes, C. E. L. 
 
 You put no Flowers on my Papa's 
 
 Grave 192 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 
 
 The wonderful One-hoss Shay . 69 
 
 Under the Violets 2G7 
 
 Union and Liberty ...... 273 
 
 A Tailor's Poem on Evening . . 415 
 
 Bill and Joe 458 
 
 The Last Leaf 542 
 
 Hood, Thomas. 
 
 The Death-Bed 199 
 
 The Comet 260 
 
 I Remember 273 
 
 The Song of the Shirt 282 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs 354 
 
 Ruth 367 
 
 Faithless Nelly Gray 405 
 
 No 
 
 . . 506 
 
 Nocturnal Sketch 
 
 . . 609 
 
 Holty, Ludwig. 
 
 
 Winter Song 
 
 . . 596 
 
 Hoyt, Ralph. 
 
 
 Old 
 
 . . 431 
 
 Hugo, Victor. 
 
 
 The Djinns 
 
 . . 463 
 
 Hunt, Leigh. 
 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem. . . . 
 
 . . 225 
 
 Ingelow, Jean. 
 
 
 When Sparrows Build . . 
 
 . . 471 
 
 Seven Times Two .... 
 
 . . 619 
 
 Jones, J. A. 
 
 The Gladiator. . 
 Jones, Sir William. 
 
 What Constitutes 
 
 State? 
 
 565 
 
 367 
 
 Key, Francis Scott. 
 
 The Star-Spangled Banner . . . 466' 
 King, Henry. 
 
 Life 642 
 
 Kingsley, Charles. 
 
 The Lost Doll 341 
 
 The Sands o' Dee 392 
 
 The Merry Lark 463 
 
 Knox, William. 
 
 Whv should the Spirit of mortal 
 
 "be Proud? 411 
 
 Korner, Charles Theodore. 
 
 Sword Song 312 
 
 Lampertius. 
 I A German Trust Song 589 
 
AUTHORS OF POEMS. 
 
 23 
 
 Leighton, Robert. 
 
 J ohn and Tibbie Davison's Dispute 572 
 
 Leland, Charles G., (Translator). 
 
 The Fisher's Cottage 253 
 
 Lever, Charles James. 
 
 Widow Malone 375 
 
 LoiraFELLow, Henry Wadsworth. 
 
 The Old Clock on the Stairs. . . 40 
 
 The Bridge 51 
 
 The Rainy Day . 88 
 
 Embarkation of the Exiles. . . 90 
 
 The Silent River 220 
 
 A Psalm of Life 241 
 
 Maidenhood 246 
 
 Resignation 251 
 
 Excelsior 322 
 
 Hiawatha's Journey 342 
 
 Hiawatha's Wooing 344 
 
 Hiawatha's Return 345 
 
 The Launching of the Ship. . . 389 
 
 The Arsenal at Springfield . . . 424 
 
 God's Acre 498 
 
 Evangeline on the Prairie. . . . 505 
 
 Day-dawn 549 
 
 The Children's Hour 656 
 
 The Chamber Over the Gate . . 693 
 
 The Day is Done 706 
 
 Lover, Samuel. 
 
 The Angel's Whisper 277 
 
 Lowell, James Russell. 
 
 The First Snow-fall 137 
 
 The Rose 669 
 
 LowEY, Rev. Robert, D. D. 
 
 I Love the Morning Sunshine . . 275 
 
 Dust on her Bible 666 
 
 Lynn, Ethel. 
 
 Why ? 655 
 
 Lytton, Lord Edward Bulwer. 
 
 There is no Death 451 
 
 Macdonald, George. 
 
 Baby 82 
 
 Mackay, Charles. 
 
 Little and Great 441 
 
 Cleon and 1 597 
 
 Clear the Way 623 
 
 Mignonette, May. 
 
 Over the Hills from Poor-House . 681 
 
 Miller, Joaquin. 
 
 Kit Carson's Ride 472 
 
 Miller, William E. 
 
 Wounded. ....... .188 
 
 Milman, Henry Hart. 
 
 Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem ■ 502 
 
 Milnes, Richard AIonckton. 
 
 London Churches ...•••, 237 
 The Brook Side 247 
 
 Mitchell, William. 
 
 The Palace o' the King. . = . . 286 
 
 M'Callum, D. C. 
 
 The Water-Mill 200 
 
 M'Keever. Harriet B. 
 
 The Moravian Requiem .... 225 
 Snow-flakes 243 
 
 Montgomery, James. 
 
 My Country . 179 
 
 Servant of God, well done . 254 
 
 Night 301 
 
 The Pelican 446 
 
 Moore, Thomas. 
 
 The Home of Peace 337 
 
 The Meeting of the Waters. . . 484 
 
 The Light-House .513 
 
 Echoes ..... 645 
 
 Morris, George P. 
 
 My Mother's Bible 523 
 
 Moultrie, John. 
 
 The Three Sons 528 
 
 Muhlenberg, Rev. William A., D.D. 
 
 I would not live alway. . . . 353 
 
 MuLocK, Dinah Maria. 
 
 Buried To-day 243 
 
 Munford, William. 
 
 To a Friend in Affliction .... 689 
 
 Nairne, Lady Carolina. 
 
 The Land o' the Leal 421 
 
 Norton, Caroline E. 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine 86 
 
 The King of Denmark's Ride. . 378 
 
 O'Brien, Fitz James. 
 
 The Cave of Silver 362 
 
 Osgood, Frances S. 
 
 Labor is Worship 610 
 
 Palmer, John W. 
 
 For Charlie's Sake .641 
 
 Payne, John Howard. 
 
 Home, Sweet Home ... 628 
 
AUTHORS OF POEMS. 
 
 Percival, James Gates 
 
 The Coral (irove 678 
 
 Pettee, George W. 
 
 Sleighing Song 338 
 
 PlEBPONT, JouN. 
 
 Not on the Battle-field 531 
 
 Po£, EiKiAB Allen. 
 
 The Raven 158 
 
 Annabel Lee 553 
 
 The Bells 593 
 
 Pollard, Josephine. 
 
 The First Party 414 
 
 Prentiss, E. 
 
 The Mystery of Life in Christ . 233 
 
 PnESTON, iL\UGARET J. 
 
 The Hero of the Coinmuno . . . 278 
 Priest, Nancy Amelia Woodeury. 
 
 Over the River 142 
 
 Proctor, Adelaide Anne. 
 
 A Legend of Bregenz 52 
 
 A First Sorrow 179 
 
 A Woman's Question 358 
 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem 553 
 
 The Angel's Story G37 
 
 Prout, Father. 
 
 The Bells of Shandon 573 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter. 
 
 The Nymph's Reply to the Shep- 
 herd • . 381 
 
 Ralph, Rev. W. S. 
 
 Whistling in Ileaveii 116 
 
 Raymond, Rossiter W. 
 
 Ramblings in Greece 696 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan. 
 
 Drifting 210 
 
 Sheridan's Ride 536 
 
 The Closing Scene 556 
 
 Ror.BiNS, Alice. 
 
 Left Alone at Eighty 372 
 
 Joe 514 
 
 RofSENOARTEN. 
 
 Through Trials 658 
 
 Baxe John Godfrey. 
 
 American Aristocracy 71 
 
 Song of Saratoga ...... 95 
 
 The Cockney 193 
 
 Early Rising . . 341 
 
 Blinri Men and the Elephant . . 398 
 
 I'm Growing Old 438 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter. 
 
 Patriotism ........ 233 
 
 Selected. 
 
 Life (From Thirty-eight authors) 496 
 
 Shakespeare, William. 
 
 Hark, hark the Lark ..... 319 
 
 Airy Nothings 325 
 
 Mercy • • 379 
 
 Quarrel of Erutus and Cassiu? . 476 
 Selected Gems 634 
 
 Shelley, Percy Bys.she. 
 
 To Night 242 
 
 The Cloud 437 
 
 The Sun is Warm, the Sky ... 601 
 
 Shillaber, B. p., (Mrs. Partington.) 
 
 My Childhood's Home .... 196 
 
 SiGouRNEY, Mrs. Lydia Huntley. 
 
 The Coral Insect 146 
 
 The Bell of " The Atlantic " . . 184 
 Niagara 647 
 
 Smith, Dexter. 
 
 Ring the Bsll Softy 282 
 
 Smith, Mary Riley. 
 
 Sometime 373 
 
 Smith, James. 
 
 The Soldier's Pardon 236 
 
 Smith, Hor-^ce. 
 
 The Gouty Merchant 216 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers . . . ■ . 255 
 
 Smith, Seba. 
 
 The Mother in the Snow-Storm . 513 
 
 Snow, Sophia P. 
 
 Annie and Willie's Prayer . 395 
 
 Southey, Mrs. Caroline Bowles. 
 
 The Pauper's Death-Bed .... 216 
 
 Southet, Robert. 
 
 The Cataract of Lodore . ■ . . 248 
 The Ebb-Tide 418 
 
 Spenser, Edmund. 
 
 The Ministry of Angels .... 702 
 
 Spooner, a. C. 
 
 Old Times and New 429 
 
 Sprague, Charles 
 
 I See Thee Still 144 
 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence 
 
 The Door-Step 368 
 
 Stoddart, William 0. 
 
 The Deacon's Prayer 320 
 
 Stoddard, Richard Henry. 
 
 Wind and Rain 414 
 
 Funeral of Lincoln 600 
 
AUTHORS OF POEMS. 
 
 25 
 
 Story, Robert. 
 
 The Whistle 283 
 
 Suckling, Sie John. 
 
 The Bride 642 
 
 SwiNBUENE, Algernon Charles. 
 
 Kissing her Hair 52 
 
 Taylor, Benjamin F. 
 
 The River Time 64 
 
 The Old Village Choir 677 
 
 Taylor, Bayard. 
 
 The Quaker Widow 110 
 
 Taylor, Jeffeeys. 
 
 The Milkmaid 199 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred. 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade . . 59 
 
 Song of the Brook 222 
 
 Enoch Arden at the Window . 252 
 
 Death of the Old Year .... 316 
 
 Break, Break, Break .... 348 
 
 The Eagle 364 
 
 New Year's Eve 387 
 
 The Bugle 436 
 
 The Day Dream 480 
 
 Lady Clare 631 
 
 Thomas of Celano. 
 
 Dies Ira . 456 
 
 TnuRLOw, Lord, (Edward Hovel). 
 
 The Patient Stork ...... 450 
 
 Trowbridge, John Townsend. 
 
 The Vagabonds 130 
 
 Farm-Yard Song 352 
 
 The Charcoal Man ..... 425 
 
 Uhland, Johann Ludwig. 
 
 The Lost Church 622 
 
 Vandyke, Mary E. 
 
 The Bald-Headed Tyrant . . 687 
 
 Watson, James W. 
 
 Beautiful Snow 443 
 
 Weatherly, G. 
 
 " A Lion's Head." 181 
 
 Westwood, Thomas. 
 
 The Voices at the Throne. ... 527 
 
 White, Henry Kirke. 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem .... 469 
 
 White, Mrs. Sallie J. 
 
 Little Margery 330 
 
 Whitcher, Frances Miriam. 
 
 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles . 548 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf. 
 
 Cobbler Keezar's Vision .... 44 
 
 Skipper Ireson's Ride 79 
 
 Trust 230 
 
 Barbara Frietchie 317 
 
 Benedicite 350 
 
 The Poet's Reward 402 
 
 The Vaudois Teacher 405 
 
 The Barefoot Boy 416 
 
 Maud Muller 459 
 
 Mabel Martin 488 
 
 The Ranger 507 
 
 Mary Garvin 560 
 
 The River Path 566 
 
 My Playmate 582 
 
 The Countess 605 
 
 The Changeling 654 
 
 Wilcox, Carlos. 
 
 Doing Good True Happiness . . 219 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel Paeker. 
 
 David's Lament for Absalom . . 305 
 
 The Dying Alchemist 497 
 
 The Belfry Pigeon 613 
 
 WooDWORTH, Samuel. 
 
 The Old Oaken Bucket 549 
 
 Wilson, Mrs. Cornwall, Baeon. 
 
 Answer to the Hour of Death . 675 
 
 Wordsworth, William. 
 
 Intimations of Immortality . . . 209 
 
 The Reaper 368 
 
 The Lost Love 670 
 
 Yates, John H. 
 
 The Old Ways and the New . . 104 
 
 The Model Church 544 
 
 YouL, Edward. 
 
 Song of Spring 98 
 
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 1 
 
 NO. PAGE. 
 
 I. FRONTISPIECE. (STEEL.l 4 
 
 II. " THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES." 38 
 
 III. THE GRASSHOPPER KING 42 
 
 IV. SUMMER 68 
 
 V. DOMINION OVER THE FISH OF THE SEA 75 
 
 VI. MODERN TIMES IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN 104 
 
 VII. " A TYPE OF GRANDEUR. STRENGTH AND MAJESTY." 181 
 
 VIII. DRIFTING 210 
 
 IX. " TO HIM WHO IN THE LOVE OF NATURE." 214 
 
 27 
 
FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 28 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 HO. 242 
 
 X. NIGHT 
 
 .... 342 
 
 XI. "THUS DEPARTED HIAWATHA.- 
 
 XII. "ON 
 XIII 
 
 ■244. 
 ..ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE FOREST." ^** 
 
 THE FIERCE. FOAMING. BURSTING TIDE." 362 
 
 416 
 XIV. "BLESSINGS ON THEE, LITTLE MAN." 
 
 ... .438 
 
 XV. " I'M GROWING OLD." 
 
 . . 443 
 
 XVI. "THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW." 
 
 .... 450 
 XVII. PATIENCE. 
 
 .... 469 
 XVIII. THE CHEMIST 
 
 472 
 XIX. FLYING FROM THE FIRE 
 
 482 
 
 XX. THE CRAFTY OLD FOX 
 
 XXI. "ICE-BOUND TREES ARE GLITTERING." ^96 
 
 636 
 XXII. GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS 
 
 652 
 
 XXIII. ARCTIC LIFE 
 
 XXIV. GRANDPA AND HIS PETS ^^^ 
 
 . . 668 
 XXV. WINTER JOYS 
 
 -•^^ 
 
QUOTATION^. 
 
 Vase . {Ornament.) 
 
 Royal Necklace " 
 
 Poet Laureate . . • " 
 
 An Outlook " 
 
 Entablature " • . . 
 
 Heraldic Eagle " 
 
 Sculpture " 
 
 Commemorative Vase " 
 
 Art Emblems . " 
 
 Good Luck " 
 
 Repousse Work " 
 
 Cupid " 
 
 Tablet " 
 
 The Djinn • 
 
 Studiousness " 
 
 The Old Skipper " Sitting in the. boat at work." . . . 
 
 Getting Ready " Youmust first catch them." .... 
 
 The Old Clock " Half- wat/ up the stairs it stands." . 
 
 The Blood Horse " Full of fire, and full of bone." . . 
 
 Cobbler at Work " Keezar sat on the hill-side.'' . . . 
 
 The Falls " Flashing in foam and spray.'' . . 
 
 The Arched Bridge " Down the grand old river Rhine.'' . 
 
 Poultry " Grand were the strutting turkeys." 
 
 The Cobbler's Joy " Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar." 47 
 
 The Dutch Mill " Which the Dutchfarmers are so fond of . . 49 
 
 The Cock " Clapping his burnished wings, and crowing." . 50 
 
 The Bridge " I had stood on that bridge at midnight." . . . 51 
 
 Heart of the Alps " Oirt round with rugged mountains." 53 
 
 Winter in the Country " The untrodden snow." 55 
 
 Off for a Sail " The ripples lightly toss the boat." 60 
 
 29 
 
30 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE 
 
 Graveyard " ^'v« laid you., darling, down to sleep." .... 63 
 
 Ancestral IIomestkad ' The stately homes of England." 65 
 
 Mother AND Guild '' Look where our children start." 68 
 
 The Meadow Road '' This morning the parson takes a drive." . ■ ■ ■ 71 
 
 Barriers of tue Sea "A wall of defence." • • 70 
 
 Skipper Ireson's Ride - Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart." . 79 
 
 Chaleur Bay '■ Looked for a coming that migJd not be." ... 80 
 
 Baby Dear " Where did you come from, baby dear'". . . 8? 
 
 Burial Flace " A voice from the tomb sweeter than song." . . . 88 
 
 Embarkation OF THE Exiles " Busily plied the freighted boats." 90 
 
 President Lincoln " ' God bless you, sir,' said Blossorn." 94 
 
 Ruined Cottage " None will dwell in that cottage." 97 
 
 Vase OF Flowers '' Learn of these gentle flowers." 98 
 
 Jimmy Butler directed " Youve no time to lose." 101 
 
 The Attack " I saw a pair of big eyes." 103 
 
 The Twins ON the Train " My twins, 1 shall ne'er see again." 108 
 
 TwiNKLETON ON Triai " You deserted your infants." 108 
 
 Stivers Horse '■ His ears back, his mouth open." 113 
 
 Stiver's Horse " He exercised me." 114 
 
 Stiver's Horse "' He turned about, and slwt for the gate." . . . 116 
 
 Charley " Muzzer's bought a baby." 120 
 
 Charley AND THE Baby " Ain't he awful ugly." 120 
 
 Charley's Cry " Nose ain't out of joy ent." 120 
 
 Charley's Hair Pulled " Zink I ought to love him !" 120 
 
 Charley and Biddy " Be a good boy, Charley." 121 
 
 Charley's Comfort " Beat him on ze head." 121 
 
 Mr. Mann's Haste . " Fly aroxmd." 126 
 
 Mr. Mann's Struggles "He began to sweat." 127 
 
 Mr. Mann's Defe.at " Glaring at the departing train ." 129 
 
 Roger and I " TFe are two travelers." 130 
 
 Surgery " Chock up." 133 
 
 The E.VPLANATioN " He s that ' handsomer than than you.' ". . . . 141 
 
 Pete by the Chimney " Toasting his shins." 143 
 
 Pete in Retreat "No, sa, I runs." 143 
 
 Coral Reef "Who build iii the tossing and treacherous main." 147 
 
 Nutting " The squirrel is not more nimble." 149 
 
 Puzzled Dutchman " I'm a pi-oken-hcarted Dcutscher." 151 
 
 Hans and Yawcob " Idoosn't know my name." 152 
 
 Pat AND THE Doctor " Pat, how is that for a sign f" 155 
 
 The Quack "The song that it sings is ' Quack, Quack. " . . 156 
 
 Lincoln's Monument " With malice towards ?ione; with charity for all." 1G2 
 
 The Little Conqueror " My arms are round my darling thrown." . . . 165 
 
 Betty AND the Bear " Seated himself on the hearth." 171 
 
 Betty and the Bear . " The bear was no more." 172 
 
 The Sea ..... . . " The calm, gently -heaving, silent sea." 176 
 
 Cliffs BY the Sea " What rocks and cliffs arc so glorious?" . . . . 173 
 
 Ctolone "It vanquished them at last." 185 
 
 Papa's Grave " Cover with rosc^ each lowly green mound." . . 192 
 
 Mt Childhood Home " A little low hut by the river s side." 196 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 3X 
 
 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE 
 
 The Water-Mill " The mill will never grind again." 201 
 
 Old Chuecii- Yard '' Through the church-way path we saw him borne." 203 
 
 Angling " The gallant fisher s life, it is the best of any." . 206 
 
 Forest Depths . " The venerable woods." 215 
 
 The Silent River '' Thou, hast taught me, Silent River." 221 
 
 The Brook " I come from haunts of coot and hem." ... 222 
 
 Tower "Sounds of low wailing from the tower." .... 226 
 
 Nobility " Nobility is a graceful ornament." 22S 
 
 Two Kittens " The two little kittens had nowhere te go." . . . 229 
 
 Whittier's Birth-place " A picture me'/iory brings to me." 230 
 
 Dove-Cote " A pretty nursery." 233 
 
 The Old Church " I stood before ... a large church door." . . . 238 
 
 Maidenhood " Maiden with the meek brown eyes." 246 
 
 The Brook Side " J wandered by the mill" 247 
 
 Cataract of Lodore " How does the water come down at Lodoref. . 248 
 
 The Fisher's Cottage " We sat by the fisher's cottage" 253 
 
 Jolly Old Pedagogue " He took the little ones upon his hiee." .... 259 
 
 Ships on the Sea " Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee." 263 
 
 The American Boy " Look up, my boy." 268 
 
 Rock ME TO Sleep '' Mother, come back from the echolcss shore." . 274 
 
 Ruined Church " The ruin lone and hoary." 281 
 
 Rural Comfort " In rural occupation there is nothing mean" . . 285 
 
 Mother's Chair " A sacred thing is that old arm-chair." . . . . 286 
 
 The Student " Spend not your time in that which profits not." 292 
 
 The Country Church " The steeplewas the only thing that folks could see." 294 
 
 Der Drummer . " Who puts oup at der pest hotel?" 297 
 
 The Greeting " How you vas to-day." 207 
 
 At Business " Look, and see how nice." 297 
 
 In Society " Und kiss Katrina on the mouilt." ..... 297 
 
 Indignation " Und mit a black eye goes away" 298 
 
 Gathering Night • • . . " When all around is peace." 302 
 
 The Forge " Clang, clang! the massive anvils ring " .... 304 
 
 The Church Bell "In mellow tones rang out a bell." 310 
 
 Hans AND Fritz " Two Deutschers who lived side by side." . . . . 311 
 
 Dead on the Field " Till death united." 313 
 
 Singing Birds " The lark at heaven's gate sings." 319 
 
 Excelsior " His brow ivas sad ; his eye beneath, flashed." . 322 
 
 Father Time '' He lives forever, and his name is Time." . . . 325 
 
 Fruit Piece " The dinner now makes its appearance." . . . 329 
 
 Little Margery " Dreaming of the coming years." 330 
 
 Learning to Pray " Kneeling fair in the twilight gray." 331 
 
 Rats at Work " The rats a nightly visit paid." 335 
 
 Sleighing ,• • • '" Tis the merry, merry sleigh." 339 
 
 Hiawatha's Home " I will bring her to your tvigwam." 342 
 
 The Breaking Sea " Break, break, break, on thy cold stones, sea." 348 
 
 Rabbit " They rustle to the rabbit's tread." 349 
 
 Triumphal Arch " Eome with her army." 351 
 
 Farm-yard " Into the yard the farmer goes." 352 
 
 Morning " The east began to kindle." 355 
 
32 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 The Elephant .... 
 
 The Glen 
 
 The Burning Steamer 
 Buried in Snow . . . 
 Frozen to Death . . 
 Sea-Shore 
 
 TITLE. quotation. PAGE. 
 
 The Tiger '• Burning bright, in the forest of the night." . . 357 
 
 The Minsti;r Window "The minster window, richly glowing." .... 358 
 
 Ship AT Sea " J was born on the open sea." 
 
 Cave BY the Sea " Seek me the cave of Silver." 
 
 Sickle AND Sheaf " She cuts and binds the grain." 
 
 The Lover's By-way . . ._ •• We left the old folks have the highway " ■ . 
 
 Birds " Notes from the lark I'll borrow.'' 
 
 King of Denmark's Ride " The king rode first." 
 
 Mirage " Bare as the surface of the desert." 
 
 Sands o' Dee " Never home came she." 
 
 Annie AND Willie ■' Well, why 'tant we pray t" 
 
 . " TF7io went to see the Elephant." 
 
 . . . . " Far down a narrow glen." 
 
 .... "A noble funeral pyre." 
 
 .... " All day had the snow come down." .... 
 
 . . . . " Cold and Dead." 
 
 , . . . " The sea remembers nothing. It is feline." . 
 
 Leedle Yawcob " I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart." .... 
 
 The Owl " The king of the night is the bold brown owl." 
 
 Alpine Peaks " The far more glorious ridges." 
 
 The Old Man " Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ." . . . . 
 
 Approach to Arnheim " The channel now became a gorge." .... 
 
 Stormy Petrels " The stormy petrel finds a home." 
 
 Little and Great " Mighty at the last." 
 
 Pelicans " Tliat lonely couple on their isle." 
 
 Mother and Babe " Love is a legal tender." 
 
 Maud Muller " Simple beauty and rustic health." 
 
 The Lark " The merry, merry lark was up and singing." 
 
 IsNOVATioNS OF the White Man . . ." The red man is thy foe." 
 
 Star of Bethlehem " One alone a Saviour speaks." 469 
 
 The Birds' Home " When sparrows build." 471 
 
 Interior of Westminster Abbey . . " These lofty vaults." 475 
 
 Terrace-Lawn " Every slanting terrace-lawn" 
 
 Meeting OF THE Waters " The bright waters meet." . ..... 
 
 The River Valley " You see the dull plain fall." 
 
 The Barn . . ." The old swallow-haunted barns. ' . . . 
 
 TheTiranary " Lay the heaped ears." 490 
 
 Mabel Martin " Mabel Martin sat apart." 490 
 
 The Horseshoe Charm " To guard against her mother's harm." . ... 491 
 
 Mabel IN Grief " Small leisure havcihe poor." 492 
 
 The Champion " I brook no insult to my guest." 492 
 
 The Streaming Lights . ' Tfie hanest lights of Harden shone " 493 
 
 The Betrothal .... " Her tears of grief were tears of joy." 494 
 
 God's .Vcue ' The burial ground Ood's acre." 498 
 
 The Comet ' Save when a blazing comet was seen." .... 505 
 
 News from THE Forest " Straggling rangers ... homeward fai-ing' . . 508 
 
 Call to the Boat " To the beach we all arc going" 509 
 
 IntheI-orkst " Som^ red squaw his moose-meat's broiling." . 509 
 
 The Return "' Robert !'' Martha !'" all they say." . ... 510 
 
 362 
 363 
 368 
 369 
 374 
 380 
 386 
 392 
 396 
 398 
 403 
 407 
 409 
 410 
 415 
 419 
 423 
 428 
 431 
 434 
 439 
 442 
 447 
 452 
 459 
 463 
 465 
 
 480 
 484 
 488 
 489 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 33 
 
 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. 
 
 Smiley's Frog " He was planted as solid as an anvil." 512 
 
 The Light House " The Light-house fire blazed" 513 
 
 The River Shore " I hear the keel grating " 518 
 
 Steam-train " Down came the night express." 519 
 
 Old-time Fire-place " A fire in the kitchen." 520 
 
 Mother's Bible "My Mothers hands this Bible clasped." ... 523 
 
 Plymouth Rock " The ice-clad rocks of Plymouth." 524 
 
 The Swan " Seek' st thou the plashy brink f" 527 
 
 Battle Monument "The Battle Monument at Baltimore." 531 
 
 Sheridan's Ride " Here is the steed that saved the day." 536 
 
 Ancient Stronghold " Stone ivalls and bulwarks." 540 
 
 The Old Man " The last leaf upon the tree." 542 
 
 The Stream " She found a Lotus by the stream." 547 
 
 Scene of my Childhood " The rude bucket which hung in the well." ... 549 
 
 Lord Ullin " Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore" .... 552 
 
 Birds at Home "By every light wind . . . swung ." 557 
 
 By The Fireside " Right and left sat dame and goodman "... 561 
 
 The Surprise " What is this f" 562 
 
 The Forest Grave " On her wooden cross at Simcoe." 563 
 
 The River "No ripple from the water's hem.'' 566 
 
 The Lamb " Mary haf got one little lambs already ." . . . 567 
 
 Battle of Lookout Mountain . . . . " Fortified Lookout." 570 
 
 Porpoise " Tumbling about the bow of the ship." .... 574 
 
 The Dead Soldier " The wounded to die." 578 
 
 The Playmates " The blossoms in the sweet May field." .... 582 
 
 The Tempest " The lightning flashing free ." 587 
 
 Ballooning " The balloon was cast off." . . . 591 
 
 The Mountain Torrent " The torrent is heard on the hill.'' 595 
 
 The Surf " I see the waves upon the shore." 601 
 
 Mount Vernon " Washington's modest home.'' 604 
 
 Draw-bridge " The dark tunnel of the bridge." 605 
 
 IIay-boat " The heavy hay-boats crawl" 605 
 
 The Abutment " The gray abutment's wall." 606 
 
 The Evening AValk " The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore." ... 607 
 
 Calmness " Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud." 610 
 
 The Cathedral Tower " Proud Cathedral towers.'' 615 
 
 The Shore ■' Never the ocean wave falters in flowing." . . . 619 
 
 Harvesting " Lo, the husbandman reaping." 620 
 
 Work in the Meadows " With meadows wide." . . ■ 625 
 
 Iceberg . . " It then floated on the sea, an iceberg." . . . 627 
 
 Home " My lowly thatched cottage." 628 
 
 Castle AND Lawn " My lands so broad ajid fair." 631 
 
 The Ravens " Child and flowers both were dead." 639 
 
 Trout " I have killed many flsh.'' 643 
 
 Cooking the Fish " Men have their hours of eating" 644 
 
 The Rocky Shore " Not of the watery home thou tellest." 645 
 
 Fingal'sCave " The cave of music." 649 
 
 Ecclesiastical Emblems " The cohort of the fathers." .652 
 
 Salt Meadows " The sweetness of the hay." . . • 654 
 
34 
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 TITLE QUOTATION. PAGE. 
 
 At the Ferry " He set his horse to the river.'' 655 
 
 Day Dawk "Awake! it is the day." 661 
 
 Vallky of Chamounix " Oreen vales and icy cliffs." 664 
 
 The Cutter 'Spring to their cutters." 667 
 
 Fustic Gam !■:.'< " Its rough accompaniment of blind mans buff." 667 
 
 Snow Bali.inu " The s-nowbalFs com2)lime7its." 668 
 
 The Poet " Forth into the night he hurled it." 669 
 
 The Maiden " Tracing words upon the sand." 669 
 
 The Rose. " Full of bliss she takes the token.'' 670 
 
 Blessedness " Kiss his moonlit forehead.'' 670 
 
 Grandmother's Spectacles " She would often let her glasses slip down." . . 676 
 
 Beauties of the Deep " Deep in the wave is a coral grove." 678 
 
 Work in the Field " Aiid so we worked together." 680 
 
 The Steamship " The great hull sicayed to the current.' .... 683 
 
 The Bald-headed Tyrant "He rides them all with relentless hand." . . . 687 
 
 Mountaineer's Warfare "A murderous rain of rocks." 691 
 
 The Gateway " The chamber over the gate." 693 
 
 Surges and Shore " These restless surges eat away the shores." . . . 694 
 
 Greece " In Pcestum' s ancient fanes I trod." 696 
 
 The Old House " Bid the old house good-bye." 698 
 
 Country Rambles " Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do." . . 700 
 
 The Holy Land " Pavement for his footstep." 703 
 
 Shooting Porpoises " Tickling them with shot." 705 
 
 The Arab's Tent " Shall fold their tents like the Arabs." 707 
 
 The Scribe (Ornament.) 708 
 
 History " 709 
 
 Culture. ' 713 
 
 loLANTUE Dreaming ' , 722 
 
 Music ' 723 
 
I 
 
GEMS FOE THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 FOREST HYMN. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Ej|]||pHE groves were God's first temples, 
 
 -/w^^ ere man learned 
 
 %1^?i To hew the shaft, and lay the 
 
 i/l» architrave, 
 
 •^ And spread the roof above them, — 
 
 I ere he framed 
 
 J The lofty vault, to gather and roll 
 
 back 
 The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood. 
 Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down. 
 And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 Might not resist the sacred influences 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
 And from the gray old trunks that high in 
 
 heaven 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the 
 
 sound 
 Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and 
 
 bowed 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless 
 
 power 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, 
 at least, 
 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 Offer one hymn, — thrice happy if it find 
 Acceptance in His ear. 
 
 Father, Thy hand 
 Hath reared these venerable columns. Thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst 
 
 look down 
 Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy 
 
 sun 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy 
 
 breeze, 
 And shot towards heaven. The century- 
 living crow. 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and 
 
 died 
 Among their branches, till at last they stood. 
 As now they stand, massy and tall and dark. 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker. These dim 
 
 vaults. 
 These winding aisles, of human pomp or 
 
 pride. 
 Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
 The boast of our vain race to change the form 
 Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here. — 
 
 Thou fill'st 
 The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 
 37 
 
3S 
 
 A FOREST HYMN. 
 
 That run along the summit of these trees 
 In music; Thou art in the cooler breath 
 That from the inmost darkness of the place 
 Comes.scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the 
 
 trround, , 
 
 The fresh, moist ground, are all mstmct with 
 
 Theo : 
 Here is continual worship ;-nature, here, 
 In the tranquility that Thou dost love. 
 Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around. 
 From p.rch to perch, the solitary bird 
 Passes; and yon clear spring that, midst its 
 
 herbs, 
 Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the 
 
 roots 
 Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 
 Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 
 Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 
 "Of Thy perfection. Grandeur, strength, and 
 
 grace 
 Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty 
 
 oak, — 
 By whose immovable st«m I stand and seem 
 Almost annihilated,— not a prince. 
 In all that proud old world beyond the deep. 
 E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 
 Wears the green coronal of leaves with 
 
 which 
 Thy hand hath graced him. Nestled at his 
 
 root 
 Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 
 Of the broad sun. That delicate forest 
 
 flower, 
 With scented breath, and look so like a 
 
 smile, 
 Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould. 
 An einanation of the indwelling life, 
 A visible token of the upholding Love, 
 That are the soul of this wide universe. 
 
 My heart is awed within me when I think 
 Of the great miracle that still goes on, 
 In silence, round mo,--the perpetual work 
 01 Thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
 Forever. Written on Thy works, I read 
 The lesson of Thy own eternity. 
 Lo 1 all grow old and die ; but see again, 
 How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
 Youth presses,— ever gay and beautiful 
 youth, 
 
 In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
 Wave hot less proudly that their ancestors 
 Moulder beneath them. 0. there is not 
 
 lost 
 One of Earth's charms! Upon her bosom 
 
 yet, 
 After the flight of untold centuries. 
 The freshness of her far beginning lies. 
 And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle 
 
 hate 
 Of his arch-enemy ,-Death,-yca, seats him- 
 
 Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre. 
 And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
 Makes his own nourishment. For he came 
 
 forth 
 From Thine own bosom, and shall have no 
 
 end. 
 
 There have been holy men who hid them- 
 selves 
 Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 
 Their Uves to thought and prayer, till they 
 
 outlived 
 The generation born with them, nor seemed 
 Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 
 Around them;-and there have been holy 
 
 men 
 Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 
 But let me often to these solitudes 
 Retire, and in Thy presence, reassure 
 My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 
 The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps 
 
 shrink. 
 And tremble, and are still. God! when 
 
 Thou 
 Dost scare the world with tempests, set on 
 
 fire 
 The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or 
 
 fill. 
 With all the waters of the firmament. 
 The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the 
 
 woods 
 And drowns the villages ; when, at Thy call, 
 Uprises the great deep, and throws himself 
 Upon the continent, and overwhelms ' 
 Its cities,— who forgets not, at the sight 
 Of these tremendous tokens of Thy power, 
 Hifl prides, and lay his strifes and follies 
 by? 
 
"The groves were God's first Tempi 
 
MORALITY OF ANGLING. 
 
 39 
 
 0, from these sterner aspects of Thy face 
 Spare me and mine, nor let us need the 
 
 wrath 
 Of the mad, unchained elements, to teach 
 
 Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate 
 In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty, 
 And to the beautiful order of Thy works 
 Learn to conform the order of our lives. 
 
 MORALITY OF ANGLING. 
 
 WILLIAM C. PRIME. 
 
 S^UT how about killing fish for sport? In the name of sense, man, if 
 ii^ God made fish to be eaten, what difierence does it make if I enjoy 
 ' * the killing of them before I eat them ? You would have none but 
 a fisherman by trade do it, and then you would have him utter a 
 T sigh, a prayer, and a pious ejaculation at each cod or haddock that 
 
 J he killed ; and if by chance the old fellow, sitting in the boat at 
 
 work, should for a moment think there was, after all, a little fun and a 
 little pleasure in his .^ ==^ 
 
 business, you would have *■ - -3^ 
 
 him take a round turn 
 with his line, and drop 
 on his knees to ask for- 
 giveness for the sin of 
 thinking there was sport 
 in fishing. 
 
 I can imagine the sad- 
 faced melancholy-eyed 
 man, who makes it his 
 business to supply game 
 for the market as you 
 would have him, sober 
 as the sexton in Hamlet, 
 and forever moralizing 
 over the gloomy neces- 
 sity that has doomed 
 him to a life of murder ? 
 Why, good sir, he would 
 frighten respectable fish, and the market would soon be destitute. 
 
 The keenest day's sport in my journal of a great many years of sport 
 was when, in company with some other gentlemen, I took three hundred 
 blue-fish in three hours' fishina; ofi" Block Island, and those fish were eaten 
 
 
40 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 the same night or the next morning in Stonington, and supplied from fifty 
 to one hundred <lifforent tables, as we threw them up on the dock for any 
 one to help himself. I am unable to perceive that I committed any sin in 
 takino- them, or any sin in the excitement and pleasure of taking them. 
 
 It is time moralists had done with this mistaken morality. If you 
 eschew animal food entirely, then you may argue against killing animals, 
 
 and I will not argue with you. But 
 the logic of this business is simply 
 this : The Creator made fish and flesh 
 for the food of man, and as we can't 
 eat them alive, or if we do, we can't 
 digest them alive, the result is we 
 must kill them first, and (see the old 
 rule of cooking a dolphin) it is some- 
 times a further necessity, since they 
 won't come to be killed when we call 
 them, that we must first catch them. 
 Show first, then, that it is a painful 
 necessity, a necessity to be avoided if 
 possible, which a good man must 
 shrink from and abhor, unless starved 
 into it, to take fish or birds, and 
 which he must do when he does it 
 with regret, and with sobriety and 
 seriousness, as he would whip his 
 child, or shave himself when his beard is three days old, and you have 
 your case. But till you show this, I will continue to think it great sport 
 to supply my market with fish. 
 
 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 >MEWHAT back from the village 
 
 street 
 Standa the old-fashioned country-seat; 
 Across its antique portico 
 Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; 
 And, from its station in the hall, 
 An ancient timepiece 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, 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. 
 
 41 
 
 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, 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
 Through days of death and days of 
 
 birth, 
 Through every swift vicissitude 
 Of changeful time, unchanged it has 
 
 stood, 
 And as if, like God, it all things saw. 
 It calmly repeats those words of awe, 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 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 ceased, 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 There groups of merry children played; 
 There youths and maidens dreaming 
 
 strayed ; 
 Oh, precious hours ! oh, golden prime 
 And af&uence of love and time ! 
 Even as a miser counts his gold, 
 Those hours the ancient timepiece 
 
 told,— 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 All are scattered, now, and fled, — 
 Some are married, some are dead : 
 And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
 " Ah ! when shall they all meet again 
 As in the days long since gone by. 
 The ancient timepiece makes reply, 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 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, — 
 
 " Forever— never ! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
 Never here, forever there, 
 Where all parting, pain, and care. 
 And death, and time shall disap- 
 pear, — 
 Forever there, but never here ! 
 The horologue of Eternity 
 Sayeth this incessantly, 
 
 " Forever — never ! 
 
 Never — forever !" 
 
42 
 
 THE BLOOD HORSE. 
 
 THE GRASSHOPPER KING. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON, B. C, 560. 
 
 ^fjArPY insect, what can be 
 1^1^ In hapjiiness compared to thee? 
 '[W Fed with nourishment divine, 
 
 The dewy morning's gentle wine ! 
 Nature waits upon thee still, 
 And thy verdant cup does fill ; 
 "Tis filled wherever thou dost tread. 
 Nature's self thy Ganymede. 
 
 Thou dost drink and dance and sing, 
 Happier than the happiest king ! 
 All the fields which thou dost see, 
 All the plants belong to thee ; 
 All the summer hours produce. 
 Fertile made with early juice, 
 Man for thee does sow and plough. 
 Farmer he, and landlord thou ! 
 
 i 
 
 THE BLOOD HORSE. 
 
 , r^rl^ , 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 iAMARRA is a dainty steed, 
 
 Strong, black, and of noble breed, 
 Full of fire, and full of bone. 
 With all his lino of fathers known ; 
 Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. 
 But blown abroad by the pride within I 
 
 His mane is like a river flowing, 
 
 And his eyes like embers glowing 
 
 In the darkness of the night. 
 
 And bis pace as swift as light. 
 
 Look, — how round his straining throat 
 Grace and shifting beauty float ; 
 Sinewy strength is in his reins, 
 
 And the red blood gallops through his veins 
 
 Richer, redder, never ran 
 
 Through the boasting heart of man. 
 
 He can trace his lineage higher 
 
 Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — 
 
 Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 
 
 Or O'Brien's blood itself ! 
 
 He, who hath no peer, was born 
 Here, upon a red March morn ; 
 But his famous fathers dead 
 Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, 
 And the last of that great line 
 Trod like one of a race divine! 
 
 I 
 

THE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. 43 
 
 And yet, — he was but friend to one, 
 
 Who fed him at the set of sun 
 
 By some lone fountain fringed with green ; 
 
 He lived (none else would he obey 
 Through all the hot Arabian day), 
 And died untamed upon the sands 
 
 With him, a roving Bedouin, Where Balkh amidst the desert stands I 
 
 THE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 ^1^ VERY person's feelings have a front-door and side-door by which 
 ^i^ they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. Some keep 
 JL it always open; some keep it latched; some, locked; some, bolted, 
 
 ♦ — with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get in ; and some 
 1 nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This front-door 
 
 • leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, and this into 
 the interior apartments. The side-door opens at once into the sacred 
 chambers. 
 
 There is almost always at least one key to this side-door, This is 
 carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom, fathers, brothers, sisters, 
 and friends, often, but by no means so universally, have duplicates of it. 
 The wedding-ring conveys a right to one; alas, if none is given with it! 
 
 Be very careful to whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. 
 The fact of possessing one renders those even who are dear to you very 
 terrible at times. You can keep the world out from your front-door, or 
 receive visitors only when you are ready for them ; but those of your own 
 flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the side- 
 door, if they will, at any hour and in any mood. Some of them have a 
 scale of your whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of your 
 sensibilities in semitones, — touching the naked nerve-pulps as a pianist 
 strikes the keys of his instrument. I am satisfied that there are as great 
 masters of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberg in their lines of 
 performance. Married life is the school in which the most accomplished 
 artists in this department are found. A delicate woman is the best instru- 
 ment; she has such a magnificent compass of sensibilities! From the deep 
 inward moan which follows pressure on the great nerves of right, to the 
 sharp cry as the filaments of the taste are struck with a crushing sweep, is 
 a range which no other instrument possesses. A few exercises on it daily 
 at home fit a man wonderfully for his habitual labors, and refresh him im- 
 mensely as he returns from them. No stranger can get a great many notes 
 
44 
 
 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 
 
 of torture out of a human soul; it takes one that knows it well, — parent, 
 child, brother, sister, intimate. Be very careful to whom you give a side- 
 door key; too many have them already. 
 
 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 jIIE beaver cut his timber 
 
 With patient teeth that day, 
 
 r'" , Tlie minks were fish-wards, and the 
 crowB 
 Surveyors of highway, — 
 
 When Keezar eat on the hillside 
 
 Upon his cobbler's form, 
 With a pan of coals on either hand. 
 
 To keep his waxed-ends warm. 
 
 And there, in the golden weather. 
 He stitched and hammered and sung ; 
 
 In the brook he moistened his leather, 
 In the pewter mug his tongue. 
 
 Well knew the tough old Teuton 
 Who brewed the stoutest ale, 
 
 And he paid the goodwife's reckonings 
 In the coin of song and tale. 
 
 The songs they still are singing 
 Who dress the hills of vine 
 
 The tales that haunt the Brocken, 
 And whisper down the Rhine. 
 
COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 
 
 45 
 
 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
 The swift stream wound away, 
 
 Through birches and scarlet maples, 
 Flashing in foam and spray, — 
 
 " Why should folks be glum," said Keszar. 
 
 When Nature herself is glad, 
 And the painted woods are laughing 
 
 At the faces so sour and sad ?" 
 
 Down on the sharp-horned 
 
 Plunging in steep cascade. 
 Tossing its white-maned waters 
 
 Against the hemlock's shade. 
 
 Woodsy and wild and lonesome. 
 East and west and north and south ; 
 
 Only the village of fishers 
 Down at the river's mouth ; 
 
 Only here and there a clearing, 
 With its farm-house rude and new. 
 
 And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, 
 Where the scanty harvest grew. 
 
 No shout of home-bound reapers, 
 No vintage-song he heard, 
 
 And on the green no dancing feet 
 The merry violin stirred. 
 
 Small heed had the careless cobbler 
 What sorrow of heart was theirs 
 
 Who travailed in pain with the births of God, 
 And planted a state with prayers, — 
 
 Hunting of witches and warlocks, 
 
 Smiting the heathen horde, — 
 One hand on the mason's trowel, 
 
 And one on the soldier's sword ! 
 
 But give him his ale and cider, 
 
 Give him his pipe and song, 
 Little he cared for Church or State, 
 
 Or the balance of right and wrong. 
 
 " Tis work, work, work," he muttered, — 
 And for rest a snuffle of psalms !" 
 
 He smote on his leathern apron 
 With his brown and waxen palms. 
 
16 
 
 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 
 
 " for the purple harvests 
 
 Of the days when I was young! 
 
 For the merry grape-stained maidens, 
 And the pleasant songs they sung ! 
 
 " for the breath of vineyards, 
 Of apples and nuts and wine ! 
 
 For an oar to row and a breeze to blow 
 Down the grand old river Rhine !" 
 
 A tear in his blue eye glistened, 
 And dropped on his beard so gray. 
 
 " Old, old am I," said Keezar, 
 
 " And the Rhine flows far away !" 
 
 But a cunning man was the cobbler ; 
 
 He could call the birds from the trees, 
 Charm the black snake out of the ledges. 
 
 And bring back the swarming bees. 
 
 All the virtues of herbs and metals. 
 All the lore of the woods, he knew. 
 
 And the arts of the Old World mingled 
 With the marvels of the New. 
 
 Well he knew the tricks of magic, 
 And the lapstone on his knee 
 
 Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles, 
 Or the stone of Doctor Dee. 
 
 For the mighty master, Agrippa, 
 Wrought it with spell and rhyme 
 
 From a fragment of mystic moonstone 
 In the tower of Nettesheim. 
 
 To a cobbler, Minnesinger, 
 
 The marvelous stone gave he, — 
 
 And he gave it, in turn, to Keezar, 
 Who brought it over the sea. 
 
 He held up that mystic lapstone. 
 
 He held it up like a lens, 
 And he counted the long years coming 
 
 By twenties and by tens. 
 
 " One hundred years," quoth Keezar, 
 
 " And fifty have I told : 
 Now open the new before me. 
 
 And shut me out the old!" 
 
 Like a cloud of mist, the blackness 
 
 Rolled from the magic stone. 
 And a marvelous picture mingled. 
 
 The unknown and the known. 
 
 Still ran the stream to the river, 
 
 And river and ocean joined ; 
 And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, 
 
 And cold north hills behind. 
 
 But the mighty forest was broken, 
 
 By many a steepled town. 
 By many a white-walled farm-house, 
 
 And many a garner brown. 
 
 Turning a score of mill-wheels, 
 
 The stream no more ran free ; 
 White sails on the winding river. 
 
 White sails on the far-off sea. 
 
 Below in the noisy village 
 
 The flags were floating gay, 
 And shone on a thousand faces 
 
 The light of a holiday. 
 
 Swiftly the rival ploughmen 
 
 Turned the brown earth from their shares; 
 Here were the farmer's treasures, 
 
 There were the craftsman's wares. 
 
 Golden the goodwife's butter, 
 Ruby the currant-wine ; 
 
 ^M£^^ 
 
 Grand were the strutting turkeys. 
 Fat were the beeves and 
 
COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 
 
 47 
 
 Yellow and red were the apples, 
 And the ripe pears russet-brown, 
 
 And the peaches had stolen blushes 
 From the girls who shook them down. 
 
 " Here's a priest, and there is a Quaker, — 
 
 Do the cat and dog agree ? 
 Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood) 
 
 Have they cut down the gallows-tree ? 
 
 And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, 
 
 That shame the toil of art, 
 Mingled the gorgeous blossoms 
 
 Of the garden's tropic heart. 
 
 " Would the old folk know their children ? 
 
 Would they own the graceless town, 
 Witli never a ranter to worry. 
 
 And never a witch to drown ?" 
 
 " What is it I see ?" said Keezar, 
 " Am I here, or am I there ? 
 
 IsitafeteatBingen? 
 
 Do I look on Frankfort fair ? 
 
 Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, 
 Laughed like a school-boy gay ; 
 
 Tossing his arms above him, 
 The lapstone rolled away. 
 
 " But where are the clowns and puppets, 
 And imps with horns and tail ? 
 
 And where are the Rhenish flagons ? 
 And where is the foaming ale ? 
 
 "Strange things I know will happen, — 
 Strange things the Lord permits; 
 
 But that droughty folks should be jolly 
 Puzzles my poor old wits. 
 
 " Here are smiling manly faces. 
 
 And the maiden's step is gay. 
 Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, 
 
 Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. 
 
 " Here's pleasure without regretting, 
 
 And good without abuse. 
 The holiday and bridal 
 
 Of beauty and of use. 
 
 It rolled down the rugged hillside, 
 It spun like a wheel bewitched. 
 
 It plunged through the leaning willows, 
 And into the river pitched. 
 
 There in the deep, dark water, 
 
 The magic stone lies still, 
 Under the leaning willows 
 
 In the shadow of the hill. 
 
 But oft the idle fisher 
 
 Sits on the shadowy bank. 
 And his dreams make marvelous picturi 
 
 Where the wizard's lapstone sank. 
 
 And still, in the summer twilights. 
 When the river seems to run 
 
 Out from the inner glory. 
 Warm with the melted sun. 
 
48 
 
 GATHERED GOLD DUST. 
 
 The weary mill-girl lingers 
 Beside the charmed stream, 
 
 And the sky and the golden water 
 Shape and color her dream. 
 
 Fair wave the sunset gardens, 
 
 The rosy signals fly ; 
 Her homestead beckons from the cloud, 
 
 And love goes sailing by I 
 
 GATHERED GOLD DUST. 
 
 Ha^RITICS are sentinels in the grand army 
 Wmk of letters, stationed at the corners 
 of newspapers and reviews, to 
 challenge every new author. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 fWe can refute assertions, but who can 
 refute silence. {Dickens. 
 
 Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere 
 long thou shalt sell thy necessaries. 
 {Franklin. 
 The great secret of success in life is, for a 
 man to be ready when his opportunity 
 comes. {Disraeli. 
 
 The truly illustrious are they who do not 
 court the praise of the world, but per- 
 form the actions which deserve it. 
 
 {Tilton. 
 
 Christ awakened the world's thought, and it 
 
 has never slept since. {Howard. 
 
 The Cross is the prism that reveals to us the 
 
 beauties of the Sun of Righteousness. 
 
 {Goulbum. 
 Men have feeling : this is perhaps the best 
 way of considering them. (Richtcr. 
 
 Fidelity is seventh-tenths of business suc- 
 cess. " {Parton. 
 In the march of life don't heed the order of 
 " right about " when you know you are 
 about right. {Holmes. 
 He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to 
 
 mend : 
 
 Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure 
 
 For life's worst ills, to have no time to feci 
 
 th'-m. {Shakespeare. 
 
 The worst kind of vice is advice. {Coleridge 
 
 A self-suspicion of hypocrisy is a good evi 
 
 denco of sincerity. {Hannah More. 
 
 A page digested is better than a volume hur 
 
 riedly read. {Macaulay 
 
 I am not one of those who do not believe in 
 love at first sight, but I believe in tak- 
 ing a second look. {Henry Vincent. 
 
 A man is responsible for how he uses his 
 
 common sense as well as his moral sense. 
 
 {Beecher. 
 
 When a man has no design but to speak 
 
 plain truth, he isn't apt to be talkative. 
 
 {Pre7itice. 
 
 The year passes quick, though the hour tarry, 
 and time bygone is a dream, though we 
 thought it never would go while it was 
 going. {Newman. 
 
 Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a 
 brightness over everything. It is the 
 sweetener of toil and the soother of dis- 
 quietude. {Irving. 
 
 A profound conviction raises a man above 
 the feeling of ridicule. {Mill. 
 
 Our moods are lenses coloring the world 
 with as many diS'erent hues. {Emerson. 
 
 Men believe that their reason governs their 
 words, but it often happens that words 
 have power to react on reason. {Bacon. 
 
 Minds of moderate calibre ordinarily con- 
 demn everything which is beyond their 
 range. {La Rochefoucault. 
 
 Geology gives us a key to the patience of 
 God. {Holland. 
 
 Do to-day thy nearest duty. {Groethe. 
 
 Many of our cares are bat a morbid way of 
 looking at our privileges. 
 
 {Walter Scott. 
 
 1 The greatness of melancholy men is seldom 
 
 strong and healthy. {Bulwcr. 
 
 Cowardice asks, Is it safe ? Expediency asks. 
 Is it politic? Vanity asks, Is it popu- 
 I lar? but Conscience asks, Is it right? 
 
 ' {Punshon, 
 
BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. 
 
 49 
 
 God made the country and man made the 
 town. {Cowper. 
 
 Sorrows humanize our race. Tears are the 
 showers that fertilize the world. {Ingelow. 
 
 It is remarkable with what Christian fortitude 
 and resignation we can bear the suffer- 
 ing of other folks. (Z)ea?i Swift. 
 
 One can neither protect nor arm himself 
 against criticism. We must meet it 
 defiantly, and thus gradually please it. 
 {Ooethe. 
 
 Silence and reserve suggest latent power. 
 What some men think has more effect 
 than what others say. (Chesterfield. 
 
 Stratagems in war and love are only honor- 
 able when successful. {Bulwer. 
 
 A man behind the times is apt to speak ill of 
 them, on the principle that nothing 
 looks well from behind. (Holmes. 
 
 He who isn't contented with what he has 
 wouldn't be contented with what he 
 would like to have. (Auerbach. 
 
 Architecture is a handmaid of devotion. A 
 
 beautiful church is a sermon in stone, 
 
 and its spire a finger pointing to Heaven. 
 
 (Schaff. 
 
 A sorrow's crown of sorrow, 
 
 Is remembering happier things. (Dante. 
 
 BALTUS VAIi TASSLJL'S FARM. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 mGHABOD Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex ; and it is 
 iis not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in 
 Y^ his eyes; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal 
 1 mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, 
 contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his 
 eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within 
 those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied 
 with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty 
 abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His stronghold was 
 situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fer- 
 tile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
 elm-tree spread its branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a 
 
50 ' BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. 
 
 spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel ; 
 and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, 
 that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm- 
 house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church ; every window 
 and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; 
 the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows 
 and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, 
 some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their 
 heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, 
 and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on 
 the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abun- 
 dance of their pens; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking 
 pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding 
 in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys 
 were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, 
 like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before 
 the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a war- 
 rior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in 
 the pride and gladness of his heart — 
 sometimes tearing up the earth with 
 his feet, and then generously calling his 
 ever hungry family of wives and child- 
 ren to enjoy the rich morsel which he 
 had discovered. 
 
 The pedagogue's mouth watered, as 
 he looked upon this sumptuous promise 
 of winter fare. In his devouring mind's 
 
 eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a pudding 
 in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed 
 in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust; the geese were 
 swimming in their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like 
 snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the 
 porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish- 
 ing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard 
 under its wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even 
 bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with 
 uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit dis- 
 dained to ask while living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his great 
 green eyes over the fat meadow -lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of 
 
THE BRIDGE. 
 
 51 
 
 buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with ruddy fruit, 
 which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned 
 after the damsel, who was to inherit those domains, and his imagination 
 expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and 
 the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in 
 the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre- 
 sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, 
 mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots 
 and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing 
 mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the 
 Lord knows where. 
 
 THE BRIDGE. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ^. 
 
 STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
 As the clocks were striking the 
 hour, 
 
 (t-;^ And the moon rose o'er the city, 
 ^ Behind the dark church tower ; 
 
 I; Ami like the waters rushing 
 ' Among the wooden piers, 
 A flood of thought came o'er me. 
 That filled my eyes with tears. 
 
 How often, how often, 
 
 In the days that had gone by, 
 
 I had stood on that bridge at midnight, 
 And gazed on that wave and sky ! 
 
 How often, how often, 
 
 I had wished that the ebbing tide 
 Would bear me away on its bosom 
 
 O'er the ocean wild and wide ! 
 
 For my heart was hot and restle.«s, 
 And my life was full of care, 
 4 
 
 And the burden laid upon me, 
 Seemed greater than I could bear. 
 
 But now it has fallen from me, 
 
 It is buried in the sea ; 
 And only the sorrow of others 
 
 Throws its shadow over me. 
 
 Yet whenever I cross the river 
 On its bridge with wooden piers, 
 
 Like the odor of brine from the ocean 
 Comes the thought of other years. 
 
 And I think how many thousands 
 
 Of care-encumbered men. 
 Each having his burden of sorrow, 
 
 Have crossed the bridge since then. 
 
 I see the long procession 
 
 Still passing to and fro. 
 The young heart hot and restless. 
 
 And the old, subdued and slow ! 
 
52 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 And forever and forever, 
 
 The moon and its broken reflection 
 
 As long as the river flows, 
 
 And its shadows shall appear, 
 
 As long as the heart has passions, 
 
 As the symbol of love in heaven. 
 
 As long as life has woes ; 
 
 And its wavering image here. 
 
 KISSING HER HAIR. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 .^^f^ISSING her hair, I sat against her feet : 
 ll^JP Wove and unwove it, — wound, and 
 
 ^:! 
 
 found it sweet ; 
 
 Made fast therewith her hands, drew 
 f down her eyes, 
 
 •|^ Deep as deep flowers, and dreamy like 
 J dim skies ; 
 
 With her own tresses bound and found her 
 fair, — 
 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 Sleep were no sweeter than her face to me, — 
 Sleep of cold sea-bloom under the cold 
 
 sea: 
 What pain could get between my face and 
 
 hers? 
 What new sweet thing would Love not relish 
 
 worse ? 
 Unless, perhaps, white Death had kissed me 
 
 there, — 
 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNIE PROCTER. 
 
 ^^IRT round with rugged mountains the 
 Sb: fair Lake Constance lies ; 
 
 In her blue heart reflected, shine back 
 the starry skies ; 
 And watching each white cloudlet float 
 L silently and slow, 
 
 T You think a piece of heaven lies on our 
 earth below ! 
 
 Midnight is there : and silence enthroned in 
 
 heaven, looks down 
 Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping 
 
 town : 
 For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol 
 
 shore, 
 Has stood above Lake Constance, a thousand 
 
 years and more. 
 
 Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky 
 
 steep. 
 Have cast their trembling shadows of ages 
 
 on the deep ; 
 Mountain, and lake, and valley, a sacred 
 
 legend know, 
 
 Of how the town was saved one night, three 
 hundred years ago. 
 
 Far from her home and kindred, a Tyrol maid 
 
 had fled, 
 To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for 
 
 daily bread ; 
 And every year that fleeted so silently and 
 
 fast. 
 Seemed to bear farther from her the memory 
 
 of the past. 
 
 She served kind, gentle masters, nor asked 
 
 for rest or change ; 
 Her friends seemed no more new ones, their 
 
 speech seemed no more strange ; 
 And when she led her cattle to pasture every 
 
 day. 
 She ceased to look and wonder on which 
 
 side Bregenz lay. 
 
 She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing 
 
 and with tears ; 
 Her Tyrol home seemed faded in a deep mist 
 
 of years ; 
 
A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 53 
 
 She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war 
 
 The men seemed stern and altered, with looks 
 
 or strife ; 
 
 cast on the ground ; 
 
 Each day she rose contented, to the calm 
 
 With anxious faces, one by one, the women 
 
 toils of life. 
 
 gathered round ; 
 
 
 All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was 
 
 Yet, when her master's children would clus- 
 
 put away ; 
 
 tering round her stand, 
 
 The very children seemed afraid to go alone 
 
 Sin sang them the old ballads of her own na- 
 
 to play. 
 
 tive land ; 
 
 
 And when at morn and evening she knelt 
 
 One day, out in the meadow with strangers 
 
 before God's throne. 
 
 from the town. 
 
 The accents of her childhood rose to her lips 
 
 Some secret plan discussing, the men walked 
 
 alone. 
 
 up and down. 
 
 Girt round with rugged mountains." 
 
 And so she dwelt : the valley more peaceful 
 
 year by year ; 
 When suddenly strange portents of some great 
 
 deed seemed near. 
 The golden corn was bending upon its fragile 
 
 stalk. 
 While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced 
 
 up and down in talk. 
 
 Yet now and then seemed watching a strange 
 
 uncertain gleam, 
 That looked like lances 'mid the trees that 
 
 stood below the stream. 
 
 At eve they all assembled, all care and doubt 
 
 were fled ; 
 With jovial laugh they feasted, the board 
 
 was nobly spread. 
 
64 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 The elder of the village rose up, his glass in 
 
 hand, 
 And cried, " Wo drink the downfall of an 
 
 accursed laud ! 
 
 * The night is growing darker, ere one more 
 
 day is flown, 
 Bregenz, our foemen's stronghold, Bregenz 
 
 shall be our own ! " 
 The women shrank in terror, (yet pride, too, 
 
 had her part,) 
 But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within 
 
 her heart. 
 
 Before her, stood fair Bregenz, once more 
 
 her towers arose ; 
 What were the friends beside her ? Only her 
 
 country's foes ! 
 The faces of her kinsfolk, the day of childhood 
 
 flown. 
 The echoes of lier mountains reclaimed her 
 
 as their own ! 
 
 Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts 
 rang forth again,) 
 
 Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pas- 
 ture, and the plain ; 
 
 Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart 
 one cry. 
 
 That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, and 
 then if need be, die! " 
 
 With trembling haste and breathless, with 
 
 noiseless step she sped ; 
 Horses and weary cattle were standing in 
 
 the shed ; 
 She loosed the strong white charger, that fed 
 
 from out her hand. 
 She mounted and she turned his head toward 
 
 her native land. 
 
 Out — out into the darkness — faster, and still 
 more fiist; 
 
 Tlie smootl) grass flies behind her, the chest- 
 nut wood is passed ; 
 
 iShe looks up ; clouds arc heavy : Why is her 
 Bteed 80 slow ? — 
 
 Scarcely the wind beside them, can pass them 
 as they go. 
 
 "Faster!" she cries, "Oh, faster!" Eleven 
 the church belLt chime ; 
 
 " God," ehe cries, " help Bregenz, and 
 
 bring me there in time ! " 
 But louder than bells' ringing, or lowing of 
 
 the kine. 
 Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of 
 
 the Rhine. 
 
 Shall not the roaring waters their headlong 
 
 gallop check ? 
 The steed draws back in terror, she leans 
 
 above his neck 
 To watch the flowing darkness, the bank is 
 
 high and steep. 
 One pause — he staggers forward, and plunges 
 
 in the deep. 
 
 She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser 
 
 throws the rein ; 
 Her steed must breast the waters that dash 
 
 above his mane. 
 How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles 
 
 through the foam, 
 And see — in the far distance, shine out the 
 
 lights of home ! 
 
 Up the steep bank he bears her, and now 
 
 they rush again 
 Towards the heights of Bregenz, that tower 
 
 above the plain. 
 They reach the gate of Bregenz, just as the 
 
 midnight rings. 
 And out come serf and soldier to meet the 
 
 news she brings. 
 
 Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight her battle- 
 ments are manned ; 
 
 Defiance greets the army that marches on the 
 land. 
 
 And if to deeds heroic should endless fame 
 be paid, 
 
 Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol 
 maid. 
 
 Three hundred years are vanished, and yet 
 
 upon the hill 
 An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor 
 
 still. 
 And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning 
 
 in the shade, 
 They see the quaint old carving, the charger 
 
 and the maid. 
 
WINTER. 
 
 65 
 
 And when, to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, 
 
 street, and tower, 
 The warder paces all night long, and calls 
 
 each passing hour : 
 
 "Nine," "ten," "eleven," he cries aloud, 
 
 and then (0 crown of fame !) 
 When midnight pauses in the skies he calls 
 
 the maiden's name. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 
 jii|HE streets were empty. Pitiless cold had driven all who had the 
 *^=»^ shelter of a roof to their homes ; and the north-east blast seemed 
 to howl in triumph above the untrodden snow. Winter was at the 
 heart of all things. The wretched, dumb with excessive misery, 
 suffered, in stupid resignation, the tyranny of the season. Human 
 blood stagnated in the breast of want ; and death in that despair- 
 ing hour, losing its terrors, looked in the eyes of many a wretch a sweet 
 deliverer. It was a time when the very poor, barred from the commonest 
 things of earth, take strange counsel with themselves, and, in the deep 
 humility of destitution, believe they are the burden and the offlil of the 
 world. 
 
 It was a time when the easy, comfortable man, touched with finest 
 sense of human suffering, gives from his abundance ; and, whilst bestow- 
 ing, feels almost ashamed that, with such wide-spread misery circled round 
 him, he has all things fitting, all things grateful. The smitten spirit asks 
 wherefore he is not of the multitude of wretchedness ; demands to know 
 for what especial excellence he is promoted above the thousand thoue^nd 
 starving creatures : in his very tenderness for misery, tests his privilege of 
 
56 THE QUILTING. 
 
 exemption from a woe that withers manhood in man, bowing him down- 
 ward to the brute. And so questioned, this man gives in modesty of spirit 
 
 in very thankfulness of soul. His alms are not cold, formal charities ; 
 
 but reverent sacrifices to his suffering brother. 
 
 It was a time when selfishness hugs itself in its own warmth ; with no 
 other thoughts than of its pleasant possessions ; all made pleasanter, 
 sweeter, by the desolation around. When the mere worldling rejoices the 
 more in his warm chamber because it is so bitter cold without, when he 
 eats and drinks with whetted appetite, because he hears of destitution 
 prowling like a wolf around his well-barred house ; when, in fine, he bears 
 his every comfort about him with the pride of a conqueror. A time when 
 such a man sees in the misery of his fellow-beings nothing save his own 
 victory of fortune — his own successes in a suffering world. To such a 
 man, the poor are but the tattered slaves that grace his triumph. 
 
 It was a time, too, when human nature often shows its true divinity, 
 and with misery like a garment clinging to it, forgets its wretchedness in 
 sympathy with suffering. A time, when in the cellars and garrets of the 
 poor are acted scenes which make the noblest heroism of life; which 
 prove the immortal texture of the human heart, not wholly seared by the 
 branding-iron of the torturing hours. A time when in want, in anguish, 
 in throes of mortal agony, some seed is sown that bears a flower in 
 heaven. 
 
 THE QUILTING. 
 
 ANNA BACHE. 
 
 sHE day is set, the ladies met, 
 And at the frame are seated. 
 In order placed, they work in haste. 
 To get the quilt completed ; 
 
 'Tis time to roll ;" "my needle's broke; 
 
 " So Martin's stock is selling." 
 Louisa's wedding gown's bespoke ;" 
 
 " Lend mo your scissors, Ellen ;' 
 
 While fingers fly, their tongues they ! " That match will never come about ; 
 Pv • " Now don't fly in a passion ;" 
 
 And animate their labors j " Hair puffs they say are going out ;" 
 By counting beaux, discussing clothes, " Yes, curls are all the fashion." 
 
 Or talking of their neighbors. 
 
 Dear ! what a pretty frock you've on 
 " I'm very glad you like it ;" 
 
 I'm told that Miss Micomicon 
 Don't speak to Mr. Micate." 
 
 The quilt is done, the tea begun, 
 The beaux are all collecting ; 
 
 The table's cleared, the music's heard, — 
 His partner each selecting ; 
 
 " I saw Miss Belle, the other day, ! The merry band in order stand. 
 
 Young Green's new gig adorning ;" i The dance begins with vigor,' 
 
 " What keeps your sister Ann away ''" And rapid feet the measure beat, 
 
 " She went to town this morning." i And trip the mazy figure. 
 
GAPE-SEED. 
 
 Unheeded fly the minutes by, 
 " Old time " himself is dancing, 
 
 Till night's dull eye is op'ed to spy 
 The light of morn advancing. 
 
 57 
 
 All closely stowed ; to each ahode 
 
 The carriages go tilting ; 
 And many a dream has for its theme 
 
 The pleasures of the quilting. 
 
 BUYING GAPE-SEED. 
 
 JOHN B. GOUGH. 
 . p^^^ . 
 
 fM^^^ YANKEE, walking the streets of London, looked through a win- 
 ^^ dow upon a group of men writing very rapidly; and one of them 
 |f^ 4 said to him in an insulting manner, " Do you wish to buy some 
 J gape-seed ?" Passing on a short distance the Yankee met a man, 
 
 ^ and asked him what the business of those men was in the office he 
 
 J had just passed. He was told that they wrote letters dictated by 
 
 others, and transcribed all sorts of documents ; in short, they were writers. 
 The Yankee returned to the office, and inquired if one of the men would 
 write a letter for him, and was answered in the affirmative. He asked the 
 price, and was told one dollar. After considerable talk, the bargain was 
 made ; one of the conditions of which was that the scribe should write 
 just what the Yankee told him to, or he should receive no pay. The 
 scribe told the Yankee he was ready to begin ; and the latter said, — 
 
 " Dear marm :" and then asked, " Have you got that deown ?" 
 
 " Yes," was the reply, "go on." 
 
 " I went to ride t'other day : have you got that deown ?" 
 
 " Yes ; go on, go on." 
 
 "And I harnessed up the old mare into the wagon: have you got that 
 deown?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, long ago ; go on." 
 
 " Why, how fast you write ! And I got into the wagon, and sat 
 deown, and drew up the reins, and took the whip in my right hand : have 
 you got that deown ?" 
 
 " Yes, long ago ; go on." 
 
 " Dear me, how fast you write ! I never saw your equal. And 1 
 said to the old mare, ' Go 'long,' and jerked the reins pretty hard : have 
 you got that deown ?" 
 
 " Yes ; and I am impatiently waiting for more. I wish you wouldn't 
 bother me with so many foolish questions. Go on with your letter." 
 
 " Well, the old mare wouldn't stir out of her tracks, and I hollered, 
 ' Go 'long, you old jade ! go 'long.' Have you got that deown ?" 
 
58 THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, you pestersome fellow ; go on." 
 
 " And I licked her, and licked her, and licked her [continuing to 
 repeat these words as rapidly as possible.] 
 
 " Hold on there ! I have written two pages of ' licked her,' and I 
 want the rest of the letter.' 
 
 " Well, and she kicked, and she kicked, and she kicked — [continuing 
 to repeat these words with great rapidity.] 
 
 " Do go on with your letter ; I have several pages of ' she kicked.' " 
 
 [The Yankee clucks as in urging horses to move, and continues the 
 clucking noise with rapid repetition for some time.] 
 
 The scribe throws down his pen. 
 
 " Write it deown ! write it deown /" 
 
 "I can't!" 
 
 "Well then, I won't pay you." 
 
 [The scribe, gathering up his papers.] " What shall I do with all 
 these sheets upon which I have written your nonsense ?" 
 
 " You may use them in doing up your gape-seed. Good-by !" 
 
 THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLA VA. 
 
 WILLIAM H. RUSSELL. 
 
 HE whole brigade scarcely made one effective regiment according to 
 
 .._ the numbers of continental armies; and yet it was more than we 
 
 'W' * could spare. As they rushed towards the front, the Russians 
 opened on them from the guns in the redoubt on the right, with 
 volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept proudly past, glitter- 
 ing in the morning sun in all the pride and splendor of war. 
 We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses ! Surely that handful 
 of men are not going to charge an army in position ? Alas ! it was but 
 too true — their desperate valor knew no bounds, and far indeed was it 
 removed from its so-called better part— discretion. They advanced in two 
 lines, quickening their pace as they closed towards the enemy. A more 
 fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who, without the 
 power to aid, beheld their heroic countrymen rushing to the arms of death. 
 At the distance of 1200 yards, the whole line of the enemy belched forth, 
 from thirty iron mouths, a flood of smoke and flame, through which hissed 
 the deadly balls. Their flight was marked by instant gaps in our ranks, 
 
CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 
 
 69 
 
 by dead men and horses, by steeds flying wounded or riderless across the 
 plain. The first line is broken ; it is joined by the second ; they never 
 halt or check their speed an instant. With diminished ranks, thinned by 
 those thirty guns, which the Eussians had laid with the most deadly accu- 
 racy, with a halo of flashing steel above their heads, and with a cheer 
 which was many a noble fellow's death-cry, they flew into the smoke of the 
 batteries, but ere they were lost from view, the plain was strewed with 
 their bodies and with the carcasses of horses. They were exposed to an 
 oblique fire from the batteries on the hills on both sides, as well as to a 
 direct fire of musketry. Through the clouds of smoke we could see their 
 sabres flashing as they rode up to the guns and dashed between them, 
 cutting down the gunners as they stood. "We saw them riding through 
 the guns, as I have said ; to our delight we saw them returning, after 
 breaking through a column of Kussian infantry, and scattering them like 
 chafi", when the flank fire of the battery on the hill swept them down, 
 scattered and broken as they were Wounded men and dismounted 
 troopers flying towards us told the sad tale — demigods could not have 
 done what we had failed to do. 
 
 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ;ALF a league, half a league, 
 Half a league onward, 
 
 All in the valley of death 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
 
 Charge for the guns !" he said. 
 
 Into the valley of death, • 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade !" 
 Was there a man dismayed ? 
 Not though the soldiers knew 
 
 Some one had blundered : 
 Theirs not to make reply. 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do and die : 
 Into the valley of death, 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 
 Cannon in front of them. 
 Volleyed and thundered : 
 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 
 Boldly they rode and well : 
 
 Into the jaws of death, 
 
 Into the mouth of hell. 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Flashed all their sabers bare. 
 Flashed as they turned in air, 
 Sab'ring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wondered : 
 Plunged in the battery smoke. 
 Right through the line they broke : 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reeled from the saber-stroke. 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back — but not. 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
60 
 
 THE PLEASURE BOAT. 
 
 Cannon to riglit of them, 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon behind them, 
 
 Volle)-ed and thundered : 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 While horse and hero fell. 
 They that had fought so well. 
 Came through the jaws of death, 
 Back from the mouth of hell. 
 
 All that was left of them, 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade ? 
 0, the wild charge they made! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! 
 
 
 THE PLEASURE BOAT. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 j^KOMB, hoist the sail, the fast let go ! 
 W^K. They're seated side by side ; 
 ! '>? Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; 
 <;','f The bay is fair and wide. 
 i 
 
 |[ The ripples lightly tap the boat. 
 I' Loose ! Give her to the wind ! 
 She shoots ahead ; they're all afloat ; 
 The strand is far behind. 
 
 The sunlight falling on her sheet, 
 
 It glitters like the drift. 
 Sparkling, in scorn of summer's heat. 
 
 High up some mountain rift. 
 
 The#vinds are fresh ; she's driving fasat 
 
 Upon the bending tide ; 
 The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast. 
 
 Go with her side by side. 
 
 The parting sun sends out a glow 
 
 Across the placid bay, 
 Touching with glory all the .show, — 
 
 A breeze ! Up helm ! Away ! 
 
 Careening to the wind, they reach. 
 With laugh and call, the shore. 
 
 They've left their footprints on the beach. 
 But them I hear no more. 
 
CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. Qi 
 
 CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN. 
 
 MAX ADELER. 
 
 FIND that one of the most serious objections to living out of town 
 lies in the difficulty experienced in catching the early morning train 
 by which I must reach the city and my business. It is by no means 
 a pleasant matter, under any circumstances, to have one's movements 
 j regulated by a time-table, and to be obliged to rise to breakfast and 
 ■^ to leave home at a certain hour, no matter how strong the temptation 
 to delay may be. But sometimes the horrible punctuality of the train is 
 productive of absolute suffering. For instance : I look at my watch when 
 I get out of bed and find that I have apparently plenty of time, so I dress 
 leisurely, and sit down to the morning meal in a frame of mind which is 
 calm and serene. Just as I crack my first egg I hear the down train from 
 Wilmington. I start in alarm ; and taking out my watch I compare it with 
 the clock and find that it is eleven minutes slow, and that I have only five 
 minutes left in which to get to the depot. 
 
 I endeavor to scoop the egg from the shell, but it burns my fingers, 
 the skin is tough, and after struggling with it for a moment, it mashes into 
 a hopeless mass. I drop it in disgust and seize a roU ; while I scald my 
 tongue with a quick mouthful of coffee. Then I place the roll in my 
 mouth while my wife hands me my satchel and tells me she thinks she 
 hears the whistle. I plunge madly around looking for my umbrella, then 
 I kiss the family good-by as well as I can with a mouth full of roll, and 
 dash toward the door. 
 
 Just as I get to the gate I find that I have forgotten my duster and the 
 bundle my wife wanted me to take up to the city to her aunt. Charging 
 back, I snatch them up and tear down the gravel- walk in a frenzy. I do 
 not like to run through the village : it is undignified and it attracts atten- 
 tion ; but I walk furiously. I go faster and faster as I get away from the 
 main street. When half the distance is accomplished, I actually do hear 
 the whistle ; there can be no doubt about it this time. I long to run, 
 but I know that if I do I will excite that abominable speckled dog sitting 
 by the sidewalk a little distance ahead of me. Then I really see the train 
 coming around the curve close by the depot, and I feel that I must make 
 better time ; and I do. The dog immediately manifests an interest in ray 
 movements. He tears down the street after me, and is speedily joined by five 
 or six other dogs, which frolic about ray legs and bark furiously. Sundry 
 small boys as I go plunging past, contribute to the exciteraent by whistling 
 
02 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 with their fingers, and the men who are at work upon the new meeting- 
 house stop to look at me and exchange jocular remarks with each other. I 
 do feel ridiculous ; but I must catch that train at all hazards. 
 
 I become desperate when I have to slacken my pace until two or three 
 women who are standing upon the sidewalk, discussing the infamous price 
 of butter, scatter to let me pass. I arrive within a few yards of the sta- 
 tion with my duster flying in the wind, with my coat tails in a horizontal 
 position, and with the speckled dog nipping my heels, just as the train 
 begins to move. I put on extra pressure, resolving to get the train or 
 perish, and I reach it just as the last car is going by. I seize the hand- 
 rail ; I am jerked violently around, but finally, after a desperate effort, I 
 get upon the step with my knees, and am hauled in by the brakeman, hot, 
 dusty and mad, with my trousers torn across the knees, my legs bruised 
 and three ribs of my umbrella broken. 
 
 Just as I reach a comfortable seat in the car, the train stops, and then 
 backs up on the siding, where it remains for half an hour while the 
 engineer repairs a dislocated valve. The anger which burns in my bosom 
 as I reflect upon what now is proved to have been the folly of that race is 
 increased as I look out of the window and observe the speckled dog 
 engaged with his companions in an altercation over a bone. A man who 
 permits his dog to roam about the streets nipping the legs of every one 
 who happens to go at a more rapid gait than a walk, is unfit for association 
 with civilized beings. He ought to be placed on a desert island in mid- 
 ocean, and be compelled to stay there. 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 LADY DUFFERIN. 
 
 ^^'M Bitting on the stile, Mary, 
 ^j^ Where we eat side by side 
 '. i<T On a bright May morning, long ago, 
 ^yf When first you were my bride ; 
 I The corn was springing fresh and green, 
 i And the lark sang loud and high ; 
 <] And the red was on your lip, Mary, 
 And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary, 
 The day ba bright as then ; 
 
 The lark's loud song is in my ear, 
 And the corn is green again ; 
 
 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 
 And your breath warm on my cheek ; 
 
 And I still keep listening for the words 
 You never more will speak. 
 
 ' Tis but a step down j^onder lane, 
 And the little church stands near — 
 
 The church where we were wed, Mary; 
 I see the spire from here. 
 
THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 63 
 
 But the graveyard lieB between, Mary, 
 And my step might break your rest — 
 
 For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep 
 With your baby on your breast. 
 
 I'm very lonely now, Mary, 
 
 For the poor make no new friends ; 
 But, Oh ! they love the better still 
 
 The few our Father sends ! 
 And you were all I had, Mary — 
 
 My blessing and my pride ; 
 There's nothing left to care for now, 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 Tours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 
 
 That still kept hoping on. 
 When the trust in God had left mj'- soul, 
 
 And my arm's young strength was gone 
 There was comfort ever on your lip, 
 
 And the kind look on your brow — 
 i bless you, Mary, for that same, 
 
 Tho' you cannot hear me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile 
 
 When your heart was fit to break — • 
 When the hunger pain was gnawing there.. 
 
 And you did it for my sake ; 
 I bless you for the pleasant word, 
 
 When your heart was sad and sore — 
 Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
 
 Where grief can't reach you morel 
 
 I'm bidding you a long farewell. 
 
 My Mary — kind and true ! 
 But I'll not forget you darling, 
 
 In the land I'm going to ; 
 They say there's bread and work for all, 
 
 And the sun shines always there^ 
 But I'll not forget old Ireland, 
 
 Were it fifty times as fair ! 
 
 And often in those grand old woods 
 
 I'll sit, and shut my eyes, 
 And ray heart will travel back again 
 
 To the place where Mary lies ; 
 And I'll think I see the little stile 
 
 Where we sat side by side. 
 And the springing corn, and the bright May 
 morn 
 
 When first you were my bride. 
 
 THE SNOW-STORM. 
 
 EMERSON. 
 
 =XXOUNCED by all the trumpets of 
 the sky. 
 Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er 
 
 the fields. 
 Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited 
 > air 
 
 J Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 
 
 heaven. 
 And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
 The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's 
 
 feet 
 Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates 
 
 sit 
 Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed 
 In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 
 
 Come see the north-wind's masonry. 
 Out of an unseen quarry, evermore 
 Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
 Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
 Round every windward stake or tree or door ; 
 Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
 So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he 
 For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
 On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
 A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; 
 Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall 
 Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate 
 A tapering turret overtops the work. 
 And when his hours are numbered, and the 
 world 
 
64 
 
 THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Is all his own, retiring as he were not, 
 Leaves when the sun appears, astonished 
 Art 
 
 To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
 Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, 
 The frolic architecture of the snow. 
 
 THE RIVER TIME. 
 
 BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. 
 
 (H ! a wonderful stream is the river 
 Time, 
 f'? As it runs through the realm of tears, 
 ^% With a faultless rhythm and a musical 
 rhyme 
 And a broader sweep and a surge sub- 
 [ lime, 
 
 As it blends in the ocean of years ! 
 
 How the winters are drifting like flakes of 
 snow. 
 And the summers like birds between. 
 And the years in the sheaf, how they come 
 
 and they go 
 On the river's breast with its ebb and its flow, 
 As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! 
 
 There's a magical isle up the river Time, 
 Where the softest of airs are playing. 
 There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime. 
 And a song as sweet as a vesper chime. 
 And the Junes with the roses are straying. 
 
 And the name of this isle is the " Long Ago," 
 
 And we bury our treasures there ; 
 There are brows of beauty and bosoms of 
 snow, 
 
 There are heaps of dust — oh ! we loved them 
 so— 
 There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 
 
 There are fragments of songs that nobody 
 sings. 
 There are parts of an infant's prayer. 
 There's a lute unswept and a harp without 
 
 strings. 
 There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 
 And the garments our loved used to wear. 
 
 There are hands that are waved when the 
 fairy shore 
 By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, 
 And we sometimes hear through the turbu- 
 lent roar 
 Sweet voices we heard in the days gone be- 
 fore. 
 When the wind down the river was fair. 
 
 Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle. 
 All the day of our life until night ; 
 
 And when evening glows with its beautiful 
 smile. 
 
 And our eyes are closing in slumbers awhile, 
 May the greenwood of soul be in sight. 
 
 THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 FELICIA D. HEMANS. 
 
 JBSgHE stately Homes of England, 
 ^K^ How beautiful they stand ! 
 ^*'^-T Ami<lst their tall ancestral trees, 
 ■ • U'er all the pleasant land ; 
 
 The deer across their greensward 
 \ bound 
 
 J Through shade and sunny gleam, 
 
 And the swan glides pa-st them with the 
 sound 
 
 Of Pome rejoicing stream. 
 
 The merry Homes of England ! 
 Around their hearths by niglit. 
 What gladsome looks of household 
 
 love 
 Meet in the ruddy light. 
 There woman's voice flows forth m 
 
 song, 
 Or childish tale is told ; 
 Or lips move tunefully along 
 Some glorious page of old. 
 
 I 
 
THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 The blessed Homes of England ! 
 
 How softly on their bowers 
 
 Is laid the holy quietness 
 
 That breathes from Sabbath hours ! 
 
 65 
 
 The cottage Homes of England ! 
 
 By thousands on her plains, 
 
 They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks. 
 
 And round the hamlet-fanes. 
 
 AN ENGLISH ANCESTRAL HOMESTEAD. 
 
 Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime 
 Floats through their woods at morn ; 
 All other sounds, in that still time, 
 Of breeze and leaf are born. 
 
 Through glowing orchards forth they peej. 
 Each from its nook of leaves ; 
 And fearless there the lowly sleep, 
 Aa the bird beneath their eaves. 
 
66 
 
 AFRICAN HOSPITALITY. 
 
 The free, fair Homes of England ! 
 Long, long in hut and hall, 
 May hearts of native proof be reared 
 To guard each hallowed wall ! 
 
 And green forever be the groves, 
 And bright the flowery sod. 
 Where first the child's glad spirit loves 
 Its country and its God. 
 
 AFRICAN HOSPITALITY. 
 
 MUNGO PARK. 
 
 WAITED more than two hours without having an opportunity of 
 crossing the river, during which time the people who had crossed 
 carried information to Man-song, the king, that a white man was 
 waiting for a passage, and was coming to see him. He immediately 
 sent over one of his chief men, who informed me that the king could 
 not possibly see me until he knew what had brought me into his 
 country ; and that I must not presume to cross the river without the king's 
 permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a distant village, to which 
 ho pointed, for the night, and said that in the morning he would give me 
 further instructions how to conduct myself. 
 
 This was very discouraging. However, as there was no remedy, I set 
 off for the village, where I found, to my great mortification, that no 
 person would admit me into his house. I was regarded with astonishment 
 and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without victuals in the shade of a 
 tree ; and the night threatened to be very uncomfortable — for the wind 
 rose, and there was great appearance of a heavy rain — and the wild beasts 
 are so very numerous in the neighborhood, that I should have been 
 under the necessity of climbing up the trees and resting amongst the 
 branches. About sunset, however, as I was preparing to pass the night in 
 this manner, and had turned my horse loose that he might graze at 
 liberty, a woman, returning from the labors of the field, stopped to 
 observe me, and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into my 
 situation, which I briefly explained to her ; whereupon, with looks of great 
 compassion, she took up my saddle and bridle, and told me to follow her. 
 Having conducted me into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat 
 on the floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. Finding 
 that I was very hungry, she said she would procure me something to eat. 
 She \vent out, and returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, 
 having caused to bo half broiled upon some embers, she gave me for 
 supper. 
 
THE HEBREW RACE. Q>j 
 
 The rites of hospitality being thus performed towards a stranger in 
 distress, my worthy benefactress — pointing to the mat, and telling me I 
 might sleep there without apprehension — called to the female part of her 
 family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed astonishment, to 
 resume their task of spinning cotton, in which they continued to employ 
 themselves a great part of the night. They lightened their labor by songs, 
 one of which was composed extempore, for I was myself the subject of it. 
 It was sung by one of the young women, the rest joining in a sort of 
 chorus. The air was sweet and plaintive, and the words, literally trans- 
 lated, were these : " The winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white 
 man, faint and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother to 
 bring him milk — no wife to grind his corn. Chorus — Let us pity the 
 white man — no mother has he," etc. Trifling as this recital may appear to 
 the reader, to a person in my situation the circumstance was affecting in 
 the highest degree. I was oppressed by such unexpected kindness, and 
 sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I presented my compassionate 
 landlady with two of the four brass buttons which remained on my waist- 
 coat — the only recompense I could make her. 
 
 THE HEBREW RACE. 
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 
 
 pi^AVOKED by nature and by nature's God, we produced the lyre of 
 
 eA-M David ; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel ; they are our Olynthians, 
 
 a:;a our Philippics. Favored by nature we still remain ; but in exact 
 
 ! proportion as we have been favored by nature, we have been per- 
 secuted by man. After a thousand struggles — after acts of heroic 
 courage that Eome has never equalled — deeds of divine patriotism 
 that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have never excelled — we have en- 
 dured fifteen hundred, years of supernatural slavery ; during which, every 
 device that can degrade or destroy man has been the destiny that we have 
 sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to 
 learn that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him 
 the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion. 
 
 Great poets require a public ; we have been content with the immor- 
 tal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years ago by the waters 
 of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs ; they solace our afflic- 
 
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 tion. Great orators are the creatures of popular assemblies ; we were 
 permitted only by stealth to meet even in our temples. And as for great 
 writers, the catalogue is not blank. What are all the school-men, 
 Aquinas himself, to Maimonides? and as for modern philosophy, all 
 springs from Spinoza ! But the passionate and creative genius that is the 
 nearest link to divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though 
 it can divert it; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its 
 inspired sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence, has 
 found a medium for its expression, to which, in spite of your prejudices 
 and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, 
 the fancy teeming with combination — the imagination fervent with picture 
 and emotion, that came from Caucasus, and which we have preserved 
 unpolluted — have endowed us with almost the exclusive privilege of music; 
 that science of harmonious sounds which the ancients recognized as most 
 divine, and deified in the person of their most beautiful creation. 
 
 THE POETS SONG TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 i^OW many summers, love, 
 
 ;.-; 
 
 Have I been thine? 
 How many flays, thou dove, 
 
 Hast thou been mine ? 
 Time, like the winged wind 
 
 When 't bends the flowers, 
 Hath left no mark behind, 
 
 To count the hours! 
 
 Some weight of thought, though loath. 
 
 On thee he leaves ; 
 Some lines of care round both 
 
 Perhaps he weaves ; 
 Some fears, — a soft regret 
 
 For joy scarce known ; 
 Sweet looks we half forget ; — 
 
 All else is flown ! 
 
THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. 
 
 Ah ! With what thankless heart 
 
 With tongues all sweet and low 
 
 I mourn and sing ! 
 
 Like a pleasant rhyme, 
 
 Look, where our children start, 
 
 They tell how much I owe 
 
 Like sudden spring ! 
 
 To thee and time ! 
 
 SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE f 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 ^HEN we hear the music ringing 
 
 In the bright celestial dome — 
 When sweet angels' voices, singing, 
 
 Gladly bid us welcome home 
 To the land of ancient story, 
 
 Where the spirit knows no care ; 
 In that land of life and glory — 
 
 Shall we know each other there ? 
 
 When the holy angels meet us, 
 
 As we go to join their band, 
 Shall we know the friends that greet us 
 
 In that glorious spirit land ? 
 Shall we see the same eyes shining 
 
 On us as in days of yore ? 
 Shall we feel the dear arms twining 
 
 Fondly round us as before ? 
 
 Yes, my earth-worn soul rejoices, 
 
 And my weary heart grows light. 
 For the thrilling angel voices 
 
 And the angel faces bright, 
 That shall welcome us in heaven, 
 
 Are the loved of long ago ; 
 And to them 'tis kindly given 
 
 Thus their mortal friends to know. 
 
 Oh, ye weary, sad, and tossed ones, 
 Droop not, faint not by the way ! 
 
 Ye shall join the loved and just ones 
 In that land of perfect day. 
 
 Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers, 
 Murmured in my raptured ear ; 
 
 Evermore their sweet song lingers — 
 
 " We shall know each other there." 
 
 THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHA Y. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 IIh^AVE you heard of the wonderful 
 one-hoss shay, 
 
 r- • That was built in such a logical way 
 It ran a hundred years to a day. 
 And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but 
 
 stay, 
 I'll tell you what happened, with- 
 out delay — 
 Scaring the parson into fits, 
 Frightening people out of their wits — 
 Have you ever heard of that I say ? 
 
 Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, 
 Georgius Secundus was then alive — 
 Snuffy old drone from the German hive. 
 That was the year when Lisbon town 
 Saw the earth open and gulp her down. 
 And Braddock's army was done so brown. 
 Left without a scalp to its crown. 
 It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
 That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. 
 
 Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what. 
 
70 
 
 THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. 
 
 There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — 
 In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 
 In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 
 In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still, 
 Find it somewhere you must and will^ 
 Above or below, or within or without — 
 And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
 A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 
 
 But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do. 
 With an " I dew vum " or an " I tell yeou ") — 
 He would build one shay to beat the taown 
 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; 
 It should be so built that it couldn't break 
 
 daown : — 
 " Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain 
 That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 
 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain. 
 
 Is only jest 
 To make that place uz strong uz the rest." 
 
 So the Deacon inquired of the village folk 
 Where he could find the strongest oak. 
 That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — 
 That was for spokes, and floor, and sills ; 
 He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; 
 The crossbars were ash, from the straightest 
 
 trees ; 
 The panels of white-wood, that cuts like 
 
 But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
 The hubs from logs from the "Settler's 
 
 ellum" — 
 Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em — 
 Never an ax had seen their chips, 
 And the wedges flew from between their lips. 
 Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 
 Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 
 Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 
 Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; 
 Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; 
 Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, 
 Found in the pit where the tanner died. 
 That was the way he " put her through." 
 " There !" said the Deacon, " naow she'll 
 
 dew !" 
 
 Do ! I tell you, I rather guess 
 
 She was a wonder, and nothing less ! 
 
 Colt* grew horses, beards turned gray, 
 
 Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 
 Children and grandchildren — where were 
 
 they ? 
 But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, 
 As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 
 
 Eighteen Hundred — it came, and found 
 The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. 
 Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — 
 " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. 
 Eighteen hundred and twenty came — 
 Running as usual — much the same. 
 Thirty and forty at last arrive ; 
 And then came fifty — and Fifty-five. 
 
 Little of all we value here 
 
 Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
 
 Without both feeling and looking queer. 
 
 In fact there's nothing that keeps its youth, 
 
 So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 
 
 (This is a moral that runs at large ; 
 
 Take it. — You're welcome. — no extra charge.) 
 
 First of November— the Earthquake-day — 
 
 There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, 
 
 A general flavor of mild decay — 
 
 But nothing local, as one may say, 
 
 There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art 
 
 Had made it so like in every part 
 
 That there wasn't a chance for one to start 
 
 For the wheels were just as strong as the 
 
 thills. 
 And the floor was just as strong as the sills, 
 And the panels just as strong as the floor. 
 And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, 
 And the back crossbar as strong as the fore. 
 And spring, and axle, and hub encore. 
 And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 
 In another hour it will be worn out ! 
 
 First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 
 
 This morning the parson takes a drive. 
 
 Now, small boys, get out of the way ! 
 
 Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
 
 Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
 
 " Huddup !" said the parson. — Ofi" went they. 
 
 The parson was working his Sunday text — 
 Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
 At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
 All at once the horse stood still, 
 
MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 
 
 71 
 
 Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
 
 First a shiver, and then a thrill, 
 Then something decidedly like a spill — 
 And the parson was sitting upon a rock, 
 At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house 
 
 clock — 
 •Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! 
 
 What do you think the parson found, 
 
 When he got up and stared around ? 
 The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, 
 As if it had been to the mill and ground ! 
 You see, of course, if you're not a dunce. 
 How it went to pieces all at once — 
 All at once, and nothing first — 
 Just as the bubbles do when they burst. 
 End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
 Logic IS Logic. That's all I say. 
 
 AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 JF all the notable things on earth, 
 The queerest one is pride of birth 
 Among our " fierce democracy !" 
 A bridge across a hundred years. 
 Without a prop to save it from sneers, 
 J* Not even a couple of rotten peers, — 
 J A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, 
 Is American aristocracy ! 
 
 English and Irish, French and Spanish, 
 Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, 
 Crossing their veins until they vanish 
 In one conglomeration ! 
 
 So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, 
 No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed 
 In finding the circulation. 
 
 Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, 
 Your family thread you can't ascend, 
 Without good reason to apprehend 
 You may find it waxed, at the farther 
 end, 
 
 By some plebeian vocation : 
 Or, worse than that, your boasted line 
 May end in a loop of stronger twine. 
 
 That plagued some worthy relation I 
 
 ^m..^ 
 
 MR. PICKWICK IN A DIIEMMA. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ,. PICKWICK'S apartments in Goswell street, although on a 
 Hmited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable 
 description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of 
 his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor 
 front, his bed-room was the second floor front ; and thus, whether 
 
72 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 
 
 he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the dressing- 
 glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating 
 human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more 
 populous than popular thoroughfare. 
 
 His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the rehct and sole executrix of a de- 
 ceased custom-house officer — was a comely woman of busthng manners 
 and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by 
 study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, 
 no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large 
 man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. 
 Bardell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten o'clock at 
 night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a 
 dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor ; and the infantine sports and 
 gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the 
 neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned 
 throughout the house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 
 
 To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of 
 the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of 
 Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour, on the morning 
 previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatansville, 
 would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room 
 to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at inter- 
 vals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and 
 exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with 
 him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contem- 
 plation ; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had 
 been able to discover. 
 
 " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female 
 approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. 
 " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time gone." "Why, 
 it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. 
 "Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "very true; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed 
 into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. 
 
 "Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few 
 minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. " Do you think it's a much 
 greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ?" "La, Mr. Pick- 
 wick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very border of her cap, as she 
 fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her 
 lodger; "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!" "Well, but do you?" 
 inquired Mr. Pickwick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching 
 
MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. /^g 
 
 the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the 
 table ; " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pick- 
 wick ; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir." " That's very 
 true," said Mr. Pickwick; "but the person I have in my eye (here he 
 looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities; and 
 has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of 
 sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me." 
 
 " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- 
 border agam. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his 
 wont m speaking of a subject which interested him. " I do indeed • and 
 to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." "Dear 
 me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. " You'll think it not very strange now " 
 said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his com- 
 pamon, " that I never consulted you about this matter, and never men- 
 tioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning— eh ?" 
 
 Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped 
 Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a 
 pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared 
 to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose— a deliberate plan, too- 
 sent her httle boy to the Borough to get him out of the way— how 
 thoughtful— how considerate !— " Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you 
 thmk r " Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation 
 " you're very kind, sir." " It will save you a great deal of trouble, won't 
 it?" said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble 
 sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; "and of course, I should take more trouble iL 
 please you then than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have 
 so much consideration for my loneliness." 
 
 "Ah to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; " I never thought of that. 
 When I am m town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you To 
 be sure, so you will." "Pm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," 
 said Mrs. Bardell. " And your little boy-" said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless 
 his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. " He too will 
 have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, " a lively one, who'll teach'him 
 i 11 be bound, more tricks in a week, than he would ever learn, in a year "' 
 And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. 
 
 " Oh, you dear—" said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. " Oh 
 you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado 
 she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck,' 
 with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. " Bless my soul " cried the 
 astonished Mr. Pickwick ;-" Mrs. BardeU, my good woman-dear me, 
 
MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 
 
 what a situation — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should 
 come—" "Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; 
 "I'll never leave you — dear, kind, good, soul:" and with these words, 
 Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. 
 
 " Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, " I hear 
 somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creature, 
 don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing ; for Mrs. 
 Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms ; and before he could gain 
 time to deposit her on a chair. Master Bardell entered the room, ushering 
 in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Pickwick was 
 struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his 
 arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the 
 slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. . They, in their turn, 
 stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. 
 
 The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the 
 perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have 
 remained in exactly the same relative situation until the suspended anima- 
 tion of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and 
 touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. 
 Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very 
 considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain ; 
 but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have sufiered some 
 personal damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering 
 Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind 
 of howling, and butting forward, with his head, commenced assailing that 
 immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches 
 as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed. 
 
 " Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, 
 " he's mad." " What is the matter ?" said the three tongue-tied Pick- 
 wickians. " I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. " Take away 
 the boy — (here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and 
 struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) Now help me to lead 
 this woman down stairs. "Oh, I'm better now," said Mrs. Bardell, 
 faintly. " Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever gallant Mr. Tup- 
 man. " Thank you, sir — thank you ;" exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. 
 And down stairs she was led, accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate 
 son. 
 
 " I cannot conceive " — said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned — 
 " I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had 
 merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when 
 
PRAISE OF THE SEA. 75 
 
 she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in whicli you found her. Very 
 extraordinary thing." " Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in 
 such an extremely awkward situation," continued Mr. Pickwick. " Very;" 
 was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked 
 dubiously at each other. 
 
 This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their 
 incredulity. They evidently suspected him. — " There is a man in the 
 passage now," said Mr. Tupman. " It's the man that I spoke to you 
 about," said Mr. Pickwick, " I sent for him to the Borough this morning. 
 Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass." 
 
 PRAISE OF TEE SEA. 
 
 SAMUEL PURCHAS. 
 
 bS God hath combined the sea and land into one globe, so their joint 
 combination and mutual assistance is necessary to secular happi- 
 ness and glory. The sea covereth one-half of this patrimony of 
 I man, whereof Ood set him in possession when he said, " Replenish 
 the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the 
 sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over eveiy living thing that moveth 
 upon the earth." .... Thus should man at once lose half his inheritance, 
 if the art of navigation did not enable him to manage this untamed beast, 
 and with the bridle of the winds and saddle of his shipping to make him 
 serviceable. Now for the services of the sea, they are innumerable : it is 
 the great purveyor of the world's commodities to our use ; conveyer of the 
 excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffic, of all nations : it presents the eye with 
 diversified colors and motions, and is, as it were, with rich brooches, 
 adorned with various islands. It is an open field for merchandise in peace ; 
 a pitched field for the most dreadful fights of war ; yields diversity of fish 
 and fowl for diet ; materials for wealth, medicine for health, simples for 
 medicines, pearls, and other jewels for ornament ; amber and ambergris 
 for delight ; " the wonders of the Lord in the deep " for instruction, variety 
 of creatures for use, multiplicity of natures for contemplation, diversity of 
 accidents for admiration, compendiousness to the way, to full bodies health- 
 ful evacuation, to the thirsty earth fertile moisture, to distant friends pleasant 
 meeting, to weary persons delightful refreshing, to studious and religious 
 minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temperance, exercise of continence ; 
 
76 
 
 PRAISE OF THE SEA. 
 
 school of prayer, meditation, devotion and sobriety ; refuge to the dis- 
 tressed, portage to the merchant, passage to the traveller, customs to the 
 
 prince, springs, lakes, rivers to the earth; it hath on it tempests and 
 calms to chastise the sins, to exercise the faith of seamen ; manifold 
 
WAITING BY THE GATE. 
 
 77 
 
 affections in itself, to affect and stupefy the subtlest philosopher ; sustaineth 
 movable fortresses for the soldier ; maintaineth (as in our island) a wall 
 of defence and watery garrison to guard the state ; entertains the sun with 
 vapors, the moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with a natural looking- 
 glass, the sky with clouds, the air with temperateness, the soil with sup- 
 pleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with moisture, the valleys with 
 fertility : containeth most diversified matter for meteors, most multiform 
 shapes, most various, numerous kinds, most immense, difformed, deformed, 
 unformed monsters ; once (for why should I longer detain you ?) the sea 
 yields action to the body, meditation to the mind, the world to the world, 
 all parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts, navigation. 
 
 WAITING BY THE GATE. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 ^I^^ESIDE the massive gateway built up 
 in years gone by, 
 Upon whose top the clouds in eter- 
 nal shadow lie, 
 While streams the evening sunshine 
 
 on the quiet wood and lea, 
 I stand and calmly wait until the 
 hinges turn for me. 
 
 The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the 
 
 breeze's flight, 
 A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the 
 
 night ; 
 I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow 
 
 descant more. 
 And scent the flowers that blow when the 
 
 heat of day is o'er. 
 
 Behold the portals open and o'er the thres- 
 hold, now, 
 
 There steps a wearied one with pale and fur- 
 rowed brow ; 
 
 His count of years is full, his alloted task is 
 wrought ; 
 
 He passes to his rest from a place that needs 
 him not. 
 
 In sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets 
 the hour 
 
 Of human strength and action, man's cour- 
 age and his power. 
 
 I muse while still the woodthrush singe 
 down the golden day, 
 
 And as I look and listen the sadness wears 
 away. 
 
 Again the hinges turn, and a youth, depart- 
 ing throws 
 
 A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully 
 goes; 
 
 A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from 
 her hair. 
 
 Moves wonderfully away from amid the 
 young and fair. 
 
 Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly de- 
 cays ! 
 
 Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens 
 as we gaze ! 
 
 Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the 
 restless air 
 
 Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we 
 know not where. 
 
 I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown 
 and then withdrawn ; 
 
 But still the sun shines round me ; the even- 
 ing birds sing on ; 
 
78 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 And I again am soothed, and beside the an- 
 cient gate, 
 
 In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand 
 and wait. 
 
 Once more the gates are opened, an infant 
 
 group go out, 
 The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled 
 
 the sprightly shout. 
 Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the 
 
 greensward strews 
 Its fair young buds unopened, with every 
 
 wind that blows ! 
 
 So from every region, so enter side by side. 
 The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and 
 
 men of pride. 
 Steps of earth's greatest, mightiest, between 
 
 those pillars gray. 
 
 And prints of little feet, that mark the dust 
 away. 
 
 And some approach the threshold whose 
 
 looks are blank with fear. 
 And some whose temples brighten with joy 
 
 are drawing near, 
 As if they saw dear faces, and caught the 
 
 gracious eye 
 Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for 
 
 us to die. 
 I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, with- 
 in my heart. 
 Can neither wake the dread nor the longing 
 
 to depart ; 
 And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood 
 
 and lea, 
 I stand and calmly wait until the hinges 
 
 turn for me. 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPERS SOLILOQUY. 
 
 MRS. F. D. GAGE. 
 
 ^iM! 
 
 HERE'S a big washing to be done — 
 One pair of hands to do it — 
 Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats 
 and pants, 
 How will I e'er get through it ? 
 
 ^ Dinner to get for six or more. 
 
 No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; 
 And baby cross as he can live — 
 He's always so on Monday. 
 
 'Tis time the meat was in the pot. 
 The bread was worked for baking, 
 
 The clothes were taken from the boil — 
 Oh dear ! the baby's waking ! 
 
 Hush, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sh ! 
 
 I wish he'd sleep a little, 
 'Till I could run and get some wood. 
 
 To hurry up the kettle. 
 
 Oh dear ! oh dear ! if P comes home. 
 
 And finds things in this pother, 
 
 He'll just begin and tell me all 
 About hifl tidy mother! 
 
 How nice her kitchen used to be, 
 
 Her dinner always ready 
 Exactly when the noon-bell rang — 
 
 Hush, hush, dear little Freddy ! 
 
 And then will come some hasty words, 
 Right out before I'm thinking — 
 
 They say that hasty words from wives 
 Set sober men to drinking. 
 
 Now is not that a great idea, 
 
 That men should take to sinning, 
 
 Because a weary, half-sick wife. 
 Can't always smile so winning ? 
 
 When I was young I used to earn 
 
 My living without trouble, 
 Had clothes and pocket money, too, 
 
 And hours of leisure double, 
 
 I never dreamed of such a fate. 
 When I, a-lass ! was courted — 
 Wife, mother, nurse, seamstress, cook, house- 
 keeper, chambermaid, laundress, dairywo- 
 man, and scrub generally, doing the work 
 of six. 
 
 For the sake of being supported ! 
 
SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 
 
 79 
 
 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 [F all the rides since the birth of time, 
 Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 
 On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 
 Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, 
 Witch astride of a human hack, 
 Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 
 The strangest ride that ever was sped 
 Was Ireson's out from Marblehead ! 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 Body of turkey, head of owl. 
 Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl, 
 Ffcv\thered and rufiled in every part, 
 Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 
 Scores of women, old and young, 
 ptrong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
 Pushed and pulled un the rockv lane. 
 
 Shouting and singing the shrill refrain • 
 " Here's Flud Oirson, for his horrd horrt, 
 Torr'd an futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt, 
 By the women o' Marble'ead !" 
 
 Wrinkled scolds, with hands on hips. 
 
 Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 
 
 Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 
 
 Bacchus round some antique vase, 
 
 Brief of skirt, with ankles bare. 
 
 Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 
 
 With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns 
 
 twang. 
 Over and over the Maenads sang : 
 
 " Here's Flud Oirson, far his horrd horrt, 
 Torrd an' futhered an' corr'd in a corrt 
 By the women o' Marble'ead ! 
 
 Small pity for him ! — he sailed away 
 From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay, — 
 
80 
 
 SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. 
 
 Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
 "With his own towns-people on her deck ! 
 " Lay by ! lay by !" they called to him, 
 Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! 
 Brag of your catch of fish again !" 
 And off he sailed through fog and rain ! 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for his hnnl lionrt, 
 
 Sweetly along the Salem road 
 
 Bloom of orchard and lilac showed, 
 
 Little the wicked skipper knew 
 
 Of the fields so green and the iky so blue 
 
 Riding there in his sorry trim. 
 
 Like an Indian idol, glum and grim, 
 
 Scarcolv In: seemed the sound to hear, 
 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a 
 
 cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
 That wreck shall lie forevermore. 
 Mother and sister, wife and maid. 
 Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
 Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 
 Looked for the coming that might not be ! 
 What did the winds and the sea-birds say 
 Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? — 
 Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 Tlirough the street, on either side, 
 Up flew windows, doors swung wide ; 
 Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray, 
 Treble lent to the fish-horn's bray. 
 Sea-worn grandsires, cripple bound. 
 Hulks of old sailors run aground. 
 Shook head and fist, and hat, and cane. 
 And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : 
 " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
 Tnrr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
 By the women o' Marhlu'ead '" 
 
 Of voices shouting, far and near : 
 
 " Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt 
 Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
 By the women o' Marble'ead ! 
 
 " Hear me, neighbors !" at last he cried, — 
 " What to me is this noisy ride ? 
 What is the shame that clothes the skin, 
 To the nameless horror that lives within ? 
 Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 
 And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 
 Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 
 The hand of God and the face of the dead!" 
 Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
 The wife of the skipper lost at sea 
 Said, " God has touched him! why should we?" 
 Said an old wife, mourning her only son, 
 " Cut the rogue's tether, and let him run 1" 
 So with soft relentings, and rude excuse. 
 Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose, 
 And gave him a cloak to hide him in. 
 And left him alone with his shame and sin, 
 Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
 Tarred and feathered and carried in a ca 
 By the women of Marblehead ! 
 
PULPIT ORATORY. Ql 
 
 PULPIT ORATORY. 
 
 DANIEL DOUGHERTY. 
 
 llpiHE daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judgment, but to 
 ^i^ touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to love our Creator 
 and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not 
 enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our 
 souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the 
 armory of the feelings the weapons with which to defend against sin, 
 assail Satan and achieve the victory, the fruits of which shall never perish. 
 And oh, how infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this 
 armory ! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a 
 master ! 
 
 Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the 
 soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the bound- 
 less world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. 
 He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man — all his temp- 
 tations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awake amid the 
 glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten 
 gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy 
 hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. 
 He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart 
 his secret crimes and expose his damnable villainy to the gaze of all. He 
 can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God 
 and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth 
 that the Saviour from the highest throne in heaven descended, and here, 
 on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died on the cross 
 like a malefactor. He can startle and awe-strike his hearers as he descants 
 on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from heaven Lucifer 
 and his apostate legions ; in letting loose the mighty waters until they 
 swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest 
 mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the coming of that a,wful 
 day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a 
 scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic 
 voices tuned in celestial harmony sing their canticles of praise. He can 
 dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth 
 of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never con- 
 sumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes 
 of the Deity, and, as the supreme mercy and goodness, make tears of 
 
82 
 
 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 
 
 contrition start and stream from every eye ; or, armed with the dread 
 prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath 
 strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail ae 
 Felix quailed before St. Paul. 
 
 BABY. 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 
 HERE did you come from, baby 
 
 dear ? 
 Out of the everywhere into here. 
 
 Where did you get those eyes so 
 
 blue? 
 Out of the sky as I came through. 
 
 What makes the light in them sparkle and 
 
 spin ? 
 Some of the starry spikes left in. 
 
 Where did you get that little tear ? 
 I found it waiting when I got here. 
 
 What makes your forehead so smooth and 
 
 high? 
 A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 
 
 What makes your cheek like a warm white 
 
 rose? • 
 I saw something better than any one knows. 
 
 Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
 Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 
 
 Where did you get this pearly ear? 
 God spoke and it came out to hear. 
 
 Where did you get those arms and hands ? 
 Love made itself into bonds and bands. 
 
 Feet, whence did you come, you darling 
 
 things ? 
 From the same box as the cherubs' wings. 
 
 IIow did they all just come to be you? 
 God thought about me, and so I grew. 
 
 But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
 God thought about you, and so I am here. 
 
 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 
 
 F. M. WHITCHER. 
 
 ^C^FiS, — he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband 
 ..-A.-;,' was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham,) she says, 
 ifC ^ never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest 
 L lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else 
 
THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 83 
 
 she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to 
 his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want 
 to hear it ? Well, I'll see if I can say it ; it ginerally aflfects me wonder- 
 fully, seems to harrer up my feelin's ; but I'll try. Dident know I ever 
 writ poitry ? How you talk ! used to make lots on't ; haint so much late 
 years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an 
 amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. 
 It says : 
 
 Teach him for to proclaim 
 
 Salvation to the folks ; 
 No occasion give for any blame, 
 
 Nor wicked people's jokes. 
 
 And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on't now, seein' 
 there's seven and forty verses. 
 
 Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it ; used to 
 sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made 
 in relation to husband ; it begins as follers : — 
 
 He never jawed in all his life, 
 
 He never was onkind, — 
 And (tho' I say it that was his wife) 
 
 Such men you seldom find. 
 
 (That's as true as the Scripturs ; I never knowedhim to say a harsh word.) 
 
 I never changed my single lot, — 
 I thought 'twould be a sin — 
 
 (Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 
 'tain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or 
 not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to ; why, 
 this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three 
 years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was 
 the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss 
 Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is. Miss Coon feels won- 
 derfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch," 
 — seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get, 
 — but I goes on to say — 
 
 I never changed my single lot, 
 
 I thought 'twould be a sin, — 
 For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott, 
 
 I never got married agin. 
 
84 THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 
 
 If ever a hasty word he spoke, 
 
 His anger dident last, 
 But vanished like tobacker smoke 
 
 Afore the wintry blast. 
 
 And since it was my lot to be 
 
 The wife of such a man, 
 Tell the men that's after me 
 
 To ketch me if they can. 
 
 If I was sick a single jot, 
 He called the doctor in — 
 
 That's a fact, — he used to b^ scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now 
 only jest think, — widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas 
 Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, 
 or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the 
 fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson 
 Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who 
 was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident 
 do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no 
 inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott, — and he was always 
 ready and willin' to do his duty, you know ; as long as he was able to 
 stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin' ; why, I've 
 knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the 
 pain in the spine of his back. 
 
 He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid 
 up in a napkin, — so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I 
 was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where 
 was I ? Oh !— 
 
 If I was sick a single jot. 
 
 He called the doctor in — 
 I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott 
 
 I never got married agin. 
 
 A wonderful tender heart ho had, 
 
 That felt for all mankind, — 
 It made him feel amazin' bad 
 
 To see the world so blind. 
 
 Whiskey and rum ho tasted not — 
 
 That's as true a.s the Scripturs, — but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann 
 Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said ono day to their house, 
 
THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY. 85 
 
 how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin ! did you ever ! 
 Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've 
 knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the 
 truth —besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, 
 and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make 
 it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'- 
 distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about 
 it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally 
 runnin' me down. See, — where had I got to? Oh, I remember 
 now, — 
 
 Whiskey and rum he tasted not, — 
 
 He thought it was a sin, — 
 I thought 60 much o' Deacon Bedott 
 
 I never got married agin. 
 
 But now he's dead ! the thought is killin', 
 
 My grief I can't control — 
 He never left a single shillin' 
 
 His widder to console. 
 
 But that wa'n't his fault — he was so out o' health for a number o' year afore 
 he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin' — however, 
 it dident give him no great oneasiness, — he never cared much for airthly 
 riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon 
 Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back, — begrudged folks their vittals 
 when they came to his house ! did you ever ! why, he was the hull-souldest 
 man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins 
 was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful 
 mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high 
 temper, — used to swear like all possest when he got mad, — and I've heard 
 my husband say, (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't 
 true), — I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of 
 his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! " His widder to 
 console," — ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. 
 When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he, — " What did you stop 
 so soon for ?" — but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better 
 a' stopt afore I'd begun, — she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd 
 like to see some poitry o' hern, — I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and 
 mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't, — said 
 I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie ! Why, 
 when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell 
 
86 
 
 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 
 
 But 
 
 they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal, 
 that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as foUers : — 
 
 I'll never change my single lot, — 
 
 I think 'twould be a sin, — 
 The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott 
 
 Don't intend to get married agin. 
 
 Excuse my cryin' — my feelin's always overcomes me so v^hen I say that 
 poitry — 0-0-0-0-0-0 ! 
 
 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 OLDIER of the Legion lay dying in 
 
 Algiers, 
 
 There was lack of woman's nursing, 
 
 there was dearth of woman's tears ; 
 
 But a comrade stood beside him, 
 
 while his life-blood ebbed away, 
 
 'j And bent, with pitying glances, to hear 
 
 what he might say. 
 The dying soldier faltered, as he took that 
 
 comrade's hand. 
 And he said, " I never more shall see my 
 
 own, my native land ; 
 Take a message, and a token, to some distant 
 
 friends of mine, 
 For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the 
 Rhine. 
 
 " Tell my brothers and companions, when 
 
 they meet and crowd around 
 To hear my mournful story in the pleasant 
 
 vineyard ground, 
 Tliat wo fought the battle bravely, and when 
 
 the day was done, 
 Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath 
 
 the setting sun ; 
 And midst the dead and dying were some 
 
 grown old in wars, 
 The death-wound on their gallant breasts, 
 
 the last of many scars ; 
 But some were young, and suddenly beheld 
 
 life's morn decline : 
 And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen 
 
 on the Rhino I 
 
 " Tell my mother that her other sons shall 
 
 comfort her old age, 
 And I was aye a truant bird, that thought 
 
 his home a cage : 
 For my father was a soldier, and even as a 
 
 child 
 My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of 
 
 struggles fierce and wild ; 
 And when he died, and left us to divide his 
 
 scanty hoard, 
 I let them take whate'er they would but kept 
 
 my father's sword, 
 And with boyish love I hung it where the 
 
 bright light used to shine. 
 On the cottage-wall at Bingen — calm Bingen 
 
 on the Rhine ! 
 
 " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob 
 
 with drooping head. 
 When the troops come marching home again, 
 
 with glad gallant tread ; 
 But to look upon them proudly, with a calm 
 
 and steadfast eye. 
 For her brother was a soldier too, and not 
 
 afraid to die ; 
 And if a comrade seek her love, 1 ask her in 
 
 my name 
 To listen to him kindly, without regret or 
 
 shame ; 
 And to hang the old sword in its place (my 
 
 fathers sword and mine,) 
 For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen 
 
 on the Rhine I 
 
SONG OF THE DECANTER. 
 
 87 
 
 " There's another, not a sister ; in the happy 
 
 days gone by, 
 You'd have known her by the merriment 
 
 that sparkled in her eye ; 
 Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle 
 
 scorning,— 
 Oh ! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes 
 
 sometimes heaviest mourning ! 
 
 Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the 
 moon be risen. 
 
 My body will be out of pain — my soul be out 
 of prison,) 
 
 I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yel- 
 low sunlight shine 
 
 On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bin- 
 gen on the Rhine ! 
 
 " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, 
 
 or seemed to hear. 
 The German songs we used to sing, in chorus 
 
 sweet and clear ; 
 And down the pleasant river, and up the 
 
 slanting hill. 
 The echoing chorus sounded, through the 
 
 evening calm and still ; 
 And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we 
 
 passed, with friendly talk, 
 Down many a path beloved of yore, and well 
 
 remembered walk. 
 And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly 
 
 in mine : 
 But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine!" 
 
 His voice grew faint and hoarse — his grasp 
 
 was childish weak, — 
 His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and 
 
 ceased to speak : 
 His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark 
 
 of life had fled ! 
 The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land — 
 
 was dead ! 
 And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly 
 
 she looked down 
 On the red sand of the battle-field with 
 
 bloody corses strown ; 
 Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale 
 
 light seemed to shine, 
 As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen 
 
 on the Rhine ! 
 
 SONG OF THE DECANTER. 
 
 There was an old decanter, 
 and its mouth was gaping 
 wide; the rosy wine 
 had ebbed away 
 and left 
 its crys- 
 tal side; 
 and the wind 
 went humming, 
 humming; 
 up and 
 down the 
 sides it flew, 
 and through the 
 reed-like, 
 hollow neck 
 the wildest notes it 
 blew. I placed it in the 
 window, where the blast was 
 blowing free, and fancied that its 
 pale mouth sang the queerest strains 
 to me. " They tell me — puny con- 
 querors ! — the Plague has slain his ten, 
 and War his hundred thousands of the 
 very best of men ; but I " — 'twas thus 
 the bottle spoke — "but I have con- 
 quered more than all your famous con- 
 querors, so feared and famed of yore. 
 Then come, ye youths and maidens, 
 come drink from out my cup, the bev- 
 erage that dulls the brain and burns 
 the spirit up ; that puts to shame 
 the conquerors that slay their 
 scores below ; for this has del- 
 uged millions with the lava tide 
 of woe. Though, m the path 
 of battle, darkest waves of 
 blood may roll ; yet Avhile 
 I killed the body, T have 
 damned the very soul. 
 The cholera, the sword, 
 such ruin never wrought, 
 as I, in mirth or malice, on 
 the innocent have brought. 
 And still I breathe upon them, 
 and they shrink before my breath ; 
 and year by year my thousands tread 
 
 THE FEARFUL KOAD TO DEATH. 
 
88 
 
 SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 THE RAINY DA Y. 
 
 LONGFELLOW. 
 
 IJMrHE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
 W]f^ It rains, and the wind is never 
 <i^fi;^ weary ; 
 
 ©1'^ The vine still clings to the moldering 
 I wall, 
 
 But at every gust the dead leaves 
 J fall, 
 
 And the day is dark and dreary. 
 
 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
 
 It rains and the wind is never weary ; 
 My thoughts still cling to the moldering past, 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, 
 And the days are dark and dreary. 
 
 Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
 Into each life some rain must fall, 
 Some days must be dark and dreary. 
 
 SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 yprilE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to 
 
 •^^ be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other 
 
 ', ""^ affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep 
 
 I open ; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where 
 
 J is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished 
 
 like a blossom from her arras, though every recollection is a pang ? Where 
 
 is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though 
 
 to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would 
 
SORROW FOR THE DEAD. 39 
 
 forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the tomb is 
 closing upon the remains of her he most loved — when he feels his heart, 
 as it were, crushed in the closing of its portals — would accept of consola- 
 tion that must be bought by forgetfulness ? 
 
 No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes 
 of the soul. If it has its woes, it has its delights ; and when the over- 
 whelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, 
 ffhen the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins 
 of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all 
 that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow 
 from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over 
 the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
 gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the 
 burst of revelry ? 
 
 No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a 
 remembrance of the dead to which we turn, even from the charms of the 
 living. Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, covers every 
 defect, extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring 
 none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even 
 upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he 
 should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies molder- 
 ing before him ? 
 
 But the grave of those we loved, what a place for meditation ! There 
 it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentle- 
 ness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in 
 the daily intercourse of intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon the 
 tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene ; the bed of 
 death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful 
 assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! the feeble, fluttering, 
 thrilling, — oh, how thrilling ! — pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering 
 accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! The 
 last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the threshold 
 of existence ! Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate. There 
 settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, 
 every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, 
 never, never return to be soothed by thy contrition. 
 
 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a 
 furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a hus- 
 band, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happi- 
 ness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth ; i^ 
 
90 
 
 EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. 
 
 thou art a friend, and hast evor wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the 
 spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever 
 given one unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still 
 beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious 
 word, every ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory, and 
 knock dolefully at thy soul ; then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing 
 and repentant in the grave and utter the unheard groan, and pour the un- 
 availing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature 
 about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these 
 tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by the bitterness of 
 this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful 
 and aifectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living. 
 
 EMBARKATION OF THE EXILES. 
 
 FROM Longfellow's "evangeline. 
 
 !IEN disorder prevailed, and the tu- 
 mult and stir of embarking. 
 j^ Busily plied the freighted boats ; and 
 in the confusion 
 
 Wives were torn from their husbands, and 
 
 mothers, too late, saw their children 
 Left on the land, extending their arms, with 
 wildest entreaties. 
 
THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 
 
 91 
 
 So unto separate ships are Basil and Gabriel 
 
 carried, 
 While in despair on the shore, Evangeline 
 
 stood with her father. 
 Half the task was not done when the sun 
 
 went down, and the twilight 
 Deepened and darkened around ; and in haste 
 
 the refluent ocean 
 Fled away from the shore, and left the line 
 
 of the sand-beach 
 Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and 
 
 the slippery sea-weed. 
 Farther back in the midst of the household 
 
 goods and the wagons, 
 Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a 
 
 battle, 
 All escape cut off by the sea, and the senti- 
 nels near them. 
 Lay encamped for the night, the houseless 
 
 Acadian farmers. 
 
 Back to its nethermost caves retreated the 
 billowing ocean. 
 
 Dragging adown the beacli the rattling peb- 
 bles, and leaving 
 
 Inland far up the shore the stranded boats of 
 the sailors. 
 
 Then, as the night descended, the herds re- 
 turned from their pastures ; 
 
 Scent was the moist still air with the odor of 
 milk from their udders ; 
 
 Lowing, they waited, and long at the well 
 known bars of the farm-yard, — 
 
 Waited and looked in vain for the voice and 
 the hand of the milkmaid. 
 
 Silence reigned in the streets ; from the 
 
 Church no Angelus sounded, 
 Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed 
 
 no lights from the windows. 
 
 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 
 
 THOUGHT, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, 
 that not a father in all this broad land made so precious a gift, — • 
 no, not one. The dear boy only slept a minute, just one little 
 minute, at his post ; I know that was all, for Bennie never dozed 
 over a duty. How prompt and reliable he was ! I know he only 
 fell asleep one little second ; — he was so young, and not strong, that 
 boy of mine ! Why, he was as tall as I, and only eighteen ! and now they 
 shoot him because he was found asleep when doing sentinel duty. Twenty- 
 four hours the telegram said, — only twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie 
 now ?" 
 
 " We will hope, with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, sooth- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; let us hope ; God is very merciful !" 
 " ' I should be ashamed, father,' Bennie said, ' when I am a man, to 
 think I never used this great right arm ' — and he held it out so proudly 
 before me—* for my country, when it needed it. Palsy it rather than keep 
 it at the plow.' 
 
 "*Go, then, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you !' God has kept him, 
 I think, Mr. Allan !" and the farmer repeated these words slowly, as if, in 
 spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. 
 
92 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 
 
 " Like the apple of his eye, Mr. Owen ; doubt it not." 
 
 Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not 
 shed a tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed 
 it. She had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now 
 she answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from 
 a neighbor's hand a letter. " It is from him," was all she said. 
 
 It was like a message from the dead ! Mr. Owen took the letter, but 
 could not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held 
 it toward Mr, Allan, with the helplessness of a child. 
 
 The minister opened it, and read as follows : — 
 
 "Dear Father: — When this reaches you I shall be in eternity. At 
 first it seemed awful to me ; but I have thought about it so much now, 
 that it has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me ; but 
 that I may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have 
 been on the battle-fieid, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be 
 fighting gloriously ; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly betraying 
 it, — to die for neglect of duty ! 0, father, I wonder that the very thought 
 does not kill me ! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to write you 
 all about it ; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I can not 
 now. 
 
 " You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother, I would look after 
 her boy ; and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not 
 strong when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that 
 night, I carried all his luggage, besides my own on our march. Towards 
 night we went in on double quick, and though the luggage began to feel 
 very heavy, every body else was tired too ; and as for Jemmie, if I had 
 not lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. 
 I was all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's 
 turn to be sentry, and I would take his place ; but I was too tired, father. 
 I could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head ; but 
 I did not know it until — well, until it was too late." 
 
 " God be thanked !" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. " I knew 
 Bonnie was not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." 
 
 " They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve, given to me by 
 circumstances, — ' time to write to you,' our good colonel says. Forgive 
 him, father, ho only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; 
 and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is broken- 
 hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die in my 
 Btcad. 
 
 " I cannot bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them. 
 
THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 93 
 
 father ! Tell them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is 
 over, they will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help 
 me ; it is very hard to bear ! Good-by, father ! God seems near and dear 
 to me ; not at all as if he wished me to perish for ever, but as if he felt 
 sorry for his poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be 
 with him and my Saviour in a better, — better life." 
 
 A deep sigh burst from Mr, Owen's heart. "Amen," he said 
 solemnly, "Amen." 
 
 " To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home 
 from pasture, and precious little Blossom stand on the back stoop, waiting 
 for me ; but I shall never, never come ! God bless you all ! Forgive your 
 poor Bennie." 
 
 Late that night the door of the " back stoop " opened softly and a little 
 figure glided out, and down the foot-path that led to the road by the mill. She 
 seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to the right 
 nor the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and folding her hands, 
 as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl stood at the Mill 
 Depot, watching the coming of the night train ; and the conductor, as he 
 reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the tear-stained face 
 that was upturned toward the bright lantern he held in his hand. A few 
 questions and ready answers told him all ; and no father could have cared 
 more tenderly for his only child than he for our little Blossom. She was 
 on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her brother's life. 
 She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell where and why she had 
 gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with her; no good, kind heart, 
 like the President's, could refuse to be melted by it. The next morning 
 they reached New York, and the conductor hurried her on to Washington. 
 Every minute, now, might be the means of saving her brother's life. And 
 so, in an incredibly short time. Blossom, reached the Capital, and hastened 
 immediately to the White House. 
 
 The President had but just seated himself to the task of overlookincr 
 and signing important papers, when, without one word of announcement, 
 the door softly opened, and .Blossom, with downcast eyes and folded hands, 
 stood before him. 
 
 " Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do 
 you want ?" 
 
 "Bennie's life, please sir!" faltered Blossom. 
 
 " Bennie ? Who is Bennie ?" 
 
 "My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post." 
 
 " Oh, yes;" and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. 
 
94 
 
 THE GENEROUS SOLDIER SAVED. 
 
 "I remember. It waa a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of 
 special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable 
 negligence." 
 
 " So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely, " but poor Bennie was 
 BO tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it 
 
 LITTLK l;i. 
 
 was Jemmie's night, not his ; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never 
 thought about himself, that he was tired too." 
 
 " What is this you say, child ? Come here ; I do not understand," 
 and the kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justifi- 
 cation of an offence. 
 
 Blossom went to him ; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and 
 
SONG OF SARATOGA. 95 
 
 turned up the pale, anxious face towards his. How tall he seemed ! and 
 he was President of the United States, too. 
 
 A dim thought of this kind passed for' a moment through Blossom's 
 mind ; but she told her simple and straightforward story, and handed Mr. 
 Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. * . 
 
 He read it carefully ; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty 
 lines, and rang his bell. 
 
 Blossom heard this order given : " Send this dispatch at once." 
 
 The President then turned to the girl and said, " Go home, my child, 
 and tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, 
 even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln 
 thinks the life llir too precious to be lost. Go back, or — wait until to- 
 morrow ; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced death ; 
 he shall go with you." 
 
 "God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God 
 heard and registered the request ? 
 
 Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White 
 House with his little sister. He was called into the President's private 
 room, and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said : 
 ''The soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the 
 act so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and 
 Blossom took their way to their Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered 
 at the Mill Depot to welcome them back ; and as farmer Owen's hand 
 grasped that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks and he was heard 
 to say fervently : " The Lord he praised !" 
 
 SOJ^G OF SABA TOGA. 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 what do they do at the | Imprimis, my darling, they drink 
 
 The waters so sparkling and clear ; 
 Though the flavor is none of the best, 
 
 And the odor exceedingly queer : 
 But the fluid is mingled you know, 
 
 With wholesome medicinal things ; 
 So they drink, and they drink, and they 
 drink, — 
 And that's what they do at the Springs ! 
 
 fThe question is easy to ask : 
 But to answer it fully, my dear, 
 , Were rather a serious task. 
 
 I And yet, in a bantering way, 
 j As the magpie or mocking-bird sings 
 I'll venture a bit of a song. 
 To tell what they do at the Springs. 
 7 
 
THE RUINED COTTAGE. 
 
 Then with appetites keen as a knife, 
 
 They hasten to breakfast, or dine ; 
 The latter precisely at three. 
 
 The former from seven till nine. 
 Ye gods ! what a rustle and rush, 
 
 When the eloquent dinner-bell rings ! 
 Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat — 
 
 And that's what they do at the Springs ! 
 
 Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, 
 
 Or loll in the shade of the trees ; 
 Where many a whisper is heard 
 
 That never is heard by the breeze ; 
 And hands are commingled with hands. 
 
 Regardless of conjugal rings: 
 And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt — 
 
 And that's what they do at the Springs ! 
 
 The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, 
 
 And music is shrieking away ; 
 Terpsichore governs the hour. 
 
 And fashion was never so gay ! 
 An arm round a tapering waist — 
 
 IIow closely and how fondly it clings ! 
 So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz, 
 
 And that's what they do at the Springs ! 
 
 In short, — as it goes in the world, — 
 
 They eat, and they drink, and they sleep ; 
 They talk, and they walk, and they woo ; 
 
 They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep ; 
 They read, and they ride, and they dance ; 
 
 (With other remarkable things :) 
 They pray, and they play, and they pay, — 
 
 And that's what they do at the Springs ! 
 
 THE RUINED COTTAGE. 
 
 , MRS. LETITIA E. MACLEAN. 
 
 Pi||ONE will dwell in that cottage, for they say oppression reft it from 
 an honest man, and that a curse clings to it ; hence the vine trails 
 its green weight of leaves upon the ground ; hence weeds are in 
 that garden ; hence the hedge, once sweet with honeysuckle, is 
 ^ half dead ; and hence the gray moss on the apple-tree. One once 
 dwelt there who had been in his youth a soldier, and when many 
 years had passed, he sought his native village, and sat down to end his 
 days in peace. He had one child — a little, laughing thing, whose large, 
 dark eyes, he said, were like the mother's he had left buried in strangers' 
 land. And time went on in comfort and content — and that fair girl had 
 grown far taller than the red rose tree her father planted on her first Eng- 
 lish birthday ; and he had trained it up against an ash till it became his 
 pride ; it was so rich in blossom and in beauty, it was called the tree of 
 Isabel. 'Twas an appeal to all the better feelings of the heart, to mark their 
 quiet happiness, their home — in truth a home of love, — and more than all, 
 to see them on the Sabbath, when they came among the first to 
 church, and Isabel, with her bright color and her clear, glad eyes, bowed 
 down so meekly in the house of prayer, and in the hymn her sweet voice 
 audible; her father looked so fond of her, and then from her looked up so 
 thankfully to heaven ! And their small cottage was so very neat ; their 
 garden filled with fruits and herbs and flowers ; and in the winter there 
 was no fireside so cheerful as their own. 
 
THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. 
 
 97 
 
 But other days and other fortunes came — an evil power ! They bore 
 against it cheerfully, and hoped for better times, but ruin came at last; and 
 the old soldier left his own dear home, and left it for a prison ! 'Twas in June 
 — one of June's brightest days ; the bee, the bird, the butterfly, were on 
 their lightest wing ; the fruits had their first 
 tinge of summer light ; the sunny sky, the very 
 leaves seemed glad ; and the old man looked 
 back upon his cot and wept aloud. They hur- 
 ried him away from the dear child that would 
 not leave his side. They led him from the sight 
 of the blue heaven and the green trees into a 
 low, dark cell, the windows shutting out the 
 blessed sun with iron grating ; and for the first 
 time he threw him on his bed, and could not 
 hear his Isabel's good night ! But the next 
 morn she was the earliest at the prison gate, 
 the last on whom it closed ; and her sweet voice 
 and sweeter smile made him forget to pine, notwithstanding his deep sorrow. 
 
 She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers ; but every morning 
 he could mark her cheek grow paler and more pale, and her low tones 
 get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew was on the hand he held. One 
 day he saw the sunshine through the grating of his cell — yet Isabel came 
 not; at every sound his heart-beat took away his breath — yet still she 
 came not near him ! But one sad day he marked the dull street through 
 the iron bars that shut him from the world ; at length he saw a coflin car- 
 ried carelessly along, and he grew desperate — he forced the bars, and he 
 stood on the street free and alone ! He had no aim, no wish for liberty ; 
 he only felt one want — to see the corpse that had no mourners. When 
 they set it down, ere it was lowered into the new-dug grave, a rush of pas- 
 sion came upon his soul, and he tore off" the lid — he saw the face of Isabel, 
 and knew he had no child ! He lay down by the coffin quietly — his heart 
 was broken ! 
 
 THE SOUL OF ELOQUENCE. 
 
 ^y^lpOW shall we learn to swa}^ the minds 
 
 ,^^^pL, By eloquence ?— to rule them, to 
 persuade ? — 
 
 JOHANN W. GOETHE. 
 
 Do you seek genuine and worthy fame? 
 Reason and honest feeling want no arts 
 Of utterance, ask no toil of elocution ! 
 And, when you speak in earnest do you need 
 
98 
 
 SONG OF SPRING. 
 
 A search for words ? Oh ! these fine holiday 
 
 phrases, 
 In which you robe your worn-out common- 
 places, 
 These scraps of paper which you crimp and 
 
 curl 
 And twist into a thousand idle shapes, 
 These filigree ornaments, are good for 
 
 nothing, — 
 Cost time and pains, please few, impose on no 
 
 one ; 
 Are unrefreshing as the wind that whistles. 
 In autumn, 'mong the dry and wrinkled 
 
 leaves. 
 If feeling does not prompt, in vain you 
 
 strive. 
 If from the soul the language does not come. 
 By its own impulse, to impel the hearts 
 
 Of hearers with communicated power. 
 
 In vain you strive, in vain you study 
 
 earnestly ! 
 Toil on forever, piece together fragments, 
 Cook up your broken scraps of sentences. 
 And blow, with puffing breath, a struggling 
 
 light. 
 Glimmering confusedly now, now cold in 
 
 ashes ; 
 Startle the school-boys with your meta- 
 phors, — 
 And, if such food may suit your appetite, 
 "Win the vain wonder of applauding child- 
 ren, — 
 But never hope to stir the hearts of men, 
 And mould the souls of many into one. 
 By words which come not native from tfie 
 heart ! 
 
 SO^Tr OF SFFiI^^G. 
 
 EDWARD YOUL. 
 
 ^'Y' A\UD the first sjtring daisies; 
 ^Jyjiy Chant aloud their praises; 
 ''Jr\i '^'^"'^ ^'"^ children up 
 ■^ To tho high hill's top ; 
 
 Tax not the strength of their young hands 
 To increase your lands. 
 Gather the primroses. 
 Make handfuls into posies ; 
 
THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. 
 
 99 
 
 Take them to the little girls who are at work 
 
 in mills: 
 Pluck the violets blue,^ 
 Ah, pluck not a few ! 
 Knowest thou what good thoughts from 
 
 Heaven the violet instils ? 
 
 Give the children holidays, 
 
 (And let these be jolly days,) 
 
 Grant freedom to the children in this joyous 
 
 spring ; 
 Better men, hereafter, 
 Shall we have, for laughter 
 Freely shouted to the woods, till all the 
 
 echoes ring. 
 Send the children up 
 To the high hill's top, 
 Or deep into the wood's recesses, 
 
 To woo spring's caresses. 
 Ah, come and woo the spring ; 
 List to the birds that sing ; 
 Pluck the primroses ; pluck the violets ; 
 
 Pluck the daisies. 
 Sing their praises ; 
 Friendship with the flowers some noble thought 
 
 begets. 
 Come forth and gather these sweet elves, 
 (More witching are they than the fays of old,) 
 Come forth and gather them yourselves ; 
 Learn of these gentle flowers whose worth ie 
 
 more than gold. 
 
 Come forth on Sundays ; 
 
 Come forth on Mondays ; 
 
 Come forth on any day ; 
 
 Children, come forth to play : — 
 
 Worship the God of nature in your childhood ; 
 
 Worship him at your tasks with best endeavor ; 
 
 Worship him in your sports ; worship him ever ; 
 
 Worship him in the wildwood ; 
 
 Worship him amidst the flowers ; 
 
 In the greenwood bowers ; 
 
 Pluck the buttercups, and raise 
 
 Your voices in his praise ! 
 
 THE GHOSTS OF LONG AGO. 
 
 MRS. J. H. RIDDELL. 
 
 ||P|HE ghosts of the long ago — laid and buried, as you fancied, years and 
 ^^ years since, friends, — though your present sight may fail to 
 "*^" discern them, — they are traveling with you still, a ghastly com- 
 i pany. While you drive in your carriage along life's smoothest turn- 
 «• pike-roads, or pace, footsore and weary, over the flinty by-paths of 
 existence, past events are skipping on beside you, mocking, jeering, at your 
 profound self-delusion. Shall fleet steeds leave them behind? Shall 
 liveried servants keep them at bay ? Shall an unsuccessful existence, 
 drawing to a still more unsuccessful close, be able to purchase their for- 
 bearance ? Nay, invisible now, they shall be visible some day ; voiceless, 
 they shall yet find tongues ; despised, they shall rear their head and hiss 
 at you ; forgotten, they shall reappear with more strength than at their 
 first birth ; and when the evil day comes, and your power, and your 
 energy, and your youth and your hope, have gone, they shall pour the 
 overflowing drop into your cup, they shall mingle fennel with your wine, 
 they shall pile the last straw on your back, they shall render wealth 
 valueless and life a burden ; they shall make poverty more bitter, and add 
 another pain to that which' already racks you ; they shall break the 
 
100 
 
 THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 
 
 breaking heart, and make you turn your changed face to the wall, and 
 gather up your feet into your bed, and pray to be deHvered from your 
 tormentors by your God, who alone knows all. 
 
 Wherefore, young man, if you would ensure a peaceful old age, be 
 careful of the acts of each day of your youth ; for with youth the deeds 
 thereof are not to be left behind. They are detectives, keener and more 
 unerring than ever the hand of sensational novelist depicted; they will dog 
 you from the hour you sinned till the hour your trial comes off. You are 
 prosperous, you are great, you are "beyond the world," as I have heard peo- 
 ple say, meaning the power or the caprice thereof; but you are not beyond 
 the power of events. Whatever you may think now, they are only biding 
 their time ; and when you are weak and at their mercy, when the world 
 you fancied you were beyond has leisure to hear their story and scoff at 
 you, they will come forward and tell all the bitter tale. And if you take 
 it one way, you will bluster and bully, and talk loud, and silence society 
 before your face, if you fail to still its tattle behind your back ; while if 
 you take it another way, you will bear the scourging silently, and cover up 
 the marks of the lash as best you may, and go home and close your door, 
 and sit there alone with your misery, decently and in order, till you die. 
 
 THE FARMER AND THE COUNSELLOR. 
 
 1^^^^ — 
 
 ^IP COUNSEL in the " Common Pleas," 
 IJ? Who was esteemed a mighty wit, 
 Upon the strength of a chance hit, 
 '^X ' Amid a thousand flippancies, 
 e^ And his occasional bad jokes, 
 
 I In bullying, bantering, browbeating, 
 
 Ridiculing and maltreating 
 Women, or other timid folks; 
 In a late cause, resolved to hoax 
 A rlownish Yorkshire farmer — one 
 Who by his uncouth look and gait, 
 Appeared expressly meant by fate 
 For being quizzed and played upon. 
 
 So having tipped the wink to those 
 
 In the back rows, 
 Who kept their laughter bottled down, 
 
 I'ntil our wag should draw the cork — 
 He smiled jocosely on the clown, 
 
 And went to work. 
 
 " Well, Farmer Numskull, how go calves at " "Why no, sir, no ! we've got our share. 
 
 York ? " But not so many as when you were there." 
 
 " Why — not, sir, as they do wi' you ; 
 
 But on four legs instead of iwo." 
 " Officer," cried the legal elf. 
 Piqued at the laugh against himself, 
 
 " Do, pray, keep silence down bel; 
 there ! 
 Now look at me, clown and attend. 
 Have I not seen you somewhere, friend?' 
 
 " Yees, very like, I often go there." 
 
 " Our rustic's waggish-^uite lanconic," 
 (The counsel cried, with grin sardonic,) 
 
 " I wish I'd known this prodigy. 
 This genius of the clods, when I 
 
 On circuit was at York residing. 
 Now, farmer, do for once speak true. 
 Mind, you're on oath, so tell me, you 
 Who doubtless think yourself so clever, 
 Are there as many fools as ever 
 
 In the West Riding ? " 
 
JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 
 
 101 
 
 JIMMY B UTLER AND THE WL. 
 
 that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new 
 and wid a light heart and a 
 
 I^T was in the summer of '46 
 
 Hi pratie just dug from the "ould sod,' 
 
 X heavy bundle I sot off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a 
 
 i song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I 
 
 s' trudged on and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the 
 
 1 thought that some day I might have a place of my own, wid a world 
 
 of chickens and ducks and pigs and childer about the door ; and along in 
 
 the afternoon of the sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me 
 
 mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, and I 
 
 wanted to make his place that night, so I inquired the way at the tavern, 
 
 and was lucky to find a man who was goin' part of the way an' would show 
 
 me the way to find Dennis. Sure he was very kind indade, an' when I got 
 
 out of his wagon he pointed me through the wood and tould me to go 
 
 straight south a mile an' a half, and the first house would be Dennis's. 
 
 " An' you've no time to lose now," 
 said he, " for the sun is low, and mind 
 you don't get lost in the woods." 
 
 " Is it lost now," said I, " that I'd 
 be gittin, an' me uncle as great a navi- 
 gator as iver steered a ship across the 
 thrackless say ! Not a bit of it, though 
 I'm obleeged to ye for your kind advice, 
 and thank yez for the ride." 
 
 An' wid that he drove ofi" an' left me 
 alone. I shouldered me bundle bravely, 
 an' whistlin' a bit of tune for company 
 like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I 
 went a long way over bogs, and turnin' 
 round among the bush an' trees till I 
 began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad cess to it ! all 
 of a sudden I came out of the woods at the very identical spot where I 
 started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standi n' 
 on its head and kickin' up its heels to make divarsion of me. By this 
 time it was growin' dark, and as there was no time to lose, I started in a 
 second time, determined to keep straight south this time and no mistake. 
 I got on bravely for a while, but och hone ! och hone ! it got so dark I 
 couldn't see the trees, and I bumped me nose and barked me shins, while 
 
 YOU VE KO TIME TO LOSE NOW. 
 
102 JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 
 
 the miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister ; an' after tumblin' and 
 sturablin' around till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all of a 
 trimble, to think that I was lost intirely, an' that maybe a lion or some 
 other wild craythur would devour me before morning. 
 
 Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, " Whip poor Will ! " 
 " Betlad," sez I, " I'm glad that it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though 
 it seems it's more in sorrow than in anger they are doin' it, or why should 
 they say, ' poor Will ? ' an' sure they can't be Injin, haythin, or naygur, 
 for it's plain English they're afther spakin'. Maybe they might help me 
 out o' this," so I shouted at the top of my voice, " A lost man ! " Thin I 
 listened. Prisently an answer came. 
 
 "Who? Whoo? Whooo?" 
 
 "Jamie Butler, the waiver ! " sez I, as loud as I could roar, an' snatchin' 
 up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I 
 thought I had got near the place I stopped and shouted again, " A lost 
 man ! " 
 
 "Who ! AVhoo ! Whooo ! " said a voice right over my head. 
 
 " Sure," thinks I, " it's a mighty quare place for a man to be at this 
 time of night ; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar-bush for 
 the children's breakfast in the mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of 
 them ? " All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered 
 his inquiry. 
 
 " Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I ; " and if it wouldn't inconvanience 
 yer honor, would yez be kind enough to step down and show me the way 
 to the house of Dennis O'Dowd ? " 
 
 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he. 
 
 " Dennis O'Dowd," sez I, civil enough, " and a dacent man he is, and 
 first cousin to me own mother." 
 
 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he again. 
 
 "Me mother! " sez I, "and as fine a woman as iver peeled a biled pratie 
 wid her thumb nail, and her father's name was Paddy McFiggin. 
 
 "Who! Whoo! Whooo!" 
 
 " Paddy McFiggin ! bad luck to yer deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, 
 I say — do ye hear that? An' he was the tallest man in all county Tipper- 
 ary, excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith." 
 
 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " 
 
 " Jim Doyle, the blacksmith," sez I, " ye good for nothin' blaggurd 
 naygur, and if yez don't come down and show me the way this min't. Til 
 climb up there and break every bone in your skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as 
 me name is Jimmy Butler ! " 
 
JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 
 
 103 
 
 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he, as 
 impident as ever. 
 
 I said niver a word, but lavin' down 
 me bundle, and takin' me stick in me 
 teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin 
 I got among the branches I looked 
 quietly around till I saw a pair of big 
 eyes just forninst me. 
 
 " Whist," sez I, " and I'll let him 
 have a taste of an Irish stick," and wid 
 that I let drive and lost me balance an' 
 came tumblin' to the ground, nearly 
 breakin' me neck wid the fall. Whin 
 I came to me sinsis I had a very sore 
 head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, 
 
 and half of me Sunday coat-tail torn off intirely. I spoke to the chap in 
 the tree, but could git niver an answer, at all, at all. 
 
 Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for by the 
 powers I didn't throw me stick for nothin'. 
 
 Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a little, and I 
 detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's. 
 
 I wint on cautiously for a while, an' thin I heard a bell. " Sure," sez 
 I, " I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear the church bell." I kept 
 on toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started 
 to run, but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and hung on, 
 thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like 
 an ould country steeple-chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' 
 and a house in sight wid a light in it. So, leaving the ould cow puffin' 
 and blowin' in a shed, I went to the house, and as luck would have it, 
 whose should it be but Dennis's. 
 
 He gave me a raal Irish welcome, and introduced me to his two 
 daughters — as purty a pair of girls as iver ye clapped an eye on. But 
 whin I tould him my adventure in the woods, and about the fellow who 
 made fun of me, they all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an 
 owl. 
 
 " An ould what ? " sez I. 
 
 " Why, an owl, a bird," sez he. 
 
 " Do ye tell me now ? " sez I. " Sure it's a quare country and a quare 
 
 bird." 
 
 And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed myself, that 
 
104 
 
 THE OLD WAYtJ AND THE NEW. 
 
 hearty like, and dropped right into a chair between the two puny girls, 
 and the ould chap winlced at me and roared again. 
 
 Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet delights to tell our 
 children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl. 
 
 THE OLD WAYS AND THE NEW. 
 
 JOHN H. YATES. 
 
 g|§ 
 
 VE just come in from the meadow, wife, 
 J where the grass is tall and green ; 
 
 ^^, I hobbled out upon my cane to see 
 m John's new machine ; 
 
 %. It made my old eyes snap again to see 
 that mower mow. 
 And I heaved a sigh for the scythe I 
 swung some twenty years ago. 
 
 Many and many's the day I've mowed 'neath 
 
 the rays of a scorching sun, 
 Till I thought my poor old back would break 
 
 ere my task for the day was done ; 
 I often think of the days of toil m the fields 
 
 all over the farm, 
 Till I feel the sweat on my wrinkled brow, 
 
 and the old pain come m my arm. 
 
 It was hard work, it was slow work, a-swing- 
 
 ing the old scythe then ; 
 Unlike the mower that went through the 
 
 grass like death through the ranks of men. 
 I stood and looked till my old ejes ached, 
 
 amazed at its speed and power ; 
 The work that it took me a day to do, it done 
 
 in one short hour. 
 
 John said that I hadn't seen the half : when 
 
 he puts it into his wheat, 
 I shall see it reap and rake it, and put it in 
 
 bundles neat ; 
 Tli<m soon a Yankee will come along, and set 
 
 to work and lam 
 To reap it, and thresh it, and bag it up, and 
 
 send it into the barn. 
 
 John kinder laughed when he said it , but I 
 said to the hired men, 
 
 " I have seen so much on my pilgrimage 
 through my threescore years and ten. 
 
 That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad 
 in the air, 
 
 Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most any- 
 where." 
 
 There's a difference m the work I done, and 
 
 the work my boys now do ; 
 Steady and slow in the good old way, worry 
 
 and fret in the new ; 
 But somehow I think there was happiness 
 
 crowded into those toiling days, 
 That the fast young men of the present will 
 
 not see till they change their ways. 
 
 To think that I ever should live to see work 
 
 done in this wonderful way ! 
 Old tools are of little service now, and farmin' 
 
 is almost play ; 
 The women have got their sewin' -machines 
 
 their wringers, and every sich thing. 
 And now play croquet in the door-yard, or 
 
 sit in the parlor and sing. 
 
 'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the 
 
 days so long gone by ; 
 You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin' for 
 
 you and I. 
 There were cows to milk ; there was butter to 
 
 make ; and many a day did you stand 
 A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and 
 
 wringin' em out by hand. 
 
NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 105 
 
 Ah ! wife, our children will never see the hard 
 
 work we have seen, 
 For the heavy task and the long task is now 
 
 done with a machine ; 
 No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the 
 
 mower — there ! hear it afar ? 
 A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass 
 
 with the noise of a railroad car. 
 
 Well ! the old tools now are shoved away ; 
 
 they stand a-gatherin' rust, 
 Like many an old man I have seen put aside 
 
 with only a crust ; 
 
 When the eye grows dim, when the step is weak, 
 when the strength goes out of his arm. 
 
 The best thing a poor old man can do is to 
 hold the deed of the farm. 
 
 There is one old way that they can't improve; 
 although it has been tried 
 
 By men who have studied and studied, and 
 worried till they died ; 
 
 It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold re- 
 fined from its dross ; 
 
 It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by 
 the simple way of the cross. 
 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 S. S. PRENTISS. 
 
 ^^LORIOUS New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, 
 
 1^1 and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have 
 
 ■^^^ assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A 
 
 ?^ thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the 
 hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the 
 gentle recollections of our early life ; around thy hills and mountains 
 cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Revolution ; and, 
 far away in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern 
 lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires ! But while we devote this 
 day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which 
 our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by 
 thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our 
 country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign 
 river, to swell its waters with our home- sick tears. Here floats the same 
 banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds 
 are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number. 
 
 The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad repub- 
 lic ! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles 
 freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in 
 the paternal mansion ; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit 
 it are our brothers. To us the Union has but one domestic hearth ; its 
 household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly devolves the 
 
105 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 
 
 duty of feeding the fires upon that Ivindly hearth; of guarding with pious 
 care those sacred household gods. 
 
 We cannot do with less than the whole Union ; to us it admits of no 
 division. In the veins of our children flows Northern and Southern blood; 
 how shall it be separated? — Who shall put asunder the best affections of the 
 heart, the noblest instincts of our nature ? We love the land of our adop- 
 tion : so do we that of our birth. Let us ever be true to both; and always 
 exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the 
 republic. 
 
 Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden cord of 
 union ! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance ! 
 
 But no ! the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are too brilliant 
 to be marred ; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their 
 greatest triumph, their most mighty development. 
 
 And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her 
 golden horns : — when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the 
 products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen ; — when galleries 
 of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade ; then 
 may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the 
 north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled 
 pride and wonder. — " Lo ! this is our country ; — when did the world ever 
 behold so rich and magnificent a city — so great and glorious a republic ! " 
 
 TIM TWINKLETON'^ TWINS. 
 
 CHARLES A. BELL. 
 
 IM TWINKLETON was, I would 
 have you to know, 
 ^!? A cheery-faced tailor, of Pineapple 
 .p * Row ; 
 > Hit) sympathies warm as the irons ho 
 T used, 
 
 And his temper quite even, because not 
 abused. 
 As a fitting reward for his kindness of heart, 
 
 But another "surprise" was in store for Tim 
 
 T., 
 Who, one bright Christmas morning was 
 
 sipping coffee. 
 When a neighbor (who acted as nurse,) said 
 
 with glee, 
 " You've just been presented with twins! Do 
 
 you see?" 
 "Good gracious!" said Tim, overwhelmed 
 
 He was blessed with a partner, both comely i with surprise, 
 
 and smart, i For he scarce could be made to believe his 
 
 And ten " olive branches," — four girls and j own eyes ; 
 
 six boys — His astonishment o'er, ho acknowledged, of 
 
 Completed the household, divided its joys. | course, 
 
TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 
 
 107 
 
 That the trouble, indeed, might have been a 
 deal worse. 
 
 The twins were two boys, and poor Tim was 
 
 inclined 
 To believe them the handsomest pair you 
 
 could find. 
 But fathers' and mothers' opinions, they say. 
 Always favor their own children just the 
 
 same way. 
 " Would you like to step up, sir, to see Mrs. 
 
 T. ?" 
 The good lady said : "she's as pleased as can 
 
 be." 
 Of course the proud father dropp'd both fork 
 
 and knife, 
 And bounded up stairs to embrace his good 
 
 wife. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Tim Twinkleton — I should have 
 
 said — 
 An industrious, frugal life always had led. 
 And kept the large family from poverty's 
 
 woes, 
 By washing, and starching, and ironing 
 
 clothes. 
 But, before the young twins had arrived in 
 
 the town. 
 She'd intended to send to a family named 
 
 Brown, 
 Who resided some distance outside of the city, 
 A basket of clothes ; so she thought it a pity 
 
 That the basket should meet any further de- 
 lay, 
 
 And told Tim to the depot to take it that 
 day. 
 
 He promised he would, and began to make 
 haste, 
 
 For he found tiiat there was not a great while 
 to waste, 
 
 So, kissing his wife, he bade her good-bye, 
 
 And out of the room in an instant did hie ; 
 
 And met the good nurse, on the stairs, com- 
 ing up 
 
 With the " orthodox gruel," for his wife, in 
 a cup. 
 
 Where's the twins?" said the tailor 
 they are all right," 
 
 Oh, 
 
 The good nurse replied: "they are looking 
 
 so bright ! 
 I've hushed them to sleep, — they look so 
 
 like their Pop, — 
 And I've left them down stairs, where they 
 
 sleep like a top." 
 In a hurry Tim shouldered the basket, and got 
 To the rail-station, after a long and sharp 
 
 trot. 
 And he'd just enough time to say " Brown — 
 
 Nornstown — 
 A basket of clothes — ' and then the train 
 
 was gone. 
 
 The light-hearted tailor made haste to return 
 For his heart with affection for his family 
 
 did burn ; 
 And it's always the case, with a saint or a 
 
 sinner, 
 Whate'er may occur, he's on hand for his 
 
 dinner. 
 " How are the twins ?" was his first inquiry ; 
 " I've hurried home quickly, my darlings to 
 
 see," 
 In ecstacy, quite of his reason bereft. 
 " Oh, the dear little angels hain't cried since 
 
 you left ! 
 
 "Have you, my sweets?" — and the nurse 
 
 turned to where 
 Just a short time before, were her objects of 
 
 care. 
 " Why — which of you children," said she, 
 
 with surprise, 
 " Removed that ar basket? — now don't tell 
 
 no lies !" 
 "Basket! what basket?" cried Tim with af- 
 fright ; 
 " Why, the basket of clothes — I thought it 
 
 all right 
 To put near the fire, and, fearing no harm. 
 Placed the twins in so cozy, to keep them 
 
 quite warm." 
 
 Poor Tim roared aloud : " Why, what have 
 
 I done? 
 You surely must mean what you say but in 
 
 fun! 
 That basket', my twins I shall ne'er see 
 
 again ! 
 
lOS 
 
 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 
 
 Why, I sent them both off by the 12 o'clock 
 
 train!" 
 The nurse, at these words, sank into a chair 
 And exchiimed, " Oh, my precious dears, you 
 
 hain't there! 
 Go, Twinkleton, go, telegraph like wildfire!" 
 " Why," said Tim, " they can't send the twins 
 
 home on the wire!" 
 
 " What's the charge?" asked the tailor of the 
 
 magistrate, 
 " I'd like to find out, for it's getting quite 
 
 late;" 
 " So you shall," he replied, " but don't look 
 
 so meek, — 
 You deserted your infants, — now hadn't you 
 
 cheek ?" 
 
 " Oh dear I" cried poor Tim, getting ready to 
 
 go; 
 " Could ever a body have met with such woe ? 
 Sure this is the greatest of greatest mistakes ; 
 Why, the twins will be all squashed down into 
 
 pancakes !" 
 
 Tim Twinkleton hurried, as if all creation 
 
 Were after him, quick, on his way to the sta- 
 tion. 
 
 " That's the man, — you wretch !" and, tight 
 as a rasp. 
 
 Poor Tim found himself in a constable's 
 grasp. 
 
 " Ah ! ha! I have got yer, nov/ don't say a 
 
 word, 
 Yer know very well about what has occurred ; 
 Come 'long to the station-house, hurry up 
 
 now, 
 Or 'tween you and me there'll be a big row." 
 
 Now it happened that, during the trial of 
 
 the case. 
 An acquaintance of Tim's had stepped into 
 
 the place, 
 And he quickly perceived, when he heard in 
 
 detail 
 The facts of the case, and said he'd go bail 
 To any amount, for good Tim Twinkleton, 
 For he knew he was innocent, " sure as a gun.' 
 And the railway-clerk's evidence, given in 
 
 detail, 
 Was not quite sufl5cient to send him to jail. 
 
 It was to effect, that the squalling began 
 Just after the basket in the baggage- van 
 Had been placed by Tim T., who solemnly 
 
 swore 
 That he was quite ignorant of their presence 
 
 before. 
 So the basket was brought to the magistrate's 
 
 sight, 
 
THE TWO ROADS. 109 
 
 And the twins on the top of the clothes 
 
 But the nurse said with joy, " Since you left 
 
 looked so bright, 
 
 she has slept. 
 
 That the magistrate's heart of a sudden en- 
 
 And from her the mistakes of to-day I have 
 
 larged, 
 
 kept." 
 
 And he ordered that Tim Twinkleton be dis- 
 
 Poor Tim, and the nurse, and all the small 
 
 charged. 
 
 fry. 
 
 
 Before taking dinner, indulged in a cry. 
 
 Tim grasped up the basket and ran for dear 
 
 The twins are now grown, and they time and 
 
 life. 
 
 again 
 
 And when he reached home he first asked 
 
 Relate their excursion on the railway 
 
 for his wife ; 
 
 train. 
 
 THE TWO ROADS. 
 
 ^T was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window, 
 
 ^^^ He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the 
 
 JV stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm 
 
 I lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless 
 
 4; beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal — the 
 
 J tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, 
 
 and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. 
 
 His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and 
 
 his old age devoid of comfort. 
 
 The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled 
 the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two 
 roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile har- 
 vest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs ; while the other conducted 
 the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where 
 poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. 
 
 He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his anguish : " youth, 
 return ! my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I ■ 
 may choose the better road ! " But the days of his youth had passed away, 
 and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float 
 over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such," he said, "were the days 
 of my wasted life ! " He saw a star shoot from heaven, and vanish in 
 darkness athwart the church-yard. " Behold an emblem of myself! " he 
 exclaimed ; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to 
 the heart. 
 
 Then he remembered his early companions, who had entered life with 
 
no 
 
 THE QUAKER WIDOW. 
 
 him, but who having trod the paths of virtue and industry, were now 
 happy and honored oh this New Year's night. The clock in the high 
 church-tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled the many 
 tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son ; the lessons 
 they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. 
 Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that 
 heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with 
 one despairing effort, he cried aloud, "Come back, my early days! Come 
 back ! " 
 
 And his youth did return ; for all this had been but a dream, visiting 
 his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young, his errors only 
 were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own ; 
 that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to 
 tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave. 
 
 Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to 
 choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall 
 stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, "0 
 youth return ! Oh, give me back my early days ! " 
 
 THU QUAKER WIDOW. 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 g^nri^IIEE finds me in the garden, Hannah ; 
 ^kM| come in ! 'Tis kind of thee 
 
 r^cs^ To wait until the Friends were gone 
 who came to comfort me, 
 •^ The still and quiet company a peace 
 
 J may give indeed, 
 
 But blessed is the single heart that 
 comes to us at need. 
 
 Come, nit thee down ! Here is the bench 
 
 where Benjamin would sit 
 On Fir.st-day afternoons in spring, and watch 
 
 the swallows flit ; 
 He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear 
 
 the pleasant bees 
 (Jo humming round the lilacs and through 
 
 the apple trees. 
 
 I think he loved the spring : not that he cared 
 for flowers : most men 
 
 Think such things foolishness ; but we were 
 first acquainted then, 
 
 One spring ; the next he spoke his mind ; the 
 third I was his wife. 
 
 And in the spring (it happened so) our chil- 
 dren entered life. 
 
 He was but seventy-five : I did not think to 
 
 lay him yet 
 In Kennett graveyard, where at Monthly 
 
 Meeting first we met. 
 The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis better 
 
 I should be 
 Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in 
 
 age — than he. 
 
 We've lived together fifty years ; it seems but 
 
 one long day, 
 One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was 
 
 called away ; 
 
THE QUAKER WIDOW. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And as we bring from Meeting-time a sweet 
 
 I used to blush when he came near, but then 
 
 contentment home, 
 
 I showed no sign ; 
 
 So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the 
 
 With all the meeting looking on, I held his 
 
 days to come. 
 
 hand in mine. 
 
 
 It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I 
 
 I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it 
 
 was his for life : 
 
 was to know 
 
 Thee knows the feeling, Hannah ; thee, too, 
 
 If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I 
 
 hast been a wife. 
 
 should go ; 
 
 
 For father had a deep concern upon his mind 
 
 As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so 
 
 that day. 
 
 green as ours ; 
 
 But mother spoke for Benjamin ; she knew 
 
 The woods were coming into leaf, the mea- 
 
 what best to say. 
 
 dows full of flowers ; 
 
 
 The neighbors met us in the lane, and every 
 
 Then she was still : they sat awhile ; at last 
 
 face was kind ; 
 
 she spoke again. 
 
 'Tis strange how lively everything comes 
 
 " The Lord incline thee to the right !" and 
 
 back upon my mind. 
 
 " Thou shalt have him, Jane !" 
 
 
 My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not 
 
 I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding- 
 
 the least of shocks. 
 
 dinner spread ; 
 
 For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Or- 
 
 At our own table we were guests, with father 
 
 thodox. 
 
 at the head. 
 
 
 And Dinah Passmore helped us both ; 'twas 
 
 I thought of this ten years ago, when daugh- 
 
 she stood up with me. 
 
 ter Ruth we lost : 
 
 And Abner Jones with Benjamin: and now 
 
 Her husband's of the world, and yet I could 
 
 they're gone, all three ! 
 
 not see her crossed. 
 
 
 She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she 
 
 It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord 
 
 hears a hireling priest ; 
 
 disposes best. 
 
 Ah, dear ! the cross was ours ; her life's a 
 
 His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them 
 
 happy one, at least. 
 
 for His rest ; 
 
 
 And that He halved our little flock was mer- 
 
 Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's 
 
 ciful, I see : 
 
 as old as I. 
 
 For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two 
 
 Would thee believe it, Hannah '' once I felt 
 
 are left with me. 
 
 temptation nigh ! 
 
 
 My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple 
 
 Eusebius never cared to farm ; 'twas not his 
 
 for my taste : 
 
 call in truth, 
 
 I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon 
 
 And I must rent the dear old place, and go to 
 
 at the waist. 
 
 daughter Ruth. 
 
 
 Thee'll say her ways are not like mine ; young 
 
 How strange it seemed to sit with him upon 
 
 people now-a-days 
 
 the women's side ! 
 
 Have fallen sadly oS", I think, from all the 
 
 I did not dare to lift my eyes ; I felt more 
 
 good old ways. 
 
 fear than pride, 
 
 
 Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said. 
 
 But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps 
 
 and then there came 
 
 the simple tongue. 
 
 A holy strength upon my heart, and I could 
 
 The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when 
 
 say the same. 
 
 she was young ; 
 
112 
 
 MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 
 
 And it was brought upon my mind, remem- 
 
 The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or 
 
 bering her, of late, 
 
 sin. 
 
 That we on dress and outward things perhaps 
 
 
 lay too much weight. 
 
 Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth ; she's anx- 
 
 
 ious I should go. 
 
 I once heard Jesse Kersey say, " a spirit 
 
 And she will do her duty as a daughter should 
 
 clothed with grace, 
 
 I know. 
 
 And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a 
 
 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we mu.st 
 
 homely face." 
 
 be resigned ; 
 
 And dress may be of less account ; the Lord 
 
 The Lord looks down contentedly upon a 
 
 will look within : 
 
 willing mind. 
 
 MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 
 
 BAILEY. 
 
 ^HE other morning at breakfast, Mrs. Perkins observed that Mr. 
 Stiver, in whose house we Uve, had been called away, and wanted 
 •^ to know if I would see to his horse through the day. 
 
 I knew that Mr. Stiver owned a horse, because I occasionally 
 
 fsaw him drive out of the yard, and I saw the stable every day ; but 
 what kind of a horse I didn't know. I never went into the stable 
 for two reasons : in the first place, I had no desire to ; and secondly, 
 I didn't know as the horse cared particularly for company. 
 
 I never took care of a horse in my life, and had I been of a less 
 hopeful nature, the charge Mr. Stiver had left with me might have had 
 a very depressing efiect ; but I told Mrs. Perkins I would do it. 
 
 "You know how to take care of a horse, don't you?" said she. 
 
 I gave her a reassuring wink. In fact, I knew so little about it that 
 I didn't think it safe to converse more fluently than by winks. 
 
 After breakfast I seized a toothpick and walked out toward the 
 stable. There was nothing particular to do, as Stiver had given him his 
 breakfast, and I found him eating it; so I looked around. The horse 
 looked around, too, and stared pretty hard at me. There was but little 
 said on either side. I hunted up the location of the feed, and then sat 
 down on a peck measure, and fell to studying the beast. There is a wide 
 difference in horses. Some of them will kick you over and never look 
 around to see what becomes of you. I don't like a disposition like that, 
 and I v/ondered if Stiver's horse was one of them. 
 
 When I came home at noon I went straight to the stable. The 
 
MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 
 
 113 
 
 canimal was there all right. Stiver hadn't told me what to give him for 
 dinner, and I had not given the subject any thought ; but I went to the 
 oat box and filled the peck measure, and sallied up to the manger. 
 
 When he saw the oats he almost smiled; this pleased and amused 
 him. I emptied them into the trough, and left him above me to admire the 
 way I parted my hair behind. I just got my head up in time to save 
 the whole of it. He had his ears back, bis mouth open, and looked as 
 if he were on the point of committing murder. I went out and filled the 
 measure again, and climbed up the side of the stall and emptied it on top 
 of him. He brought his head up so suddenly at this that I im.mediately 
 got down, letting go of everything to do it. I struck on the sharp edge 
 of a barrel, rolled over a couple of times, and 
 then disappeared under a hay-cutter. The peck 
 measure went down on the other side, and got 
 mysteriously tangled up in that animal's heels, 
 and he went to work at it, and then ensued the 
 most dreadful noise I ever heard in all my life, 
 and I have been married eighteen years. 
 
 It did seem as if I never would get out from 
 under that hay-cutter; and all the while I was 
 struggling and wrenching myself and the cut- 
 ter apart, that awful beast was kicking around 
 in that stall, and making the most appalling 
 sound imaginable. 
 
 When I got out I found Mrs. Perkins at the 
 door. She had heard the racket, and had sped 
 out to the stable, her only thought being of me 
 and three stove-lids which she had under her 
 arm, and one of which she was about to fire at 
 the beast. 
 
 This made me mad. 
 "Go away, you unfortunate idiot," I shouted; 
 "do you want to knock my brains out ? " For 
 I remembered seeing Mrs. Perkins sling a mis- 
 sile once before, and that I nearly lost an eye 
 by the operation, although standing on the 
 other side of the house at the time. 
 
 She retired at once. And at the same time the animal quieted 
 down, but there was nothing left of that peek measure, not even the 
 maker's name. 
 
114 
 
 MR. STIVER'S HORSE. 
 
 I followed Mrs. Perkins into the house, and had her do me up, and then 
 sat down in a chair, and fell into a profound strain of meditation. After 
 a while I felt better, and went out to the stable again. The horse was 
 leaning against the stable stall, with eyes half-closed, and appeared to be 
 very much engrossed in thought. 
 
 "Step off to the left," I said, rubbing his back. 
 
 He didn't step. I got the pitchfork and punched him in the leg with 
 the handle. He immediately raised up both hind-legs at once, and that 
 fork flew out of my hands, and went rattling up against the timbers above, 
 and came down again in an instant, the end of the handle rapping me 
 with such force on the top of the head that I sat right down on the floor 
 under the impression that I was standing in front of a drug store in the 
 evening. I went back to the house and got some more stufi' on me. But 
 I couldn't keep away from that stable. I went out there again. The 
 thought struck me that what the horse wanted was exercise. If that 
 thought had been an empty glycerine can, it would have saved a windfall 
 of luck for me. 
 
 But exercise would tone him down, and exercise him I should. I 
 laughed to myself to think how I would trounce him around the yard. 
 I didn't laugh again that afternoon. I got him unhitched, and then won- 
 dered how I was to get him out of the 
 stall without carrying him out. I 
 pushed, but he wouldn't budge. I 
 stood looking at him in the face, think- 
 ing of something to say, when he sud- 
 denly solved the difficulty by veering 
 and plunging for the door. I followed^ 
 as a matter of course, because I had 
 a tight hold on the rope, and hit about 
 every partition stud worth speaking of 
 on that side of the barn. Mrs. Per- 
 kins was at the window and saw us 
 come out of the door. She subse- 
 quently remarked that we came out 
 skipping like two innocent children. 
 The skipping was entirely unintentional on my part. I felt as if I stood 
 on the verge of eternity. My legs may have skipped, but my mind was 
 filled with awe, 
 
 I took that animal out to exercise him. He exercised me before I 
 got through with it. He went around a few times in a circle; then he 
 
 HE EXEKCISED ME. 
 
MR. STIVER'S HORSE. US 
 
 stopped suddenly, spread out his fore-legs and looked at me. Then he 
 leaned forward a little, and hoisted both hind-legs, and threw about two 
 coal-hods of mud over a line full of clothes Mrs. Perkins had just hung 
 out. 
 
 That excellent lady had taken a position at the window, and when- 
 ever the evolutions of the awful beast permitted, I caught a glance at her 
 features. She appeared to be very much interested in the proceedings ; 
 but the instant that the mud flew, she disappeared from the window, and 
 a moment later she appeared on the stoop with a long poker in her 
 hand, and fire enough in her eye to heat it red hot. 
 
 Just then Stiver's horse stood up on his hind-legs and tried to hug 
 me with the others. This scared me. A horse never shows his strength 
 to such advantage as when he is coming down on you like a frantic pile- 
 driver. I instantly dodged, and the cold sweat fairly boiled out of me. 
 
 It suddenly came over me that I once figured in a similar position 
 years ago. My grandfather owned a little white horse that would get up 
 from a meal at Delmonico's to kick the President of the United States. 
 He sent me to the lot one day, and unhappily suggested that I often went 
 after that horse, and suffered all kinds of defeat in getting him out of the 
 pasture, but I had never tried to ride him. Heaven knows I never 
 thought of it. I had my usual trouble with him that day. He tried to 
 jump over me, and push me down in a mud hole, and finally got up on his 
 hind-legs and came waltzing after me with facilities enough to convert me 
 into hash, but I turned and just made for that fence with all the agony a 
 prospect of instant death could crowd into me. If our candidate for the 
 Presidency had run one-half as well, there would be seventy-five post- 
 masters in Danbury to-day, instead of one. 
 
 I got him out finally, and then he was quiet enough, and took him up 
 alongside the fence and got on him. He stopped an instant, one brief 
 instant, and then tore off down the road at a frightful speed. I laid down 
 on him and clasped my hands tightly around his neck, and thought of my 
 home. When we got to the stable I was confident he would stop, but he 
 didn't. He drove straight at the door. It was a low door, just high 
 enough to permit him to go in at lightning speed, but there was no room 
 for me. I saw if I struck that stable the struggle would be a very brief 
 one. I thought this all over in an instant, and then, spreading out my 
 arms and legs, emitted a scream, and the next moment I was bounding 
 about in the filth of that stable yard. All this passed through my mind 
 as Stiver's horse went up into the air. It frightened Mrs. Perkins dread- 
 fully. 
 
116 
 
 WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 
 
 " Why, you old fool ! " she said, •' why don't you get rid of him ? " 
 
 " How can 1?" said I in desperation. 
 
 "Why, there are a thousand ways," said she. 
 
 This is just like a woman. How different a statesman would have 
 answered. 
 
 But I could only think of two ways to dispose of the beast, I could 
 either swallow him where he stood and then sit down on him, or I could 
 crawl inside of him and kick him to death. 
 
 But I was saved either of these expedients by his coming toward me so 
 abruptly that I dropped the rope in terror, and then he turned about, 
 and, kicking me full of mud, shot for the gate, ripping the clothes-line in 
 two, and went on down the street at a horrible gallop, with two of Mrs. 
 Perkins's garments, which he hastily snatched from the line, floating over 
 his neck in a very picturesque manner. 
 
 So I was afterwards told. I was too full of mud myself to see the 
 way into the house. 
 
 Stiver got his horse all right, and stays at home to care for him. 
 Mrs. Perkins has gone to her mother's to recuperate, and I am healing as 
 fast as possible. 
 
 WHISTLING IN HEA VEN. 
 
 W. S. RALPH. 
 
 i^OUR'E surprised that I aver should 
 '^ say so? 
 
 Just wait till the reason I've given 
 Why I say I shan't care for the music, 
 Unless there is whistling in heaven. 
 Then you'll think it no very great wonder, 
 
 Nor 80 strange, nor so bold a conceit, 
 That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, 
 Ita music will not be complete. 
 
 It was late in the autumn of '40 ; 
 
 We had come from our far Eastern honii^ 
 Just in season to build us a cabin, 
 
 Ere the cold of the winter should come ; 
 And we lived all the while m our wagon 
 
 That husband was clearing the place 
 Where the house was to stand ; and the clear 
 ing 
 
 And building it took many days. 
 
WHISTLING IN HEAVEN. 
 
 117 
 
 So that our heads were scarce Weltered 
 
 In under its roof, when our store 
 Of provisions was almost exhausted 
 
 And husband must journey for more ; 
 And the nearest place where he could get them 
 
 Was yet such a distance away, 
 That it forced him from home to be absent 
 
 At least a whole night and a day. 
 
 You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, 
 
 And the nearest was more than a mile ; 
 And we hadn't found time yet to know them, 
 
 For we had been busy the while. 
 And the man who had helped at the raising 
 
 Just staid till the job was well done ; 
 And as soon as his money was paid him, 
 
 Had shouldered his axe and had gone. 
 
 Well, husband just kissed me and started — 
 
 I could scarcely suppress a deep groan 
 At the thought of remaining with baby 
 
 So long in the house all alone ; 
 For, my dear, I was childish and timid. 
 
 And braver ones might well have feared. 
 For the wild wolf was often heard howling, 
 
 And savages sometimes appeared. 
 
 But I smothered my grief and my terror 
 
 Till husband was off on his ride. 
 And then in my arms I took Josey, 
 
 And all the day long sat and cried. 
 As I thought of the long, dreary hours 
 
 When the darkness of night should fall. 
 And I was so utterly helpless. 
 
 With no one in reach of my call. 
 
 And when the night came with its terrors 
 
 To hide ev'ry ray of the light, 
 I hung up a quilt by the window, 
 
 And almost dead with affright, 
 I kneeled by the side of the cradle, 
 
 Scarce daring to draw a full breath. 
 Lest the baby should wake, and its crying 
 
 Should bring us a horrible death. 
 
 There I knelt until late in the evening, 
 And scarcely an inch had I stirred, 
 
 When suddenly, far in the distance, 
 A sound as of whistling I heard, 
 
 I started up dreadfully frightened, 
 For fear 'twas an Indian's call ; 
 
 And then very soon I remembered 
 The red man ne'er whistles at all. 
 
 And when I was sure 'twas a white man, 
 I thought, were he coming for ill. 
 
 He'd surely approach with more caution- 
 Would come without warning, and still. 
 
 Then the sounds, coming nearer and nearer. 
 Took the form of a tune light and gay. 
 
 And I knew I needn't fear evil 
 
 From one who could whistle that way. 
 
 Very soon I heard footsteps approaching, 
 
 Then came a peculiar dull thump, 
 As if some one was heavily striking 
 
 An axe in the top of a stump ; 
 And then, in another brief moment. 
 
 There came a light tap on the door, 
 When quickly I undid the fast'ning. 
 
 And in stepped a boy, and before 
 
 There was either a question or answer, 
 
 Or either had time to speak, 
 I just threw my glad arms around him, 
 
 And gave him a kiss on the cheek. 
 Then I started back, scared at my boldness, 
 
 But he only smiled at my fright. 
 As he said, " I'm your neighbor's boy, Alick, 
 
 Come to tarry with you through the night 
 
 " We saw your husband go eastward. 
 
 And made up our minds where he'd gone, 
 And I said to the rest of our people, 
 
 ' That woman is there all alone. 
 And I venture she's awfully lonesome. 
 
 And though she may have no great fear, 
 I think she would feel a bit safer 
 
 If only a boy were but near.' 
 
 " So, taking ray axe on my shoulder. 
 
 For fear that a savage might stray 
 Across my path and need scalping, 
 
 I started right down this way ; 
 And coming in sight of the cabin. 
 
 And thinking to save you alarm, 
 I whistled a tune, just to show you 
 
 I didn't intend any harm. 
 
118 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. 
 
 " And so here I am. at your service ; 
 
 But if you don't want mo to stay, 
 Why, all you need do is to say so. 
 
 And should'ring my axe, I'll away." 
 I dropped in a chair and near fainted. 
 
 Just at thought of his leaving ine then, 
 And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle. 
 
 As he said, " I guess I'll remain." 
 
 And then I just sat there and told him 
 How terribly frightened I'd been. 
 
 How his face was to me the most welcome 
 Of any I ever had seen ; 
 
 And then I lay down with the baby, 
 And slept all the blessed night through. 
 
 For 1 felt i was safe from all danger 
 Near so brave a young fellow and true. 
 
 So now, my dear friend, do you wonder, 
 
 Since such a good reason I've given, 
 Why I think it the sweetest music. 
 
 And wisli to hear whistling in heaven '! 
 Yes, often I've said so in 
 
 And now what I've said I 
 That unless there's a boy there a-whistling, 
 
 Its music will not be complete. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT, PAPA. 
 
 PIIS^HE words of a blue-eyed child as she kissed her chubby hand and 
 looked down the stairs, " Good-night, papa ; Jessie see you in the 
 morning." 
 
 It came to be a settled thing, and every evening as the mother 
 
 slipped the white night-gown over the plump shoulders, the little one 
 
 stopped on the stairs and sang out, " Good-night, papa," and as the 
 father heard the silvery accents of the child, he came, and taking the 
 cherub in his arms, kissed her tenderly, while the mother's eyes filled, and 
 a swift prayer went up, for, strauge to say, this man who loved his child 
 with all the warmth of his great noble nature, had one fault to mar his 
 manliness. From his youth he loved the wine-cup. Genial in spirit, and 
 with a fascination of manner that won him friends, he could not resist when 
 surrounded by his boon companions. Thus his home was darkened, the 
 heart of his wife bruised and bleeding, the future of his child shadowed. 
 
 Three years had the winsome prattle of the baby crept into the 
 avenues of the father's heart, keeping him closer to his home, but still the 
 fatal cup WHS in his hand. Alas for frail humanity, 'insensible to the calls 
 of love! With unutterable tenderness God saw there was no other way ; 
 this father was dear to him, the purcha.se of his Son; he could not see him 
 perish, and, calling a swift messenger, he said, "Speed thee to earth and 
 bring the babe." 
 
 " Good-night, papa," soimded from the stairs. What was there in 
 the voice ? was it the echo of the mandate, " Bring me the babe ? " — a 
 Bilvery plaintive sound, a lingering music that touched the father's heart, 
 
GOOD-NIGHT. PAPA. HQ 
 
 as when a cloud crosses the sun. " Good- night, my darling; " but his lips 
 c[uivered and his broad brow grew pale. " Is Jessie sick, mother ? Her 
 cheeks are flushed, and her eyes have a strange light." 
 
 " Not sick," and the mother stooped to kiss the flushed brow ; " she 
 may have played too much. Pet is not sick ? " 
 
 "Jessie tired, mamma; good-night, papa; Jessie see you in the 
 morning." 
 
 " That is all, she is only tired," said the mother as she took the small 
 hand. Another kiss and the father turned away; but his heart was not 
 satisfied. 
 
 Sweet lullabies were sung; but Jessie was restless and could not sleep. 
 "Tell me a story, mamma;" and the mother told her of the blessed babe 
 that Mary cradled, following along the story till the child had grown to 
 walk and play. The blue, wide open eyes, filled with a strange light, as 
 though she saw and comprehended more than the mother knew. 
 
 That night the father did not visit the saloon; tossing on his bed, 
 starting from a feverish sleep and bending over the crib, the long weary hours 
 passed. Morning revealed the truth — Jessie was smitten with the fever. 
 
 " Keep her quiet," the doctor said ; " a few days of good nursing, and 
 •she will be all right." 
 
 Words easily said ; but the father saw a look on that sweet face such 
 as he had seen before. He knew the messenger was at the door. 
 
 Night came. " Jessie is sick ; can't say good-night, papa ; " and the 
 little clasping fingers clung to the father's hand. 
 
 "0 God, spare her ! I cannot, cannot bear it ! " was wrung from his 
 sufiering heart. 
 
 Days passed ; the mother was tireless in her watching. "With her 
 babe cradled in her arms her heart was slow to take in the truth, doing 
 her best to solace the father's heart ; "A light case ! the doctor says, Pet 
 will soon be well." 
 
 Calmly as one who knows his doom, the father laid his hand upon the 
 hot brow, looked into the eyes even then covered with the film of death, 
 and with all the strength of his manhood cried, " Spare her, O God ! spare 
 my child, and I will follow thee." 
 
 With a last painful effort the parched lips opened : " Jessie's too sick ; 
 can't say good-night, papa — in the morning." There was a convulsive 
 shudder, and the clasping fingers relaxed their hold ; the messenger had 
 taken the child. 
 
 Months have passed. Jessie's crib stands by the side of her father's 
 couch ; her blue embroidered dress and white hat hang in his closet ; her 
 
120 
 
 CHARLEY'S OPINION OF TPIE BABY. 
 
 boots with the print of her feet just as she had last worn them, as sacred 
 in his eyes as they are in the mother's. Not dead, but merely risen to a 
 higher life; while, sounding down from the upper stairs, "Good-night, 
 papa, Jessie see you in the morning," has been the means of winning to a 
 better way one who had shown himself deaf to every forme:' call. 
 
 CHARLETS OPINION OF THE BABY. 
 
 SUZZER'S bought a baby, 
 Ittle bit's of zing ; 
 Zink I mos could put him 
 
 Ain't he awful ugly? 
 
 Ain't he awful pink? 
 Jus come down from Heaven, 
 
 Cat's a fib, I zink. 
 
 Doctor told anozzer 
 
 Great big awful lie; 
 
 Nose ain't out of joyent, 
 Dat ain't why I cry. 
 
 Zink I ought to love him ! 
 
 No, I won't! so zere; 
 Nassy, crying baby, 
 
 Ain't got anv b.nr 
 
UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 
 
 121 
 
 Send me oS wiz Biddy 
 
 Evry single day ; 
 ' Be a good boy, Charlie, 
 Run away and play." 
 
 Dot all my nice 
 
 Dot my place in bed; 
 Mean to take my drumstick 
 
 And beat Lim on ze head. 
 
 UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PEA YER. 
 
 FROM " THE GILDED AGE OF CLEMENS AND WARNER. 
 
 ^HATEVEE the lagging, dragging journey may have been to the 
 
 15 rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and a delight to the 
 children, a world of enchantment ; and they believed it to be 
 peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that 
 figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them 
 nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. 
 
 At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near 
 a shabby village which was caving, house, by house into the hungry Missis- 
 sippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile- 
 breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and 
 the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent 
 which surely none but they had ever seen before. 
 
 " Uncle Dan'l " (colored,) aged 40 ; his wife, " aunt Jinny," aged 30, 
 "Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, "Young Mars" Washington Hawkins and 
 " Young Mars " Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves 
 on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed 
 
122 UNCLE DAN'L'S ArPARITION AND PRAYER. 
 
 it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud- 
 wreaths ; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled 
 light ; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, 
 rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the 
 muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. 
 
 The little company assembled on the log were all children, (at least in 
 simplicity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they 
 made about the river were in keeping with their character ; and so awed 
 were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and 
 by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the 
 faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took 
 to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low 
 and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed : 
 
 " Chil'en, dah's sumfin a comin' ! " 
 
 All crowded close together and every heart beat faster. Uncle Dan'l 
 pointed down the river with his bony finger. 
 
 A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded 
 cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce 
 eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway 
 quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, 
 the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. 
 A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate 
 horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured 
 out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and 
 nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light 
 which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a 
 torchlight procession. 
 
 " What is it ! Oh. what is it, Uncle Dan'l ! " 
 
 With deep solemnity the answer came : 
 
 " It's do Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " 
 
 It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling, in a 
 moment. And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and 
 stronger and the threatening glare reached farther and wider, the negro's 
 voice lifted up its supplications : 
 
 " Lord, we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go 
 to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we aint ready yit, we aint 
 ready — let these po' chil'en hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take 
 de ole niggah if you's got to hab somebody. — Good Lord, good deah Lord, 
 we don't know whah you's a gwine to, we don't know who you's got yo' 
 eye on, but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by the way 
 
UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 123 
 
 you's a tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po' sinner's a gwine to 
 ketch it. But good Lord, dese ciiiren don't b'long heah, dey's f m Obeds- 
 town whah dey don't know nuffin, an' yoii knows, yo' own sef, dat dey aint 
 'sponsible. An' deah Lord, good Lord, it aint like yo' mercy, it aint like 
 yo' pity, it aint like yo' long-sufferin' lovin'-kiiidness for to take dis kind o' 
 'vantage o' sich little cliil'en as dese is when dey's so many ornery grown 
 folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. Lord, spah 
 de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em 
 off dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. Heah I is. Lord, heah I 
 IS ! De ole niggah's ready, Lord, de ole " 
 
 The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and 
 not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud- valve suddenly burst 
 forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'I snatched a child 
 under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his 
 heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and 
 shouted, (but rather feebly :) 
 
 " Heah I is, Lord, heah I is ! " 
 
 There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise 
 and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone 
 by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'I headed a cautious 
 reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough " the Lord " was 
 just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked, 
 the lights winked out and the coughing diminished -by degrees and pre- 
 sently ceased altogether. 
 
 " H'wsh ! Well now dey's some folks says dey aint no 'ficiency in 
 prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' 
 dat prah ? Dat's it. Dat's it ! " 
 
 " Uncle Dan'I, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us ? " said 
 Clay. 
 
 " Does I reckon f Don't I knoio it ! Whah was yo' eyes ? Warn't 
 de Lo]'d jes' a comin' choio ! chow ! chow ! an' a goin' on turrible — an' do 
 de Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him ? An' warn't 
 he a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'em ? 
 An' d'you spec' he gwine to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it ? 
 No indeedy ! '' 
 
 " Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan'I ? " 
 
 " De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us ? " 
 
 " Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'I ? " 
 
 " No sah ! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he aint 'fraid o' nuffin — 
 dey can't nuffin tetch him." 
 
124: SOCRATES SNOOKS. 
 
 " Well what did you run for ? " 
 
 " Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de 
 sperit, he do-no what he's 'bout — no sah ; dat man do-no what he's 'bout. 
 You might take an' tah de head ofi''n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely line 
 it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt 
 considable — ob coase dey was; but dey didn't know nuffin 'bout it — heal 
 right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long liaah, (hair,) maybe, 
 but dey wouldn't felt de burn." 
 
 " /don't know but what they were girls. I think they were." 
 
 " Now Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't 
 tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a saying what 
 you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." 
 
 " But how should /know whether they were boys or girls ? ' 
 
 " Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say ? 'Sides, don't 
 it call 'em de /Ze-brew chil'en ? If dey was gals would'n dey be de she- 
 brew chil'en? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when 
 dey do read." 
 
 " Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that My ! here comes another 
 
 one up the river ! There can't be two ! " 
 
 " We gone dis time — we done gone dis time sho' ! Dey aint two, Mars 
 Qlay — dat's de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. 
 Goodness, how de fiah an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, 
 honey. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time 
 vou's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid you — ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de 
 woods to rastle in prah — de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe 
 you agin." 
 
 He did go to the woods and pray; but he went so ftir that he doubted, 
 himrself, if the Lord heard him when He went by. 
 
 SOCRATES SNOOKS 
 
 ■TSTER Socrates Snooks, a lord of] When one morning to Xantippe, Socrates s 
 
 " I think, for a man of my standing in life, 
 This house is too small, as I now have a wife; 
 So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey 
 Shall be sent for to widen my house and my 
 dairy." 
 
 creation. 
 The second time entered the married 
 
 relation : 
 Xantippe Caloric accepted his hand, 
 And they thought him the happiest man 
 
 in the land. | 
 
 But scarce had the honeymoon passed i " Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied. 
 o'er his head, " I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; 
 
TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 
 
 125 
 
 Now, whenever you speak of your chattels 
 again, 
 
 Say, our cow-house, our barn-yarrl, our pig- 
 pen." 
 
 " By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say 
 what I please 
 
 Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my 
 trees." 
 
 "Say our" Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. 
 
 ' I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an 
 age!" 
 
 Oh, woman! though only a part of man's 
 
 rib, 
 If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib. 
 Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel 
 
 with you. 
 You are certain to prove the best man of the 
 
 two. 
 In the following case this was certainly true; 
 For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her 
 
 shoe. 
 And laying about her, all sides at random, 
 The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." 
 
 Migter Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain, 
 To ward off the blows which descended like 
 
 Concluding that valor's best part was discre- 
 tion — 
 
 Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian ; 
 
 But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit 
 afraid, 
 
 Converted the siege into a blockade. 
 
 At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, 
 
 He concluded 'twas useless to strive against 
 fate: 
 
 And 90, like a tortoise protruding his head, 
 
 Said, " My dear, may we come out from un- 
 der our bed ?" 
 
 " Hah ! hah !" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates 
 Snooks, 
 
 I perceive you agree to my terms by your 
 looks : 
 
 Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy 
 hour, 
 
 If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 
 
 'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to 
 
 church. 
 He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to 
 
 search : 
 Having found them, he asked, with a few 
 
 nervous twitches, 
 " My dear, may we put on our new Sunday 
 
 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 
 
 |HEN they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed in 
 unspeakable disappointment at the receding train, which was 
 just pulling away from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a 
 minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train 
 1 was out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they could 
 J act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage and discon- 
 
 solately turned their horses' heads homeward. 
 
 Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly : " It all comes of having to 
 wait for a woman to get ready." 
 
 " I was ready before you were," replied his wife. 
 ''Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great impatience, nearly 
 jerking the horse's jaws out of place, "just listen to that ! And I sat in 
 9 
 
126 
 
 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 
 
 the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along until the whole neigh- 
 borhood heard me." 
 
 " Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking placidity which no 
 one can assume but a woman, " and every time I started down stairs, you 
 sent me back for something you had forgotten." 
 
 Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much to bear," he said, " when 
 everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush into 
 the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you 
 would want at least six months for preliminary preparations, and then 
 dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town." 
 "Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns put off their visit 
 to Aurora until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get 
 himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go, and the one who 
 failed to get ready should be left. The day of the match came around in 
 due time. The train was going at 10.30, and Mr. Mann, after attending 
 to his business, went home at 9.45. 
 
 "Now, then," he shouted, "only three-quarters of an hour's time. 
 Fly around; a fair field and no favors, you know." 
 
 And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged 
 into this room and flew through that one, and 
 dived into one closet after another with incon- 
 ceivable rapidity, chuckling under his breath 
 all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann 
 would feel when he started off alone. He 
 stopped on his way up stairs to pull off his 
 heavy boots to save time. For the same rea- 
 son he pulled off his coat as he ran through 
 the dining-room, and hung it on a corner of 
 the silver-closet. Then he jerked off his vest 
 as he rushed through the hall and tossed it on 
 the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had 
 reached his own room he was ready to plunge 
 into his clean clothes. He pulled out a bureau- 
 drawer and began to paw at the things like a 
 Scotch terrier after a rat. 
 
 "Eleanor," he shrieked, "where are my 
 shirts ? " 
 " In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing 
 before a glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a refractory crimp into 
 place. 
 
TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 
 
 127 
 
 " Well, but they ain't," shouted Mr. Mann, a little annoyed. " I've 
 emptied everything out of the drawer, and there isn't a thing in it I ever 
 saw before." 
 
 Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and 
 after satisfying herself that the crimp would do, replied : " These things 
 scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been 
 looking into your own drawer." 
 
 " I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, " why you couldn't have 
 put my things out for me when you had nothing else to do all the 
 morning." 
 
 " Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting herself into an additional article 
 of raiment with awful deliberation, " nobody put mine out for me. A fair 
 field and no favors, my dear." 
 
 Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. 
 
 " Foul ! " he shouted in malici- 
 ous triumph. " No buttons on the 
 neck ! " 
 
 "Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweet- 
 ly, after a deliberate stare at the 
 fidgeting, impatient man, during which 
 she buttoned her dress and put eleven 
 pins where they would do the most 
 good, " because you have got the shirt 
 on wrong side out." 
 
 When Mr. Mann slid out of the 
 shirt he began to sweat. He dropped 
 the shirt three times before he got it 
 on, and while it was over his head he 
 heard the clock strike ten. When his 
 
 head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her 
 necktie. 
 
 " Where are my shirt-studs ? " he cried. 
 
 Mrs. Mann went out into another room and presently came back with 
 gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the boxes he could find 
 in and around the bureau. Then she said, " In the shirt you just 
 pulled off." 
 
 Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. Mann hunted up and down 
 the room for his cufi'-buttons, 
 
 " Eleanor," he snarled at last, " I believe you must know where 
 those cufi'-buttons are." 
 
128 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 
 
 " I haven't soon them," said the lady settling her hat; " didn't you 
 lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting-room last night ? " 
 
 Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down stairs on the run. He 
 stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed in the hall at the 
 foot of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmis- 
 sion with more bumps than he could count with Webb's Adder, and landed 
 with a bang like the Hell Gate explosion. 
 
 " Are you nearly ready, Algernon ? " sweetly asked the wife of his 
 bosom, leaning over the banisters. 
 
 The unhappy man groaned. '' Can't you throw me down the other 
 boot ? " he asked. 
 
 Mrs. Mann piteously kicked it down to him. 
 
 " My valise ? " he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. 
 
 " Up in your dressing-room," she answered. 
 
 " Packed ? " 
 
 "I do not know; unless you packed it yourself, probably not," she 
 replied, with her hand on the door-knob ; " I had barely time to pack my 
 own." 
 
 She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, and he 
 shouted, " Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest ? It has 
 all my money in it." 
 
 " You threw it on the hat-rack," she called. ''Good-bye, dear." 
 
 Before she got to the corner of the street she was hailed again : 
 
 " Eleanor ! Eleanor ! Eleanor Mann ! Did you wear off my coat ? " 
 
 She paused and turned, after signaling the street-car to stop, and 
 cried, " You threw it in the silver-closet." 
 
 The street-car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more. 
 But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down 
 the house, rushing out of the front-door every now and then, shrieking 
 after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where 
 she put the valise key, and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and 
 that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And when he went away 
 at last, he left the kitchen-door, the side-door and the front-door, all the 
 down-stairs windows and the front-gate wide open. 
 
 The loungers around the depot were somewhat amused, just as the 
 train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to see a flushed, enter- 
 prising man, with his hat on sideways, his vest unbuttoned and necktie 
 flying, and his grip-sack flapping open and shut like a demented shutter 
 on a March night, and a door-key in his hand, dash wildly across the plat- 
 form and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent, 
 
THE UNBOLTED DOOR. 
 
 129 
 
 wrathful mortification at the departing train, and shaking his fist at a 
 pretty woman who was throwing kisses at him from the rear platform of 
 the last car. 
 
 THE UNBOLTED DOOR. 
 
 EDWARD GARRETT. 
 
 ^UPP CARE-WORN widow sat alone 
 Sjmn|fe Beside her fading hearth ; 
 ^^^ Her silent cottage never hears 
 ^^^ The ringing laugh of mirth. 
 
 Six children once had sported there, but now 
 
 the church-yard snow 
 Fell softly on five little graves that were not 
 
 long ago. 
 
 She mourned them all with patient love ; 
 
 But since, her eyes had shed 
 Far bitterer tears than those which dewed 
 The faces of the dead, — 
 The child which had been spared to her, the 
 
 darling of her pride. 
 The woful mother lived to wish that she had 
 also died. 
 
 Those little ones beneath the snow, 
 She well knew where they are ; 
 " Close gathered to the throne of God," 
 
 And that was better far. 
 But when she saw where Katy was, she saw 
 
 the city's glare. 
 The painted mask of bitter joy that need 
 gave sin to wear. 
 
 Without, the snow lay thick and white ; 
 
 No step had fallen there ; 
 Within, she sat beside her fire. 
 
 Each thought a silent prayer ; 
 When suddenly behind her seat unwonted 
 
 noise she heard. 
 As though a hesitating hand the rustic latch 
 had stirred. 
 
 She turned, and there the wanderer stood 
 
 With snow-flakes on her hair ; 
 A faded woman, wild and worn. 
 The ghost of something fair. 
 And then upon the mother's breast the 
 
 whitened head was laid, 
 " Can God and you forgive me all ? for I have 
 sinned," she said. 
 
 The widow dropped upon her knees 
 
 Before the fading fire, 
 And thanked the Lord whose love at last 
 
 Had granted her desire ; 
 The daughter kneeled beside her, too, tears 
 streaming from her eyes, 
 And prayed, " God help me to be good t« 
 mother ere she dies." 
 
130 
 
 THE VAGABONDS. 
 
 They did not talk about the sin, 
 
 
 " My child," the widow said, and smiled 
 
 The shame, the bitter woe ; 
 
 
 A smile of love and pain, 
 
 They spoke about those little graves 
 
 
 " I kept it so lest you should come 
 
 And things of long ago. 
 
 
 And turn away again ! 
 
 And then the daughter raised her eyes 
 
 and 
 
 I've waited for you all the while — a mother's 
 
 asked in tender tone. 
 
 
 love is true ; 
 
 •' Why did you keep your door unbarred 
 
 Yet this is but a shadowy type of His who 
 
 when you were all alone ?" 
 
 
 died for you!" 
 
 THE VAGABONDS. 
 
 J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 M:^ 
 
 V. are two travelers, Roger and I. 
 K'ger's my dog ; — come here, you 
 
 scamp! 
 Jump for the gentleman, — mind 
 
 your eye! 
 Over the table, — look out for the 
 
 lamp ! — 
 The rogue is growing a little old : 
 
 Five years we've tramped through wind 
 and weather. 
 And slept out-doors when nights were cold, 
 
 And ate and drank — and starved to- 
 gether. 
 
 We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! 
 A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
 
THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. 
 
 131 
 
 A fire to thaw our thumbs, (poor fellow ! 
 
 The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) 
 Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, 
 
 (This out-door business is bad for strings,) 
 Then a few nice buckwheats, hot from the 
 griddle, 
 
 And Roger and I set up for kings ! 
 
 Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 
 
 But I've gone through such wretched treat- 
 ment. 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. 
 
 And scarce remembering what meat meant. 
 That my poor stomach 's past reform ; 
 
 And there are times when, mad with think- 
 ing. 
 I'd sell out heaven for something warm 
 
 To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
 
 Is there a way to forget to think ? 
 
 At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
 A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink ; — • 
 
 The same old story ; you know how it ends. 
 If you could have seen these classic features, — 
 
 You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then 
 Such a burning libel on God's creatures •. 
 
 I was one of your handsome men ! 
 
 If you had seen her, so fair and young. 
 
 Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
 If you could have heard the songs I sung 
 
 When the wine went round, you wouldn't 
 have guessed 
 That ever I, sir, should be straying 
 
 From door to door, with fiddle and dog. 
 Ragged and penniless, and playing 
 
 To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 
 
 She's married since, — a parson's wife : 
 
 'Twas better for her that we should part,— 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life 
 
 Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
 I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and 
 spent 
 
 On the dusty road, a carriage stopped ; 
 But little she dreamed, as on she went. 
 
 Who kissed the coin that her fingers 
 dropped ! 
 
 You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; 
 
 It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
 What do you care for a beggar's story ? 
 
 Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
 I had a mother so proud of me ! 
 
 'Twas well she died before Do you know 
 
 If the happy spirits in heaven can see 
 
 The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 
 
 Another glass, and strong, to deaden 
 
 This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
 I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, 
 
 Aching thing, in place of a heart ? 
 He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he 
 could. 
 
 No doubt, remembering things that were, — 
 A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 
 
 And himself a sober, respectable cur. 
 
 I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — 
 
 You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
 We must be fiddling and performing 
 
 For supper and bed, or starve in the street 
 Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 
 
 But soon we shall go where lodgings are 
 free. 
 And the sleepers need neither victuals nor 
 drink ; — 
 
 The sooner the better for Roger and me ! 
 
 THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG 
 
 '^^^'RKM. was 
 
 ^it^wi^ .csnmA fern 
 
 a quiet, peaceable sort of a Yankee, who lived on the 
 same farm on which his fathers had lived before him, and was 
 ^ ^ generally considered a pretty cute sort of a fellow, — always ready 
 J I with a trick, whenever it was of the least utility ; yet, when he did 
 
132 THE YANKEE AND THE DUTCHMAN'S DOG. 
 
 play any of his tricks, 'twas done in such an innocent manner, that his 
 victim coukl do no better than take it all in good part. 
 
 Now, it happened that one of Hiram's neighbors sold a farm to a 
 tolerably green specimen of a Dutchman, — one of the real unintelligent, 
 stupid sort. 
 
 Von Vlom Schlopsch had a dog, as Dutchmen often have, who was 
 less unintelligent than his master, and who had, since leaving his " fader- 
 land," become sufficiently civilized not only to appropriate the soil as 
 common stock, but had progressed so far in the good work as to obtain his 
 dinners from the neighbors' sheepfold on the same principle. 
 
 When Hiram discovered this propensity in the canine department of 
 the Dutchman's family, he walked over to his new neighbor's to enter com- 
 plaint, which mission he accomplished in the most natural method in the 
 world. 
 
 " Wall, Von, your dog Blitzen's been killing my sheep." 
 
 " Ya ! dat ish bace— bad. He ish von goot tog : ya ! dat ish 
 bad ! " 
 
 " Sartin, it's bad; and you'll have to stop 'im," 
 
 " Ya ! dat ish alias goot ; but ich weis nicht." 
 
 " What's that you say ? he loas nicked ? Wall, now look here, old 
 fellow ! nickin's no use. Crop 'im ; cut his tail off close, chock up to his 
 trunk ; that'll cure 'im." 
 
 " Vat ish dat? " exclaimed the Dutchman, while a faint ray of intelli- 
 gence crept over his features. " Ya ! dat ish goot. Dat cure von sheep 
 steal, eh ? " 
 
 " Sartin it will : he'll never touch sheep meat again in this world," 
 said Hiram gravely. 
 
 " Den come mit me. He von mity goot tog ; all the way from Yar- 
 many : I not take von five dollar — but come mit me, and hold his tail, eh? 
 Ich chop him off." 
 
 "Sartin," said Hiram: "I'll hold his tail if you want me tew; but 
 you must cut it up close." 
 
 " Ya ! dat ish right. Ich make 'im von goot tog. There, Blitzen, 
 Blitzen ! come right here, you von sheep steal rashcull : I chop your tail 
 in von two pieces." 
 
 The dog obeyed the summons ; and the master tied his feet fore and 
 aft, for fear of accident, and placing the tail in the Yankee's hand, re- 
 quested him to lay it across a large block of wood. 
 
 " Chock up," said Hiram, as he drew the butt of the tail close over 
 the log. 
 
SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 133 
 
 " Ya ! dat ish right. Now, you von 
 tief sheep, I learns you better luck," 
 said Von Vlom Schlopsch, as he raised 
 the axe. 
 
 It descended ; and as it did so, 
 Hiram, with characteristic presence of 
 mind, gave a sudden jerk, and brought 
 Blitzen's neck over the log ; and the 
 head rolled over the other side. 
 
 " Wall, I swow ! " said Hiram 
 with apparent astonishment, as he 
 dropped the headless trunk of the dog ; 
 "that was a leetle too close." 
 
 " Mine cootness ! " exclaimed the 
 Dutchman, "you shust cut 'im off de 
 wrong end /" 
 
 CHOCK UP ' 
 
 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 
 
 W. C. BRYANT. 
 
 ^UR band is few, but true and tried, 
 Our leader frank and bold ; 
 The British soldier trembles 
 
 When Marion's name is told. 
 Our fortress is the good greenwood, 
 
 Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
 We know the forest round us, 
 As seamen know the sea ; 
 We know its walls of thorny vines, 
 
 Its glades of reedy grass, 
 Its safe and silent islands 
 Within the dark morass. 
 
 Woe to the English soldiery 
 
 That little dread us near ! 
 On them shall light at midnight 
 
 A strange and sudden fear ; 
 When, waking to their tents on fir 
 
 They grasp their arms in vain. 
 And they who stand to face us 
 
 Are beat to earth again ; 
 
 And they who fly in terror deem 
 
 A mighty host behind. 
 And hear the tramp of thousands 
 
 Upon the hollow wind. 
 
 Then sweet the hour that brings release 
 
 From danger and from toil ; 
 We talk the battle over. 
 
 And share the battle's spoil. 
 The woodland rings with laugh and shout 
 
 As if a hunt were up. 
 And woodland flowers are gathered 
 
 To crown the soldier's cup. 
 With merry songs we mock the wind 
 
 That in the pine-top grieves. 
 And slumber long and sweetly 
 
 On beds of oaken leaves. 
 
 Well knows the fair and friendly moon 
 The band that Marion leads, — 
 
 The glitter of their rifles, 
 
 The scampering of their steeds. 
 
134 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 
 
 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 
 
 Across the moonlit plain ; 
 'Tis life to feel the night-wiad 
 
 That lifts his tossing mane. 
 A moment in the British camp — 
 
 A moment — and away- 
 Back to the pathless forest, 
 
 Before the peep of day. 
 
 Grave men there are by broad Santee, 
 Grave men with hoary hairs ; 
 
 Their hearts are all with Marion, 
 
 For Marion are their prayers. 
 And lovely ladies greet our band 
 
 With kindliest welcoming. 
 With smiles like those of summer, 
 
 And tears like those of spring. 
 For them we wear these trusty arms, 
 
 And lay them down no more 
 Till we have driven the Briton 
 
 Forever from our shore. 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 ^0 is very glad to see his old friend ; and says, when they are left 
 alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should 
 come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. 
 Sangbsy, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays 
 upon the table half-a-crown ; that magic balsam of his for all 
 kinds of wounds. 
 
 "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquired the sta- 
 tioner, with his cough of sympathy. 
 
 " I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, " and don't want for 
 nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm 
 wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." 
 
 The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what 
 it is that he is sorry for having done. 
 
 " Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, " I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos 
 and yet as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to 
 me for having done it, on accounts of their being so good and my having 
 been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, 
 'Ah Jo ! ' she ses. ' We thought we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she ses. And she 
 sits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me 
 for having done it, she don'-t, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. 
 Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own 
 self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to give me somethink for to ease 
 me, wot he's alius a doin on day and night, and wen he comes a bendin 
 over me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. Sangsby." 
 
DEATH OF LITTLE JO. I35 
 
 Tlie softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. 
 Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his 
 feelings. 
 
 " Wot I wos thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos, as you 
 wos able to write wery large, p'raps ? " 
 
 " Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. 
 
 "Uncommon, precious large, p'raps?" says Jo, with eagerness. 
 
 " Yes, my poor boy." 
 
 Jo laughs with pleasure. " Wot I wos thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, 
 wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be 
 moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, 
 wery large, so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I was wery 
 truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do it ; and 
 that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once 
 cried over it, and was alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be 
 able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it 
 wery large, he might." 
 
 " I shall say it, Jo ; very large." 
 
 Jo laughs again. " Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, 
 sir, and it makes me more cumf bier nor I wos afore." 
 
 The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips 
 down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been so close to a case requiring 
 so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, 
 shall meet no more. No more. 
 
 (Another scene. — Enter Mr. Woodcourt?) 
 
 " Well, Jo, what is the matter ? Don't be frightened." 
 
 " I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, " I 
 thought I was in Tom-All-alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, 
 Mr. Woodcot?" 
 
 " Nobody." 
 
 "And I an't took back to Tom-All-alone's, am I, sir?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I am wery thankful." 
 
 After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very 
 near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice : " Jo, did you ever 
 know a prayer ? " 
 
 "Never knowd nothink, sir." 
 
 " Not so much as one short prayer ? " 
 
 " No, sir. Nothing at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin wunst 
 
136 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 
 
 at Mr. Sangsby's, and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin 
 to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make out 
 nothink on it. Different times there wos other genlnien come down Tom- 
 all- Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed 
 wrong, and all mostly sounded to be talkin to theirselves, or a passin 
 blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. 
 /never knowd what it wos all about." 
 
 It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced and 
 attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short 
 relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get 
 out of bed. 
 
 " Stay, Jo, stay ! What now ? " 
 
 " It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he re- 
 turns, with a wild look. 
 
 " Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo ?" 
 
 " Where they laid him as wos wery good to me ; wery good to me 
 indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin ground, 
 sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. 
 He used fur to say to me, ' I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I 
 wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to 
 be laid along with him." 
 
 " By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by." 
 
 " Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I was to go myself. But will 
 you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him ?" • 
 
 " I will, indeed." 
 
 " Thankee, sir ! Thankee, sir ! They'll have to get the key of the 
 gate afore they can take me in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step 
 there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. — It's turned wery dark, sir. 
 Is there any light a comin ? " 
 
 " It is coming fast, Jo." 
 
 Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very 
 near its end. 
 
 " Jo, my poor follow ! " 
 
 " I hear, you sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin — let me 
 catch hold of your hand." 
 
 " Jo, can you say what I say?" 
 
 " I'll say anything as you say, sir, for I knows it's 
 
 "Our Father." 
 
 "Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." 
 
 "Which art in Heaven." 
 
UNITED IN DEATH. 
 
 137 
 
 "Art iu Heaven!" — Is the light a comin', sir?" 
 
 "It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." 
 
 "Hallowed be — thy — name !" 
 
 The light has come upon the benighted way. Dead. 
 
 Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my Lords and Gentlemen. Dead, Eight 
 Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, 
 born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around 
 us every day. 
 
 THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 
 
 JAMES R. LOWELL. 
 
 l^j^HE snow had begun in the gloaming, 
 1^ And busily all the night 
 
 Had been heaping field and highway 
 "With a silence deep and white. 
 
 Every pine and fir and hemlock 
 Wore ermine too dear for an earl, 
 
 And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 
 "Was ridged inch deep with pearl. 
 
 From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
 Came Chanticleer's mufiled crow, 
 
 The stiff rails were softened to swan's down. 
 And still fluttered down the snow. 
 
 I stood and watched by the window 
 The noiseless work of the sky, 
 
 And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, 
 Like brown leaves whirling by. 
 
 I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn 
 "Where a little headstone stood ; 
 
 How the flakes were folding it gently, 
 As did robins the babes in the wood. 
 
 Up spoke our own little Mabel, 
 
 Saying, " Father, who makes it snow ?" 
 And I told of the good All-father 
 
 "Who cares for us here below. 
 
 Again I looked at the snow-fall, 
 And thought of the leaden sky 
 
 That arched o'er our first great sorrow, 
 
 "When that mound was heaped so high. 
 
 I remembered the gradual patience 
 
 That fell from that cloud like snow, 
 
 Flake by flake, healing and hiding 
 
 The scar of our deep-plunged woe. 
 
 And again to the child I whispered, 
 " The snow that husheth all, 
 
 Darling, the merciful Father 
 Alone can make it fall !" 
 
 Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; 
 
 And she, kissing back, could not know 
 That my kiss was given to her sister, 
 
 Folded close under deepening snow. 
 
 UNITED IN DEATH. 
 
 ^P|HERE was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat 
 ^i^ face to face on the bank of the stream ; the strife and the anger 
 J^" had all gone now, and they sat still, — dying men, who but a few 
 
 J hours before had been deadly foes, sat still and looked at each 
 
138 UNITED IN DEATH. 
 
 other. At last one of them spoke : " We haven't either of us a chance to 
 hold on much longer, I judge." 
 
 " No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and reckless- 
 ness, " you did that last job of yours well, as that bears witness," and he 
 pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was 
 glowly oozing. 
 
 " Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim 
 smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more 
 ragged, — a deadly one. And then the two men gazed upon each other 
 again in the dim light ; for the moon had come over the hills now, and 
 stood among the stars, like a pearl of great price. And as they looked a 
 soft feeling stole over the heart of each toward his fallen foe, — a feeling of 
 pity for the strong manly life laid low, — a feeling of regret for the in- 
 exorable necessity of war which made each man the slayer of the other ; 
 and at last one spoke : " There are some folks in the world that'll feel 
 worse when you are gone out of it." 
 
 A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. "Yes," said 
 the man, in husky tones, " there's one woman with a boy and girl, away 
 up among the New Hampshire mountains, that it will well-nigh kill to hear 
 of this ; " and the man groaned out in bitter anguish, " God have pity on 
 my wife and children ! " 
 
 And the other drew closer to him: ''And away down among the 
 cotton fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a little girl whose hearts will 
 break when they hear what this day has done ; " and then the cry wrung 
 itself sharply out of his heart, " God, have pity upon them ! " 
 
 And from that moment the Northerner and the Southerner ceased to 
 be foes. The thought of those distant homes on which the anguish was to 
 fall, drew them closer together in that last hour, and the two men wept 
 Uke little children. 
 
 And at last the Northerner spoke, talking more to himself than to 
 any one else, and he did not know that the other was listening greedily to 
 every word : — 
 
 " She used to come, — my little girl, bless her heart ! — every night to 
 meet me when I came home from the fields ; and she would stand under 
 the great plum-tree, that's just beyond the back-door at home, with the 
 sunlight maldng yellow- brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing 
 in her eyes when she heard the click of the gate, — I see her now, — and I'd 
 take her in my arms, and she'd put up her little red lips for a kiss ; but 
 my little darling will never watch under the plum-tree by the well, for her 
 father, again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a glimpse 
 
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 139 
 
 of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet running over the grass 
 to spring into my arms again ! " 
 
 " And then," said the Southerner, " there's a little brown-eyed, 
 brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool afternoons for her father, 
 when he rode in from his visit to the plantations. I can see her sweet 
 little face shining out now, from the roses that covered the pillars, and 
 hear her shout of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little 
 flying feet up and down the verandah again." 
 
 And the Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and spoke now in 
 a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying men were glazing fast : " We 
 have fought here, like men, together. We are going before God in a little 
 while. Let us forgive each other." 
 
 The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away in a mur- 
 mur from his white lips ; but he took the hand of his fallen foe, and his 
 stiffening fingers closed over it, and his last look was a smile of forgive- 
 ness and peace. When the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs 
 of the dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with their 
 hands clasped in each other, by the stream which ran close to the battle- 
 field. And the little girl with golden hair, that watched under the 
 plum-tree among the hills of New Hampshire, and the little girl witli 
 bright brown hair, that waited by the roses among the green fields of 
 Georgia, were fatherless. 
 
 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 
 
 WILL CAELETON. 
 
 John. — 
 
 'VE worked in the field all day, a plowin' 
 
 the " stony streak ;" 
 I've scolded my team till I'm hoarse ; 
 I've tramped till my legs are weak ; 
 I've choked a dozen swears, (so's not to 
 tell Jane fibs,) 
 When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the 
 handles punched my ribs. 
 
 I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed 
 
 their sweaty coats ; 
 I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel 
 
 of oats ; 
 
 And to see the way they eat makes me like 
 
 eatin' feel, 
 And Jane won't say to-night thai I don't 
 
 make out a meal. 
 
 Well said ! the door is locked ! Out here .she's 
 left the key. 
 
 Under the step, in a place known only to her 
 and me ; 
 
 I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's hus- 
 tled off pell-mell ; 
 
 But here on the table's a note, and probably 
 this will tell. 
 
140 
 
 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 
 
 Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone 
 
 She'll do what she ought to have done, and 
 
 astray ! 
 
 coolly count the cost ; 
 
 The letter it says, "Good-bye, for I'm a going 
 
 And then she'll .see things clear, and know 
 
 away; 
 
 what she has lost. 
 
 I've lived with you six months, John, and so 
 
 
 far I've been true ; 
 
 And thoughts that are now asleep will wake 
 
 But I'm going away to-day with a handsomer 
 
 up in her mind. 
 
 man than you." 
 
 And she will mourn and cry for what she has 
 
 
 left behind ; 
 
 A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't 
 
 And maybe she'll sometimes long for me — for 
 
 much to say ; 
 
 me— but no ! 
 
 There's han'somer men than me go past here 
 
 I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will 
 
 . every day. 
 
 not have it so. 
 
 There's handsomer men than me — I ain't of 
 
 
 the han'some kind ; 
 
 And yet in her girlish heart there was some- 
 
 But a loven'er man than I was, I guess she'll 
 
 thin' or other she had 
 
 never find. 
 
 That fastened a man to her, and wasn't en- 
 
 
 tirely bad ; 
 
 Curse her ! curse her ! I say, and give my 
 
 And she loved me a little, I think, although 
 
 curses wings ! 
 
 it didn't last ; 
 
 May the words of love I've spoken be changed 
 
 But I mustn't think of these things — I've 
 
 to scorpion stings ! 
 
 buried 'em in the past. 
 
 Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied 
 
 
 my heart of doubt, 
 
 I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad 
 
 And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets 
 
 matter worse ; 
 
 my heart's blood out ! 
 
 She'll have trouble enough ; she shall not 
 
 
 have my curse ; 
 
 Curse her ! curse her ! say I, she'll some time 
 
 But I'll live a life so square — and I well know 
 
 rue this day ; 
 
 that I can,— 
 
 She'll some time learn that hate is a game 
 
 That she always will sorry be that she went 
 
 that two can play ; 
 
 with that han'somer man. 
 
 And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever 
 
 
 was born. 
 
 Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my 
 poor eyes blur ; 
 
 And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed 
 
 it down to scorn. 
 
 It seems when I look at that, as if 'twas 
 
 
 holdin' her. 
 
 As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a 
 
 And here are her week-day shoes, and there 
 
 time when she 
 
 is her week-day hat. 
 
 Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer 
 
 And yonder's her weddin' gown ; I wonder 
 
 man than me ; 
 
 she didn't take that. 
 
 And there'll be a time when he will find, as 
 
 
 others do, 
 
 'Twas only this raornin' she came and called 
 
 That she who is false to one, can be the same 
 
 me her "dearest dear," 
 
 with two. 
 
 And said I was makin' for her a regular pa- 
 
 
 radise here ; 
 
 A.nd when her face grows pale, and when her 
 
 God ! if you want a man to sense the pams 
 
 eyes grow dim, 
 
 of hell. 
 
 And when he is tired of her and she is tired 
 
 Before you pitch him in just keep him in hea- 
 
 of him, 
 
 ven a spell ! 
 
DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. 
 
 141 
 
 Grood-bye ! I wish that death had severed us 
 
 two apart. 
 You've lost a worshiper here, you've crushed 
 
 a lovin' heart. 
 I'll worship no woman again ; but I gaesa I'll 
 
 learn to pray, 
 And knoel as you used to kneel, before you 
 
 run away. 
 
 And if I thought I could bring my words on 
 
 Heaven to bear, 
 And if I thought I had some little influence 
 
 there, 
 I would pray that I might be, if it only could 
 
 be so. 
 As happy and gay as I was a half hour ago. 
 
 Jane {entering). 
 hat a litte 
 things all around! 
 Come, what's the matter now ? and what have 
 
 you lost or found ? 
 And here's my father here, a waiting for sup- 
 per, too ; 
 I've been a riding with him — he's that "hand- 
 somer man than you." 
 
 Ha ! ha ! Pa, take a seat, while I put the 
 
 kettle on. 
 And get things ready for tea, and kiss my 
 
 dear old John. 
 Why, John, you look so strange ! come, what 
 
 has crossed your track ? 
 I was only a joking, you know; I'm willing 
 
 to take it back. 
 
 John (aside) 
 Well, now, if this aint a joke, with rather a 
 
 bitter cream ! 
 It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish 
 
 dream ; 
 And I think she " smells a rat," for she smiles 
 
 at me so queer, 
 I hope she don't ; good gracious ! I hope that 
 
 they didn't hear ! 
 
 'Twas one of her practical drives — she thought 
 I'd understand ! 
 
 But I'll never break sod again till I get the 
 lay of the land. 
 
 But one thing's settled with me — to appreci- 
 ate heaven well, 
 
 'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen mi- 
 nutes of hell. 
 
 DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY. 
 
 PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 ^OUPiSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon 
 pi this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to 
 the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are en- 
 gaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any 
 nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met 
 
 on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedicate a por- 
 lu 
 
142 
 
 OVER THE RIVER. 
 
 tion of it as the final restiug-place of those who here gave their lives that 
 that nation might live. 
 
 It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a 
 larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow 
 this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have 
 consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little 
 note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what 
 they did here. 
 
 It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished 
 work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here 
 dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored 
 dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last 
 full measure of devotion ; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall 
 not have died in vain, that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth 
 of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for 
 the people, shall not perish from the earth. 
 
 OVER THE RIVER. 
 
 N. A. W. PRIEST. 
 
 gVER the river they beckon to me, 
 
 Loved ones who crossed to the 
 other side ; 
 The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
 \ But their voices are drowned by 
 ■%■ the rushing tide. 
 
 There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, 
 And eyes the reflection of heaven's own 
 blue; 
 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 
 
 And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
 We saw not the angels that met him there — 
 
 The gate of the city we could not see ; 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. 
 
 Over the river the boatman pale 
 Carried another, the household pet ; 
 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale — 
 Darling Minnie ! I see her yet! 
 
 She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom bark ; 
 
 We watched it glide from the silver sands, 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. 
 
 We know she is safe on the further side. 
 Where all the ransomed and angels be ; 
 
 Over the river, the mystic river. 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores. 
 
 Who cross with the boatman, cold and pale ; 
 We hear the dip of the golden oars, 
 
 And catch a glimpse of the snowy sail ; 
 And lo ! they have passed from our yearning 
 hearts — 
 
 They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
 We may not sunder the vail apart 
 
 That hides from our vision the gates of 
 day; 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 
 Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
 Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 
 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for 
 
DE PINT WID OLD PETE. 
 
 143 
 
 And I sit and think when the sunset's gold 
 Is flashing on river, and hill, and shore, 
 
 I shall one day stand by the waters cold 
 And list to the sound of the boatman's oar. 
 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; 
 I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand . 
 
 I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale 
 To the better shore of the spirit-land. 
 
 I shall know the loved who have gone before. 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be. 
 
 When over the river, the peaceful river. 
 The angel of death shall carry me. 
 
 DE PINT WID OLD PETE. 
 
 pPON the hurricane deck of one of our gunboats, an elderly darkey, 
 with a very philosophical and retrospective cast of countenance, 
 squatted on his bundle, toast- 
 ing his shins against the chim- 
 
 j ney and apparently plunged into a 
 state of profound meditation. Finding 
 upon inquiry, that he belonged to the 
 Ninth Illinois, one of the most gallantly 
 behaved and heavy losing regiments at 
 the Fort Donaldson battle, I began to 
 interrogate him upon the subject. 
 
 " Were you in the fight ? " 
 
 "Had a little taste of it, sa." 
 
 "Stood your ground, did you?" 
 
 " No, sa, I runs." 
 
 " Eun at the first fire, did you ? " 
 
 " Yes, sa, and would hab run soona, 
 had I know'd it war comin'." 
 
 "Why, that wasn't very creditable to your courage." 
 
 " Massa, dat isn't ray line, sa ; cookin's my profeshun." 
 
 " Well, but have you no regard for your re- 
 putation ? " 
 
 " Yah, yah ! reputation's nuffin to me by de 
 side ob life." 
 
 " Do you consider your life worth more than 
 other people's ? " 
 
 " It is worth more to me, sa." 
 
 " Then you must value it very highly." 
 
 " Yes, sa, I does ; more dan all dis world, more 
 dan a million ob dollars, sa ; for what would dat 
 be worth to a man wid de bref out of him? 
 Self-preservation am de first law wid me." 
 
 TOAisTINU HIS SHINS 
 
 ' NO, SA, 1 RUNS. 
 
144 
 
 I SEE THEE STILL. 
 
 " But why should you act upon a different rule from other men?" 
 
 " Because different men set different values upon their lives ; mine is 
 not in de market." 
 
 " But if you lost it, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that 
 you died for your country." 
 
 "What satisfaction would dat be to me when de power ob feelin' was 
 gone ? " 
 
 " Then patriotism and honor are nothing to you?" 
 
 " Nuffin whatever, sa ; I regard them as among the vanities." 
 
 " If our soldiers were like you, traitors might have broken up the 
 government without resistance." 
 
 " Yes, sa; dar would hab been no help for it." 
 
 " Do you think any of your company would have missed you if you 
 had been killed ? " 
 
 " Maybe not, sa ; a dead white man ain't much to dese sogers, let 
 alone a dead nigga; but I'd miss myself, and dat was de pint wid me." 
 
 I SEE THEE STILL. 
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 ROCK'D her in the cradle, 
 
 And laid her in the tomb. She was the 
 
 youngest. 
 What fireside circle hath not felt the 
 
 charm 
 Of that sweet tie ? The youngest ne'er 
 grow old, 
 
 The fond endearments of our earlier days 
 "We keep alive in them, and when they die 
 Our youthful joys we bury with them. 
 
 I see thee still , 
 Remembrance, faithful to her trust, 
 Calls thee in beauty from the dust ; 
 Thou comest in the morning light, 
 Thou'rt with me through the gloomy night; 
 In dreams I meet thee as of old ; 
 Then thy soft arms my neck enfold 
 And thy sweet voice is in my ear : 
 In every scene to memory dear, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still; 
 j In every hallow'd token round ; 
 
 This little ring thy finger bound. 
 
 This lock of hair thy forehead shaded, 
 1 This silken chain by thee was braided, 
 I These flowers, all wither'd now, like thee, 
 I Sweet Sister, thou didst cull for me; 
 
 This book was thine ; here didst thou read ; 
 
 This picture — ah ! yes, here indeed 
 I see thee still. 
 
 I see thee still ; 
 Here was thy summer noon's retreat, 
 Here was thy favorite fireside seat; 
 This was thy chamber — here, each day, 
 I sat and watch'd thy sad decay : 
 Here, on this bed, thou last didst lie ; 
 Here, on this pillow, — thou didst die. 
 Dark hour ! once more its woes unfold: 
 As tiion I saw thee, pale and cold, 
 
 I see thee still. 
 
EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. 145 
 
 I see thee still. 
 Thou art not in the grave confined — 
 Death cannot claim the immortal Mind : 
 Let Earth close o'er its sacred trust, 
 But Goodness dies not in the dust ; 
 
 Thee, my Sisteb ! 'tis not thee 
 Beneath the coffin's lid I see ; 
 Thou to a fairer land art gone ; 
 There, let me hope, my journey done, 
 To see thee still ! 
 
 EXECUTION OF JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
 il^pAVING placed the king on his throne, it was her fortune thence- 
 giyis forward to be thwarted. More than one military plan was en- 
 ■*^^ tered upon which she did not approve. Too well she felt that the 
 I" end was now at hand. Still, she continued to expose her person 
 I in battle as before ; severe wounds had not taught her caution ; 
 and at length she was made prisoner by the Burgundians, and 
 finally given up to the English. The object now was to vitiate the coro- 
 nation of Charles VII, as the work of a witch ; and, for this end, Joan was 
 tried for sorcery. She resolutely defended herself from the absurd ac- 
 cusation. 
 
 Never, from the foundation of the earth, was there such a trial as 
 this, if it were laid open in all its beauty of defence, and all its malignity 
 of attack. 0, child of France, shepherdess, peasant girl ! trodden under 
 foot by all around thee, how I honor thy flashing intellect, — quick as the 
 lightning, and as true to its mark, — that ran before France and laggard 
 Europe by many a century, confounding the malice of the ensnarer, and 
 making dumb the oracles of falsehood ! " Would you examine me as a 
 witness against myself?" was the question by which many times she 
 defied their arts. The result of this trial was the condemnation of Joan to 
 be burnt alive. Never did grim inquisitors doom to death a fairer victim 
 by baser means. 
 
 Woman, sister I there are some things which you do not execute as 
 well as your brother, man ; no, nor ever will. Yet, sister, woman ! cheer- 
 fully, and with the love that burns in depths of admiration, I acknowledge 
 that you can do one thing as well as the best of men, — you can die 
 grandly! On the twentieth of May, 1431, being then about nineteen 
 years of age, Joan of Arc underwent her martyrdom. She was conducted 
 before mid-day, guarded by eight spearmen, to a platform of prodigious 
 height, constructed of wooden billets, supported by occasional walls of lath 
 
146 
 
 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 and plaster, and traversed by hollow spaces in every direction, for the 
 creation of air-currents. 
 
 With an undaunted soul, but a meek and saintly demeanor, the 
 maiden encountered her terrible fate. Upon her head was placed a mitre, 
 bearing the inscription, " Bclapsed heretic, apostate, idolatress." Her piety 
 displayed itself in the most touching manner to the last, and her angelic 
 foro'etfulness of self was manifest in a most remarkable degree. The 
 executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He did so. 
 The fiery smoke rose upwards in billowing volumes. A monk was then 
 standing at Joan's side. Wrapt up in his sublime office, he saw not the 
 danger, but still persisted in his prayers. Even then, when the last 
 enemy was racing up the fiery stairs to seize her, even at that moment, 
 did this noblest of girls think only for him,— the one friend that would 
 not forsake her, — and not for herself; bidding him with her last breath to 
 care for his own preservation, but to leave her to God. "Go down," she 
 said ; " lift up the cross before me, that I may see it in dying, and speak 
 to me pious words to the end." Then protesting her innocence, and 
 recommending her soul to Heaven, she continued to pray as the flames 
 leaped up and walled her in. Her last audible word was the name of 
 Jesus. Sustained by faith in Him, in her last fight upon the scaff"old, she 
 had triumphed gloriously ; victoriously she had tasted death. 
 
 Few spectators of this martyrdom were so hardened as to contain 
 their tears. All the English, with the exception of a few soldiers who 
 made a jest of the aff'air, were deeply moved. The French murmured that 
 the death was cruel and unjust. " She dies a martyr ! " " Ah, we are 
 lost, we have burned a saint! " "Would to God that my soul were with 
 hers ! " Such were the exclamations on every side. A fanatic English 
 soldier, who had sworn to throw a fagot on the funeral-pile, hearing Joan's 
 last prayer to her Saviour, suddenly turned away, a penitent for life, say- 
 ing everywhere that he had seen a dove, rising upon white wings to 
 heaven from the ashes where she stood. 
 
 THE CORAL INSECT. 
 
 MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 JSWfjraiOIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, 
 WJ^ Who build in the tossing and treach- 
 erous main ; 
 Toil on— for the wisdom of man ye 
 
 With your sand-based structures and domes 
 
 of rock ; 
 Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, 
 And your arches spring up to the crested 
 
 rnoc 
 
 k. wave; 
 
THE COKAL INSECT. 
 
 147 
 
 Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear 
 A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. 
 Ye bind the deep with your secret zone, 
 The ocean is seal'd, and the surge a stone; 
 Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement 
 
 spring, 
 Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; 
 
 The turf looks green where the breakers 
 
 roll'd ; 
 O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; 
 The sea-snatch'd isle is the home of men. 
 
 There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup ; 
 There are foes that watch for his cradle 
 
 breath ; 
 And why need ye sow the floods with death? 
 With mouldering bones the deeps are white, 
 From the ice-clad pole to the tropics 
 
 bright ; 
 The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold 
 With the mesh of the sea-boy 'a curls of 
 
 gold. 
 And the gods of ocean have frown'd to see 
 The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; 
 
 CORAL TIEEF BUILDERS. 
 
 And the mountains exult where the wave 
 hath been. 
 
 But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark 
 The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? 
 There are snares enough on the tented field, 
 'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys 
 
 yield ; 
 There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are 
 
 up; 
 
 Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must 
 
 spread 
 The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? 
 
 Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in. 
 Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in 
 
 their sin ; 
 From the land of promise ye fade and die, 
 Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary 
 
 eye; 
 
148 
 
 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyra- 
 mid, 
 Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, 
 
 Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main. 
 While the wonder and pride of your works 
 remain. 
 
 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 
 
 |S|NE of the best things in farming is gathering the chestnuts, hickory- 
 ^^ nuts, butternuts, and even bush-nuts, in the late ftill, after the 
 -^ frosts have cracked the husks, and the high winds have sliaken 
 f them, and the colored leaves have strewn the ground. On a 
 1 bright October day, when the air is full of golden sunshine, there 
 is nothing quite so exhilarating as going nutting. Nor is the pleasure of 
 it altogether destroyed for the boy by the consideration that he is making 
 himself useful in obtaining supplies for the winter household. The getting- 
 in of potatoes and corn is a different thing ; that is the prose, but nutting 
 is the poetry of farm life. I am not sure but the boy would find it very 
 irksome, though, if he were obliged to work at nut-gathering in order to 
 procure food for the family. He is willing to make himself useful in his 
 own way. The Italian boy, who works day after day at a huge pile of 
 pine-cones, pounding and cracking them and taking out the long seeds, 
 which are sold and eaten as we eat nuts (and which are almost as good q& 
 pumpkin-seeds, another favorite with Italians), probably does not see the 
 fun of nutting. Indeed, if the farmer-boy here were set at pounding off 
 the walnut-shucks and opening the prickly chestnut-burs, as a task, he 
 would think himself an ill-used boy. What a hardship the prickles in his 
 fing(}rs would be ! But now he digs them out with his jack-knife, and 
 enjoys the process on the whole. The boy is willing to do any amount of 
 work if it is called play. 
 
 In nutting, the squirrel is not more nimble and industrious than the 
 boy. I like to see a crowd of boys swarm over a chestnut grove ; they 
 leave a desert behind them like the seventeen years locusts. To climb a 
 tree and shake it, to club it, to strip it of its fruit and pass to the next, is 
 the sport of a brief time. I have seen a legion of boys scamper over our 
 grass-plot under the chestnut- trees, each one as active as if he were a new 
 patent, picking-machine, sweeping the ground clean of nuts, and disappear 
 over the hill before I could go to the door and speak to them about it. 
 Indeed I have noticed that boys don't care much for conversation with 
 
THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 149 
 
 the owners of fruit-trees. They could speedily make their fortunes if they 
 would work as rapidly in cotton-fields. I have never seen anything like 
 it except a flock of turkeys busily employed removing grasshoppers from 
 a piece of pasture. 
 
 The New England boy u^ed to look forward to Thanksgiving as the 
 great event of the year. He was apt to get stents set him, — so much corn 
 to husk, for instancy before that day, so that he could have an extra play- 
 spell ; and in order to gain a day or two, he would work at his task with 
 the rapidity of half-a-dozen boys. He had the day after Thanksgiving 
 always as a holiday, and this was the day he counted on. Thanksgiving 
 itself was rather an awful festival, — very much like Sunday, except for 
 the enormous dinner, which filled his imagination for months before as 
 completely as it did his stomach for that day and a week after. There 
 was an impression in the house that that dinner was the most important 
 event since the landing from the Mayflower. Heliogabalus, who did not 
 resemble a Pilgrim Father at all, but who had prepared for himself in his 
 
150 THE COMING OF THANKSGIVING. 
 
 day some very sumptuous banquets in Rome, and ate a great deal of the 
 best he could get (and liked peacocks stuffed with asafoetida for one 
 thing), never had anything like a Thanksgiving dinner; for do you sup- 
 pose that he, or Sardanapalus either, ever had twenty-four different 
 kinds of pie at one dinner ? Therein many a New England boy is greater 
 than the Eoman emperor or the Assyrian king, and these were among the 
 most luxurious eaters of their day and generation. But something more 
 is necessary to make good men than plenty to eat, as Heliogabalus no 
 doubt found when his head was cut off. Cutting off the head was a mode 
 the people had of expressing disapproval of their conspicuous men. Nowa- 
 days they elect them to a higher office, or give them a mission to some 
 foreign country, if they do not do well where they are. 
 
 For days and days before Thanksgiving the boy was kept at work 
 evenings, pounding and paring and cutting up and mixing (not being 
 allowed to taste much), until the world seemed to him to be made of 
 fragrant spices, green fruit, raisins, and pastry, — a world that he was only 
 yet allowed to enjoy through his nose. How tilled the house was with the 
 most delicious -smells ! The mince-pies that were made ! If John had 
 been shut up in solid walls with them piled about him, he couldn't have 
 eaten his way out in four weeks. There were dainties enough cooked in 
 those two weeks to have made the entire year luscious with good living, if 
 they had been scattered along in it. But people were probably all the 
 better for scrimping themselves a little in order to make this a great feast. 
 And it was not by any means over in a day. There were weeks deep of 
 chicken-pie and other pastry. The cold buttery was a cave of Aladdin, 
 and it took a long time to excavate all its riches. 
 
 Thanksgiving Day itself was a heavy day, the hilarity of it being so 
 subdued by going to meeting, and the universal wearing of the Sunday 
 clothes, that the boy couldn't see it. But if he felt little exhilaration, he 
 ate a great deal. The next day was the real holiday. Then were the 
 merry-making parties, and perhaps, the skatings and *feleigh-rides, for the 
 freezing weather came before the governor's proclamation in many parts 
 of New England. The night after Thanksgiving occurred, perhaps, the 
 first real party that the boy had ever attended, with live girls in it, 
 dressed so bewitchingly. And there he heard those philandering songs, 
 and played those sweet games of forfeits, which put him quite beside him- 
 self, and kept him awake that night till the rooster crowed at the end of 
 his first chicken-nap. AVhat a new world did that party open to him ! 
 I think it likely that he saw there, and probably did not dare say ten words 
 to, some tall, graceful girl, much older than himself, who seemed to him 
 
THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 
 
 151 
 
 like a new order of being. He could see her face just as plainly in the 
 darkness of his chamber. He wondered if she noticed how awkward he 
 was, and how short his trousers-legs were. He blushed as 'he thought of 
 his rather ill-fitting shoes ; and determined, then and there, that he 
 wouldn't be put off with a ribbon any longer, but would have a young 
 man's necktie. It was somewhat painful thinking the party over, but it 
 was delicious, too. He did not think, probably, that he would die for that 
 tall, handsome girl ; he did not put it exactly in that way. But he rather 
 resolved to live for her, — which might in the end amount to the same 
 thing. At least he thought that nobody would live to speak twice dis- 
 respectfully of her in his presence. 
 
 THE PUZZLED DUTCHMAN. 
 
 CHARLES F. ADAMS. 
 
 I'M a proken-hearted Deutscher, 
 
 Vot's villed mit crief und shame. 
 I dells you vot der drouple ish : 
 / doosnt know my name. 
 
 You dinks dis fery vunay, eh? 
 
 Ven you der schtory hear, 
 You vill not vonder den so mooch, 
 
 It vas so Bchtrange und queer. 
 
 Mine moder had dwo leedle twins; 
 
 Dey vas me und mine broder : 
 Ve lookt so fery mooch alike, 
 
 No von knew vich vrom toder. 
 
 Von off der poys vas " Yawcob," 
 Und "Hans" der oder's name: 
 
 But den it made no tifferent; 
 Ve both got called der same. 
 
152 
 
 AKTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 Veil ! von off us got tead, — 
 Yaw, Mynheer, dot ish so ! 
 
 But vedder Hans or Yawcob, 
 Mine moder she don'd know. 
 
 Und so I am in drouples : 
 I gan't kit droo mine hed 
 
 Vedder I'm Hans vol's lifing. 
 Or Yawcob vol is lead! 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD AT THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 CHARLES F. BROWNE. 
 
 Pp'VE been lingerin by the Tomb of the lamentid Shakspeare. 
 
 «^ It is a success. 
 
 A I do not hes'tate to pronounce it as such. 
 
 't You may make any use of this opinion that you see fit. If you 
 
 I think its publication will subswerve the cause of litteratoor, you may 
 
 ^ publicate. 
 
 I told my wife Betsey, when I left home, that I should go to the birth- 
 place of the orthur of Otheller and other Plays. She said that as long as I 
 kept out of Newgate she didn't care where I went. " But," I said, " don't 
 you know he was the greatest Poit that ever lived? Not one of these 
 common poits, like that young idyit who writes verses to our daughter, 
 about the Roses as groses, and the breezes as blowses — but a Boss poit — 
 also a philosopher, also a man who knew a great deal about everything." 
 
 Yes. I've been to Stratford onto the Avon, the Birth-place of 
 Shakespeare. Mr. S. is now no more. He's been dead over three hun- 
 dred (300) years. The peple of his native town are justly proud of him. 
 They cherish his mem'ry, and them as sell picturs of his birth-place, &c., 
 
LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. 153 
 
 make it prof'tible cherishin it. Almost everybody buys a pictur to put 
 into their Albiom. 
 
 " And this," I said, as I stood in the old church-yard at Stratford, 
 beside a Tombstone, '' this marks the spot where hes William W. Shakes- 
 peare. Alars ! and this is the Spot where — " 
 
 "You've got the wrong grave," said a man, — a worthy villager.' 
 " Shakespeare is buried inside the church." 
 
 " Oh," I said, " a boy told me this was it." The boy larfed and put 
 the shillin I'd given him into his left eye in a inglorious manner, and com- 
 menced moving backwards towards the street. 
 
 I pursood and captered him, and, after talking to him a spell in a 
 sarkastic stile, I let him went. 
 
 William Shakespeare was born in Stratford in 1564. All the com- 
 mentators, Shaksperian scholars, etsetry, are agreed on this, which is 
 about the only thing they are agreed on in regard to him, except that his 
 mantle hasn't fallen onto any poet or dramatist hard enough to hurt 
 said poet or dramatist much. And there is no doubt if these commen- 
 tators and persons continner investigatin Shakspeare's career, we shall not 
 in doo time, know anything about it at all. When a mere lad little 
 William attended the Grammar School, because, as he said, the Grammar 
 School wouldn't attend him. This remarkable remark coming from one 
 so young and inexperunced, set peple to thinkin there might be something 
 in this lad. He subsequently wrote Hamlet and George Barnwell. When 
 his kind teacher went to London to accept a position in the offices of the 
 Metropolitan Railway, little William was chosen by his fellow-pupils to 
 deliver a farewell address. "Go on, sir," he said, "in a glorous career. 
 Be like a eagle, and soar, and the soarer you get the more we shall be 
 gratified! That's so." 
 
 LAST HOURS OF WEBSTER. 
 
 EDWAED EVERETT. 
 
 ;MONG the many memorable words which fell from the lips of our 
 friend just before they were closed forever, the most remarkable 
 are those which have been quoted by a previous speaker : " I still 
 live." They attest the serene composure of his mind, the Chris- 
 tian heroism with which he was able to turn his consciousness in 
 upon himself, and explore,- step by step, the dark passage, (dark to 
 
154 PAT'S CRITICISM. 
 
 US, but to him, we trust, already lighted from above), which connects this 
 world with the world to come. But I know not what words could have 
 been better chosen to express his relation to the world he was leaving, — 
 " I still live." This poor dust is just returning to the dust from which it 
 was taken, but I feel that I live in the affections of the people to whose 
 services I have consecrated my days. "I still live." The icy hand of 
 death is already laid on my heart, but I shall still live in those words of 
 counsel which I have uttered to my fellow-citizens, and which I now leave 
 them as the bequest of a dying friend. 
 
 In the long and honored career of our lamented friend, there are 
 efforts and triumphs which will hereafter fill one of the brightest pages of 
 our history. But I greatly err if the closing scene, — the height of the 
 religious sublime, — does not, in the judgment of other days, far transcend 
 in interest the brightest exploits of public life. Within that darkened 
 chamber at Marshfield was witnessed a scene of which we shall not readily 
 find the parallel. The serenity with which he stood in the presence of the 
 King of terrors, without trepidation or flutter, for hours and days of 
 expectation ; the thouglitfulness for the public business when the sands of 
 life were so nearly run out ; the hospitable care for the reception of the 
 friends who came to Marshfield ; that affectionate and solemn leave sepa- 
 rately taken, name by name, of wife, and children, and kindred, and 
 family, — down to the humblest members of the household ; the designation 
 of the coming day, then near at hand, when " all that was mortal of 
 Daniel "Webster should cease to exist ; " the dimly-recollected strains of 
 the funeral poetry of Gray; the last faint flash of the soaring intellect ; the 
 feebly-murmured words of Holy Writ repeated from the lips of the good 
 physician, who, when all the resources of human art had been exhausted, 
 had a drop of spiritual balm for the parting soul; the clasped hands; the 
 dying prayers. Oh ! my fellow-citizens, this is a consummation over 
 which tears of pious sympathy will be shed ages after the glories of the 
 forum and the senate are forgotten. 
 
 FATS CRITICISM. 
 
 CUARLES F. ADAMS 
 
 ^^ 
 
 llIERE'S a story that's old, 
 
 But good if twice told, 
 
 Of a doctor of limited skill. 
 
 Who cured beast and man 
 
 On the " cold-water plan," 
 
 Without the small help of a pill. 
 
PAT'S CRITICISM. 
 
 155 
 
 On his portal of pine 
 
 When the doctor with pride 
 
 Hung an elegant sign, 
 
 Stepped up to his side, 
 
 Depicting a beautiful rill, 
 
 Saying, "Pat, how is that for a sign?' 
 
 And a lake where a sprite, 
 
 " There's wan thing," says Pat, 
 
 With apparent delight. 
 
 "You've lift out o' that, 
 
 Was sporting in sweet dishabille. 
 
 Which, be jabers ! is quoite a mistake- 
 
 "pat, how is that for a sign?" 
 
 Pat McCarty one day, 
 As he sauntered that way, 
 Stood and gazed at that portal of pine ; 
 
 It's trim and it's nate; 
 But, to make it complate, 
 Ye shuJ have a foine burd on the lake.' 
 
156 
 
 THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 
 
 "Ah ! indeed ! pray then, tell, 
 To make it look well, 
 What bird do you think it may lack?" 
 
 Says Pat, " Of the same 
 I've forgotten the name. 
 But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! quack ! 
 
 THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 
 
 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDEESEN. 
 
 ^T was very cold, the snow fell, and it was almost quite dark ; for it 
 was evening — yes, the last evening of the year. Amid the cold and 
 the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was 
 roaming through the streets. It is true she had a pair of slippers 
 when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very 
 large slippers ; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her 
 mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the 
 street, to avoid two carriages that were driving very quickly past. One 
 of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a 
 boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when 
 he should have children of his own. So the little girl went along, with 
 her little bare feet that were red and blue with cold. She carried a 
 number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her 
 hand. Nobody had bought anything from her the whole livelong day ; 
 nobody had even given her a penny. 
 
 Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along, a perfect picture of 
 misery — poor little thing ! The snow-flakes covered her long, flaxen hair, 
 which hung in pretty curls round her throat ; but she heeded them not 
 now. Lights were streaming from all the windows, and there was a 
 savory smell of roast goose ; for it was New Year's Eve. And this she 
 did heed. 
 
THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. 157 
 
 She now sat down, cowering in a corner formed by two houses, one 
 of which projected beyond the other. She had drawn her little feet under 
 her, but she felt colder than ever ; yet she dared not return home, for she 
 had not sold a match, and could not bring home a penny ! She would 
 certainly be beaten by her father; and it was cold enough at home, 
 besides — for they had only the roof above them, and the wind came 
 howling through it, though the largest holes had been stopped with 
 straw and rags. Her little hands were nearly frozen with cold. Alas ! a 
 single match might do her some good, if she might only draw one out of 
 the bundle, and rub it against the wall, and warm her fingers. 
 
 So at last she drew one out. Ah ! how it sheds sparks, and how it 
 burns ! It gave out a warm, bright flame, like a little candle, as she held 
 her hands over it, — truly it was a wonderful little sight ! It really 
 seemed to the little girl as if she were sitting before a large iron stove, 
 with polished brass feet, and brass shovel and tongs. The fire burned so 
 brightly, and warmed so nicely, that the little creature stretched out 
 her feet to warm them likewise, when lo ! the flame expired, the stove 
 vanished, and left nothing but the little half-burned match in her hand. 
 
 She rubbed another match against the wall. It gave a light, and 
 where it shone upon the wall, the latter became as transparent as a veil, 
 and she could see into the room. A snow-white table-cloth was spread 
 upon the table, on which stood a splendid china dinner-service, while a 
 roast goose stuffed with apples and prunes, sent forth the most savory 
 fumes. And what was more delightful still to see, the goose jumped 
 down from the dish, and waddled along the ground with a knife and fork 
 in its breast, up to the poor girl. The match then went out, and nothing 
 remained but the thick, damp wall. 
 
 She lit yet another match. She now sat under the most magnificent 
 Christmas tree, that was larger, and more superbly decked, than even the 
 one she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant's. A 
 thousand tapers burned on its green branches, and gay pictures, such as 
 one sees on shields, seemed to be looking down upon her. She stretched 
 out her hands, but the match then went out. The Christmas lights kept 
 rising higher and higher. They now looked like stars in the sky. One of 
 them fell down, and left a long streak of fire. " Somebody is now dying," 
 thought tlie little girl, — for her old grandmother, the only person who had 
 ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her, that, when a star 
 falls, it is a sign that a soul is going up to heaven. 
 
 She again rubbed a match upon the wall, and it was again light all 
 round ; and in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining 
 11 
 
158 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 like a spirit, yet looking so mild and loving. " Grandmother," cried the 
 little one, "oh, take me with you ! I know you will go away when the 
 match goes out, — you will vanish like the warm stove, and the delicious 
 roast goose, and the fine, large Christmas-tree ! " And she made haste to 
 rub the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to hold her grandmother 
 fast. And the matches gave a light that was brighter than noonday. 
 Her grandmother had never appeared so beautiful nor so large. She took 
 the little girl in her arms, and both flew upwards, all radiant and joyful, 
 far, far above mortal ken, where there was neither cold, nor hunger, nor 
 care to be found ; where there was no rain, no snow, or stormy wind, but 
 calm, sunny days the whole year round. 
 
 But, in the cold dawn, the poor girl might be seen leaning against 
 the wall, with red cheeks and smiling mouth ; she had been frozen on the 
 last night of the old year. The new year's sun shone upon the little dead 
 girl. She sat still holding the matches, one bundle of which was burned. 
 .People said : " She tried to warm herself." Nobody dreamed of the fine 
 things she had seen, nor in what splendor she had entered, along with her 
 grandmother, upon the joys of the New Year. 
 
 THE RA VEN. 
 
 EDGAR A. rOE. 
 
 pNCE upon a midnight dreary, while I 
 
 pondered, weak and weary. 
 
 Over many a quaint and curious 
 
 volume of forgotten lore, — 
 
 j. While I nodded, nearly napping, 
 
 t suddenly there came a tapping, 
 
 As of some one gently rapping, rap- 
 ping at my chamber-door. 
 •* 'Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, " 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 wished 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 forevermore. 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each 
 
 purple curtain. 
 Thrilled me, — filled 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-door, — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my 
 
 chamber-door ; 
 
 That it is, and nothing more." 
 
THE RAVEN. 
 
 159 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating 
 then no longer, 
 
 " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your for- 
 giveness I implore ; 
 
 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 
 opened wide the door : 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood 
 there, wondering, fearing. 
 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever 
 dared to dream before ; 
 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the still- 
 ness gave no token. 
 
 And the only word there spoken was the 
 whispered word, " Lenore !" 
 
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured 
 back the word, " Lenore !" 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Back into the 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 stepped a stately raven of the saintly 
 
 days of yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he ; not a 
 
 minute stopped or stayed he ; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above 
 
 my chamber-door, — 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my 
 
 chamber-door — 
 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy 
 into smiling. 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the coun- 
 tenance it wore, 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, 
 thou," I said, " art sure no craven ; 
 
 Ghastly, 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, " Nevermore !" 
 
 Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear 
 discourse so plainly, 
 
 Though its answer little meaning, little rele- 
 vancy 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 " Nevermore !" 
 
 But the raven, sitting lonel}'- on the placid 
 bust, spoke only 
 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word 
 he did outpour. 
 
 Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feath- 
 er then he fluttered — 
 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other 
 friends have flown before, 
 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes 
 have flown before. 
 Then the bird said, " Nevermore !" 
 
 Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so 
 
 aptly spoken, 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its 
 
 only stock and store. 
 Caught from some unhappy master, whom 
 
 unmerciful disaster 
 FoUow'd fast and foUow'd faster, till his songs 
 
 one burden bore, 
 Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy 
 
 burden bore," 
 
 Of — ' Never — nevermore !' " 
 
 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. 
 
160 
 
 THE FIRE-FIEND. 
 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook ray- 
 Belf to linking 
 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omi- 
 nous bird of yore — 
 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, 
 and ominous bird of yore 
 Meant in croaking "Nevermore!" 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sylla- 
 ble expressing 
 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned in- 
 to 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 velvet violet lining with the lamp- 
 light gloating o'er 
 She shall press — ah ! nevermore 1 
 
 Then methought the air grew denser, per- 
 fumed from an unseen censer 
 
 Swung by seraphim, whose foot-falls tinkled 
 on the tufted floor, 
 
 "Wretch," I cried, " thy God hc.th lent thee, 
 — by these angels he hath sent thee 
 
 Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- 
 ories of Lenore ! 
 
 Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and for- 
 get this lost Lenore !" 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — 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 ? — tell me 
 — tell me, I implore!" 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" 
 
 " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — 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 
 the distant Aidenn, 
 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the an- 
 gels name Lenore ; 
 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the 
 angels name Lenore !" 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore I" 
 
 " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or 
 fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting, — 
 
 " 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 off my door !" 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore I" 
 
 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 de- 
 mon'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 — nevermore I 
 
 THE FIRE-FIEND. 
 
 C. D. GARDETTE. 
 
 jN the deepest dearth of Midnight, while 
 the sad and solemn swell 
 Still was floating, faintly echoed from 
 
 the Forest Chapel Bell- 
 Fainting, falteringly floating o' er the 
 eable waves of air 
 
 That were through the Midnight rolling, 
 chafed and billowy with the tolling — 
 
 In my chamber I lay dreaming by the fire- 
 light's fitful gleaming, 
 
 And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed 
 on a heart fore-doomed to Care 1 
 
THE FIRE-FIEND. 
 
 161 
 
 As the last long lingering echo of the Mid- 
 
 nig>t's mystic chime — 
 Lifting through the sable billows to the 
 
 Thither Shore of Time- 
 Leaving on the starless silence not a token 
 
 nor a trace — 
 In a quivering sigh departed; from my 
 
 couch in fear I started : 
 Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream's 
 
 phantasmal Error 
 Painted in the fitful fire, a frightful, fiend- 
 ish, flaming face ! 
 
 On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a 
 
 blazing knot of oak, 
 Seemed to gibe and grin this Phantom when 
 
 in terror I awoke, 
 And my slumberous eyelids straining as I 
 
 staggered to the floor, 
 Still in that dread Vision seemir^g, turned my 
 
 gaze toward the gleaming 
 Hearth, and — there ! — oh, God ! I saw It ! 
 
 and from out Its flaming jaw It 
 Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, 
 
 gurgling stream of gore ! 
 
 Speechless ; struck with stony silence ; fro- 
 zen to the floor I stood. 
 
 Till methought my brain was hissing with 
 that hissing, bubbling blood : — 
 
 Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from 
 those lambent lips : — 
 
 Till the Demon seemed to name me : — then 
 a wondrous calm o'ercame me. 
 
 And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a 
 death-damp stifif and gluey. 
 
 And I fell back on my pillow in apparent 
 soul-eclipse ! 
 
 Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the 
 icy Pall of Fear 
 
 I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous 
 murmur to my ear : — 
 
 Came a murmur like the murmur of assas- 
 sins in their sleep : — 
 
 Muttering, " Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am 
 Demon of the Fire ! 
 
 I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each 
 blazing roof's my pyre, 
 
 And my sweetest incense is the blood and 
 tears my victims weep < 
 
 How I revel on the Prairie! How I roar 
 
 cmong the Pines ! 
 How I laugh when from the village o'er the 
 
 snow the red flame shines, 
 And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Life 
 
 in every breath ! 
 How I scream with lambent laughter as 1 
 
 hurl each crackling rafter 
 Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher ! 
 
 higher! higher! 
 Leap the High-Priests of my Altar in their 
 
 merry Dance of Death ! 
 
 " I am Monarch of the Fire ! I am Vassal- 
 King of Death ! 
 
 World-encircling, with the shadow of its 
 Doom upon my breath ! 
 
 With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from 
 my fatal face ! 
 
 I command the Eternal Fire ! Higher ! 
 higher ! higher ! higher ! 
 
 Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantas- 
 magoric lemans 
 
 Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous 
 embrace!" 
 
 Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, 
 shrouded sleep, 
 
 And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cra- 
 dle of the Deep," 
 
 Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with 
 the matin stroke. 
 
 And the martins, from the edges of its lichen- 
 lidded ledges. 
 
 Shimmered through the russet arches where 
 the Light in torn files marches. 
 
 Like a routed army struggling through the 
 serried ranks of oak. 
 
 Through my ivy-fretted casement filtered in 
 a tremulous note 
 
 From the tall and stately linden where a Ro- 
 bin swelled his throat : — 
 
 Querulous, quaker-crested Robin, calling 
 quaintly for his mate ! 
 
 Then I started up, unbidden, from my slum- 
 ber Nightmare ridden, 
 
 With the memory of that Dire Demon in my 
 central Fire, 
 
 Ou mv eve's interior mirror like the shadow 
 of a Fate ! 
 
162 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Ah ! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a 
 
 white and formless heap, 
 And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed 
 
 upon my sleep ; 
 But around its very centre, where the Demon 
 
 Face had Bhone, 
 
 Forked Shadows seemed to linger, pointing 
 as with spectral finger 
 
 To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carv- 
 ed and olden — 
 
 And I bowed, and said, "All Power is of 
 God, of God alone !" 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 A. LINCOLN. 
 
 ||liE Almighty has His own purposes. " "Woe unto the world because 
 of offences ! for it must needs be that offences come ; but woe to 
 that man by whom the offence cometh." If we shall suppose that 
 American slavery is one of those offences which, in the providence 
 of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through 
 His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that Ho gives to 
 
JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. X63 
 
 both North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom 
 the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine 
 attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him ! 
 Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of 
 war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until 
 all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of 
 unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with 
 the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three 
 thousand years ago, so still it must be said, " The judgments of the Lord 
 are true and righteous altogether." 
 
 With malice toward none ; with charity for all ; with firmness in the 
 right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work 
 we are in ; to bind up the nation's wounds ; to care for him who shall 
 have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which 
 may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves, and 
 with all nations. 
 
 JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. 
 
 |l§i^AEIA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic. 
 
 Maria Ann is my wife— unfortunately she had planned it to 
 
 go alone, so far as I am concernetl, on that picnic excursion ; 
 but when I heard about it, I determined to assist. 
 She pretended she was very glad ; I don't believe she was. 
 
 " It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow," 
 she said ; " and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and 
 a dinner in the woods." 
 
 On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o'clock. About 
 three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to 
 breakfast. I told her I wasn't hungry, but it didn't make a bit of differ- 
 ence, I had to get up. The sun was up ; I had no idea that the sun began 
 business so early in the morning, but there he was. 
 
 " Now," said Maria Ann, " we must fly around, for the cars start at 
 half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won't get anything 
 more before noon." 
 
 I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to 
 be pounded to go around the pail of ice-cream, and the sandwiches to be 
 cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so that 
 I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and 
 
154 JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. 
 
 piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about 
 taking care of the house, and putting on her dress all at once. There is a 
 deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much. 
 
 At twenty minutes past six I stood on the front steps, with a basket 
 on one arm and Maria Ann's waterproof on the other, and a pail in each 
 hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp- 
 chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where. 
 
 " Now," said Maria Ann, " we must run or we shall not catch the 
 train." 
 
 "Maria Ann," said I, "that is a reasonable idea. How do you 
 suppose I can run with all this freight ? " 
 
 " You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don't 
 want a scene on the street, you will start, too." 
 
 So I ran. 
 
 I had one comfort, at least. Maria Ann fell down and broke her para- 
 sol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all 
 the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars ; but neither 
 of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the 
 things down, so I stood there and held them. 
 
 " Maria," I said, " how is this for a cool morning ride ? " 
 
 Said she, " You are a brute, Jenkins." 
 
 Said I, " You have made that observation before, my love." 
 
 I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath 
 when we got home. While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in 
 my coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar 
 all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran ofi" with a big 
 whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and 
 tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic 
 goers. 
 
 I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called me 
 a pig because I wanted to open our basket before the rest of the baskets 
 were opened. 
 
 At last dinner came — the " nice dinner in the woods," you know. 
 Over three thousand little red ants had got into our dinner, and they 
 were worse to pick out than fish-bones. The ice-cream had melted, and 
 there was no vinegar for the cold meat, except what was in my boot, and 
 of course that was of no immediate use. The music-teacher spilled a 
 cup of hot coffee on Maria Ann's head, and pulled all the frizzles out 
 trying to wipe off the coffee with his handkerchief. Then I sat on a piece 
 of riispberry-pie, and spoiled my white pants, and concluded I didn't want 
 
THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. 
 
 165 
 
 anything more. I had to stand up against a tree the rest of the after- 
 noon The day offered considerable variety, compared to every-day hfe, 
 but there were so many drawbacks that I did not enjoy it so much as I 
 might have done. 
 
 THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. 
 
 CHARLES F. ADAMS. 
 
 jrl^WAS midnight ; not a sound was heard ; 
 Wm Within the —"Papa! won't 'ou 'ook 
 Sg^^ An' see my pooty 'ittle house ? 
 W^ ♦ I wis' 'ou wouldn't wead 'ou book "— 
 
 J " Within the palace, where the king 
 
 Upon his couch in anguish lay " — 
 "Papa! Pa-j3a/ I wis' 'ou'd turn 
 An' have a 'ittle tonty play — " 
 
 • No gentle hand was there to bring 
 
 The cooling draft, or bathe his brow; 
 His courtiers, and his pages gone" — 
 " Tum, papa, turn ; I want 'ou now— " 
 
 Down goes the book with needless force, 
 And, with expression far from mild, 
 
 With sullen air, and clouded brow, 
 I seat myself beside the child. 
 
166 
 
 PLEDGE WITH WINE. 
 
 Her little, trusting eyes of blue 
 
 With mute surprise gaze in my face, 
 
 As if, in its expression, stern, 
 
 Reproof, and censure, she could trace ; 
 
 Anon her little bosom heaves, 
 Her rosy lip begins to curl; 
 
 And, with a quiv'ring chin, she sobs; 
 " Papa don't 'uv his 'ittle dirl !" 
 
 King, palace, book — all are forgot ; 
 
 My arms are 'round my darling thrown - 
 The thunder cloud has burst, and, lo ! 
 
 Tears fall and mingle with her own. 
 
 PLEDGE WITH WINE. 
 
 ^^H^jLEDGE with wine — pledge with wine!" cried the young and 
 thoughtless Harry Wood. "Pledge with wine," ran through the 
 brilliant crowd. 
 
 The beautiful bride grew pale — the decisive hour had come, 
 — she pressed her white hands together, and the leaves of her bridal 
 wreath trembled on her pure brow; her breath came quicker, her 
 heart beat wilder. From her childhood she had been most solemnly 
 opposed to the use of all wines and liquors. 
 
 " Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said the Judge, 
 in a low tone, going towards his daughter, " the company expect it, do not 
 so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette ; — in your own house act 
 as you please ; but in mine, for this once please me." 
 
 Every eye was turned towards the bridal pair. Marion's principles 
 were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of late his friends 
 noticed the change in his manners, the difference in his habits— and to- 
 night they watched him to see, as they sneeringly said, if he was tied down 
 to a woman's opinion so soon. 
 
 Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles towards 
 Marion. She was very pale, though more composed, and her hand shook 
 not, as smiling back, she gratefully accepted the crystal tempter and raised 
 it to her lips. But scarcely had she done so, when every hand was arrested 
 by her piercing exclamation of " Oh, how terrible ! " " What is it ? " cried 
 cue and all, thronging together, for she had slowly carried the glass at 
 arm's length, and was fixedly regarding it as though it were some hideous 
 object. 
 
 " Wait," she answered, while an inspired light shone from her dark 
 eyes, " wait and I will tell you. I see," she added, slowly pointing one 
 jewelled finger at the sparkling ruby liquid, " a sight that beggars all de- 
 scription ; and yet listen ; I will paint it for you if I can : It is a lonely 
 
PLEDGE WITH WINE. I67 
 
 spot; tall mountains, crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; 
 a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water's edge. There 
 is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce ; trees, lofty and 
 beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds ; but there, a group of 
 Indians gather ; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their 
 dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how 
 deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside 
 him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon hia 
 breast. 
 
 " Genius in ruins. Oh ! the high, holy-looking brow ! Why should 
 death mark it, and he so young ? Look how he throws the damp curls ! see 
 him clasp his hands ! hear his thrilling shrieks for life ! mark how he 
 clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh ! hear 
 him call piteously his father's name ; see him twine his fingers together as 
 he shrieks for his sister — his only sister — the twin of his soul — weeping for 
 him in his distant native land. 
 
 " See ! " she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the un- 
 tasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, over- 
 powered, upon his seat ; " see ! his arms are lifted to heaven ; he prays, 
 how wildly, for mercy ! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend 
 beside him is weeping ; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and 
 leave the living and dying together." 
 
 There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed 
 a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, 
 with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. 
 Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled 
 red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; 
 every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct : she 
 still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. 
 
 "It is evening now; the great white moon is coming up, and her 
 beams lay gently on his forehead. He r^oves uot ; his eyes are set in their 
 sockets ; dim are their piercing glan-jes ; in vain his friend whispers the 
 name of father and sister — death is there. Death ! and no soft hand, no 
 gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back! one convulsive 
 shudder ! he is dead ! " 
 
 A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so 
 unearthly her look, so inspired h^r manner, that what she described seemed 
 actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the 
 bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping. 
 
 " Dead! " she repeated a^ain, her lips quivering faster and faster, and 
 
168 
 
 PAPA'S LETTER. 
 
 her voice more and more broken : "and there they scoop him a grave; and 
 there without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp reeking earth. 
 The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. 
 And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the 
 spot. There he lies — my father's son — my own twin brother ! a victim to 
 this deadly poison." " Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the 
 tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, " father, shall I drink it now ? " 
 
 The form of the old Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his 
 head, but in a smothered voice he faltered — " No, no, my child, in God's 
 name no." 
 
 She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor 
 it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her 
 movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the 
 marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the 
 fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying : — "Let no friend, 
 hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer 
 the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or 
 taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand ; who 
 watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried 
 the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, 
 sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, ray husband ? " 
 
 His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer. 
 
 The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and 
 with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal 
 guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the 
 enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms. 
 
 Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impres- 
 sion so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass. 
 
 PAPA'S LETTER. 
 
 WAS sitting in my stady, 
 
 Writing letters, when I heard, 
 
 " Please, dear mamma, Mary told me 
 Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed. 
 
 " But I'se tired of the kittj', 
 Want some ozzer fing to do. 
 
 Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma? 
 Tan't I wite a letter too?" 
 
 " Not now, darling, mamma's busy; 
 
 Run and play with kitty, now." 
 " No, no, mamma; me wite letter, 
 '. Tan if 'ou will show me how." 
 
 I would paint my darling's portrait 
 As his sweet eyes searched my face — 
 
 Hair of gold and eyes of azure, 
 lorm of childish, witching grace. 
 
SEWING ON A BUTTON. 
 
 169 
 
 But the eager face was clouded, 
 
 Mamma sent me for a letter. 
 
 As I slowly shook my head, 
 
 Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go ?" 
 
 Till I said, " I'll make a letter 
 
 
 Of you, darling boy, instead." 
 
 But the clerk in wonder answered, 
 " Not to-day, my little man," 
 
 So I parted back the tresses 
 
 " Den I'll find anozzer office. 
 
 From his forehead high and white. 
 
 'Cause I must do if I tan." 
 
 And a stamp in sport I pasted 
 
 
 'Mid its waves of golden light. 
 
 Fain the clerk would have detained him, 
 
 
 But the pleading face was gone, 
 
 Then I said, " Now, little letter. 
 
 And the little feet were hastening — 
 
 Go away and bear good news." 
 
 By the busy crowd swept on. 
 
 And I smiled as down the staircase 
 
 
 Clattered loud the little shoes. 
 
 Suddenly the crowd was parted. 
 
 
 People fled to left and right. 
 
 Leaving me, the darling hurried 
 
 As a pair of maddened horses 
 
 Down to Mary in his glee, 
 
 At the moment dashed in sight. 
 
 " Mamma's witing lots of letters ; 
 
 
 I'se a letter, Mary — see !" 
 
 No one saw the baby figure — 
 
 
 No one saw the golden hair. 
 
 No one heard the little prattler, 
 
 Till a voice of frightened sweetness 
 
 As once more he climbed the stair, 
 
 Rang out on the autumn air. 
 
 Reached his little cap and tippet, 
 
 
 Standing on the entry stair. 
 
 'Twas too late — a moment only 
 
 
 Stood the beauteous vision there, 
 
 No one heard the front door open. 
 
 Then the little face lay lifeless, 
 
 No one saw the golden hair, 
 
 Covered o'er with golden hair. 
 
 As it floated o'er his shoulders 
 
 
 In the crisp October air. 
 
 Reverently they raised my darling. 
 
 
 Brushed away the curls of gold, 
 
 Down the street the baby hastened 
 
 Saw the stamp upon the forehead, 
 
 Till he reached the office door. 
 
 Growing now so icy cold. 
 
 " I'se a letter Mr. Postman ; 
 
 
 Is there room for any more ? 
 
 Not a mark the face disfigured, 
 
 
 Showing where a hoof had trod ; 
 
 " 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa, 
 
 But the little life was ended— 
 
 Papa lives with God, 'ou know, 
 
 " Papa's letter " was with God. 
 
 SEWING ON A BUTTON. 
 
 J. M. BAILEY. 
 
 wm 
 
 @i®T is bad enough to see a bachelor sew on a button, but be is the 
 ^^ embodiment of grace alongside of a married man. Necessity has 
 r^ compelled experience in the case of the former, but the latter has 
 I always depended upon some one else for this service, and fortunately, 
 for the sake of society, it is rarely he is obliged to resort to the needle 
 himself. Sometimes the patient wife scalds her right hand, or runs a 
 
170 LIFE FROM DEATH. 
 
 sliver under the nail of the index finger of that hand, and it is then the 
 man clutches the needle around the neck, and forgetting to tie a knot in 
 the thread commences to put on the button. It is always in the morning, 
 and from five to twenty minutes after he is expected to be down street. 
 He lays the button exactly on the site of its predecessor, and pushes the 
 needle through one eye, and carefully draws the thread after, leaving 
 about three inches of it sticking up for leeway. He says to himself, — 
 " Well, if women don't have the easiest time I ever see." Then he comes 
 back the other way, and gets the needle through the cloth well enough, 
 and lays himself out to find the eye, but in spite of a great deal of patient 
 jabbing, the needle point persists in bucking against the solid parts of 
 that button, and finally, when he loses patience, his fingers catch the 
 thread, and that three inches he had left to hold the button slips through 
 the eye in a twinkling, and the button rolls leisurely across the floor. 
 He picks it up without a single remark, out of respect to his children, 
 and makes another attempt to fasten it. This time when coming back 
 with the needle he keeps both the thread and button from slipping by 
 covering them with his thumb, and it is out of regard for that part of 
 him that he feels around for the eye in a very careful and judicious 
 manner ; but eventually losing his philosophy as the search becomes more 
 and more hopeless, he falls to jabbing about in a loose and savage manner, 
 and it is just then the needle finds the opening, and comes up through 
 the button and part way through his thumb with a celerity that no 
 human ingenuity can guard against. Then he lays down the things, with 
 a few familiar quotations, and presses the injured hand between his knees, 
 and then holds it under the other arm, and finally jams it into his mouth, 
 and all the while he prances about the floor, and calls upon heaven and 
 earth to witness that there has never been anything like it since the 
 world was created, and howls, and whistles, and moans, and sobs. After 
 awhile, he calms down, and puts on his pants, and fastens them together 
 with a stick, and goes to his business a changed man. 
 
 LIFE FROM DEATH. 
 
 nORATIUS BONAR. 
 
 S^fl^riE star ia not extinguished when it seta 
 OT^ Upon the dull horizon ; it but goes 
 '<i(^oJ>' To shine in other skies, then reappear 
 ' ' In ours, as fresh as when it first 
 
 The river is not lost, when, o'er the rock, 
 It pours its flood into the abyss below ; 
 
 Its scattered force re-gathering from the 
 shock, 
 It hastens onward with yet fuller flow. 
 
BETTY AND THE BEAR. 
 
 171 
 
 The bright sun dies not, when the shading 
 orb 
 
 Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray 
 It still is shining on ; and soon to us 
 
 Will burst undimmed into the joy of day. 
 
 The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf 
 Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad 
 ground; 
 Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth, 
 'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance 
 round. 
 
 The dew-drop dies not, when it leaves the 
 flower. 
 
 And passes upward on the beam of morn ; 
 It does but hide itself in light on high, 
 
 To its loved flower at twilight, to return. 
 
 The fine gold has not perished, when the 
 flame 
 Seizes upon it with consuming glow ; 
 In freshened splendor it comes forth anew. 
 To sparkle on the monarch's throne or 
 brow. 
 
 Thus in the quiet joy of kindly trust. 
 
 We bid each parting saint a brief fare- 
 ,well ; 
 
 Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust 
 To the safe keeping of the silent cell. 
 
 The day of re-appearing ! how it speeds ! 
 
 He who is true and faithful speaks the 
 word. 
 Then shall we ever be with those we love — 
 
 Then shall we be forever with the Lord. 
 
 BETTY AND THE BEAR. 
 
 jN a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, 
 A great big black grizzly trotted one 
 
 day. 
 And seated himself on the hearth, and 
 
 began 
 To lap the contents of a two-gallon 
 
 Of milk and potatoes, — an excellent meal, — 
 And then looked about to see what he could 
 steal. 
 
 The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, 
 And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep 
 Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there. 
 And was scared to behold a great grizzly 
 bear. 
 
 So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering 
 
 from, 
 " Thar's a bar in the kitching as big's a cow !" 
 " A what ?" " Why a bar !" " Well, murder 
 
 him, then !" 
 " Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in." 
 So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. 
 While her man shut the door, and against it 
 
 he squeezed. 
 
 As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows, 
 Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, 
 Her man through the key -hole kept shouting 
 
 within, 
 " Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him 
 
 agm, 
 Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the 
 
 snout. 
 Now poke with the poker, and poke his eyes 
 
 out." 
 So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty, 
 
 alone, 
 At last laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 
 
172 
 
 THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. 
 
 Now when the old man saw the bear was no 
 
 more, 
 He ventured to poke his nose out of the 
 
 door, 
 And there was the grizzly, stretched on the 
 
 floor. 
 Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to 
 
 tell 
 All the wonderful things that that morning 
 
 befell ; 
 And he published the marvellous story 
 
 afar. 
 How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a 
 
 bar! 
 yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev 
 
 sid it, 
 Come see what we did, me and Betty, we 
 
 did it." 
 
 THU FREEDOM OF TEE PRESS. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 lORDS and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is whereof 
 
 __..l ye are, and whereof ye are the governors; a nation not slow and 
 
 ^^^ dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit ; acute to invent, 
 
 ? subtile and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any 
 
 I point that human capacity can soar to. 
 
 Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing 
 herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; 
 methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling 
 her undazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging and unsealing her 
 long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance ; while the 
 whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the 
 twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means. 
 
 Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the 
 earth, so Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and pro- 
 hibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and falsehood grapple ; 
 whoever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter? 
 Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what 
 praying there is for light and clear knowledge to be sent down among us, 
 would think of other matters to be constituted beyond the discipline of 
 
AULD ROBIN GRAY. I73 
 
 Geneva, framed and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new 
 light which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, 
 if it come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, when as 
 we are exhorted by the wise men to use diligence, " to seek for wisdom as 
 for hidden treasures," early and late, that another order shall enjoin us to 
 know nothing but by statute! When a man hath been laboring the 
 hardest labor in the deep mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his 
 findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his reasons, as it were a battle 
 ranged, scattered and defeated all objections in his way, calls out his 
 adversary into the plain, ofiers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he 
 please, only that he may try the matter by dint of argument; for his 
 opponents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of 
 licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valor enough in 
 soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For 
 who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty? She needs 
 no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings, to make her victorious; those 
 are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power; give her 
 but room, and do not bind her when she sleeps. 
 
 A ULD ROBIN GRA Y. 
 
 ANNE BARNARD. 
 
 Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarres, was born in 1750. Robin Gray chanced to 
 be the name of a shepherd at Balcarres. While she was writing this ballad, a little sister looked in on 
 her. '■ What more shall I do," Anne a.=;ked, " to trouble a poor girl ? I've sent her Jamie to sea, broken 
 her father's arm, made her mother ill, and given her an old man for a lover. There's room in the four 
 lines for one sorrow more. What shall it be?" "Steal the cow, sister Anne." Accordingly the cow 
 was stolen. 
 
 The second part, it i.s said, was written to please her mother, who often asked " how that unlucky 
 business of Jeanie and Jamie ended." 
 
 FIRST PART. 
 
 gfi^If^HEN the sheep are in the fauld, j But saving a crown he had naething else 
 when the kye'.s a' at hame, \ beside; 
 
 Wg And a' the weary warld to rest are j To mak the crown a pound my Jamie gaed 
 gane, ! to sea, 
 
 The woes 0' my heart fa' in showers ■ And the crown and the pound — they were 
 i" frae my e'e, baith for me. 
 
 T Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps 
 
 sound bv me * -^^ hadna been gane a twelvemonth and a 
 
 j day 
 
 Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me When my father brake his arm, and the co-vy 
 
 for his bride, I was stown away ; 
 
 12 
 
174 
 
 AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 My mother she fell sick— my Jamie was at 
 
 sea — 
 And auld Robm Gray came a-courting me. 
 
 My father couldna work, my mother couldna 
 
 spin, 
 I toiled day and night, but their bread I 
 
 couldna win ; 
 Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' 
 
 tears in his e'e, 
 Said, " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no 
 
 marry me?" 
 
 My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie 
 
 back. 
 But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 
 
 wrack ; 
 His ship was a wrack — why didna Jamie 
 
 dee? 
 Or why am I spared to cry, Wac is me ? 
 
 My father urged me sair— my mother didna 
 
 speak. 
 But she lookit in my face till my heart was 
 
 like to break ; 
 They gied him my hand — my heart was in 
 
 the sea — 
 And so Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 
 
 I hadna been his wife a week but only four. 
 When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my 
 
 door, 
 I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think 
 
 it he. 
 Till he said, " I'm come hame, love, to marry 
 
 thee." 
 
 Oh ! sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say 
 
 o' a', 
 I gied him ae kiss and bade him gang awa'. 
 I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to 
 
 dee, 
 For tho' my heart is broken, I'm young — 
 
 wae 's me ! 
 
 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin, 
 I darena think on Jamie, for that would be a 
 
 sin, 
 But I'll do my best a gude wife to be, 
 For oh ! Robin Gray he is kind to me. 
 
 SECOND PART. 
 
 The winter was come, 'twas simmer nae 
 
 mair. 
 And, trembling, the leaves were fleeing thro' 
 
 th' air : 
 " winter," says Jeanie, " we kindly agree, 
 For the sun he looks wae when he shines 
 
 upon me." 
 
 Nae longer she mourned, her tears were a' 
 spent. 
 
 Despair it was come, and she thought it con- 
 tent — 
 
 She thought it content, but her cheek it grew 
 pale. 
 
 And she bent like a lily broke down by the 
 
 Her father was vexed and her mother was 
 
 wae. 
 But pensive and silent was auld Robin Gray; 
 He wandered his lane, and his face it grew 
 
 lean. 
 Like the side of a brae where the torrent has 
 
 been. 
 
 He took to his bed — nae physic he sought. 
 But ordered his friends all around to be 
 
 brought ; 
 While Jeanie supported his head in its place. 
 Her tears trickled down, and they fell on his 
 
 face. 
 
 " Oh, greet nae mair, Jeanie," said he wi' a 
 
 groan, 
 " I'm no worth your sorrow — the truth maun 
 
 be known ; 
 Send round for your neighbors, my hour it 
 
 draws near. 
 And I've that to tell that it's fit a' should 
 
 hear. 
 
 " I lo'ed and I courted her mony a day, 
 The auld folks were for me, but still she said 
 
 nay ; 
 I kentna o' Jamie, nor yet of her vow. 
 In mercy forgive me — 'twas I stole the cow. 
 
 " I cared not for Crummie, I thought but o' 
 
 thee — 
 I thought it was Crummie stood 'twixt you 
 
 and me ; 
 
POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 
 
 175 
 
 While she fed your parents, oh, did you not 
 
 say 
 You never would marry wi' auld Robin 
 
 Gray? 
 
 " But sickness at hame and want at the door, 
 You gied me your hand, while your heart it 
 
 was sore ; 
 I saw it was sore, — why took I her hand? 
 Oh, that was a deed to my shame o'er the 
 
 land! 
 
 " How truth soon or late comes to open day- 
 
 light! 
 For Jamie cam' back, and your cheek it grew 
 
 white — 
 White, white grew your cheek, but aye true 
 
 unto me — 
 Ay, Jeanie, I'm thankfu' — I'm thankfu' to 
 
 ■ Is Jamie come here yet ? " — and Jamie they 
 
 saw — 
 I've injured you sair, lad, so leave you 
 
 my a' ; 
 
 Be kind to my Jeanie, and soon may it be ; 
 Waste nae time, my dauties, in mourning for 
 me." 
 
 They kissed his cauld hands, and a smile o'er 
 
 his face 
 Seemed hopefu' of being accepted by grace ; 
 " Oh, doubtna," said Jamie, " forgi'en he will 
 
 be— 
 Wha wouldna be tempted, my love, to wiu 
 
 thee ? " 
 ***** 
 The first days were dowie while time slipt 
 
 awa', 
 But saddest and sairest to Jeanie o' a' 
 Was thinkin' she couldna be honest and 
 
 right, 
 Wi' tears in her e'e while her heart was sae 
 
 light. 
 
 But nae guile had she, and her sorrow away, 
 The wife o' her Jamie, the tear couldna stay ; 
 A bonnie wee bairn — the auld folks by the 
 
 fire — 
 Oh, now she has a' that her heart can desire. 
 
 POETB Y AND MYSTER Y OF THE SEA. 
 
 DR. GEEEN'TVOOD. 
 
 HmM — 7- 
 
 ?HE sea is liis, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, in one 
 
 I of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expresses the 
 
 Xt ""^l" whole of a vast subject by a few simple words. Whose else, in- 
 
 Ideed, could it be, and by whom else could it have been made? 
 Who else can heave its tides and appoint its bounds ? Who else can 
 , urge its mighty waves to madness with the breath and wings of 
 the tempest, and then speak to it again in a master's accents and 
 bid it be still ? Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabi- 
 tants, and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and filled it 
 from its deepest bed to its ^expanded surface, filled it from its centre to ita 
 remotest shores, filled it to the brim with beauty and mystery and power ? 
 Majestic Ocean! Glorious Sea! No created being rules thee or made 
 thee. 
 
176 
 
 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 
 
 What is tliere more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, 
 unfathomable sea ? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, 
 ffently -heaving, silent sea? What is there more terribly sublime than the 
 angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resistless, overwhelming power — 
 is its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious 
 
 "THE GENTLY-HEAVING SEA. 
 
 grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. It is 
 awful when its crested waves rise up to make a compact with the black 
 clouds and the howling winds, and the thunder and the thunderbolt, and 
 they sweep on, in the joy of their dread alliance, to do the Almighty's 
 bidding. And it is awful, too, when it stretches its broad level out to 
 meet in quiet union the bended sky, and show in the line of meeting the 
 vast rotundity of the world. There is majesty in its wide expanse, sepa- 
 rating and enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying two- 
 thirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetrating the land with its bays 
 and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly-pouring tribute of every 
 river, of every shore. There is majesty in its fulness, never diminishing 
 and never increasing. There is majesty in its integrity, — for its whole 
 vast substance is uniform in its local unity, for there is but one ocean, and 
 the inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants of any 
 other in the wide world. Its depth is sublime : who can sound it ? Its 
 
POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. I77 
 
 strength is sublime : what fabric of man can resist it? Its voice is sub- 
 hme, whether in the prolonged song of its ripple or the stern music of its 
 roar, — whether it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a labyrinth 
 of wave-worn caves, or thunders at the base of some huge promontory, or 
 beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the voyager to rest with the 
 strains of its wild monotony, or dies away, in the calm and fading twilight, 
 in gentle murmurs on some sheltered shore. 
 
 The sea possesses beauty, in richness, of its own ; it borrows it from 
 earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various dyes of their 
 wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of their shadows as 
 they go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored 
 feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the moon and the glittering brother- 
 hood of planets and stars, for they delight themselves in its beauty. The 
 sunbeams return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire ; the 
 moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to and fi^o, 
 with the breezes and the waves, through the livelong night. It has a 
 light, too, of its own, — a soft and sparkling light, rivaling the stars ; and 
 often does the ship which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a Milky 
 Way of dim and uncertain lustre, like that which is shining dimly above. 
 It harmonizes in its forms and sounds both with the night and the day. It 
 cheerfully reflects the light, and it unites solemnly with the darkness. It 
 imparts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur to the thunder of 
 heaven. What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of the 
 sea ? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters where it dwells and 
 rests, singing its spells and scattering its charms on all the coasts. What 
 rocks and cliffs are so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing 
 sea ? What groves and fields and dwellings are so enchanting as tlfcse 
 which stand by the reflecting sea ? 
 
 There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is 
 unfathomed, and, perhaps, unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, 
 how near its pits run down to the central core of the world ? Who can 
 tell what wells, what fountains, are there, to which the fountains of the 
 earth are but drops ? Who shall say whence the ocean derives those in- 
 exhaustible supplies of salt which so impregnate its waters that all the 
 rivers of the earth, pouring into it from the time of the creation, have not 
 been able to freshen them ? What undescribed monsters, what unimagi- 
 nable shapes, may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never 
 seeking— and perhaps never able to seek — the upper waters and expose 
 themselves to the gaze of man ! What glittering riches, what heaps of 
 gold, what stores of gems, there must be scattered in lavish profusion in 
 
178 
 
 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 
 
 the ocean's lowest bed ! What spoils from all climates, what works of art 
 from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves ! 
 Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth ? 
 Who bears the keys of the deep ? 
 
 And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart and mysterious to the 
 mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, welter- 
 ing, unsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of those lost 
 ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting requiem ? 
 
 CLIi'FS BY TUK sKA. 
 
 What shrouds were wrapped round the limbs of beauty, and of manhood, 
 and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor of that secret 
 tomb ? Where are the bones, the relics, of the brave and the timid, the 
 good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, 
 the sister, the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by 
 the washing, wasting, wandering sea ? The journeying winds may sigh as 
 year after year they pass over their beds. The solitary rain-cloud may 
 weep in darknesss over the mingled remains which lie strewed in that un- 
 wonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to what spot their 
 affections may cling ? And where shall human tears be shed throughout 
 
MY COUNTRY. 
 
 179 
 
 that solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery all. When shall it be resolved ? 
 Who shall find it out ? Who but He to whom the wildest waves listen 
 reverently, and to whom all nature bows ; He who shall one day speak, and 
 be heard in ocean's profoundest caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest 
 deep, shall give up its dead ; when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and 
 the isles shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, 
 and there shall be no more sea ! 
 
 A FIRST SORROW. 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. 
 
 SRISE ! this day shall shine 
 
 Forevermore, 
 
 To thee a star divine 
 
 On Time's dark shore. 
 
 Till now thy soul has been 
 All glad and gay ; 
 
 Bid it awake, and look 
 At grief to-day ! 
 
 No shade has come between 
 
 Thee and the sun ; 
 Like some long childish dream 
 
 Thy life has run : 
 
 But now the stream has reached 
 
 A dark, deep sea, 
 And Sorrow, dim and crowned 
 
 Is waiting thee. 
 
 Each of God's soldiers bears 
 A sword divine : 
 
 Stretch out thy trembling hands 
 To-day for thine ! 
 
 To each anointed priest 
 God's summons came : 
 
 Soul, he speaks to-day, 
 And calls thy name. 
 
 Then, with slow, reverent step, 
 
 And beating heart. 
 From out thy joyous days 
 
 Thou must depart, 
 
 And, leaving all behind. 
 
 Come forth alone. 
 To join the chosen band 
 
 Around the throne. 
 
 Raise up thine eyes — be strong, 
 
 Nor cast away 
 The crown that God has given 
 
 Thy soul to-day ! 
 
 MY COUNTRY. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 ,,,jiHERE is a land, of every land the 
 pride. 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world 
 
 beside. 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener 
 light, 
 
 And milder moons imparadise the night ; 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth. 
 Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth : 
 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting 
 
 shores, 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. 
 In every clime, the magnet of his soul. 
 Touched by remembrance, trembles to that 
 
 pole; 
 For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race 
 
180 
 
 INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. 
 
 The heritage of nature's noblest grace, 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
 Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
 While in his softened looks benignly blend 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, 
 
 friend. 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, 
 
 wife, 
 Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of 
 
 life: 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. 
 An angel-guard of love and graces lie ; 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet. 
 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 " Where shall that laud, that spot of earth 
 
 be found ? " 
 Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ; 
 0, thoti shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps 
 
 roam, 
 That land thy country, and that spot thy 
 
 home! 
 
 Man, through all ages of revolving time, 
 Unchanging man, in every varying clime 
 Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
 His home the spot of earth supremely blest, 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. 
 
 INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. 
 
 DR. GEORGE BERKELEY. 
 
 ?NDUSTKY is the natural sure way to success; this is so true, that it 
 ^^ is impossible an industrious free people should want the necessaries 
 and comforts of life, or an idle enjoy them under any form of govern- 
 ment. Money is so far useful to the public, as it promoteth industry, 
 and credit having the same effect, is of the same value with money; but 
 money or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand, without 
 producing labor and industry in the inhabitants, is direct gaming. 
 
 It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible schemes, 
 as may draw those who are less skilful into their own and the public ruin. 
 But surely there is no man of sense and honesty but must see and own, 
 whether he understands the game or not, that it is an evident folly for 
 any people, instead of prosecuting the old honest methods of industry and 
 frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table and play off their money 
 one to another. 
 
 The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riches without 
 industry or merit, the less there will be of either in that state : this is as 
 evident a.s the ruin that attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from 
 hand to hand in such a bhnd fortuitous manner, that some men shall from 
 nothing acquire in an instant vast estates, without the least desert; while 
 others are as suddenly stripped of plentiful fortunes, and left on the parish 
 by their own avarice and credulity, what can be hoped for on the one 
 
A TYPE OF GRANDEUR, STRENGTH AND MAJESTY. 
 
■A LION'S HEAD. 
 
 181 
 
 hand but abandoned luxury and wantonness, or on the other but extreme 
 madness and despair! 
 
 In short, all projects for growing rich by sudden and extraordinary 
 methods, as they operate violently on the passions of men, and encourage 
 them to despise the slow moderate gains that are to be made by an honest 
 industry, must be ruinous to the public, and even the winners themselves 
 will at length be involved in the public ruin. . . . 
 
 God grant the time be not near when men shall say, " This island was 
 once inhabited by a religious, brave, sincere people, of plain, uncorrupt 
 manners, respecting inbred worth rather than titles and appearances, 
 assertors of liberty, lovers of their country, jealous of their own rights, 
 and unwilling to infringe the rights of others ; improvers of learning and 
 useful arts, enemies to luxury, tender of other men's lives, and prodigal of 
 their own; inferior in nothing to the old Greeks or Romans, and superior 
 to each of those people in the perfections of the other. Such were our 
 ancestors during their rise and greatness ; but they degenerated, grew 
 servile flatterers of men in power, adopted Epicurean notions, became 
 venal, corrupt, injurious, which drew upon them the hatred of God and 
 man, and occasioned their final ruin." 
 
 ■■A LION'S head: 
 
 G. WEATHERLY. 
 
 fij||fflvw^PON the wall it hung where all might 
 
 A living picture — so the people 
 said — 
 A type of grandeur, strength and 
 J- majesty — 
 T "A lion's head." 
 
 Yet, if you gazed awhile, you seemed to see 
 The eyes grow strangely sad, that should 
 have raged ; 
 And, lo ! your thoughts took shape uncon- 
 sciously — 
 " A lion 
 
 You saw the living type behind his bars, 
 His eyes so sad with mute reproach, but 
 still 
 A very King, as when beneath the stars 
 He roved at will. 
 
 And then your thoughts took further ground, 
 and ran 
 From real to ideal, till at length . 
 The lion caged seemed but the type of man 
 In his best strength ; 
 
 Man grand, majestic in both word and deed, 
 
 A giant in both intellect and will, 
 Yet trammeled by some force he can but heed 
 And cannot still ; 
 
 Man in his highest attributes, but bound 
 By chains of circumstance around him casV 
 
 Yet nobly living out life's daily round. 
 Till work be past. 
 
 So musing, shadows fall all silently 
 
 And swift recall the thoughts that wan- 
 dering fled : 
 
 The dream has ended, and you can but see 
 " A lion's head." 
 
182 
 
 THE PURITANS. 
 
 LO VE LIGHTENS LABOR. 
 
 <?«^ GOOD wife rose from her bed one 
 
 ^ui^ morn, 
 
 *^^^. And thought with a nervous 
 
 ^jp I (]read 
 
 J^ Of the piles of clothes to be 
 
 ^ washed, and more 
 
 T Than a dozen mouths to he fed. 
 
 There's the meals to get for the men in the 
 field, 
 
 And the children to fix away 
 To school, and the milk to be skimmed and 
 churned ; 
 
 And all to be done this day. 
 
 It had rained in the- night, and all the wood 
 
 Was wet as it could be ; 
 There were puddings and pies to bake, be- 
 sides 
 
 A loaf of cake for tea. 
 And the day was hot, and her aching head 
 
 Throbbed wearily as she said, 
 " If maidens but knew what good wives know. 
 
 They would not be in haste to wed!" 
 
 '• Jennie, what do you think I told Ben 
 Brown ? " 
 
 Called the farmer from the well ; 
 And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow. 
 
 And his eyes half bashfully fell ; 
 
 " It was this," he said, and coming near 
 
 He smiled, and stooping down. 
 Kissed her cheek — " 'twas this : that yor 
 were the best 
 
 And the dearest wife in town ! " 
 
 The farmer went back to the field, and the 
 wife 
 In a smiling, absent way 
 Sang snatches of tender little songs 
 
 She'd not sung for many a day. 
 And the pain in her head was gone, and the 
 clothes 
 Were white as the foam of the sea ; 
 Her bread was light, and her butter was 
 sweet 
 And as golden as it could be. 
 
 " Just think," the children all cried in a 
 breath, 
 
 " Tom Wood has run off to sea ! 
 He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only haJ 
 
 As happy a home as we." 
 The night came down, and the good wife 
 smiled 
 
 To herself, as she softly said: 
 " 'Tis so sweet to labor for those we love, — 
 
 It's not strange that maids will wed! " 
 
 THE PURITANS. 
 
 T. B. MACAULAY. 
 
 PPIHE Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character 
 ^^^ from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal inter- 
 n's' * ests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an 
 overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to 
 the will of the Great Being for whose power nothing was too 
 vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know 
 him, to serve him, to enjoy him was with them the great end of existence. 
 They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects 
 
THE PURITANS. 183 
 
 substituted for the pure worship of the souL Instead of catching 
 occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired 
 to gaze full on his intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face 
 to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The 
 diflference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to 
 vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the 
 whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. 
 They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident of 
 that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of 
 the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers 
 and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names 
 were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the 
 Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train 
 of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge of them. 
 
 Their palaces were houses not made with hands ; their diadems 
 crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the 
 eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt : for 
 they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent 
 in a more sublime language — nobles by the right of an earlier creation, 
 and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of 
 them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance 
 belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness 
 looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven and 
 earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven 
 and earth should have passed away. Events which short-sighted poli- 
 ticians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For 
 his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake 
 the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the 
 harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from 
 the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no 
 vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the 
 sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had 
 risen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring God. 
 
 Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, — the one aU 
 self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion ; the other proud, calm, in- 
 flexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker ; 
 but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement 
 he prayed with convulsions and groans and tears. He was half-maddened 
 by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the 
 tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, 
 
184 
 
 THE BELL OF "THE ATLANTIC 
 
 or woke screaming from dreams of fire. Like Vane, he thought himself 
 entrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he 
 cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. 
 But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, 
 these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace 
 behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth 
 visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining 
 hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who 
 encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. 
 
 TEE BELL OF " THE A TLANTLCr 
 
 -^r 
 
 MRS. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 IpOLL, toll, toll, toll ! 
 
 *- Thou bell by billows swung, 
 
 And, night and day, thy warning 
 words 
 Repeat with mournful tongue I 
 Toll for the queenly boat. 
 
 Wrecked on yon rocky shore ! 
 Sea-w.eed is in her palace halls — 
 She rides the surge no more. 
 
 Toll for the master bold, 
 
 The high-souled and the brave. 
 Who ruled her like a thing of life 
 
 Amid the crested wave ! 
 Toll for the hardy crew. 
 
 Sons of the storm and blast, 
 Who long the tyrant ocean dared ; 
 
 But it vanquished them at last. 
 
 Toll for the man of God, 
 
 Whose hallowed voice of prayer 
 Rose calm above the stifled groan 
 
 Of that intense despair ! 
 How precious were those tones, 
 
 On that sad verge of life, 
 Amid the fierce and freezing storm, 
 
 And the mountain billows' strife ! 
 
 Toll for the lover, lost 
 
 To the summoned bridal train. 
 
 Bright glows a picture on his breast^ 
 Beneath the unfathomed main. 
 
 One from her casement gazeth 
 Long o'er the misty sea : 
 
 He Cometh not, pale maiden — 
 His heart is cold to thee ! 
 
 Toll for the absent sire. 
 
 Who to his home drew near. 
 To bless a glad, expecting group — 
 
 Fond wife, and children dear ! 
 They heap the blazing hearth, 
 
 The festal board is spread. 
 But a fearful guest is at the gate ; — 
 
 Room for the sheeted dead ! 
 
 Toll for the loved and fair. 
 
 The whelmed beneath the tide — 
 The broken harps around whose strings 
 
 The dull sea-monsters glide ! 
 Mother and nursling sweet. 
 
 Reft from the household throng ; 
 There's bitter weeping in the nest 
 
 Where breathed their soul of song, 
 
 Toll for the hearts that bleed 
 'Neath misery's furrowing trace ; 
 
 Toll for the hapless orphan left. 
 The last of all his race ! 
 
THE BLIND PREACHER. 
 
 185 
 
 Yea, with thy heaviest knell, 
 From surge to rocky shore, 
 
 Toll for the living — not the dead, 
 Whose mortal woes are o'er. 
 
 Toll, toll, toll ! 
 O'er breeze and billow free ; 
 
 And with thy startling lore instruct 
 Each rover of the sea. 
 
 Tell how o'er proudest joys 
 May swift destruction sweep. 
 
 And bid him build his hopes on high- 
 Lone teacher of the deep ! 
 
 THE CYCLONE. 
 
 THE BLIND PREACHER. 
 
 WILLIAM WIET. 
 
 ^^T was one Sunday, as I was traveling through the county of Orange, 
 p| that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a ruinous, 
 ^ old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the roadside. Having 
 \i' frequently seen such objects before, in traveling through these States, 
 I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a place of religious wor- 
 ship. Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties of the 
 congregation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the preacher of 
 such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. On entering, I was 
 struck with his preternatural appearance. He was a tall and very spare 
 old man; his head, which was covered with a white linen cap, his shriv- 
 eled hands, and his voice, were all shaking under the influence of palsy ; 
 and a few moments ascertained to me that he was perfectly blind. 
 
 The first emotions which touched my breast were those of mingled 
 
IQQ THE BLIND PREACHER. 
 
 pity and veneration. But how soon were all my feelings changed ! The 
 lips of Plato were never more worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees than 
 were the lips of this holy man. It was a day of the administration of the 
 sacrament; and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I 
 had heard the subject handled a thousand times ; I had thought it ex- 
 hausted long ago. Little did I suppose that, in the wild woods of America, 
 I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give to this topic a new 
 and more sublime pathos than I had ever before witnessed. 
 
 As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic symbols, 
 there was a peculiar, a more than human solemnity in his air and manner, 
 which made my blood run cold and my whole frame shiver. He then drew 
 a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour ; his trial before Pilate ; his as- 
 cent up Calvary ; his crucifixion, and his death. I knew the whole history, 
 but never, until then, had I heard the circumstances so selected, so 
 arranged, so colored. It was all new, and I seemed to have heard it for 
 the first time in my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice 
 trembled on every syllable, and every heart in the assembly trembled in 
 unison. His peculiar phrases had such force of description, that the ori- 
 ginal scene appeared to be at that moment acting before our eyes. We 
 saw the very faces of the Jews ; the staring, frightful distortions of malice 
 and rage. "We saw the buffet ; my soul kindled with a flame of indigna- 
 tion, and my hands were involuntarily and convulsively clinched. 
 
 But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving meekness, 
 of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed eyes streaming in 
 tears to heaven ; his voice breathing to God a soft and gentle prayer of 
 pardon for his enemies, " Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
 they do ! " — the voice of the preacher, which all along faltered, grew 
 fainter and fainter, until, his utterance being entirely obstructed by the 
 force of his feelings, he raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into 
 a loud and irrepressible flow of grief. The effect was inconceivable. The 
 whole house resounded with the mingled groans and sobs and shrieks of 
 the congregation. 
 
 It was some time before the tumult had subsided so far as to permit 
 hira to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious standard of 
 my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the situation of the 
 preacher. For I could not conceive how he would be able to let his audi- 
 ence down from the height to which he had wound them, without impair- 
 ing the solemnity and dignity of his subject, or perhaps shocking them by 
 the abruptness of the fall. But — no; the descent was as beautiful and 
 sublime as the elevation had been rapid and enthusiastic. The first sen- 
 
A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 187 
 
 tence with which he broke the awful silence was a quotation from Rous- 
 seau: " Socrates died like a philosopher ; but Jesus Christ like a God." 
 
 I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this short 
 sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole manner of the 
 man, as well as the peculiar crisis in the discourse. Never before did I 
 completely understand what Demosthenes meant by laying such stress on 
 delivery. You are to bring before you the venerable figure of the 
 preacher, his blindness constantly recalling to your recollection old Homer, 
 Ossian and Milton, and associating with his performance the melancholy 
 grandeur of their genius : you are to imagine that you hear his slow, sol- 
 emn, well-accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembling mel- 
 ody; you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which 
 the congregation were raised ; and then the few moments of portentous, 
 death-like silence which reigned throughout the house : the preacher, re- 
 moving his white handkerchief from his aged face (even yet wet from the 
 recent torrent of his tears), and slowly stretching forth the palsied hand 
 which holds it, begins the sentence : " Socrates died like a philosopher" — 
 then pausing, raised his other hand, pressing them both, clasped together, 
 with warmth and energy to. his breast, lifting his " sightless balls" to hea- 
 ven, and pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — "but Jesus 
 Christ — like a God ! " If he had been in truth an angel of light, the effect 
 could scarcely have been more divine. 
 
 A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 
 
 MARY A. FOED. 
 
 JT'l^HE surging sea of human life forever Broad fields uncultured and unclaimed are 
 ^j^ onward rolls, waiting for the plow 
 
 oJ^^^^ And bears to the eternal shore its i Of progress that shall make them bloom a. 
 
 daily freight of souls, 
 Though bravely sails our bark to- 
 day, pale Death sits at the prow, 
 
 And few shall know we ever lived j short narrow 
 
 hundred years from now. 
 Why should we try so earnestly in life's 
 
 a hundred years from now. 
 
 mighty human brotherhood ! why fiercely 
 war and strive, 
 
 span. 
 
 On golden stairs to climb so high above our 
 
 brother-man ? 
 Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish 
 homage bow ? 
 
 \\Tiile God's great world has ample space for ] Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hun- 
 everything alive ? i dred years from now. 
 
 13 
 
188 
 
 WOUNDED. 
 
 Why prize so much the world's applause ? 
 
 Why dread so much its blame ? 
 A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of 
 
 fame; 
 The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn 
 
 that dyes with shame the brow, 
 Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred 
 
 years from now. 
 
 patient hearts, that meekly bear your 
 weary load of wrong ! 
 
 earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, 
 striving, grow more strong ! 
 
 Press on till perfect peace is won ; you'll 
 never dream of how 
 
 You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hun- 
 dred years from now. 
 
 Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that 
 freedom, right, and truth 
 
 Alone may rule the universe, for you is end- 
 less youth ! 
 
 When 'mid the blest with God you rest, the 
 
 grateful land shall bow 
 Above your clay in reverent love a hundred 
 
 years from now. 
 
 Earth's empires rise and fall. Time ! like 
 
 breakers on thy shore 
 They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, 
 
 and are no more. 
 The starry wilderness of worlds that gem 
 
 night's radiant brow 
 Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred 
 
 years from now. 
 
 Our Father, to whose sleepless eye the past 
 
 and future stand 
 An open page, like babes we cling to thy 
 
 protecting hand ; 
 Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we 
 
 may safely bow 
 Beneath the shadow of thy throne a hundred 
 
 years from now. 
 
 WOUNDED. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 WILLIAM E. MILLER. 
 
 ^ET me lie down 
 
 ll Just here in the shade of this can- 
 
 ^ non-torn tree. 
 
 Here, low on the trampled grass, 
 where I may see 
 ¥ The surge of the combat, and where I 
 T may hear 
 
 The glad cry of victory, cheer upon cheer : 
 Let me lie down. 
 
 Oh, it was grand ! 
 Like the tempest we charged, in the triumph 
 
 to share ; 
 The tempest, — its fury and thunder were 
 
 there : 
 On, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and 
 
 dead. 
 With the foe under foot, and our flag over- 
 head ; 
 
 Oh, it was grand ! 
 
 Weary and faint. 
 Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I 
 
 rest. 
 With this shot-shattered head and sabre- 
 pierced breast? 
 Comrades, at roll-call when I shall be 
 
 sought, 
 Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought, 
 Wounded and faint. 
 
 Oh, that last charge ! 
 Right through the dread hell-fire of shrapnel 
 
 and shell, 
 Througli without faltering, — clear through 
 
 with a yell ! 
 Right in their midst, in the turmoil and 
 
 gloom. 
 Like heroes we dashed, at the mandate of 
 
 doom! 
 
 Oh, that last charge ! 
 
THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 
 
 189 
 
 It was duty ! 
 Some things are worthless, and some others 
 
 so good 
 That nations who buy them pay only in blood. 
 For Freedom and Union each man owes his 
 
 part; 
 And here I pay my share, all warm from my 
 heart : 
 
 It is duty. 
 
 Dying at last ! 
 My mother, dear mother ! with meek tearful 
 
 eye, 
 Farewell! and God bless you, for eyer and 
 
 aye! 
 Oh that I now lay on your pillowing breast. 
 To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first 
 prest ! 
 
 Dying at last ! 
 
 I am no saint ; 
 But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that 
 begins 
 
 " Our Father," and then says, " Forgive us 
 
 our sins:" 
 Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and 
 
 then 
 I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say "Amen!" 
 Ah ! I'm no saint. 
 
 Hark ! there's a shout. 
 Raise me up, comrades ! We have conquered, 
 
 I know ! — 
 Up, on my feet, with my face to the foe ! 
 Ah ! there flies the flag, with its star-soan- 
 
 gles bright, 
 The promise of glory, the symbol of right ! 
 Well may they shout ! 
 
 I'm mustered out. 
 God of our fathers, our freedom prolong, 
 And tread down rebellion, oppression, and 
 wrong ! 
 
 land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened 
 
 sod, 
 
 1 die for the nation, the Union, and God ! 
 
 I'm mustered out. 
 
 THE DRUNK ARUS DEATH. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^T last, one bitter night, he sunk down on the door-step, faint and 
 ilL The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him 
 to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and livid ; his eyes were 
 sunken, and their sight was dim. His legs trembled beneath his 
 weight, and a cold shiver ran through every limb. 
 And now the long-forgotten scenes of a mis-spent life crowded thick 
 fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home — a 
 happy, cheerful home — and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him 
 then, until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, 
 and stand about him — so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were, that he 
 could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed 
 upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears 
 like the music of village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain 
 beat heavily upon him ; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart 
 again. He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The 
 
190 THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. 
 
 street was silent and empty ; the few passengers who passed by, at that 
 late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the 
 violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame, 
 and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a 
 projecting doorway, and tried to sleep. 
 
 But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered 
 strangely, but he was awake and conscious. The well-known shout of 
 drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board was 
 covered with choice rich food — they were before him ; he could see them 
 all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them, — and, though the 
 illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted 
 street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones ; that death 
 was coming upon him by inches — and that there were none to care for or 
 help him. Suddenly he started up in the extremity of terror. He had 
 heard his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what or why. 
 Hark ! A groan ! — another ! His senses were leaving him : half-formed 
 and incoherent words burst from his lips ; and his hands sought to tear 
 and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till 
 his voice failed him. 
 
 He raised his head and looked up the long dismal street. He recollected 
 that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those 
 dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own loneliness. 
 He remembered to have heard many years before that a homeless wretch 
 had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to 
 plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, wan- 
 dering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received 
 new life ; he ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he 
 reached the river side. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that 
 lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. 
 He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. 
 Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life, half so 
 eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The 
 watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved ; and after waiting 
 till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously 
 descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place 
 from the river. 
 
 The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, 
 the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet, — so quiet, 
 that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling of the 
 water against the barges, that were moored there, was distinctly audible 
 
LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 191 
 
 to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and 
 fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; dark 
 gleaming eyes peered fi'om the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, 
 while hollow murmurs from behind urged him onward. He retreated a 
 few paces, took a short run, a desperate leap, and plunged into the 
 water. 
 
 Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's surface — but 
 what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and 
 feehngs ! Life — life — in any form, poverty, misery, starvation — anything 
 but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his 
 head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse of his own son rang 
 in his ears. The shore — but one foot of dry ground — he could almost 
 touch the step. One hand's breadth nearer, and he was saved — but the 
 tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to 
 the bottom. Again he rose and struggled for life. For one instant — for 
 one brief instant — the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge 
 through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the fast- 
 flying clouds, were distinctly visible — once more he sunk, and once again 
 he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and 
 reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and stunned 
 him with its furious roar. 
 
 A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the 
 river, a swollen. and disfigured mass. Unrecognized and unpitied, it was 
 borne to the grave ; and there it has long since mouldered away ! 
 
 LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 
 
 ORIGINALLY PRINTED IN 1569. 
 
 £OVE me little, love me long 
 Is the burden of my song 
 Love that is too hot and strong 
 Burneth soon to waste 
 
 If thou lovest me too much, 
 'Twill not prove as true a touch ; 
 Love me little more than such,— 
 For I fear the end. 
 Still I would not have thee cold, — j I'm with little well content, 
 
 Not too backward, nor too bold ; | And a little from thee sent 
 
 Love that lasteth till 'tis old i Is enough, with true intent 
 
 Fadeth not in haste. 
 Love me little, love me long! 
 Is the burden of my song. 
 
 To be steadfast, friend. 
 Love me little, love me long ! 
 Is the burden of my song. 
 
192 
 
 YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. 
 
 Say thou lovest me, while thou live 
 I to thee my love will give, 
 Never dreaming to deceive 
 
 While that life endures ; 
 Nay, and after death, in sooth, 
 I to thee will keep my truth, 
 As now when in my May of youth : 
 
 This my love assures. 
 
 Constant love is moderate ever. 
 And it will through life persever ; 
 Give me that with true endeavor, — 
 I will it restore. 
 
 A suit of durance let it be, 
 For all weathers, — that for me, — 
 For the land or for the sea : 
 Lasting evermore. 
 
 Winter's cold or summer's heat, 
 Autumn's tempests on it beat ; 
 It can never know defeat. 
 
 Never can rebel : 
 Such the love that I would gain, 
 Such the love, I tell thee plain. 
 Thou must give, or woo in vain : 
 
 So to thee — farewell ! 
 
 YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPAS GRAVE. 
 
 C. E. L. HOLMES. 
 
 sITH sable-draped banners, and slow 
 
 measured tread, 
 The flower-laden ranks pass the 
 
 gates of the dead ; 
 And seeking each mound where a 
 
 comrade's form rests. 
 Leave tear-bedewed garlands to 
 
 bloom on his breast. 
 
 Ended at last is the labor of love ; 
 Once more through the gateway the saddened 
 
 lines move — 
 A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief. 
 Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred 
 
 chief; 
 
 Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired 
 child 
 
 Besought him in accents which grief render- 
 ed wild : 
 
 " Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died 
 brave — 
 
 Why ! why ! did you pass by my dear papa's 
 grave ? 
 
 I know he was poor, but as kind and as true 
 
 As ever marched into the battle with you — 
 
 His grave is so humble, no stone marks the 
 spot. 
 
 You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did 
 not! 
 
 For my poor heart will break if you knew 
 he was there. 
 
 And thought him too lowly your offerings 
 to share. 
 
 He didn't die lowly — he poured his heart's 
 blood, 
 
 In rich crimson streams, from the top- 
 crowning sod 
 
 Of the breastworks which stood in front of 
 the fightr— 
 
 And died shouting, ' Onward ! for God and 
 the right!' 
 
 O'er all his dead comrades your bright gar- 
 lands wave, 
 
THE COCKNEY. 
 
 193 
 
 But you haven't put one on my papa's grave. 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, kind sir ! I ne'er can repay 
 
 If mamma were here — but she lies by his side, 
 
 The kindness you've shown little Daisy to- 
 
 Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa 
 
 day ; 
 
 died." 
 
 But I'll pray for you here, each day while I 
 
 
 live, 
 
 "Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried 
 
 ' Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. 
 
 the chief, 
 
 
 " This young orphan'd maid hath full cause 
 
 I shall see papa soon, and dear mamma too— 
 
 for her grief" 
 
 I dreamed so last night, and I know 'iwill 
 
 Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty 
 
 come true; 
 
 street, 
 
 And they will both bless you, I know, when 
 
 He lifted the maiden, while in through the 
 
 I say 
 
 gate 
 
 How you folded your arms round their dear 
 
 The long line repasses, and many an eye 
 
 one to-day — 
 
 Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's 
 
 How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed 
 
 sigh. 
 
 it to rest. 
 
 
 And hushed its wild throbs on your strong. 
 
 " This way, it is — here, sir — right under this 
 
 noble breast ; 
 
 tree; 
 
 And when the kind angels shall call you to 
 
 They lie close together, with just room for 
 
 come. 
 
 me." 
 
 We'll welcome you there to our beautiful 
 
 
 home, 
 
 " Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green 
 
 Where death never comes, his black banners 
 
 mound — 
 
 to wave. 
 
 A love pure as this makes these graves hal- 
 
 And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a 
 
 lowed ground." 
 
 grave." 
 
 THE COCKNEY. 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 |T was in my foreign travel, 
 5 At a famous Flemish inn, 
 I That I met a stoutish person 
 ' With a very ruddy skin ; 
 And his hair was something sandy, 
 
 And was done in knotty curls, 
 And was parted in the middle, 
 In the manner of a girl's. 
 
 He was clad in checkered trousers, 
 
 And his coat was of a sort 
 To suggest a scanty pattern. 
 
 It was bobbed so very short ; 
 And his cap was very little. 
 
 Such as soldiers often use ; 
 And he wore a pair of gaiters, 
 
 And extremely heavy shoee. 
 
 I addressed the man in English, 
 
 And he answered in the same. 
 Though he spoke it in a fashion 
 
 That I thought a little lame ; 
 For the aspirate was missing 
 
 Where the letter should have been. 
 But where'er it wasn't wanted, 
 
 He was sure to put it in ! 
 
 When I spoke with admiration 
 
 Of St. Peter's mighty dome, 
 He remarked : " 'T is really nothing 
 
 To the sights we' ave at 'ome !" 
 And declared upon his honor, — 
 
 Though, of course, 't was very queer, 
 That he doubted if the Romans 
 
 'Ad the Aart of making beerl 
 
194 
 
 THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 Then we talked of the countries, 
 
 When I left the man in gaiters. 
 
 And he said that he had heard 
 
 He was grumbling, o'er his gin, 
 
 That h Americans spoke h English, 
 
 At the charges of his hostess 
 
 But he deemed it quite Aabsurd ; 
 
 At that famous Flemish inn ; 
 
 Yet he felt the deepest Aintrest 
 
 And he looked a very Briton, 
 
 In the missionary work, 
 
 (So, methinks, I see him still,) 
 
 And would like to know if Georgia 
 
 As he pocketed the candle 
 
 Was in Boston or New York ! 
 
 That was mentioned in the bill 1 
 
 THE CORONATION OF ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 J. A. FROUDE. 
 
 ^LOEIOUS as the spectacle was, perhaps, however it passed unheeded. 
 i^ Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew 
 near. In an open space behind the constable there was seen 
 approaching " a white chariot," drawn by two palfreys in white 
 damask which swept the ground, a golden canopy borne above it 
 1 making music with silver bells : and in the chariot sat the observed 
 of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; 
 fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of England — queen at last ! — 
 borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed 
 incense of greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her 
 honor, her self-respect, to win ; and she had won it. 
 
 There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing 
 loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a light coronet of 
 gold and diamonds — most beautiful — loveliest — most favored, perhaps, as 
 she seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas ! " within the 
 hollow round of that coronet — 
 
 Kept Death his court, and there the antick sate 
 Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp ; 
 Allowing her a little breath, a little scene 
 To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks, 
 Infusing her with self and vain conceit. 
 As if the flesh which walled about her life 
 Were brass impregnable ; and humored thus, 
 Bored thro' her castle walls ; and farewell. Queen ' 
 
 Fatal gift of greatness ! so dangerous ever ! so more than dangerous 
 in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose of the 
 
SCATTER THE GERMS OF THE BEAUTIFUL. I95 
 
 great deeps of thought, and nations are in the throes of revolution ; when 
 ancient order and law and traditions are splitting in the social earthquake ; 
 and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro, those unhappy ones who 
 stand out above the crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the 
 victims of its alternating fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart 
 and brain, intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos should find its 
 way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion — 
 if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box 
 be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there 
 be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of 
 God's forgiveness. 
 
 Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, 
 Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London — not radiant then 
 with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor, wandering ghost, 
 on a sad, tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing 
 away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a presence where, 
 nevertheless, we know that all is well — for all of us — and therefore for 
 her. 
 
 Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at 
 that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling ? Did any 
 vision flit across her of a sad, mourning figure which once had stood where 
 she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twi- 
 light of a life cut short by sorrow ? Who can tell ? At such a time that 
 figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind 
 would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleet- 
 ing as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of for- 
 tune. 
 
 SCA TTER THE GERMS OF THE BEA UTIFUL. 
 
 'ATTER the germs of the beautiful, Let the pure, and the fair, and the graceful 
 1^1 By the wayside let them fall, there 
 
 C^ That the rose may spring by the In the loveliest lustre come 
 
 cottage gate, Leave not a trace of deformity 
 
 And the vine on the garden wall ; j In the temple of the heart, 
 Cover the rough and the rude of earth 
 With a veil of leaves and flowers, 
 And mark with the opening bud and cup 
 The march of summer hours ! 
 
 Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
 In the holy shrine of home ; 
 
 But gather about its hearth the gems 
 Of nature and of art ! 
 
 Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
 In the temples of our God — 
 
 The God who starred the uplifted sky, 
 And flowered the trampled sod ! 
 
196 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD HOME. 
 
 When he built a temple for himself, 
 And a home for his priestly race, 
 
 He reared each arm in symmetry. 
 And covered each line in grace. 
 
 Scatter the germs of the beautiful 
 In the depths of the human soul ! 
 
 They shall bud and blossom and bear the 
 fruit. 
 
 While the endless ages roll ; 
 Plant with the flowers of charity 
 
 The portals of the tomb, 
 And fair and pure about thy path 
 
 In Paradise shall bloom. 
 
 MY CHILDHOOD HOME. 
 
 fOlf HERE'S a little low hut by the river's 
 ^ side, 
 
 j^'^^ Within the sound of its rippling tide ; 
 Its walls are grey with the mosses of 
 
 years. 
 And its roof all crumbled and old 
 
 B. P. SHILLABER. 
 
 appears ; 
 
 But fairer to me than castle's pride 
 Is the little low hut by the river's side. 
 
 The little low hut was ny natal nest. 
 When my childhood passed — Life's spring- 
 time blest; 
 Where the hopes of ardent youth are formed, 
 
 And the sun of promise my young heart 
 
 warmed. 
 Ere I threw myself on life's swift tide. 
 And left the dear hut by the river's side. 
 
 That little low hut, in lowly guise, 
 Was soft and grand to my youthful eyes, 
 And fairer trees were ne'er known before. 
 Than the apple-trees by the humble door, — 
 That my father loved for their thrifty pride, — 
 That shadowed the hut by the river's side. 
 
 That little'low hut had a glad hearthstone. 
 That echoed of old with a pleasant tone, 
 
THE RUINED MERCHANT. 
 
 197 
 
 And brothers and sisters, a merry crew, 
 Filled the hours with pleasure as on they 
 
 flew; 
 But one by one the loved ones died, 
 That dwelt in the hut by the river's side. 
 
 The father revered and the children gay 
 The graves of the world have called away ; 
 But quietly, all alone, here sits 
 By the pleasant window, in summer, and 
 
 knits, 
 An aged woman, long years allied 
 With the little low hut by the river's side. 
 
 That little low hut to the lonely wife 
 Is the cherished stage of her active life ; 
 Each scene is recalled in memory's bsam. 
 As she sits by the window in pensive dream. 
 
 And joys and woes roll back like a tide 
 In that little low hut by the river's side. 
 
 My mother — alone by the river's side 
 
 She waits for the flood of the heavenly tide. 
 
 And the voice that shall thrill her heart witli 
 
 its call 
 To meet once more with the dear ones all, 
 And forms in a region beautified, 
 The band that once met by the river's side. 
 
 The dear old hut by the river's side 
 
 With the warmest pulse of my heart is 
 
 allied, — 
 And a glory is over its dark walls thrown. 
 That statelier fabrics have never known, — 
 And I shall love with a fonder pride 
 That little low hut by the river's side. 
 
 THE RUINED 
 
 CORA M. 
 
 MERCHANT, 
 
 EAGER. 
 
 fM^ COTTAGE home with sloping lawn, 
 ^■^fe and trellised vines and flowers. 
 And little feet to chase away the 
 rosy-fingered hours ; 
 aT A fair young face to part, at eve, 
 
 ^ the shadows in the door ; — 
 
 I I picture thus a home I knew in 
 
 happy days of yore. 
 
 Says one, a cherub thing of three, with 
 
 childish heart elate, 
 " Papa is tomin let me do to meet 'im at te 
 
 date!" 
 Another takes the music up, and flings it on 
 
 the air, 
 " Papa has come, but why so slow his footstep 
 
 on the stair?" 
 
 * father ! did you bring the books I've 
 
 waited for so long, 
 The baby's rocking-horse and drum, and 
 
 mother's ' angel song ?' 
 And did you see " — but something holds the 
 
 questioning lips apart. 
 And something settles very still upon that 
 
 joyous heart. 
 
 The quick-discerning wife bends down, with 
 
 her white hand to stay 
 The clouds from tangling with the curls that 
 
 on his forehead lay ; 
 To ask, in gentle tones, "Beloved, by what 
 
 rude tempest tossed ?" 
 And list the hollow, " Beggared, lost, — all 
 
 ruined, poor, and lost !" 
 
 " Nay, say not so, for I am here to share 
 
 misfortune's hour, 
 And prove how better far than gold is love's 
 
 unfailing dower. 
 Let wealth take wings ana fly away, as lai 
 
 as wings can soar. 
 The bird of love will hover near, and only- 
 
 sing the more." 
 
 " All lost, papa? why here am I ; and, father, 
 see how tall ; 
 
 I.measure fully three feet four, upon the kit- 
 chen wall ; 
 
 I'll tend the flowers, fe 1 the birds, and have 
 such lots of fun, 
 
 I'm big enough to work, papa, for I'm the 
 oldest son." 
 
198 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 "And I, papa, am almost five," says curly- 
 headed Rose, 
 
 " And I can learn to sew, papa, and make all 
 dolly's clothes. 
 
 But what is ' poor,' — to stay at home and have 
 no place to go ? 
 
 Oh ! then I'll ask the Lord, to-night, to make 
 us always so." 
 
 ' I'se here, papa; I isn't lost!" and on his 
 father's knee 
 
 He lays his sunny head to rest, that baby- 
 boy of three. 
 
 " And if we get too poor to live," says little 
 Rose, " you know 
 
 There is a better place, papa, a heaven where 
 we can go. 
 
 "And God will come and take us there, dear 
 
 father, if we pray. 
 We need'nt fear the road, papa, He surely 
 
 knows the way." 
 Then from the corner, staff in hand, the 
 
 grandma rises slow. 
 Her snowy cap-strings in the breeze soft 
 
 fluttering to and fro : 
 
 Totters across the parlor floor, by aid of 
 
 kindly hands, 
 Counting in every little face, her life's declin 
 
 ing sands ; 
 
 Reaches his side, and whispers low, " God's 
 
 promises are sure ; 
 For every grievous wound, my son. He sends 
 
 a ready cure." 
 
 The father clasps her hand in his, and quickly 
 turns aside, 
 
 The heaving chest, the rising sigh, the com- 
 ing tear, to hide ; 
 
 Folds to his heart those loving ones, and kis- 
 ses o'er and o'er 
 
 That noble wife whose faithful heart he little 
 knew before. 
 
 " May God forgive me ! What is wealth to 
 these more precious things, 
 
 Whose rich affection round my heart a cease- 
 less odor flings ? 
 
 I think He knew my sordid soul was getting 
 proud and cold, 
 
 And thus to save me, gave me these, and took 
 away my gold. 
 
 " Dear ones, forgive me ; nevermore will I 
 
 forget the rod 
 That brought me safely unto you, and led 
 
 me back to God. 
 I am not poor while these bright links of 
 
 priceless love remain, 
 And, Heaven helping, never more shall 
 
 blindness hide the chain." 
 
 TB UTH. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 •RUTH, indeed, came once into the world with her Divine Master, 
 and was a perfect shape, most glorious to look on; but when he 
 ascended, and his apostles after him were laid asleep, then straight 
 arose a wicked race of deceivers, who, as that story goes of the 
 Egyptian Typhon with his conspirators, how they dealt with the 
 god Osiris, took the virgin Truth, hewed her lovely form into a 
 thousand pieces, and scattered them to the four winds. From that time, 
 ever since, the sad friends of Truth, such as durst appear, imitating the 
 careful search that Isis made for the mangled body of Osiris, went up and 
 
THE MILKMAID. 
 
 199 
 
 down gathering up limb by limb, still as they could find them. We have 
 not yet found them all, Lords and Commons, nor ever shall do, till 
 her Master's second coming; he shall bring together every joint and 
 member, and mould them into an immortal feature of loveliness and 
 perfection. 
 
 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 m 
 
 lirii!^^ watched her breathing through 
 g^P the night,— 
 
 1^ Her breathing soft and low, — 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak, 
 So slowly moved about, 
 As we had lent her half our powers, 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 I Our weary hopes belied our fears. 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied, — 
 j We thought her dying when she slept, 
 j And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came, dim and sad 
 
 And chill with early showers. 
 Her quiet eyelids closed ; — she had 
 I Another morn than ours. 
 
 THE MILKMAID. 
 
 JEFFERYS TAYLOR. 
 
 ^T^9 
 
 fV-? MILKMAID, who poised a full pail 
 on her head, 
 Thus mused on her prospects in life, 
 
 it is said : 
 " Let me see, — I should think that 
 this milk will procure 
 One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be 
 sure. 
 
 " Well then, — stop a bit, — it must not be 
 
 forgotten. 
 Some of these may be broken, and some may 
 
 be rotten ; 
 But if twenty for accident should be detached, 
 It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be 
 
 hatched. 
 
 " Well, sixty sound eggs, — no, sound chick- 
 ens, I mean : 
 
 Of these some may die, — we'll suppose seven- 
 teen. 
 Seventeen ! not so many, — say ten at the most, 
 Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to 
 roast. 
 
 " But then there's their barley : how much 
 j will they need ? 
 
 Why, they take but one grain at a time when 
 
 they feed, — 
 So that's a mere trifle ; now then, let us see. 
 At a fair market price how much money 
 
 there'll be. 
 
 " Six shillings a pair — five — four — three-and- 
 
 six, 
 To prevent all mistakes, that low price I 
 
 will fix ; 
 
200 
 
 THE WATER-MILL. 
 
 Now what will that make? fifty chickens, 
 
 " Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me 
 
 I said,— 
 
 a cow, 
 
 Fifty times three-and-sixpence — I'll ask 
 
 Thirty geese, and two turkeys, — eight pigs 
 
 Brother Ned. 
 
 and a sow ; 
 
 
 Now if these turn out well, at the end of the 
 
 " 0, but stop, — three-and-sixpence a pair I 
 
 year. 
 
 must sell 'em : 
 
 I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis 
 
 "Well, a pair is a couple, — now then let us tell 
 
 clear." 
 
 em ; 
 A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain !) 
 
 Forgetting her burden, when this she had 
 
 Why, just a score times, and five pair will 
 
 said, 
 
 remain. 
 
 The maid superciliously tossed up her head ; 
 
 
 When, alas for her prospects ! her milk-pail 
 
 " Twenty five pair of fowls — now how tire- 
 
 descended. 
 
 some it is 
 
 And so all her schemes for the future were 
 
 That I can't reckon up so much money as 
 
 ended. 
 
 this ! 
 
 
 Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a 
 
 This moral, I think, may be safely attached ; 
 
 guess,— 
 
 " Reckon not on your chickens before they 
 
 I'll say twenty pounds, and it can't be no less. 
 
 are hatched." 
 
 THJ^ WA TUB-MILL. 
 
 D. C. M CALLUM. 
 
 ^^I^H ! listen to the water-mill, through 
 |ra| all the live-long day, 
 
 ^^•■^ As the clicking of the wheels wears 
 ' ^ hour by hour away ; 
 
 '^ How languidly the autumn wind 
 J doth stir the withered leaves, 
 
 As on the fields the reapers sing, while bind- 
 ing up the sheaves ! 
 A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a 
 
 spell is cast, 
 " The mill will never grind again with water 
 that is past." 
 
 The summer winds revive no more leaves 
 strewn o'er earth and main. 
 
 The sickle never more will reap the yellow 
 garnered grain ; 
 
 The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tran- 
 quil, deep and still. 
 
 But never glideth back again to busy water- 
 mill. 
 
 The solemn proverb speaks to all, with 
 meaning deep and vast, 
 
 " The mill will never grind again with water 
 that is past." 
 
 Oh ! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving 
 heart and true, 
 
 For golden years are fleeting by, and youth 
 is passing too ; 
 
 Ah ! learn to make the most of life, nor lose 
 one happy day. 
 
 For time will ne'er return sweet joys 
 neglected, thrown away ; 
 
 Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kind- 
 ness sow broadcast — 
 
 " The mill will never grind again with water 
 that is past." 
 
 Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have 
 
 swiftly drifted by, 
 Alas ! the good we might have done, all gone 
 
 without a sigh ; 
 Love that we might once have saved by a 
 
 single kindly word. 
 Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, 
 
 perishing unpenned, unheard. 
 Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever 
 
 clasp it fast, 
 "The mill will never grind again with water 
 
 that is past." 
 
TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 
 
 20] 
 
 Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou 
 man of strength and will. 
 
 The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by- 
 clicking water-mill ; 
 
 Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams 
 brightly on thy way, 
 
 For all that thou canst call thine own, lies 
 in the phrase " to-day :" 
 
 Possessions, power, and blooming health, 
 must all be lost at last — 
 
 " The mill will never grind again with water 
 that is past." 
 
 Oh ! love thy God and fellow-man, thyself 
 
 consider last, 
 For come it will when thou must scan dark 
 
 errors of the past ; 
 Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth 
 
 recede from view, 
 And heaven in all its glory shine where all 
 
 is pure and true, 
 Ah ! then thou'lt see more clearly still the 
 
 proverb deep and vast, 
 
 THE WATER-MILL. 
 
 The mill will never grind again with water 
 that is past." 
 
 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 
 
 J. G. HOLLAND. 
 
 JE,AMP, tramp, tramp, the boys are marchiug; how many of them? 
 ^«^ Sixty thousand ! Sixty full regiments, every man of which will, 
 before twelve months shall have completed their course, lie down 
 in the grave of a drunkard ! Every year during the past decade 
 has witnessed the same sacrifice ; and sixty regiments stand behind 
 this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from our children 
 and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — the sounds come to 
 us in the echoes of the army just expired ; tramp, tramp, tramp — rthe 
 earth shakes with the tread of the host now passing ; tramp, tramp, 
 tramp — comes to us from the camp of the recruits. A great tide of life 
 flows resistlessly to its death. What in God's name are they fighting for ? 
 The privilege of pleasing an appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of 
 filling sixty thousand homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public 
 with the burden of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, 
 of detracting from the productive industries of the country, of ruining for- 
 
202 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 
 
 tunes and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, of de- 
 stroying both body and soul in hell before their time. 
 
 The prosperity of the liquor interest, covering every department of it, 
 depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot live without 
 it. It never did live without it. So long as the liquor interest maintains 
 its present prosperous condition, it will cost America the sacrifice 
 of sixty thousand men every year. The effect is inseparable from the 
 cause. The cost to the country of the liquor trafiic is a sum so stu- 
 pendous that any figures which we should dare to give would convict 
 us of trifling. The amount of life absolutely destroyed, the amount 
 of industry sacrificed, the amount of bread transformed into poison, 
 the shame, the unavailing sorrow, the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, 
 the brutality, the wild waste of vital and financial resources, make 
 an aggregate so vast — so incalculably vast, — that the only wonder is that 
 the American people do not rise as one man and declare that this great 
 curse shall exist no longer. 
 
 A hue-and-cry is raised about woman-suffrage, as if any wrong which 
 may be involved in woman's lack of the suffrage could be compared to the 
 wrongs attached to the liquor interest. 
 
 Does any sane woman doubt that women are suffering a thousand 
 times more from rum than from any political disability ? 
 
 The truth is that there is no question before the American people 
 to-day that begins to match in importance the temperance question. The 
 question of American slavery was never anything but a baby by the side 
 of this ; and we prophesy that within ten years, if not within five, the 
 whole country will be awake to it, and divided upon it. The organizations 
 of the liquor interest, the vast funds at its command, the universal feeling 
 among those whose business is pitted against the national prosperity and 
 the public morals— these are enough to show that, upon one side of this 
 matter, at least, the present condition of things and the social and political 
 questions that lie in the immediate future are apprehended. The liquor 
 interest knows there is to be a great struggle and is pr'^'^aring to meet it. 
 People both in this country and in Great Britain are beginning to see the 
 enormity of this business — are beginning to realize that Christian civiliza- 
 tion is actually poisoned at its fountain, and that there can be no purifica- 
 tion of it until the source of the poison is dried up. 
 
 Temperance laws are being passed by the various Legislatures, which 
 they must sustain, or go over, soul and body, to the liquor interest and 
 influence. Steps are being taken on behalf of the public health, morals, 
 and prosperity, which they must approve by voice and act, or they must 
 
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 203 
 
 consent to be left behind and left out. There can be no concession and 
 no compromise on the part of temperance men, and no quarter to the foe. 
 The great curse of our country and our race must be destroyed. 
 
 Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of sixty 
 thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, some are wild 
 with hilarity and dance along the dusty way, some reel along in pitiful 
 weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous impulses on one another, 
 or on the helpless women and children whose destinies are united to theirs, 
 some stop iu wayside debaucheries and infamies for a moment, some go 
 bound in chains from which they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding 
 wrists, and all are poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. 
 
 EXTRACT FROM GRA Y'S ELEGY. 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 I^ULL many a gem of purest ray serene 
 The dark, unfatliomed caves of 
 ocean bear ; 
 Full many a flower is born to blush 
 unseen, 
 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 14 
 
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless 
 
 breast, 
 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 
 
 Some mute, inglorious ^lilton here may rest ; 
 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's 
 
 blood. 
 
204 
 
 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The applause of listening senates to com- 
 mand, 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
 confined ; 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
 throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to 
 hide, 
 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
 
 With incense kindled at the muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the mad'ning crowd's ignoble 
 strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
 way. 
 
 Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
 decked, 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the unlet- 
 tered muse. 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 And many a holy text around she strews. 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look 
 behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature 
 cries. 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale re- 
 late ; 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : — 
 " Oft have we seen him, at the peep ol 
 dawn, 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech. 
 
 That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so 
 
 high. 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he 
 
 stretch, 
 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles 
 
 by. 
 
 " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
 
 Muttering his wayward fancies, he would 
 
 rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. 
 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless 
 
 love. 
 
 " One morn I missed him on the customed 
 hill. 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite 
 tree; 
 Another came, — nor yet beside the rill. 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
 he; 
 
 " The next, with dirges due, in sad array. 
 Slow through the church-way path we saw 
 him borne ; — 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the 
 lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
 thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests liis head upon the lap of earth 
 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
 
 Fair science frowned not on his humble 
 birth. 
 And melancholy marked him for her own. 
 
THE ANGLER. 
 
 205 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 
 He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 
 
 He gained from heaven ('twas all he 
 wished) a friend. 
 
 No further seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread 
 abode, — 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 ^HE breaking waves dashed high 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
 ^5^ And the woods against a stormy sky 
 '^ Their giant branches tossed ; 
 
 I And the heavy night hung dark 
 The hills and waters o'er. 
 When a band of exiles moored their 
 bark 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes. 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came ; 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums, 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ; 
 
 Not as the flying come. 
 
 In silence and in fear ; — 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
 
 With their hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 To tlie anthem of the free. 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam. 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared,— 
 
 This was their welcome home. 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst that pilgrim-band : 
 Why had they come to wither there. 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine ! 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground. 
 
 The soil where first they trod ; 
 They have left unstained what there they 
 found, — 
 
 Freedom, to worship God. 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 CHALKHILL. 
 
 THE gallant fisher's life, 
 It is the best of any ! 
 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife! 
 And 'tis beloved by many ; 
 Other joys 
 Are but toys; 
 
 Only this 
 Lawful is ; 
 For our skill 
 Breeds no ill. 
 But content and pleasure. 
 
206 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 In a morning, up we rise, 
 
 When we please to walk abroad 
 
 Ere Aurora's peeping; 
 
 For our recreation. 
 
 Drink a cup to wasli our eyes, 
 
 In the fields is our abode, 
 
 Leave the sluggard sleeping ; 
 
 Full of delectation, 
 
 Then we go 
 
 Where, in a brook, 
 
 ' the gallant fisher's life, 
 It is the best of any !" 
 
 To and fro. 
 With our knacks 
 At our backs. 
 To such streams 
 As the Thames, 
 If we have the leisure. 
 
 With a hook,— 
 Or a lake, — 
 Fish we take ; 
 There we sit, 
 For a bit. 
 Till we fish entangle. 
 
IMMORTALITY. 
 
 207 
 
 We have gentles in a horn, 
 
 We have paste and worms too ; 
 We can watch both night and morn, 
 Suffer rain and storms too ; 
 None do here 
 Use to swear: 
 Oaths do fray 
 Fish away ; 
 We sit still. 
 Watch our quill : 
 Fishers must not wrangle. 
 
 If the sun's excessive heat 
 Make our bodies swelter. 
 To an osier hedge we get, 
 For a friendly shelter ; 
 Where, in a dike. 
 Perch or pike, 
 
 Roach or dace. 
 We do chase, 
 Bleak or gudgeon. 
 Without grudging ; 
 We are still contented. 
 
 Or we sometimes pass an hour 
 
 Under a green willow, 
 That defends us from a shower, 
 Making earth our pillow ; 
 Where we may 
 Think and pray. 
 Before death 
 Stops our breath ; 
 Other joys 
 Are but toys. 
 And to be lamented. 
 
 UniORTALITY 
 
 MASSILLON. 
 
 ^F we wholly perish with the body, what an imposture is this whole 
 system of laws, manners, and usages, on which human society is 
 founded ! If we wholly perish with the body, these maxims of 
 charity, patience, justice, honor, gratitude, and friendship, which 
 
 f sages have taught and good men have practised, what are they but 
 empty words possessing no real and binding efficacy? "Why should 
 we heed them, if in this life only we have hope? Speak not of duty. 
 What can we owe to the dead, to the Hving, to ourselves, if all are or 
 loill he, nothing? "Who shall dictate our duty, if not our own pleasures, — 
 if not our own passions ? Speak not of morality. It is a mere chimera, 
 a bugbear of human invention, if retribution terminate with the grave. 
 
 If we must wholly perish, what to us are the sweet ties of kindred ? 
 "What the tender names of parent, child, sister, brother, husband, wife, or 
 friend ? The characters of a drama are not more illusive. We have no 
 ancestors, no descendants ; since succession cannot be predicated of nothing- 
 ness. Would we honor the illustrious dead ? How absurd to honor that 
 which has no existence ! W^ould we take thought for posterity ? How 
 frivolous to concern ourselves for those whose end, like our own, must soon 
 be annihilation ! Have we made a promise ? How can it bind nothing to 
 nothing ? Perjury is but a jest. The last injunctions of the dying, what 
 
208 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 sanctity have they, more than the last sound of a chord that is snapped, of 
 an instrument that is broken ? 
 
 To sum up ail : If we must wholly perish, then is obedience to the laws 
 but an insane servitude; rulers and magistrates are but the phantoms 
 which popular imbecility has raised up ; justice is an unwarrantable in- 
 fringement upon the liberty of men, — an imposition, a usurpation ; the law 
 of marriage is a vain scruple; modesty a prejudice; honor and probity, 
 such stuff as dreams are made of; and incests, murders, parricides, the 
 most heartless cruelties and the blackest crimes, are but the legitimate 
 sports of man's irresponsible nature ; while the harsh epithets attached to 
 them are merely such as the policy of legislators has invented, and imposed 
 upon the credulity of the people. 
 
 Here is the issue to which the vaunted philosophy of unbelievers must 
 inevitably lead. Here is that social felicity, that sway of reason, that 
 emancipation from error, of which they eternally prate, as the fruit of 
 their doctrines. Accept their maxims, and the whole world falls back into 
 a frightful chaos ; and all the relations of life are confounded; and all ideas 
 of vice and virtue are reversed ; and the most inviolable laws of society 
 vanish ; and all moral discipline perishes ; and the government of states 
 and nations has no longer any cement to uphold it ; and all the harmony 
 of the body politic becomes discord ; and the human race is no more than 
 an assemblage of reckless barbarians, shameless, remorseless, brutal, de- 
 naturalized, with no other law than force, no other check than passion, no 
 other bond than irreligion, no other God than self! Such would be the 
 world which impiety would make. Such would be this world, were a belief 
 in God and immortality to die out of the human heart. 
 
 THE TEMPEST. 
 
 J. T. FIELDS. 
 
 E were crowded in the cabin, 
 
 Not a soul would daro to sleep,- 
 |sMfc It was midnight on the waters 
 ^^^'^ And a storm upon the deep. 
 
 'T is a fearful thing in winter 
 To be shattered by the blast, 
 
 And to hear the rattling trumpet 
 Thunder, " Cut away the mast !" 
 
 So we shuddered there in silence, — 
 For the stoutest held his breath, 
 
 While the hungry sea was roaring. 
 And the breakers talked with Death. 
 
 As thus we sat in darkness, 
 Each one busy in his prayers, 
 
 " We are lost !" the captain shouted 
 As he staggered down the stairs. 
 
OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 
 
 209 
 
 But his little daughter whispered, 
 As she took his icy hand, 
 
 " la n't God upon the ocean 
 Just the same as on the land ?" 
 
 Then we kissed the little maiden, 
 And we spoke in better cheer, 
 
 And we anchored safe in harbor 
 When the morn was shining clear. 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 UR birth ; 
 
 3 but 
 ting ; 
 
 sleep and a forget- 
 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's 
 
 star. 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 And Cometh from afar. 
 Not in entire forgetfulness. 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home. 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy ; 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,- 
 
 He sees it in his joy. 
 The youth who daily farther from the east 
 Must travel, still is nature's priest. 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended : 
 At length the man perceives it die away. 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Oh joy ! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live. 
 That nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction : not, indeed, 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest, — 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. 
 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his 
 breast, — 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanishings. 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized. 
 High instincts before which our mortal nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised, — 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections. 
 Which, be they what they may. 
 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing, 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. 
 
 To perish never, — 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor. 
 
 Nor man nor boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather. 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither, — 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 And see the children sport upon the shore. 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 
 
 OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 
 
 -^^ 
 
 SLD Master Brown brought his ferule 
 down, 
 And his face looked angry and 
 red. 
 
 " Go, seat you there, now, Anthony Blair, 
 Along with the girls," he said. 
 
 Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, 
 With his head down on his breast, 
 
210 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet 
 
 That he loved, of all, the best. 
 And Anthony Blair, seemed whimpering 
 there, 
 
 But the rogue only made believe ; 
 For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful 
 curls. 
 And ogled them over his sleeve. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 T. BUCHANAN READ 
 
 ]Y soul to-day 
 1^^ Is far away 
 
 Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 
 My winged boat, 
 A bird afloat, 
 
 Swims round the purple peaks remote : — 
 
 Round purple peaks 
 
 It sails, and seeks 
 Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 
 
 Where high rocks throw, 
 
 Through deeps below, 
 A duplicated golden glow. 
 
 Far, vague, and dim. 
 
 The mountains swim ; 
 "While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
 
 With outstretched hands, 
 
 The gray smoke stands 
 O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 
 
 Here Ischia smiles 
 
 O'er liquid miles ; 
 And yonder, bluest of the isles, 
 
 Calm Capri waits. 
 
 Her sapphire gates 
 Beguiling to her bright estates. 
 
 I heed not, if 
 
 My rippling skiff 
 Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; — 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Under the walls of Paradise. 
 
 Under the walls 
 
 Where swells and falls 
 The bay's deep breast at intervals 
 
 At peace I lie. 
 
 Blown softly by, 
 A cloud upon this liquid sky. 
 
 The day, so mild. 
 
 Is Heaven's own child. 
 With earth and ocean reconciled ; — 
 
 The airs I feel 
 
 Around me steal 
 Are murmuring to the murmuring keeh 
 
 Over the rail 
 
 My hand I trail 
 Wichin the shadow of the sail, 
 
 A joy intense. 
 
 The cooling sense 
 Glides down my drowsy indolence. 
 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My spirit lies 
 Where summer sings and never dies. — 
 
 O'erveiled with vines. 
 
 She glows and shines 
 Among her future oil and wines. 
 
 Iler children, hid 
 
 The cliffe amid. 
 Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; 
 
 Or down the walls, 
 
 With tipsy calls. 
 Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 
 
 The fisher's child, 
 
 With tresses wild, 
 Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled. 
 
 With glowing lips 
 
 Sings as she skips, 
 Or gazes at the far off ships. 
 
 Yon deep bark goes 
 
 Where traffic blows, 
 From lands of sun to lands of snows ;— 
 
 This happier one, 
 
 Its course is run 
 From lands of snow to lands of sun. 
 
EUROPEAN GUIDES. 211 
 
 happy ship, 
 To rise and dip, 
 "With the blue crystal at your lip ! 
 O happy crew, 
 
 No more, no more 
 The worldly shore 
 Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 
 With dreamful eyes 
 
 My heart with you ' My spirit lies 
 
 Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! Under the walls of Paradise ! 
 
 EUROPEAN GUIDES. 
 
 S. C. CLEMENS. 
 
 ^UROPEAN guides know about enough English to tangle everything 
 *^ up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. They know 
 their story by heart, — the history of every statue, painting, cathe- 
 dral, or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it 
 as a parrot would, — and if you interrupt, and throw them off the 
 track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they 
 are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their 
 bursts of admiration. 
 
 It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what 
 prompts children to say " smart " things, and do absurd ones, and in other 
 ways "show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn 
 out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. 
 Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, 
 every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect 
 ecstacies of admiration ! He gets so that he could not by a,ny possibility 
 live in a soberer atmosphere. 
 
 After we discovered this, we n&oer went into ecstacies any more, — ^we 
 never admired anything, — we never showed any but impassible faces and 
 stupid indifference in the face of the sublimest wonders a guide had to dis- 
 play. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it 
 ever since. We have made some of those people savage, at times, but we, 
 have never lost our serenity. 
 
 The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep his 
 countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, ajid throw more imbe- 
 cility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural 
 to him. 
 
 The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, 
 because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and 
 emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as 
 
212 EUROPEAN GUIDES. 
 
 if he liad swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation, — full of 
 impatience. He said : — 
 
 " Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come ! I show you ze letter writing 
 by Christopher Colombo! — write it himself! — write it wis his own hand I 
 — come !" 
 
 He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling 
 of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread 
 before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped 
 the parchment with his finger : — 
 
 What I tell you, genteelmen I Is it not so ? See ! handwriting 
 Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself!" 
 
 We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor examined the docu- 
 ment very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any 
 show of interest, — ■ 
 
 *' Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name of the 
 party who wrote this ?" 
 
 " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" 
 
 Another deliberate examination. 
 
 " Ah, — did he write it himself, or, — or how ?" 
 
 " He write it himself ! — Christopher Colombo ! he's own handwriting, 
 write by himself!" 
 
 Then the doctor laid the document down and said, — " Why, I have seen 
 boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that." 
 
 " But zis is ze great Christo— ■" 
 
 " I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now 
 you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are 
 not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship 
 of real merit, trot them out! — and if you haven't, drive on !" 
 
 We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made 
 one more venture. Her had something which he thought would overcome 
 U8. He said, — 
 
 " Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us ! I show you beautiful, oh, mag- 
 nificent bust Christopher Colombo ! — splendid, grand, magnificent !" 
 
 He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it ivas beautiful, — and 
 sprang back and struck an attitude : — 
 
 " Ah, look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christopher Co- 
 lombo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal !" 
 
 The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occasions : — 
 
 " Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was ?" 
 
 " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" 
 
EUROPEAN GUIDES. £13 
 
 "Christopher Colombo, — the great Christopher Colombo. Well, what 
 did he do ?" 
 
 "Discover America! — discover America, oh, ze devil!" 
 
 " Discover America ? No, — that statement will hardly wash. We 
 are just from America ourselves. We heard nothing about it. Christo- 
 pher Colombo, — pleasant name, — is — is he dead ?" 
 
 " Oh, corpo di Baccho ! — three hundred year !" 
 
 "What did he die of ?" 
 
 " I do not know. I cannot tell," 
 
 " Small-pox, think ?" 
 
 " I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he die of." 
 
 " Measles, likely ?" 
 
 "Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of something." 
 
 " Parents living ?" 
 
 " Im-posseeble ! 
 
 " Ah, — which is the bust an(i which is the pedestal ?" 
 
 " Santa Maria ! — zis ze bust I — zis ze pedestal !" 
 
 " Ah, I see, I see, — happy combination, — very happy combination 
 indeed. Is — is this the first time this gentleman was ever on a bust ?" 
 
 That joke was lost on the foreigner, — guides cannot master the sub- 
 tleties of the American joke. 
 
 We have made it interesting for this Eoman guide. Yesterday 
 we spent three or four hours in the Vatican again, that wonderful 
 world of curiosities. We came very near expressing interest sometimes, 
 even admiration. It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. 
 Nobody else ever did, in the Vatican museums. The guide was bewildered, 
 nonplussed. He walked his legs off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary 
 things, and exhausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure ; we 
 never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved what he con- 
 sidered to be his greatest wonder till the last, — a royal Egyptian mummy, 
 the best preserved in the world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so 
 sure, this time, that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him : — 
 
 " See, genteelmen ! — Mummy ! Mummy !" 
 
 The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as ever. 
 
 " Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I understand you to say the gentleman's 
 name was ?" 
 
 " Name ? — he got no name ! — mummy ! — 'Gyptian mummy I" 
 
 " Yes, yes. Born here ?" 
 
 " No. 'Gyptian mummy." 
 
 " Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ?" 
 
214 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 Playing us 
 Trying to 
 
 "No! — not Frenchman, not Roman! — born in Egypta !" 
 
 " Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. Foreign locality, 
 likely. Mummy, — mummy. How calm he is, how self-possessed ! Is — 
 ah ! — is he dead ?" 
 
 "Oh, sacre bleu! been dead three thousan' year !" 
 
 The doctor turned on him savagely : — 
 
 " Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as this ? 
 for Chinamen because we are strangers and trying to learn ! 
 impose your vile, second-hand carcasses on us ! Thunder and lightning ! 
 I've a mind to — to — if you've got a nice fresh corpse, fetch him out ! — or, 
 by George, we'll brain you!" 
 
 We make it exceedingly interesting for this Frenchman. However, 
 he has paid us back, partly, without knowing it. He came to the hotel 
 this morning to ask if we were up, and he endeavored, as well as he could 
 to describe us, so that the landlord would know which persons he meant. 
 He finished with the casual remark that we were lunatics. The observa- 
 tion was so innocent and so honest that it amounted to a very good thing 
 for a guide to say. 
 
 Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspecting, long-suffering, 
 subj ect we have had yet. We shall be sorry to part with him. We have 
 enjoyed his society very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are 
 harassed with doubts. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 ^MBO him, who, in the love of Nature, 
 
 ^Mm toids 
 
 f' Communion with her visible forms, 
 l» she speaks 
 
 , A various language: for his gayer 
 
 ^ hours 
 
 J She has a voice of gladness and a 
 
 smile 
 And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings with a mild 
 And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When 
 
 thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 •Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow 
 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
 
 Go forth under the open sky and list 
 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all 
 
 around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and 
 
 thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many 
 
 tears. 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 
' To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds 
 CommunioQ with her visible forms, she speakc 
 
 A irarinna lancrnaae' 
 
TIIANATOrSIS. 
 
 215 
 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, 
 
 shall claim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements ; 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock. 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude 
 
 swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The 
 
 oak 
 
 THE VE^'EEABLE WOODS. 
 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 
 
 mould. 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou 
 
 wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 
 
 down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world, — with 
 
 The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the 
 
 good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, 
 Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the 
 
 vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured 
 
 round all, 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 1) 
 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 
 Of the great tomb of man! The golden 
 
 sun. 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that 
 
 tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
 Save his own dashings. — Yet the dead are 
 
 there ! 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them 
 
 down 
 In their last sleep,— the dead reign there 
 
 alone ! 
 So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou with- 
 draw 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure? The gay will 
 
 laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of 
 
 care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall 
 
 leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall 
 
 come 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long 
 
 train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who 
 
 goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron and 
 
 maid, 
 The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles 
 And beauty of its innocent age cut off — 
 Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side 
 By those who in their turn shall follow 
 them. 
 
 So live that when thy summons comes to 
 join 
 The innumerable caravan that moves 
 To the pale realms of shade, where each shall 
 
 take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
 
216 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 
 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 
 soothed 
 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his coucli 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. 
 
 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 ffijfgsN Broad Street buildings (on a winter 
 
 night), 
 ^\jM| Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight 
 Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing 
 His feet rolled up in fleecy hose, 
 J With t'other he'd beneath his nose 
 The Public Ledger, in whose columns 
 grubbing. 
 He noted all the sales of hops. 
 Ships, shops, and slops ; 
 Gum, galls, and groceries ; ginger, gin. 
 Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin ; 
 Wlien lo ! a decent personage in black. 
 Entered and most politely said — 
 
 " Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly 
 
 track 
 To the King's Head, 
 And left your door ajar, which I 
 Observed in passing by ; 
 
 And thought it neighborly to give you 
 notice." 
 "Ten thousand thanks!" the gouty man 
 
 replied ; 
 " You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm 
 tied ; — 
 
 " Ten thousand thanks how very few do get. 
 In time of danger. 
 
 Such kind attention from a stranger ! 
 Assuredly, that fellow's throat is 
 Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; 
 He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf,) 
 That there's no soul at home except my- 
 self." 
 
 "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking 
 grave,) 
 
 " Then he's a double knave: 
 He knows that rogues and thieves by scores 
 Nightly beset unguarded doors ; 
 And see, how easily might one 
 
 Of these domestic foes, 
 
 Even beneath your very nose. 
 Perform his knavish tricks: 
 Enter your room as I have done. 
 Blow out your candles — thus — and thus — 
 Pocket your silver candlesticks : 
 
 And — walk off — thus " — 
 So said, so done ; he made no more remark 
 
 Nor waited for replies, 
 
 But marched off with his prize, 
 Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. 
 
 THE PAUPERS DEATH-BED. 
 
 MRS. C. B. SOUTHEY. 
 
 iipREAD softly, bow the head ; 
 
 MS In reverent silence bow ; 
 
 reii? No passing bell doth toll, 
 
 Yet an immortal soul 
 
 Is passing now. 
 
 I- Stranger ! however great. 
 
 With lowly reverence bow 
 There's one in that poor shed, 
 One by that paltry bed, 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 Lo ! Death doth keep his state j 
 
 Enter — no crowds attend ; 
 
 Enter — no guards defend 
 This palace gate. 
 
 That pavement, damp and cold, 
 
 No smiling courtiers tread ; 
 One silent woman stands. 
 Lifting with meagre hands 
 A dying head. 
 
MOUSE-HUNTING. 
 
 217 
 
 No mingling voices sound — 
 
 An infant wail alone ; 
 A sob suppressed — again 
 That short, deep gasp, and then 
 
 The parting groan. 
 
 Oh, change ! — Oh, wondrous change 
 Burst are the prison bars— 
 
 This moment there, so low, 
 So agonized, and now 
 Beyond the stars ! 
 
 Oh, change — stupendous change I 
 
 There lies the soulless clod ! 
 The sun eternal breaks — 
 The new immortal wakes — 
 Wakes with his God 1 
 
 MO USE-HUNTING. 
 
 B. P. SHILLABER. 
 
 ppT was midnight, deep and still, in the mansion of Mrs. Partington, — ^as 
 
 fs^ it was, very generally, about town, — on a cold night in March. So 
 profound was the silence that it awakened Mrs. P., and she raised 
 * herself upon her elbow to listen. No sound greeted her ears, save 
 1 the tick of the old wooden clock in the next room, which stood there 
 ^ in the dark, like an old crone, whispering and gibbering to itself. 
 Mrs. Partington relapsed beneath the folds of the blankets, and had one 
 eye again well-coaxed towards the realm of dreams, while the other was 
 holding by a very frail tenure upon the world of reality, when her ear was 
 saluted by the nibble of a mouse, directly beneath her chamber window, 
 and the mouse was evidently gnawing her chamber carpet. 
 
 Now, if there is an animal in the catalogue of creation that she dreads 
 and detests, it is a mouse ; and she has a vague and indefinite idea that 
 rats and mice wp-re made with especial regard to her individual torment. 
 As she heard the sound of the nibble by the window, she arose again upon 
 her elbow, and cried " Shoo ! Shoo !" energetically, several times. The 
 sound ceased, and she fondly fancied that her trouble was over. Again 
 she laid herself away as carefully as she would have lain eggs at forty-five 
 cents a dozen, when— m66^^, nibble, nibble ! — she once more heard the 
 odious sound by the window. " Shoo !" cried the old lady again, at the 
 same time hurling her shoe at the spot from whence the sound proceeded, 
 where the little midnight marauder was carrying on his depredations. 
 
 A Hght burned upon the hearth — she couldn't sleep without a light, — 
 and she strained her eyes in vain to catch a glimpse of her tormentor play- 
 ing about amid the shadows of the room. All again was silent, and the 
 clock, giving an admonitory tremble, struck twelve. Midnight! and Mrs. 
 Partington counted the tintinabulous knots as they ran ofi" the reel of Time, 
 with a saddened heart. 
 
218 MOUSE-HUNTING. 
 
 Nibble, nibble, nibble! — again that sound. The old lady sighed as she 
 hurled the other shoe at her invisible annoyance. It was all without avail, 
 and "shooing" was bootless, for the sound came again to her wakeful ear. 
 At this point her patience gave out, and, conquering her dread of the cold, 
 she arose and opened the door of her room that led to a corridor, when, 
 taking the light in one hand, and a shoe in the other, she made the circuit 
 of the room, and explored every nook and cranny in which a mouse could 
 ensconse himself. She looked under the bed, and under the old chest of 
 drawers, and under the wash-stand, and " shooed " until she could "shoo " 
 no more. 
 
 The reader's own imagination, if he has an imagination skilled in limning, 
 must draw the picture of the old lady while upon this exploring expedition, 
 " accoutred as she was," in search of the ridiculous mouse. We have our 
 own opinion upon the subject, and must say, — with all due deference to 
 the years and virtues of Mrs. P., and with all regard for personal attrac- 
 tions very striking in one of her years, — we should judge that she cut a 
 very queer figure, indeed. 
 
 Satisfying herself that the mouse must have left the room, she closed 
 the door, deposited the light upon the hearth, and again sought repose. 
 How gratefully a warm bed feels, when exposure to the night air has 
 chilled us, as we crawl to its enfolding covert ! How we nestle down, like 
 an infant by its mother's breast, and own no joy superior to that we feel, — 
 coveting no regal luxury while revelling in the elysium of feathers ! So 
 felt Mrs. P., as she again ensconsed herself in bed. The clock in the next 
 room struck one. 
 
 She was again near the attainment of the state when dreams are rife, 
 when, close by her chamber-door, outside she heard that hateful nibble 
 renewed which had marred her peace before. With a groan she arose, and, 
 seizing her lamp, she opened the door, and had the satisfaction to hear the 
 mouse drop, step by step, until he reached the floor below. Convinced that 
 she was now rid of him for the night, she returned to bed, and ad- 
 dressed herself to sleep. The room grew dim ; in the weariness of her 
 spirit, the chest of drawers in the corner was fast losing its identity and 
 becoming something else ; in a moment more — nibble, nibble, nibble ! again 
 outside of the chamber-door, as the clock in the next room struck two. 
 
 Anger, disappointment, desperation, fired her mind with a new deter- 
 mination. Once more she arose, but this time she put on a shoe ! — her 
 dexter shoe. Ominous movement ! It is said that when a woman wets 
 her finger, fleas had better flee. The star of that mouse's destiny was set- 
 ting, and was now near the horizon. She opened the door quickly, and, 
 
DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. 219 
 
 as she listened a moment, she heard him drop again from stair to stair, on 
 a speedy passage down. 
 
 The entry below was closely secured, and no door was open to admit 
 of his escape. This she knew, and a triumphant gleam shot athwart her 
 features, revealed by the rays of the lamp. She went slowly down the 
 stairs, until she arrived at the floor below, where, snugly in a corner, with 
 his little bead-like black eyes looking up at her roguishly, was the gnawer of 
 her carpet, and the annoyer of her comfort. She moved towards him, and 
 he not coveting the closer acquaintance, darted by her. She pursued him to 
 the other end of the entry, and again he passed by her. Again and again she 
 pursued him, with no better success. At last, when in most doubt as to which 
 side would conquer, Fortune perched upon the banister, turned the scale in 
 favor of Mrs. P. The mouse, in an attempt to run by her, presumed too 
 much upon former success. He came too near her upraised foot. It fell 
 upon his musipilar beauties, like an avalanche of snow upon a new tile, 
 and he was dead forever ! Mrs. Partington gazed upon him as he lay 
 before her. Though she was glad at the result, she could but sigh at 
 the necessity which impelled the violence; but for which the mouse might 
 have long continued a blessing to the society in which he moved. 
 
 Slowly and sadly she marched up stairs, 
 
 With her shoe all sullied and gory ; 
 And the watch, who saw't through the front door squares, 
 
 Told us this part of the story. 
 
 That mouse did not trouble Mrs. Partington again that night, and the 
 old clock in the next room struck three before sleep again visited the eye- 
 lids of the relict of Corporal Paul. 
 
 DOING GOOD, TRUE HAPPINESS. 
 
 CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 ^§OULDST thou from sorrow find a 
 sweet relief? 
 Or is thy heart oppress'd with 
 ..».>. woes untold ? 
 
 f Balm wouldst thou gather from 
 
 ¥ corroding grief? 
 
 j Pour blessings round thee like a 
 
 shower of gold. 
 *Tis when the rose is wrapp'd in many a fold 
 
 Close to its heart, the worm is wasting there 
 Its life and beauty ; not when, all un- 
 roll'd. 
 Leaf after leaf, its bosom, rich and fair, 
 Breathes freely its perfumes throughout the 
 ambient air. 
 
 Wake, thou that sleepest in enchanted 
 bowers. 
 
220 
 
 TO THE SILENT RIVER. 
 
 Lest these lost years should haunt thee on 
 the night 
 When death is waiting for thy number'd hours 
 To take their swift and everlasting flight ; 
 "Wake, ere the earth-born charm unnerve 
 thee quite, 
 And be thy thoughts to work divine address'd ; 
 Do something — do it soon — with all thy 
 might ; 
 An angel's wing would droop if long at rest, 
 And God himself, inactive, were no longer 
 blest. 
 
 Some high or humble enterprise of good 
 
 Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, 
 Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food. 
 And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. 
 Pray Heaven for firmness thy whole soul 
 to bind 
 To this thy purpose — to begin, pursue. 
 
 With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely 
 kind ; 
 Strength to complete, and with delight review. 
 And grace to give the praise where all is ever 
 due. 
 
 No good of worth sublime will Heaven permit 
 
 To light on man as from the passing air ; 
 The lamp of genius, though by nature lit. 
 If not protected, pruned, and fed with care. 
 Soon dies, or runs to waste with fitful 
 glare ; 
 And learning is a plant that spreads and towers 
 
 Slow as Columbia's aloe, proudly rare. 
 That 'mid gay thousands, with the suns and 
 
 showers 
 Of half a century, grows alone before it 
 flowers. 
 
 Has immortality of name been given 
 
 To them that idly worship hills and groveSj 
 
 And burn sweet incense to the queen of hea- 
 ven? 
 Did Newton learn from fancy, as it roves, 
 To measure worlds, and follow where each 
 
 Did Howard gain renown that shall not cease, 
 
 By wanderings wild that nature's pilgrim 
 
 loves ? 
 
 Or did Paul gain heaven's glory and its peace 
 
 By musing o'er the bright and tranquil isles 
 
 of Greece? 
 
 Beware lest thou, from sloth, that would ap- 
 pear 
 But lowliness of mind, with joy proclaim 
 Thy want of worth, — a charge thou couldst 
 not hear 
 From other lips, without a blush of shame. 
 Or pride indignant ; then be thine the 
 blame. 
 And make thyself of worth ; and thus enlist 
 The smiles of all the good, the dear to fame ; 
 'Tis infamy to die and not be miss'd, 
 Or let all soon forget that thou didst e'er exist. 
 
 Rouse to some work of high and holy love, 
 And thou an angel's happiness shalt know ; 
 
 Shalt bless the earth while in the world above ; 
 The good begun by thee shall onward flow 
 In many a branching stream, and wider 
 grow ; 
 
 The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours, 
 Thy hand, unsparing and unwearied, sow 
 
 Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flow'rs, 
 
 And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's 
 immortal bowers. 
 
 TO THE SILENT RIVER. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ^IVER that in silence windest 
 ^^ Through the meadows bright and 
 ~ '\, free, 
 
 "Till at length thy rest thou findest 
 In the bosom of the sea ! 
 
 Four long years of mingled feeling. 
 Half in rest, and half in strife, 
 
 I have seen thy waters stealing 
 Onward, like the stream of life. 
 
TO THE SILENT RIVER 
 
 Thou hast taught me, Silent River ! 
 
 Many a lesson deep and long ; 
 Thou hast been a generous giver ; 
 
 I can give thee but a song. 
 
 Oft in sadness, and in illness 
 
 I have watched thy current glide, 
 
 Till the beauty of its stillness 
 Overflowed me, like a tide, 
 
222 
 
 SONG OF THE BROOK. 
 
 And in bitter hours and brighter, 
 When 1 saw thy waters gleam, 
 
 I have felt my heart beat lighter. 
 And leap forward with thy stream. 
 
 Not for this alone I love thee, 
 Nor because thy waves of blue 
 
 From celestial seas above thee 
 Take their own celestial hue. 
 
 Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 
 And thy waters disappear, 
 
 Friends I love have dwelt beside thee. 
 And have made thy margin dear. 
 
 Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 
 
 How like quivering flames they start. 
 When I fan the living embers 
 
 On the hearth-stone of my heart ! 
 
 'Tis for this, then, Silent River ! 
 
 That my spirit leans to thee ; 
 Thou hast been a generous giver. 
 
 Take this idle song from me. 
 
 SONG OF THE BROOK. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ^JP COME from haunts of coot and hern 
 |M I make a sudden sally 
 ^p And sparkle out among the fern, 
 4vh To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By thirty hills I hurry down, 
 Or slip between the ridges. 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town, 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 To join the brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 
 I bubl)le into eddying bays, 
 I babble on the ])ebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 By many a field and fallow. 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
 To join the brimming river ; 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out. 
 With here a blossom sailing. 
 
 And here and there a lusty trout, 
 And here and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and there a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel 
 With many a silvery waterbreak 
 
 Above the golden gravel, 
 
CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. 223 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow | I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 
 To join the brimming river, ' Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on forever. I murmur under moon and star.s 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; 
 ' I slide by hazel covers ; 
 I love the sweet forget-me-nots 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
 Among rny skimming swallows ; 
 
 In brambly wilder 
 I linger by my shingly bars ; 
 I loiter round my 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go, 
 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 CAUGHT IJS^ THE QUICKSAND. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 PpT sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, walking on 
 ^ the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for 
 2k 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 
 
 'X no longer ; it is glue. 
 
 si 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 strand is smooth and tran- 
 quil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes 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 pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to 
 get nearer the upland. 
 
 He is not anxious. Anxious about what ? Only he feels, somehow, as 
 if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. 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 
 
224 
 
 THE ORIENT. 
 
 medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He 
 throws off his load if he has one, Hghtens 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 handkerchief ; 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, implacable, 
 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 slowly into the earth while you look upon 
 the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, 
 the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, 
 to creep ; every movement 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 this 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. 
 
 THE ORIENT. 
 
 FEOM BYRON S " BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 'now ye the land where the cypress 
 and myrtle 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done 
 in their clime, 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the 
 love of the turtle. 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden 
 to crime ? 
 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 
 ever shine : 
 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed 
 
 with perfume. 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in hf r 
 
 bloom! 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is 
 
 mute. 
 Where tints of the earth, and the hues of the 
 
 sky, 
 In color though varied, in beauty may vie. 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
 
THE MORAVIAN REQUIEM. 
 
 225 
 
 "Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 
 
 twine, 
 And all, save the spirit- of man, is divine ? 
 'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of 
 
 the Sun, — 
 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children 
 
 have done? 
 0, wild as the accents of lover's farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear and the tales 
 
 which they tell ! 
 
 ABOU BEN ADEEM. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 ^^BOU Ben Adhem,— may his tribe in- 
 ' R»„ crease,— 
 
 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, 
 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 writesi thou ?" The vision raised its 
 
 head. 
 And with a look made all of sweet accord. 
 
 Answered, " The names of those who love 
 
 the Lord." 
 " And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not 
 
 so," 
 Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
 But cheerily 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 bless'd ; 
 And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 
 
 THE MORA VI AN REQUIEM. 
 
 HARRIET B. M KEEVER. 
 
 It is customary with the Moravians at Bethleliem, Pa., to announce the decease of a member of their com- 
 munion, from tlie tower of the church adjoining the cemetery, by three appropriate strains of melody rendered 
 by a trombone band. The closing strains designate the age and se.\ of the departed one. I heard it for the first 
 time at sunset, in the cemetery, unexpectedly ; the efiect was indescribable ; the custom is beautiful, sweetly ex- 
 pressive of loving brotherhood. 
 
 |B^T twilight hour, when mem'ry's power 
 ^fe Wakes up the visions of the buried 
 
 past, 
 . From earth retreating, soft silence 
 i greeting, 
 
 J I wandered, where the weary rest 
 at last. 
 
 The sun retiring, sad thoughts inspiring, 
 
 I mused in solemn silence 'mid the 
 dead; 
 When softly stealing, death's call reveal- 
 ing. 
 Sounds of low wailing from the tower 
 
226 
 
 THE MISER. 
 
 First faintly swelling, the tidings telling, 
 lu notes of tenderest sorrow, one has gone ; 
 
 We've lost another, a youthful brother ; 
 Mourn for a home bereft, a spirit flown. 
 
 The notes of anguish first seem to lan- 
 guish, 
 Like to the moaning of a parting sigh ; 
 Then raptured swelling, a tale they're tell- 
 ing, 
 Of triumph over death, of victory. 
 
 "Farewell to sorrow ! TU'wake to-morrow, 
 When the long slumber of the tomb ia 
 o'er; 
 Then rising glorious, o'er death victorious, 
 We'll meet, we'll meet, where partings are 
 no more." 
 
 Thus wails the trombone, and as its soft 
 tone 
 Breathes a sad requiem for death's fre- 
 quent calls, 
 'Tis sweet to render this tribute tender, 
 
 Whene'er a brother from among us 
 falls. 
 
 THE MISER. 
 
 GEORGE W. CUTTER. 
 
 ^^N old man sat by a fireless hearth, 
 i^ Though the night was dark and 
 chill, 
 And mournfully over the frozen 
 earth 
 The wind sobbed loud and shrill. 
 His locks were gray, and his eyes were 
 gray, 
 And dim, but not with tears ; 
 And his skeleton form had wasted away 
 With penury, more than years. 
 
 A rush-light was casting its fitful glare 
 
 O'er the damp and dingy walls. 
 Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair. 
 
 And the venomous spider crawls ; 
 But the meanest thing in this lonesome room 
 
 Was the raiser worn and bare, 
 Where he sat like a ghost in an empty tomb. 
 
 On his broken and only chair. 
 
 He had bolted the window and barred the 
 door. 
 
 And every nook had scanned ; 
 And felt the fastening o'er and o'er. 
 
 With his cold and skinny hand ; 
 And yet he sat gazing intently round, 
 
 And trembled with silent fear. 
 And started and shuddered at every sound 
 
 That fell on his coward ear. 
 
 " Ha, ha !" laughed the miser: " I'm safe at 
 last 
 
 From this night so cold and drear. 
 From the drenching rain and driving 
 blast. 
 
 With my gold and treasures here. 
 I am cold and wet with the icy rain. 
 
 And my health is bad, 'tis true ; 
 Yet if I sliould light that fire again. 
 
 It would cost me a cent or two. 
 
THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. 
 
 227 
 
 " But I'll take a sip of the precious wine : 
 
 It will banish my cold and fears: 
 It was given long since by a friend of mine — 
 
 lie turned to an old worm-eaten chest, 
 
 And cautiously raised the lid, 
 And then it shone like the clouds of the 
 
 I have kept it for many years." 
 So he drew a flask from a mouldy nook, 
 
 And drank of its ruby tide ; 
 And his eyes grew bright with each draught 
 he took, 
 
 And his bosom swelled with pride. 
 
 west, 
 With the sun in their splendor hid : 
 And gem after gem, in precious store, 
 
 Are raised with exulting smile ; 
 And he counted and counted them o'er and 
 o'er. 
 
 " Let me see ; let me see !" said the miser 
 
 In many a glittering pile. 
 
 then, 
 
 " 'Tis some sixty years or more 
 Since the happy hour when I began 
 
 To heap up the glittering store ; 
 And well have I sped with my anxious toil. 
 
 Why comes the flush to his pallid brow. 
 
 While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? 
 Why writhes he thus in such torture 
 
 now? 
 What was there in the wine ? 
 
 As my crowded chest will show : 
 I've more than would ransom a kingdom's 
 
 He strove his lonely seat to gain ; 
 To crawl to his nest he tried ; 
 
 spoil. 
 Or an emperor could bestow." 
 
 But finding his efforts all in vain, 
 He clasped his gold, and — died. 
 
 THE POOR INDIAN! 
 
 W^ KNOW him by his falcon eye, 
 ^Ip His raven tress and mien of pride ; 
 
 Si| Those dingy draperies, as they fly, 
 |i© Tell that a great soul throbs inside ! 
 
 'ki No eagle-feathered crown he wears, 
 1 Capping in pride his kingly brow ; 
 ' But his crownlesss hat in grief de- 
 clares, 
 " I am an unthroned monarch now !" 
 
 ' noble son of a royal line !" 
 I exclaim, as I gaze into his face, 
 
 " How shall I knit my soul to thine ? 
 
 How right the wrongs of thine injured race? 
 
 " What shall I do for thee, glorious one? 
 
 To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. 
 Speak ! and say how the Saxon's son 
 
 May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless 
 sires !" 
 
 He speaks, he speaks ! — that noble chief! 
 
 From his marble lips deep accents come ; 
 And I catch the sound of his mighty grief, — 
 
 " Pie gi' me tree cent for git some rum!" 
 
 THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. 
 
 EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 ||iO be honored and even privileged by tlie laws, opinions, and in- 
 ^ veterate usages of our country, growing out of the prejudice of 
 ages, has nothing to provoke horror and indignation in any man. 
 Even to be too tenacious of those privileges is not absolutely a 
 crime. The strong struggle in every individual to preserve posses- 
 sion of what he has found to belong to him, and to distinguish him, is 
 
228 
 
 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. 
 
 one of the securities against injustice and des- 
 potism implanted in our nature. It operates as 
 an instinct to secure property, and to preserve 
 communities in a settled state. What is there 
 to shock in this? Nobility is a graceful orna- 
 ment to the civil order. It is the Corinthian 
 capital of polished society. Omnes honi nohili- 
 tati semper favemus, was the saying of a wise 
 and good man. It is, indeed, one sign of a 
 liberal and benevolent mind to incline to it with 
 some sort of partial propensity. He feels no 
 ennobling principle in his own heart who wishes 
 to level all the artificial institutions which have 
 been adopted for giving a body to opinion and 
 permanence to fugitive esteem. It is a sour, 
 malignant, and envious disposition, without taste 
 for the reality, or for any image or representa- 
 tion of virtue, that sees with joy the unmerited 
 fall of what had long flourished in splendor and in honor, 
 to see anything destroyed, any void produced in society, any 
 face of the land. 
 
 I do 
 
 not like 
 on the 
 
 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE- GFINDEB. 
 
 GEORGE CANNING. 
 
 FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 
 
 6™vM,w;pEEDY knife-erinder ! whither are 
 ^iMiS you going ? 
 
 Rough is the road; your wheel is [ 
 out of order. 
 ..I Bleak blows the blast; — your hat 
 
 I has got a hole in't; 
 
 T So have your breeches ! 
 
 Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud 
 ones, 
 
 Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- 
 road, 
 
 What hard work 't is crying all day " Knives 
 and 
 Scissors to grind !" 
 
 Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to 
 
 grind knives ? 
 Did some rich man tyrannically use you ? 
 Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? 
 Or the attorney ? 
 
 Was it the squire for killing of his game? or 
 Covetous parson for his tithes distraining ? 
 Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little 
 All in a lawsuit ? 
 
 (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by 
 
 Tom Paine ?) 
 Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, 
 Ready to fall as soon as you have told your 
 
 Pitiful story. 
 
MOTHERHOOD. 
 
 229 
 
 KNIFE-GRINDER. 
 
 Story ! God bless you ! I have none to tell, sir ; 
 Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, 
 This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, 
 were 
 Torn in a scuffle. 
 
 Constables came up for to take me into 
 Custody ; they took me before the justice ; 
 Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-stocks 
 For a vagrant. 
 
 I should be glad to drink your honor's health 
 in 
 
 A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ; 
 But for my part, I never love to meddle 
 With politics, sir. 
 
 FRIEND OF HUMANITY. 
 
 I give thee sixpence ! I will see thee dead 
 
 first, — 
 Wretch ! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse 
 
 to vengeance, — 
 Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded. 
 
 Spiritless outcast ! 
 [Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, 
 and exit in a transport of republican enthu- 
 siasm and universal philanthropy .] 
 
 TWO LITTLE KITTENS. 
 
 KWO little kittens, one stormy night, 
 1^ Began to quarrel and then to fight ; 
 3>^ One had a mouse, the other had none, 
 And that was the way the quarrel 
 begun. 
 
 " ril have that mouse," said the biggest 
 cat. 
 
 You'll have that mouse, we'll see about 
 that." 
 
 " I will have that mouse," said the eldest 
 
 son. 
 " You shant have that mouse," said the little 
 one. 
 
 I told you before 'twas a stormy night 
 When these two little kittens began to fight ; 
 The old woman seized her sweeping-broom 
 And swept the two kittens right out of the 
 room. 
 
 The ground was covered with frost and snow. 
 And the two little kittens had nowhere to go, 
 So they laid them down on the mat at the 
 
 door. 
 While the old woman finished sweeping the 
 
 floor. 
 
 Then they both crept in, as quiet as mice. 
 
 All wet with snow and cold as ice ; 
 
 For they found it was better, that stormy 
 
 night, 
 To lie down and sleep, than to quarrel and 
 
 fight. 
 
 MOTHERHOOD. 
 
 \Y neighbor's house is not so big! 
 Nor half so nice as mine ; 
 ^ I often see the blind ajar. 
 
 And tho' the curtain's fine, 
 
 'Tis only muslin, and the steps 
 Are not of stone at all, 
 
 And yet I long for her small home 
 To give mine all in all. 
 
230 
 
 TJIE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 
 
 Her lawn is never left to grow, 
 
 The children tread it down, 
 And when the father comes at night 
 
 I hear them clatter down 
 The gravel walk — and such a noise. 
 
 Comes to my listening ears, 
 As my sad heart's been waiting for 
 
 So many silent years. 
 
 Sometimes I peep to see them 
 
 Seize his coat, and hand, and knees, 
 
 All three so eager to be first. 
 And hear her call, " Don't teaze. 
 
 Papa !" the baby springs — 
 And then the low brown door 
 
 Shuts in their happiness — and I 
 Sit wishing as before. 
 
 That my neighbor's little cottage, 
 
 And the jewels of her crown 
 Had been my own — my mansion 
 
 With its front of freestone brown, 
 Its damask, and its Honiton, 
 
 Its lawn so green and bright. 
 How gladly would I give them. 
 
 For her motherhood, to-night. 
 
 TRUST. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 |,| PICTURE memory brings to me : 
 I look across the years and see 
 Myself beside my mother's knee. 
 
 I feel her gentle hand restrain 
 My selfish moods, and know again 
 A child's blind sense of wrong and pai 
 
 But wiser now, a man gray grown, 
 My childhood's needs are better known 
 My mother's chastening love I own. 
 
 Gray grown, but in our Father's sight 
 A child still groping for the light 
 To read his works and ways aright. 
 
 I bow myself beneath his hand ; 
 That pain itself for good was planned, 
 I trust, but cannot understand. 
 
 I fondly dream it needs must be. 
 That as my mother dealt with me, 
 So with His children dealeth He. 
 
 BIRTH-PLACE OF WHITTIER. 
 
 I wait, and trust the end will prove 
 That here and there, below, above. 
 The chastening heals, the pain is love ! 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 |W0 barks met on the deep mid-sea. 
 When calms had stilled the tide ; 
 
 ®Y A few bright days of summer glee 
 There found them side by side. 
 
 And voices of the fair and brave 
 Rose mingling thence in mirth ; 
 
 And sweetly floated o'er the wave 
 The melodies of earth. 
 
 Moonlight on that lone Indian main 
 Cloudless and lovely slept ; 
 
 While dancing step and festive strain 
 Each deck in triumph swept. 
 
BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. 231 
 
 And hands were linked, and answering eyes And proudly, freely on their way 
 
 With kindly meaning shone ; j The parting ve-^els bore ; 
 
 0, brief and passing sympathies, I In calm or storm, by rock or bay. 
 
 Like leaves together blown ! j To meetr— 0, nevermore ! 
 
 A little while such joy was cast Never to blend in victory's cheer, 
 
 Over the deep's repose, ' To aid in hours of woe ; 
 
 Till the loud singing winds at last And thus bright spirits mingle here. 
 
 Like trumpet music rose. i Such ties are formed below. 
 
 BURKE ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON. 
 
 , '•>-Y"^ ■ 
 
 l^pAD it pleased God to continue to me the hopes of succession, I 
 l^i should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the mediocrity 
 ^ T of the age I live in, a sort of founder of a family ; I should have 
 
 I I left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can be 
 viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in taste, in honor, in 
 generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment, and every liberal 
 accomplishment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of 
 Bedford, or to any of those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very 
 soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon that provision 
 which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied 
 every deficiency, and symmetrized every disproportion. It would not 
 have been for that successor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of 
 merit in me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient living spring 
 of generous and manly action. Every day he lived, he would have pur- 
 chased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if ten times more he 
 had received. He was made a public creature, and had no enjoyment 
 whatever but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment 
 the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. 
 
 But a Disposer, whose power we are little able to resist, and whose wis- 
 dom it behooves us not at all to dispute, has ordained it in another manner, 
 and — whatever my querulous weakness might suggest — a far better. The 
 storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those oaks which the late 
 hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honors ; I am 
 torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth ! There, and prostrate 
 there, I most unfeignedly recognize the divine justice, and in some degree 
 submit to it. But whilst I humble myself before God, I do not know that 
 it is forbidden to repel the attacks of unjust and inconsiderate men. The 
 
 patience of Job is proverbial. After some of the convulsive struggles of 
 
 16 
 
232 THE DOVE-COTE. 
 
 our irritable nature, he submitted himself, and repented in dust and ashes. 
 But even so, I do not find him blamed for reprehending, and with a con- 
 siderable degree of verbal asperity, those ill-natured neighbors of his who 
 visited his dung-hill to read moral, political, and economical lectures on his 
 misery. I am alone. I have none to meet my enemies in the gate. In- 
 deed, my lord, I greatly deceive myself, if in this hard season I would give 
 a peck of refuse wheat for all that is called fame and honor in the world. 
 This is the appetite but of a few. It is a luxury, it is a privilege ; it is 
 an indulgence for those who are at their ease. But we are all of us made 
 to shun disgrace, as we are made to shrink from pain, and poverty, and 
 diseag-e. It is an instinct : and under the direction of reason, instinct is 
 always in the right. I live in an inverted order. They who ought to 
 have succeeded me are gone before me ; they who should have been to me 
 as posterity, are in the place of ancestors. I owe to the dearest relation — 
 which ever must subsist in memory — that act of piety which he would 
 have performed to me ; I owe it to him to show, that he was not de- 
 scended, as the Duke of Bedford would have it, from an unworthy parent. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 T. B. MACAULAY. 
 
 iiipO Milton, and to Milton alone, belonged the secrets of the great 
 
 ^■^ deep, the beach of sulphur, the ocean of fire; the palaces of the 
 fallen dominations, glimmering through the everlasting shade, the 
 silent wilderness of verdure and fragrance where armed angels 
 kept watch over the sleep of the first lovers, the portico of dia- 
 mond, the sea of jasper, the sapphire pavement empurpled with 
 
 celestial roses, and the infinite ranks of the Cherubim, blazing with 
 
 adamant and gold. 
 
 THE DOVE-COTE. 
 
 AUNT EFFIES RHYMES. 
 
 ^ERY high in the dove-cote 
 The little Turtle Dove 
 
 Made a pretty nursery 
 To please her little love. 
 
 She was gentle, she was soft, 
 And her large dark eye 
 
 Often turned to her mate, 
 Who was sitting close by. 
 
 " Coo," said the Turtle Dove, 
 " Coo," said she, 
 
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST. 
 
 233 
 
 • Oh, I love thee," said the Turtle Dove, 
 " And I love thee." 
 
 'Neath the long shady branches 
 
 Of the dark pine tree. 
 How happy were the doves 
 
 In their little nursery ! 
 
 The young Turtle Doves 
 
 Never quarreled in their nest ; 
 For they dearly loved each other. 
 
 Though they loved their mother best. 
 " Coo," said the Turtle Doves, 
 
 " Coo," said she. 
 And they played together kindly 
 
 In their little nursery. 
 
 Is this nursery of yours, 
 
 Little sister, little brother, 
 Like the Turtle Dove's nest? — 
 
 Do you love one another ? 
 Are you kind, are you gentle, 
 
 As children ought to be ? 
 Then the happiest of nests 
 
 Is your own nursery. 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 SREATHES there the man with soul so 
 dead 
 Who never to himself hath said. 
 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him 
 
 burned, 
 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell ; 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf. 
 The wretch, concentred all in self, 
 Living shall forfeit fair renown. 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST. 
 
 MRS. E. PRENTISS. 
 
 WALK along the crowded streets, and 
 mark 
 The eager, anxious, troubled faces ; 
 Wondering what this man seeks, what 
 ^ that heart craves, 
 In earthly places. 
 
 Do I want anything that they are want- 
 ing? 
 Is each of them my brother ? 
 Could we hold fellowship, speak heart to 
 heart. 
 Each to the other ? 
 
234 
 
 SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 
 
 Nay, but I know not! only this I know, 
 
 And in the awful loneliness of crowds 
 
 That sometimes merely crossing 
 Another's path, where life's tumultuous 
 waves 
 
 I am not lonely. 
 Ah, what a life is theirs who live in Christ ; 
 
 Are ever tossing. 
 
 How vast the mystery ! 
 Reaching in height to heaven, and in its 
 
 He, as He passes, whispers in mine ear 
 One magic sentence only. 
 
 depth 
 The unfathomed sea. 
 
 ROLL ON, THOU SUN. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 I^^OLL on, thou Sun, forever roll, 
 M^ Thou giant, rushing through the 
 heaven! 
 Creation's wonder, nature's soul. 
 Thy golden wheels by angels 
 driven ! 
 The planets die without thy blaze, 
 And cherubim, with star-dropt wing. 
 Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays, 
 Thou brightest emblem of their king ! 
 
 Roll, lovely Earth, and still roll on. 
 
 With ocean's azure beauty bound ; 
 While one sweet star, the pearly moon, 
 
 Pursues thee through the blue profound ; 
 And angels, with delighted eyes. 
 
 Behold thy tints of mount and stream, 
 From the high walls of Paradise, 
 
 Swift wheeling like a glorious dream. 
 
 Roll, Planets ! on your dazzling read, 
 
 Forever sweeping round the sun ! 
 What eye beheld when first ye glowed ? 
 
 What eye shall see your courses done ? 
 Roll in your solemn majesty. 
 
 Ye deathless splendors of the skies ! 
 High altars, from which angels see 
 
 The incense of creation rise. 
 
 Roll, Comets ! and ye million Stars ! 
 
 Ye that through boundless nature roam ; 
 Ye monarchs on your flame-wing cars ; 
 
 Tell us in what more glorious dome, — 
 What orbs to which your pomps are dim. 
 
 What kingdom but by angels trod, — 
 Tell us where swells the eternal hymn 
 
 Around His throne where dwells your 
 God? 
 
 SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 
 
 CHARLES TARSON. 
 
 IT is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron bridge that 
 extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter 
 of a mile above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while 
 watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks 
 below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock — 
 caught on the very verge of the Falls. Scarcely willing ig) believe his 
 
SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 235 
 
 own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. The terrible news 
 spreads hke Hghtning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surround- 
 ing shores are covered with thousands of spectators. " Who is he?" "How 
 did he get there ?" are questions every person proposed, but answered by 
 none. No voice is heard above the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows 
 frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals 
 exceed the eloquence of words ; they are irresistible, and something must 
 be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached 
 sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and 
 another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. A 
 large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to Buffalo 
 a car is dispatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel- 
 bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-boat 
 is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and 
 tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. 
 One breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But 
 being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave 
 sends it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the 
 dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun 
 goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to 
 scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a 
 tear of pity on the scene. The silvery stars shine dimly through the cur- 
 tain of blue. The multitude are gone, and the suffer^ is left with his God. 
 Long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss ; he clings 
 to that rock with all the tenacity of life, and as he surveys the horrors of 
 his position, strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He 
 sees his home, his wife and children there ; he sees the home of his child- 
 hood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon 
 her breast ; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. 
 In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers 
 and curses die upon his lips. 
 
 No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to the 
 scene of horror. Soon a shout is heard : he is there — he is still alive ! 
 Just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it 
 and rushes to the most favorable point of observation. She had driven 
 from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed 
 the river, night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be 
 clinging to that rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the 
 anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her, fixed upon the 
 object than she shrieks, "Oh, my husband!" and sinks senseless to the 
 
236 THE SOLDIER'S I'AUDON. 
 
 earth. The excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, 
 and something must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to 
 the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer has 
 clung for the last forty- eight hours. He instantly throws himself full 
 length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with 
 skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. What 
 tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little 
 bark is watched, as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it 
 nears that rock-bound coast ? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as 
 the grave. His wife sees it, and is only restrained by force from rushing 
 into the river. Hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to 
 sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has spread his wings over that 
 little bark ; the poor man's strength is almost gone ; each wave lessens his 
 grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. 
 But that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, 
 the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body erect, 
 hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, 
 above Niagara's eternal roar, ''Lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of 
 man. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. 
 
 JAMES SMITH. 
 
 ?ILD blew the gale in Gibraltar one I Oh ! sad was the thought to a man that had 
 
 ^ night, fought 
 
 As a soldier lay stretched in his 'Mid the ranks of the gallant and 
 
 cell ; i brave, — 
 
 And anon, 'mid the darkness, the I To be shot through the breast at a coward's 
 
 moon's silver light ] behest. 
 
 On his countenance dreamily fell, i And laid low in a criminal's grave ! 
 
 Nought could she reveal, but a man true as , 
 
 gteel I The night call had sounded, when Joe wa^s 
 
 That oft for his country had bled ; , aroused 
 
 And the glance of his eye might the grim By a step at the door of his cell ; 
 
 king defy, ! ' Twas a comrade with whom he had often 
 
 For despair, fear, and trembling had fled. \ caroused, 
 
 j That now entered to bid him farewell. 
 
 But in rage he had struck a well-merited ' " Ah, Tom ! is it you come to bid me 
 
 blow I adieu ? 
 
 At a tyrant who held him in scorn ; I 'Tis kind my lad ! give me your hand ! 
 
 And his fate soon was sealed, for alas ! I Nay — nay — don't get wild, man, and make 
 
 honest Joe ! me a child ! — 
 
 "Was to die on the following morn. I'll be soon in a happier land !" 
 
LONDON CHURCHES. 
 
 237 
 
 With hands clasped in silence, Tom mourn- 
 fully said, 
 " Have you any request, Joe, to make ? — 
 Remember by me 'twill be fully obeyed : 
 Can I anything do for your sake ?" 
 When it's over, to-morrow !" he said, filled 
 
 with sorrow, 
 " Send this token to her whom I've sworn 
 All my fond love to share !" — 'twas a lock 
 of his hair, 
 And a prayer-book, all faded and worn. 
 
 "Here's this watch for my mother* and 
 when you write home," 
 And he dashed a bright tear from his 
 eye — 
 " Say I died with my heart in old Devon- 
 shire, Tom, 
 Like a man, and a soldier ! — Good bye !" 
 Then the sergeant on guard, at the grating 
 appeared. 
 And poor Tom had to leave the cold cell. 
 By the moon's waning light, with a husky 
 " Good-night ! 
 God be with you, dear comrade ! — fare- 
 well !" 
 
 Gray dawned the morn in a dull cloudy sky, 
 
 When the blast of a bugle resounded ; 
 And Joe ever fearless, went forward to die, 
 
 By the hearts of true heroes surrounded. 
 " Shoulder arms " was the cry as the pris- 
 oner passed by : 
 " To the right about — march !" was the 
 word; 
 And their pale faces proved how their com- 
 rade was loved, 
 And by all his brave fellows adored. 
 
 Right onward they marched to the dread 
 field of doom : 
 Sternly silent, they covered the ground ; 
 Then they formed into line amid sadness 
 and gloom, 
 While the prisoner looked calmly around. 
 Then soft on the air rose the accents of prayer, 
 
 And faint tolled the solemn death-knell. 
 As he stood on the sand, and with uplifted 
 hand, 
 Waved the long and the lasting farewell. 
 
 " Make ready !" exclaimed an imperious voice: 
 
 "Present!" struck a chill on 
 
 each mind ; 
 Ere the last word was spoke, Joe had cause 
 to rejoice. 
 For " Hold ! — hold !" cried a voice from 
 behind. 
 Then wild was the joy of them all, man and 
 boy. 
 As a horseman cried, "Mercy! — Forbear!" 
 
 With a thrilling " Hurrah ! a free pardon ! 
 
 huzzah !" 
 
 And the muskets rang loud in the air. 
 
 Soon the comrades were locked in each other's 
 embrace : 
 No more stood the brave soldiers dumb : 
 With a loud cheer they wheeled to the right- 
 about-face, 
 
 Then away at the sound of the drum I 
 
 And a brighter day dawned in sweet Devon's 
 fair land. 
 Where the lovers met never to part ; 
 And he gave her a token — true, warm, and 
 unbroken — 
 The gift of his own gallant heart I 
 
 LONDON CHURCHES. 
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. 
 
 STOOD, one Sunday morning. 
 Before a large church door. 
 The congregation gathered 
 And carriages a score, — 
 From one out stepped a lady 
 I oft had seen before. 
 
 Her hand was on a prayer-book, 
 
 And held a vinaigrette ; 
 
 The sign of man's redemption 
 
 Clear on the book was set, — 
 
 But above the Cross there glistened 
 
 A golden Coronet. 
 
238 
 
 LONDON CHURCHES. 
 
 THE OLD CHUECH. 
 
 For her the obsequious beadle 
 The inner door flung wide, 
 Lightly, as up a ball-room, 
 Her footsteps seemed to glide, — 
 There might be good thoughts in her 
 For all her evil pride. 
 
 But after her a woman 
 Peeped wistfully within 
 On whose wan face was graven 
 
 Life's hardest discipline, — 
 The trace of the sad trinity 
 Of weakness, pain, and sin. 
 
 The fow free-seats were crowded 
 Where she could rest and pray ; 
 With her worn garb contrasted 
 Each side in fair array, — 
 God's house holds no poor sinners. 
 She sighed, and crept away. 
 
CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. 239 
 
 CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. 
 
 GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 f^^p PORTAL of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle 
 ^^^ thrown over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. 
 "^^^^ The lion roared and ramped against the bars of his den at the 
 f sight. The guard put a sword and buckler into the hands of the 
 I Christian, and he was left alone. He drew the mantle from his 
 face, and bent a slow and firm look around the amphitheatre. 
 His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised a universal shout of admira- 
 tion. He might have stood for an Apollo encountering the Python, His 
 eye at last turned on mine. Could I believe my senses? Constantius was 
 before me. 
 
 All my rancor vanished. An hour past I could have struck the be- 
 trayer to the heart, — I could have called on the severest vengeance of man 
 and heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hopelessly 
 doomed, the man whom I had honored for his noble qualities, whom I had 
 even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of giving way to 
 the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of man; to see that 
 noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn piecemeal 
 before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I would have obtested 
 heaven and earth to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my 
 mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would have thrown myself at the 
 feet of Nero ; but I sat like a man of stone — pale — paralyzed — the beating 
 of my pulse stopped — my eyes alone alive. 
 
 The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a 
 roar and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword 
 glitter in the air : when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A 
 howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the lar- 
 gest from Numidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of 
 prodigious power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of his prey, 
 crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim's throat. He was met 
 by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible, A cry of natural 
 horror rang round the amphitheatre. The struggle was now for an 
 instant, life or death. They rolled over each other ; the lion, reared upon 
 his hind feet, with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the 
 man ; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. 
 The sword now swung around the champion's head in bloody circles. They 
 fell again, covered with blood and dust. The hand of Constantius had 
 
240 CONSTANTiUS AND THE LION. 
 
 o-rasped the lion's mane, and the furious bounds of the monster could not 
 loose his hold ; but his strength was evidently giving way, — he still struck 
 his terrible blows, but each was weaker than the one before ; till, collecting 
 his whole force for a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion's 
 throat, and sank. The savage beast yelled, and spouting out blood, fled 
 howling around the arena. But the hand still grasped the mane, and the 
 conqueror was dragged whirling through the dust at his heels. A uni- 
 versal outcry now arose to save him, if he were not already dead. But 
 the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was still too terrible, and all 
 shrank from the hazard. At last the grasp gave way, and the body lay 
 motionless on the ground. 
 
 What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a 
 struggle at the portal ; a female forced her way through the guards, and 
 flung herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused the lion ; 
 he tore the ground with his talons ; he lashed his streaming sides with his 
 tail ; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs ; but his approaching was 
 no longer with a bound ; he dreaded the sword, and came snuflSing the 
 blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still 
 diminishing. 
 
 The confusion in the ' vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices 
 innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into 
 indignant clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the 
 populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to 
 honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign 
 from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign. 
 
 I looked upon the woman's face ; it was Salome ! I sprang upon my 
 feet. I called on her name, — called on her, by every feeling of nature, to 
 fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies 
 of all that loved her. 
 
 She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping 
 the pale visage with her hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, 
 and, calmly casting back the locks from her forehead, fixed her eyes upon 
 me. She still knelt ; one hand supported the head, — with the other she 
 pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured her. There was the 
 silence of death among the thousands around me. A fire flashed into her 
 eye, — her cheek burned, — she waved her hand with an air of superb 
 sorrow. 
 
 " I am come to die," she uttered, in a lofty tone. " This bleeding body 
 was my husband, — I have no father. The world contains to me but this 
 clay in my arms. Yet," and she kissed the ashy lips before her, " yet, my 
 
A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 241 
 
 I 
 
 Constantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied the 
 peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil that you 
 abandoned your quiet home ! — Yes, cruel father, here lies the noble being 
 that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the conflagration, 
 that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how he might serve 
 and protect you. Tears at length fell in floods from her eyes. " But," 
 said she, in a tone of wild power, " he was betrayed, and may the Power 
 whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down just retribution 
 upon the head that dared " — 
 
 I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of 
 my own child. Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, 
 leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side, 
 The height stunned me ; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar 
 and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of 
 his white fangs above. 
 
 An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck, — gore filled 
 his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high 
 in the air with a howl. He dropped ; he was dead. The amphitheatre 
 thundered with acclamations. 
 
 "With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the 
 ground. The roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two 
 blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. 
 The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of 
 filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the 
 strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards ; the portal 
 was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered with 
 garlands from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the arena. 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 iJUlpELL me not, in mournful numbers, 
 ^1^ Life is but an empty dream ! 
 4^:;^ For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
 X And things are not what they 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting. 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
242 
 
 TO NIGHT. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 
 Footprints on the sands of time ; — 
 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 
 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 
 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother. 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Act, — act in the living Present ! 
 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing. 
 
 
 With a heart for any fate ; 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing. 
 
 We can make our lives sublime. 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 BLESSED ABE THEY THAT MOURN: 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 DEEM not they are blest alone 
 Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 
 
 The Power who pities man has 
 shown 
 A blessing for the eyes that weep. 
 
 The light of smiles shall fill again 
 The lids that overflow with tears ; 
 
 And weary hours of woe and pain 
 Are promises of happier years. 
 
 There is a day of sunny rest 
 
 For every dark and troubled night ; 
 
 And grief may bide an evening guest, 
 But joy shall come with early light. 
 
 And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, 
 Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, 
 
 Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
 Will give him to thy arms again. 
 
 Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
 Though life its common gifts deny, — 
 
 Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, 
 And spurned of men, he goes to die. 
 
 For God hath marked each sorrowing day. 
 
 And numbered every secret tear, 
 And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
 
 For all his children sufi'er here. 
 
 TO NIGHT 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 pWIFTLY walk over the western wave. 
 
 Spirit of Night! 
 Out of the misty eastern cave. 
 Where all the long and lone daylight. 
 Thou weav est dreams of joy and fear, 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
 
 Swift be thy flight ! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 
 
 Star-inwrought ! 
 Blind with thy hair the eyes of day, 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out, 
 Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
 
 Come, long-sought ! 
 
NIGHT. 
 
SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 243 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sighed for thee ! 
 When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
 And noon lay heavy on floor and tree. 
 And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
 Lingering, like an unloved guest, 
 
 I sighed for thee ! 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
 
 Wouldst thou me ? 
 Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed. 
 Murmured like a noontide bee. 
 
 Shall I nestle near thy side ? 
 Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied. 
 No, not thee! 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead, 
 
 Soon, too soon, — 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight, 
 
 Come soon, soon! 
 
 BURIED TO-DAY. 
 
 DINAH MARIA MULOCK. 
 
 Ij^URIED to-day. 
 
 ^^^ When the soft green buds are burst- 
 ing out. 
 And up on the south-wind comes a 
 shout 
 Of village boys and girls at play 
 In the mild spring evening gray. 
 
 Taken away 
 
 Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, 
 From eyes that drew half their light from 
 him, 
 And put low, low underneath the clay, 
 In his spring, — on this sprin;^ day 
 
 Passes away. 
 
 All the pride of boy-life begun, 
 All the hope of life yet to run ; 
 
 Who dares to question when One 
 "Nay." 
 
 Murmur not, — only pray. 
 
 saith 
 
 Enters to-day 
 
 Another body in churchyard sod. 
 Another soul on the life in God. 
 
 His Christ was buried — and lives alway : 
 
 Trust Him, and go your way. 
 
 SNOW-FLAKES. 
 
 HARRIET B. M KEEVER. 
 
 lEAUTIFUL snow! beautiful snow! 
 Falling so lightly, 
 Daily and nightly. 
 Alike round the dwelling of lofty 
 and low. 
 Horses are prancing, 
 Children are dancing, 
 Stirr'd by the spirit that comes with 
 the snow. 
 
 Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! 
 Atmosphere chilling. 
 Carriage wheels stilling. 
 
 Warming the cold earth, and kindling the 
 glow 
 Of Christian pity 
 For the great city. 
 For wretched creatures, who freeze 'mid the 
 snow. 
 
 Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! 
 Fierce the wind blowing. 
 Deep the drifts strowing. 
 Night gathers round us, how warm the red 
 
244 THE OLD WIFE'8 KISS. 
 
 Of the fire so bright, In that sweet eventide, 
 
 On the cold winter night, (j^^^^^^ ^^ gather, though keen the wind 
 m draw in the curtains, to shut out the i i , 
 
 I Safely defended. 
 
 Beautiful snow! beautiful snow | Kindly befriended. 
 
 Round the dear fireside, | Pity the houseless, exposed to the snow. 
 
 TRU OLD WIFE'S KISS. 
 
 [pHE funeral services were ended ; and as the voice of prayer ceased, 
 .^. ^^^ tears were hastily wiped from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs 
 # I relieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the mourners prepared 
 <i to take leave of the corpse. It was an old man who lay there, 
 
 |. robed for the grave. More than three-score years had whitened those 
 J locks, and furrowed that brow, and made those stiff limbs weary of 
 life's journey, and the more willing to be at rest where weariness is no 
 longer a burden. 
 
 The aged have few to weep for them when they die. The most of those 
 who would have mourned their loss have gone to the grave before them ; 
 harps that would have sighed sad harmonies are shattered and gone ; and 
 the few that remain are looking cradleward, rather than to life's closing 
 goal ; are bound to and living in the generation rising, more than in the 
 generation departing. Youth and beauty have many admirers while 
 living, — have many mourners when dying, — and many tearful ones bend 
 over their coffined clay, many sad hearts follow in their funeral train ! but 
 age has few admirers, few mourners. 
 
 This was an old man, and the circle of mourners was _ small : two 
 children, who had themselves passed the middle of life, and who had 
 children of their own to care for and be cared for by them. Beside these, 
 and a few friends who had seen and visited him while he was sick, and 
 possibly had known him for a few years, there were none others to shed 
 a tear, except his old wife ; and of this small company, the old wife 
 seemed to be the only heart- mourner. It is respectful for his friends 
 to be sad a few moments, till the service is performed and the hearse is 
 out of sight. It is very proper and suitable for children, who have out- 
 grown the fervency and affection of youth, to shed tears when an aged 
 parent says farewell, and lies down to quiet slumber. Some regrets, 
 some recollection of the past, some transitory griefs, and the pangs are 
 over. 
 
THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. 245 
 
 The old wife arose with difl&culty from her seat, and went to the 
 coffin to look her last look — to take her last farewell. Through the fast 
 falling tears she gazed long and fondly down into the pale, unconscious 
 face. What did she see there ? Others saw nothing but the rigid features 
 of the dead ; she saw more. In every wrinkle of that brow she read the 
 history of years ; from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, in 
 joy and sorrow, in sickness and health, it was all there ; when those chil- 
 dren, who had not quite outgrown the sympathies of childhood, were 
 infants lying on her bosom, and every year since then — there it was. To 
 others those dull, mute monitors were unintelligible ; to her they were 
 the alphabet of the heart, familiar as household words. 
 
 Then the futui'e : " What will become of me ? What shall I do now?" 
 She did not say so, but she felt it. The prospect of the old wife is clouded ; 
 the home circle is broken, never to be reunited ; the visions of the hearth- 
 stone are scattered forever. Up to that hour there was a home to which 
 the heart always turned with fondness. That magic is now sundered, the 
 key-stone of that sacred arch has fallen, and home is nowhere this side of 
 heaven ! Shall she gather up the scattered fragments of the broken arch, 
 make them her temple and her shrine, sit down in her chill solitude beside 
 its expiring fires, and die ? What shall she do now ? 
 
 They gently crowded her away from the dead, and the undertaker came 
 forward, with the coffin-lid in his hand. It is all right and proper, of course, 
 it must be done ; but to the heart-mourner it brings a kind of shudder, a 
 thrill of agony. The undertaker stood for a moment, with a decent. pro- 
 priety, not wishing to manifest rude haste, but evidently desirous of being 
 as expeditious as possible. Just as he was about to close the coffin, the old 
 wife turned back, and stooping down, imprinted one long, last kiss upon 
 the cold lips of her dead husband, then staggered to her seat, buried her 
 face in her hands, and the closing coffin hid him from her sight forever ! 
 
 That kiss ! foii,d token of affection, and of sorrow, and memory, and 
 farewell ! I have seen many kiss their dead, many such seals of love upon 
 clay-cold lips, but never did I see one so purely sad, so simply heart- 
 touching "and hopeless as that. Or, if it had hope, it was that which looks 
 beyond coffins, and charnel-houses, and damp, dark tombs, to the joys of the 
 home above. You would kiss the cold cheek of infancy ; there is poetry; it is 
 beauty hushed ; there is romance there, for the faded flower is still beauti- 
 ful. In childhood the heart yields to the stroke of sorrow, but recoils 
 again with elastic faith, buoyant with hope ; but here was no beauty, no 
 poetry, no romance. 
 
 The heart of the old wife was like the weary swimmer, whose strength 
 17 
 
246 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 has often raised him above the stormy waves, but now, exhausted, sinks 
 amid the surges. The temple of her earthly hopes had fallen, and what 
 was there left for her but to sit down in despondency, among its lonely 
 ruins, and weep and die ! or, in the spirit of a better hope, await the 
 dawning of another day, when a Hand divine shall gather its sacred dust, 
 and rebuild for immortality its broken walls ! 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 (^U^AIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
 ^^^^ In whose orbs a shadow lies 
 ^^S^ Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 
 T Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
 I Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
 ® As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 Standing with reluctant feet. 
 Where the brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance. 
 On the brooklet's swift advance, 
 On the river's broad expanse ! 
 
 Deep and still, that gliding stream 
 Beautiful to thee must seem. 
 As the river of a dream ! 
 
 Then why pause with indecision, 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 As the dove, with startled eye, 
 Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 
 
 O, thou child of many prayers ! 
 Lifehalh quicksands, — Life hath snares ! 
 Cat^e and age come unawares ! 
 
 Bear a lily in thy hand ; 
 
 Gates of brass cannot withstand 
 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. . 
 
 Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
 
 i 
 
 In thy heart the dew of youth, 
 On thy lips the smile of truth. 
 
THE BROOK SIDE. 
 
 247 
 
 THE BROOK SIDE. 
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. 
 
 WANDERED by the brook side, 
 
 I wandered by the mill ; 
 I could not hear the brook flow, 
 
 The noisy wheel was still : 
 There was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 No chirp of any bird ; 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not — no he came not ; 
 
 The night came on alone ; 
 The little stars sat, one by one. 
 
 Each on his golden throne : 
 The evening wind passed by my cheek, 
 
 The leaves above were stirred ; 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 
 
 I watched the long, long shade, 
 And as it grew still longer, 
 
 I did not feel afraid ; 
 For I listened for a footfall, 
 
 I listened for a word ; 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing. 
 
 When something stood behind : 
 A hand was on my shoulder, 
 
 I knew its touch was kind : 
 It drew me nearer — nearer, 
 
 We did not speak a word ; 
 For the beating of our own hearia 
 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
248 
 
 ZEPII HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 
 
 THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTUEY, 
 
 (^I^OW does the water 
 
 1 Come down at Lodore ? 
 
 ■A' 
 
 From its sources which well 
 In the tarn on the fell ; 
 From its fountains 
 
 In the mountains, 
 
 Its rills and its gills ; 
 
 Through moss and through brake 
 
 It runs and it creeps, 
 
 For a while, till it sleeps 
 
 In its own little lake. 
 
 And thence at departing, 
 Awakening and starting, 
 
 It runs through the reeds, 
 
 And away it proceeds, 
 Through meadow and glade, 
 In sun and in shade. 
 And through the wood-shelter, 
 
 Among crags in its flurry, 
 Helter-skelter, 
 
 Ilurry-skarry. 
 
 Here it comes sparkling, 
 And there it lies darkling ; 
 Now smoking and frothing, 
 Its tumult and wrath in. 
 Till, in this rapid race. 
 
 On which it is bent, 
 It reaches the place 
 
 Of its steep descent. 
 
 ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 Zeph Higgins was quarrelsome, exacting, and stubborn to such a degree that he was repulsive to the 
 village people. His first real trouble came in the death of li's loving, patient wife— whose last request was 
 that he would put away all hard feelings, and make up his old feud with the church. 
 
 4 
 
 poGANUc peopl: 
 
 NOTHING could be rougher and more rustic than the old school- 
 Ki?Kg house, — its walls hung with cobwebs ; its rude slab benches and 
 
 r desks hacked by many a schooolboy's knife ; the plain, ink-stained 
 ^ pine table before the minister, with its two tallow candles, whose 
 
ZEPH HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 249 
 
 dim rays scarcely gave light enough to read the hymns. There was 
 nothing outward to express the real greatness of what was there in 
 reality. 
 
 From the moment the Doctor entered he was conscious of a present 
 Power. There was a hush, a stillness, and the words of his prayer seemed 
 to go out into an atmosphere thrilling with emotion, and when he rose to 
 speak he saw the countenances of his parishioners with that change upon 
 them which comes from the waking up of the soul to higher things. Hard, 
 weather-beaten faces were enkindled and eager ; every eye was fixed upon 
 him ; every word he spoke seemed to excite a responsive emotion. 
 
 The Doctor read from the Old Testament the story of Achan. He 
 told how the host of the Lord had turned back because there was one in 
 the camp who had secreted in his tent an accursed thing. He asked, 
 " can it be now and here, among us who profess to be Christians, that we 
 are secreting in our hearts some accursed thing that prevents the good 
 Spirit of the Lord from working among us ? Is it our hard feeling 
 against a brother ? Is there anything that we know to be wrong that we 
 refuse to make right — anything that we know belongs to God that we are 
 withholding ? If we Christians lived as high as we ought, if we lived up 
 to our professions, would there be any sinners unconverted ? Let us 
 beware how we stand in the way. If the salt have lost its savor where- 
 with shall it be salted ? Oh, my brethren, let us not hinder the work of 
 God. I look around on this circle and I miss the face of a sister who was 
 always here to help us with her prayers ; now she is with the general 
 assembly and church of the first-born, whose names are written in 
 heaven, with the spirits of the just made perfect. But her soul will rejoice 
 with the angels of God if she looks down and sees us all coming 
 up to where we ought to be.. God grant that her prayers may be 
 fulfilled in us. Let us examine ourselves, brethren; let us cast out the 
 stumbling-block, that the way of the Lord may be prepared." 
 
 The words, simple in themselves, became powerful by the atmosphere 
 of deep feeling into which they were uttered ; there were those solemn 
 pauses, that breathless stillness, those repressed breathings, that magnetic 
 sympathy that unites souls under the power of one overshadowing con- 
 viction. 
 
 When the Doctor sat down, suddenly there was a slight movement, 
 and from a dark back seat rose the gaunt form of Zeph Higgins. He was 
 deathly pale, and his form trembled with emotion. Every eye was fixed 
 upon him, and people drew in their breath, with involuntary surprise and 
 suspense. 
 
250 ^^PI^ HIGGINS' CONFESSION. 
 
 " Wal, I must speak," he said. " Fm a stumbling-block. I've allers 
 been one. I hain't never ben a Christian, that's jest the truth on't. I 
 never hed oughter 'a'ben in the church. I've ben all wrong — wrong — 
 WRONG ! I knew I was wrong, but I wouldn't give up. It's ben jest my 
 awful WILL. I've set up my will agin God Almighty. I've set it agin my 
 neighbors — ^agin the minister and agin the church. And now the Lord's 
 come out agin me ; He's struck me down. I know He's got a right — He 
 can do what He pleases — but I ain't resigned —not a grain. I submit 'cause 
 I can't help myself; but my heart's hard and wicked. I expect my day 
 of grace is over. I ain't a Christian, and I can't be, and I shall go to hell 
 at last, and sarve me right !" 
 
 And Zeph sat down, grim and stony, and the neighbors looked one on 
 another in a sort of consternation. There was a terrible earnestness in 
 those words that seemed to appall every one and prevent any from uttering 
 the ordinary commonplaces of religious exhortation. For a few moments 
 the circle was silent as the grave, when Dr. Cushing said, " Brethren, let 
 us pray ;" and in his prayer he seemed to rise above earth and draw his 
 whole flock, with all their sins, and needs, and wants, into the presence- 
 chamber of heaven. 
 
 He prayed that the light of heaven might shine into the darkened 
 spirit of their brother ; that he might give himself up utterly to the will 
 of God ; that we might all do it, that we might become as little children 
 in the kingdom of heaven. With the wise tact which distinguished his 
 ministry he closed the meeting immediately after the prayer with one or 
 two serious words of exhortation. He feared lest what had been gained 
 in impression might be talked away did he hold the meeting open to the 
 well-meant, sincere, but uninstructed efforts of the brethren to meet a case 
 like that which had been laid open before them. 
 
 After the service was over and the throng slowly dispersed, Zeph 
 remained in his place, rigid and still. One or two approached to speak 
 to him ; there was in fact a tide of genuine sympathy and brotherly feeling 
 that longed to express itself. He might have been caught up in this 
 powerful current and borne into a haven of peace, had he been one to trust 
 himself to the help of others ; but he looked neither to the right nor to 
 the left; his eyes were fixed on the floor ; his brown, bony hands held his 
 old straw hat in a crushing grasp ; his whole attitude and aspect were 
 repelling and stern to such a degree that none dared address him. 
 
 The crowd slowly passed on and out. Zeph sat alone, as he thought ; 
 but the minister, his wife, and little Dolly had remained at the upper end 
 of the room. Suddenly, as if sent by an irresistible impulse, Dolly 
 
 i 
 
RESIGNATION. 
 
 251 
 
 stepped rapidly down the room and with eager gaze laid her pretty little 
 timid hand upon his shoulder, crying, in a voice tremulous at once with 
 fear and with intensity, " 0, why do you say that you cannot be a 
 Christian ? Don't you know that Christ loves you ?" 
 
 Christ loves you ! The words thrilled through his soul with a strange, 
 new power; he opened his eyes and looked astonished into the little 
 earnest, pleading face, 
 
 " Christ loves you," she repeated; "oh, do believe it!" 
 
 " Loves me /" he said, slowly. " Why should He ?" 
 . "But He does ; He loves us all. He died for us. He died for you. 
 Oh, believe it. He'll help you ; He'll make you feel right. Only trust 
 Him. Please say you will !" 
 
 Zeph looked at the little face earnestly, in a softened, wondering way. 
 A tear slowly stole down his hard cheek. 
 
 " Thank'e, dear child," he said. 
 
 " You will believe it ?" 
 
 "I'll try." 
 
 " You will trust Him ?" 
 
 Zeph paused a moment, then rose up with a new and different expres- 
 sion in his face, and said, in a subdued and earnest voice, " / ivill.'" 
 
 "Amen!" said the Doctor, who stood listening; and he silently 
 grasped the old man's hand. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 
 
 UpRlIERE IS no flock, however watched 
 
 ^i^ and tended, 
 
 •«-35>iti ^^^ '^^^ dead lamb is there ! 
 
 [ There is no fireside, howsoe'er de- 
 
 ¥ fended, 
 
 T But has one vacant chair ! 
 
 ■§• 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Eachel, for her children crying, 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and 
 vapors ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no Death ! What seems so is tran- 
 sition : 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection; 
 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
252 
 
 ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 
 
 By guardian angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollu- 
 tion, 
 
 She lives whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though un- 
 spoken. 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
 For when with raptures wild 
 
 In our embraces we again enfold her. 
 She will not be a child : 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed. 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the 
 ocean. 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ;|lp|j|UT Enoch yearned to see her face 
 ^^^ again ; 
 
 If I might look on her sweet face 
 again 
 And know that she is happy." So 
 the thought 
 Haunted and harassed him and drove 
 him forth 
 At evening when the dull November day 
 Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. 
 There he sat down gazing on all below : 
 There did a thousand memories roll upon him, 
 Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 
 The ruddy square of comfortable light. 
 Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house. 
 Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures 
 The bird of passage, till he madly strike 
 Against it, and beats out bis weary life. 
 
 For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street. 
 The latest house to landward ; but behind. 
 With one small gate that opened on the waste. 
 Flourished a little garden square and walled : 
 
 And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 
 A yew-tree, and all around it ran a walk 
 Of shingle, and a walk divided it : 
 But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole 
 Up by the wall, behind the yew ; and thence 
 That which he better might have shunned, 
 
 griefs 
 Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw. 
 
 For cups and silver on the burni.shed board 
 Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the heartli ; 
 And on the right hand of the hearth he saw 
 Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 
 Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees 
 And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, 
 A later but a loftier Annie Lee, 
 Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted 
 
 hand 
 Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 
 To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy 
 
 arms. 
 Caught at and ever missed it, and they 
 
 laughed : 
 And on the left hand of the hearth he saw 
 
 4 
 
THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 
 
 253 
 
 The mother glancing often at her babe, 
 But turning now and then to speak with him, 
 Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, 
 And saying that which pleased him, for he 
 smiled. 
 
 Now when the dead man come to life 
 
 beheld 
 Plis wife his wife no more, and saw the babe 
 Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, 
 And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, 
 And his own children tall and beautiful, 
 And him, that other, reigning in his place. 
 Lord of his rights and of his children's love, — 
 Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him 
 
 all, 
 things seen are mightier than things 
 
 heard, 
 
 Staggered and shook, holding the branch, 
 
 and feared 
 To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry. 
 Which in one moment, like the blast of doom. 
 Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 
 
 He therefore turning softly like a thief. 
 Lest the harsh shingle -should grate underfoot. 
 And feeling all along the garden-wall. 
 Lest he should swoon and tumble and be 
 
 found, 
 Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed. 
 As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, 
 Behind him, and came out upon the waste. 
 
 And there he would have knelt, but that 
 his knees 
 Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug 
 His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed 
 
 THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 
 
 HENRY HEINE, TRANSLATED BY CHARLES G. LELAND. 
 
 ^iJlll^E sat by the fisher's cottage, 
 "^]m|iS And looked at the stormy tide ; 
 "^ i?-^ The evening mist came rising, 
 ■s. And floating far and wide. 
 
 One by one in the lighthouse 
 
 The lamps shone out on high ; 
 And far on the dim horizon 
 A ship went sailing by. 
 
 We spoke of storm and shipwreck, — 
 Of sailors, and how they live ; 
 
 Of journeys 'twixt sky and water. 
 And the sorrows and joys they give. 
 
 We spoke of distant countries, 
 In regions strange and fair, 
 
 And of the wondrous beings 
 And curious customs there ; 
 
254 
 
 MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. 
 
 Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, 
 
 Which are launched in the twilight hour ; 
 
 And the dark and silent Brahmins, 
 Who worship the lotos flower. 
 
 Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland, — 
 
 Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, — 
 
 Who crouch round their oil fires, cooking, 
 And chatter and scream and bawl. 
 
 And the maidens earnestly listened. 
 Till at last we spoke no more ; 
 
 The ship like a shadow had vanished, 
 And darkness fell deep on the shore. 
 
 SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE. 
 
 Suggested by the sudden death of the Rev. Thomas Taylor, who had preached the previous evening. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 iERVANT of God, well done ; 
 Rest from thy loved employ ; 
 The battle fought, the victory won, 
 
 Enter thy master's joy." 
 The voice at midnight came ; 
 
 He started up to hear, 
 A mortal arrow pierced his frame ; 
 He fell, — but felt no fear. 
 
 Tranquil amidst alarms. 
 
 It found him in the field, 
 A veteran slumbering on his arms, 
 
 Beneath his red-cross shield : 
 His sword was in his hand. 
 
 Still warm with recent fight ; 
 Ready that moment, at command. 
 
 Through rock and steel to smite. 
 
 At midnight came the cry, 
 
 " To meet thy God prepare ! " 
 He woke, — and caught the Captain': 
 
 Then strong in faith and prayer, 
 His spirit, with a bound, 
 
 Burst its encumbering clay ; 
 His tent at sunrise, on the ground, 
 
 A darkened ruin lay. 
 
 The pains of death are past. 
 
 Labor and sorrow cease ; 
 And life's long warfare closed at last, 
 
 His soul is found in peace. 
 Soldier of Christ ! well done ; 
 
 Praise be thy new employ ; 
 And while eternal ages run, 
 
 Rest in thy Saviour's joy. 
 
 eye ; 
 
 i 
 
 MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. 
 
 ^^ 
 
 F. BRET HARTE. 
 
 sister'llbedownin a minute, and 
 
 ^^ays you're to wait, if you please; 
 
 \. , \ ml says I might stay till she came, 
 
 ; • if I'd promise her never to tease, 
 
 T Nor speak till you spoke to me first. 
 
 i But that's nonsense ; for how would 
 
 el you know 
 
 What she told me to say if I didn't ? Don't 
 
 you really and truly think so ? 
 
 " And then you'd feel strange here alone. 
 
 And you wouldn't know just where to 
 sit; 
 For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and 
 
 we never use it a bit : 
 We keep it to match with the sofa ; but Jack 
 
 says it would be like you 
 To flop yourself right down upon it, and 
 
 knock out the very last screw. 
 
HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 255 
 
 " Suppose you try ! I won't tell. You're 
 
 afraid to ! Oh ! you're afraid they would 
 
 think it mean ! 
 Well, then, there's the album : that's pretty if 
 
 you're sure that your fingers are clean. 
 For sister says sometimes I daub it ; but she 
 
 only says that when she's cross. 
 There's her picture. You know it ? It's like 
 
 her ; but she ain't good-looking, of course. 
 
 'This is ME." It's the best of 'em all. Now, 
 
 tell me, you'd never have thought 
 That once I was little as that ? It's the only 
 
 one that could be bought ; 
 For that was the message to pa from the 
 
 photograph-man where I sat, — 
 That he wouldn't print oil any more till he 
 
 first got his money for that. 
 
 " What ? Maybe you're tired of waiting. 
 
 Why, often she's longer than this. 
 There's all her back hair to do up, and all 
 
 her front curls to friz. 
 
 But it's nice to be sitting here talking like 
 grown people, just you and me ! 
 
 Do you think you'll be coming here often T 
 Oh, do ! But don't come like Tom Lee, — 
 
 " Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness ! 
 
 he used to be here day and night, 
 Till the folks thought he'd be her husband .; 
 
 and Jack says that gave him a fright. 
 You won't run away then, as he did? for 
 
 you're not a rich man, they say. 
 Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. 
 
 Now, are you ? and how poor are they ? 
 
 " Ain't you glad that you met me ? Well, I 
 
 am ; for I know now your hair isn't red ; 
 But what there is left of it's mousy, and not 
 
 what that naughty Jack said. 
 But there I must go : sister's coming ! But I 
 
 wish I could wait, just to see 
 If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in 
 
 the way that she used to kiss Lee." 
 
 HYMN TO THE FLO WEBS. 
 
 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 ^AY-STARS! that ope your eyes at 
 morn to twinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of earth's 
 creation ; 
 And dewdrops on her lovely altars 
 sprinkle 
 
 As a libation. 
 
 Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly 
 
 Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye. 
 Pour from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high. 
 
 Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 
 
 The floor of nature's temple tesselate — 
 ^Tiat numerous lessons of instructive duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloister'd bough each floral bell that 
 swingeth, 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer. 
 
 Not to those domes where crumbling arch 
 and column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
 But to that fane most catholic and solemn. 
 
 Which God hath plann'd ; 
 
 To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
 supply ; 
 Its choir, the wind and waves ; its organ, 
 thunder ; 
 
 Its dome, the sky. 
 
256 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 
 
 There, as in solitude and shade, I wander 
 Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon 
 the sod. 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 The ways of God. 
 
 Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for 
 pleasure. 
 Blooming o'er hill and dale, by day and 
 night; 
 On every side your sanction bids me treasure 
 Harmless delight ! 
 
 Your voiceless lips, flowers! are living 
 preachers ; 
 Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book ; 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, 
 In loneliest nook. 
 
 Floral apostles, that with dewy splendor 
 Blush without sin, and weep without a 
 crime ! 
 Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er sur- 
 render 
 
 Your lore divine ! 
 
 " Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory, 
 Array'd," the lilies cry " in robes like ours ; 
 How vam your glory — Oh ! how transitory 
 Are human flowers !" 
 
 In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist. 
 With which thou paintest nature's wide- 
 spread hall, 
 What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 Of love to all ! 
 
 Posthumous glories — angel-like collection. 
 Upraised from seed and bulb interr'd in 
 earth ; 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
 
 And second birth ! 
 
 Ephemeral sages — what instructors hoary 
 To such a world of thought could furnish 
 scope ? 
 Each fading calyx a memento mori, 
 
 Yet fount of hope. 
 
 Were I, God ! in churchless lands remaining, 
 
 Far from the voice of teachers and divines, 
 
 My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining 
 
 Priests, sermons, shrines! 
 
 DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^Y little and little, the old man bad drawn back towards tbe inner 
 cbamber, wbile tbese words were spoken. He pointed there, 
 he replied, with trembling lips, — 
 
 " You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You 
 will never do that— never while I have life. I have no relative or 
 friend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to 
 me. It is too late to part us now." 
 
 Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went. 
 he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, 
 and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily 
 uttered, — followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made 
 no noise, but there were sobs from among the group and sounds of grief 
 and mourning. 
 
DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 257 
 
 For she was dead. There, upon her httle bed, she lay at rest. The 
 solemn stillness was no marvel now. 
 
 She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of 
 pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of 
 God, and waiting for the breath of Hfe ; not one who had lived and suffered 
 death. 
 
 Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and 
 green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. " When I 
 die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above 
 it always." Those were her words. 
 
 She was dead. Lear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her 
 little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed 
 — was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mis- 
 tress was mute and motionless forever. 
 
 "Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues ? 
 All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness 
 were born ; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. 
 
 And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. 
 The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face ; it had passed like 
 a dream through haunts of misery and care ; at the door of the poor 
 schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, 
 wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same 
 mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after 
 death. 
 
 The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand 
 tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched 
 out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all 
 their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged 
 it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now ; and as he said 
 it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to 
 help her. 
 
 She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms 
 she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own v/as waning fast, — the 
 garden she had tended, — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts 
 of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but 
 yesterday — could know her no more. 
 
 "It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the 
 cheek, and give his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that heaven's justice 
 ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young 
 spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed 
 
258 
 
 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us 
 would utter it?" 
 
 FATE. 
 
 F. BRET HARTE. 
 
 ^HE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, 
 The spray of the tempest is white in 
 
 air. 
 The winds are out with the waves 
 
 at play — 
 And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 
 
 The trail is narrow, the wood is dim. 
 
 The panther clings to the arching limb: 
 And the lion's whelps are abroad at play — 
 And I shall not join the chase to-day. 
 
 But the ship sailed safely over the sea, 
 And the hunters came from the chase in glee; 
 And the town that was built upon a rock 
 Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. 
 
 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 
 'l^jHWAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, 
 mK Tall and slender, and sallow and 
 
 (|J|l|i His form was bent, and his gait was 
 * slow, 
 
 ¥ His long, thin hair was as white as 
 r snow. 
 
 But a wonderful twinkle shone in 
 his eye ; 
 And he sang every night, as he went to bed, 
 
 " Let us be happy, down here below ; 
 The living should live, though the dead be 
 dead," 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He taught his scholars the rule of three, 
 
 Writing, and reading, and history, too ; 
 He took the little ones upon his knee, 
 For a kind old heart in his breast had he. 
 
 And the wants of the littlest child he knew : 
 " Learn while you're young," he often said; 
 
 " There is much to enjoy, down here below; 
 Life for the living, and rest for the dead !" 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 With the stujiidcst lioys he was kind and cool, 
 
 Speaking only in gentlest tones ; 
 The rod was hardly known in his school — 
 Whipping to him was a barbarous rule, 
 
 And too hard work for his poor old bones ; 
 Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said: 
 
 " We should make life pleasant, down here 
 below. 
 The living need charity more than the dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He lived in the house by the hawthorn Ian 
 
 With roses and woodbine over the doo 
 His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain 
 But a spirit of comfort there held reign 
 
 And made him forget he was old and poor 
 " I need so little," he often said ; 
 
 " And my friends and relatives here below 
 Won't litigate over me when I am dead," 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, 
 
 Were the sociable hours he used to pass, 
 With his chair tipped back to a neighbor's wall 
 Making an unceremonious call. 
 
 Over a pipe and a friendly glass : 
 This was the finest pleasure, he said, 
 
 Of the many he tasted here below , 
 " Who has no cronies, had better be dead !" 
 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 Then the jolly old pedagogue's wrinkled face 
 Melted all over in sunshiny smiles: 
 
THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 
 
 269 
 
 He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, 
 Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace, 
 
 Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles. 
 " I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, 
 
 " I have lingered a long while, hero below ; 
 
 Leaving his tenderest kisses there, 
 
 On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old 
 crown ; 
 And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 
 Twas a glorious world, down here below; 
 
 ' He took the little ones upon his knee." 
 
 But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled !" 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He smoked his pipe in the balmy air. 
 
 Every night when the sun went down, 
 While the soft wind played in bia silvery 
 hair. 
 
 " Why wait for happiness till we are dead ?' 
 Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 He sat at his door, one midsummer night. 
 
 After the sun had sunk in the west, 
 And the lingering beams of golden light 
 Made his kindly old face look warm and bright 
 
260 
 
 THE COMET. 
 
 While the odorous night-wind whispered, 
 "Rest!" 
 Gently, gently, he bowed his head — 
 
 There were angels waiting for him, I know ; 
 He was sure of happiness, living or dead, 
 This jolly old pedagogue, long ago. 
 
 THE COMET. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 f>H|^MONG professors of astronomy, 
 ^/mj^ Adepts in the celestial economy, 
 c^..^ The name of Herschel's very often 
 i cited ; 
 
 "n And justly so, for he is hand in glove 
 
 5 With every bright intelligence above. 
 
 Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, 
 Watching the stars, upon the house's top ; 
 That once upon a time he got benighted. 
 
 In his observatory thus coquetting. 
 
 With Venus or with Juno gone astraj'-, 
 All sublunary matters quite forgetting 
 In his flirtations with the winking stars, 
 Acting the spy, it might be, upon Mars, — 
 
 A new Andre ; 
 Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping 
 At Dian sleeping ; 
 Or ogling through his glass 
 Some heavenly lass. 
 
 Tripping with pails along the Milky way ; 
 Or looking at that wain of Charles, the 
 Martyr's. 
 Thus was he sitting, watchman of the sky. 
 When lo ! a something with a tail of flame 
 M.xde him exclaim, 
 
 " My stars !" — he always puts that stress 
 on my, — 
 " My stars and garters !" 
 
 " A comet, sure as I'm alive ! 
 
 A noble one as I should wish to view ; 
 
 It can't bo Halloy's though, that is not due 
 Till eighteen thirty-five. 
 Magnificent ! How fine his fiery trail ! 
 
 Zounds! 'tis a pity, though, he comes 
 unsought, 
 
 Unasked, unrcckoned, — in no human 
 thought ; 
 
 He ought — ho ought — he ought 
 
 To have been caught 
 With scientific salt upon his tail. 
 
 " I looked no more for it, I do declare. 
 Than the Great Bear ! 
 
 As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead. 
 
 It really entered in my head 
 No more than Berenice's hair !" 
 Thus musing, heaven's grand inquisitor 
 Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor. 
 Till John, the serving man, came to the upper 
 Regions, with " Please your honor, come to 
 supper." 
 
 " Supper ! good John, to-night I shall not sup. 
 
 Except on that phenomenon — look up." 
 
 " Not sup !" cried John, thinking with con- 
 sternation 
 
 That supping on a star must be stor-vation. 
 
 Or even to batten 
 
 On ignesfatui would never fatten. 
 
 Ills visage seemed to say, " that very odd 
 But still his master the same tune rg 
 " I can't coroo down ; go to the pari 
 
 And say I'm supping with the h^ 
 bodies." 
 
 " The heavenly bodies !" echoed John, "ahem!" 
 
 Tlis mind still full of famishing alarms, 
 " Zounds ! if your honor sups with them, 
 In helping, somebody must make long 
 arms." 
 He thought his master's stomach was in 
 danger, 
 But still in the same tone replied the 
 
 knight, 
 
 " Go down, John, go, I have no appetite ; 
 
 Say I'm engaged with a celestial stranger." 
 
 Quoth John, not much aufait in such affair.t, 
 
 "Wouldn't the stranger take a bit down 
 
 stairs ?" 
 
 " No," said the master, smiling, and no 
 
 wonder. 
 At such a blunder, 
 
TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 261 
 
 " The stranger is not quite the thing you 
 
 think ; 
 He wants no meat or drink ; 
 And one may doubt quite reasonably whether 
 
 He has a mouth, 
 Seeing his head and tail are joined together. 
 
 Behold him ! there he is, John, in the south." 
 John looked up with his portentous eyes. 
 
 Each rolling like a marble in its socket ; 
 At last the fiery tadpole spies, 
 And, full of Vauxhall reminiscence, cries, 
 
 " A rare good rocket !" 
 
 " A what ? A rocket, John ! Far from it! 
 What you behold, John, is a comet ; 
 One of those most eccentric things 
 
 That in all ages 
 
 Have puzzled sages 
 And frightened kings ; 
 
 With fear of change, that flaming meteor 
 John, 
 
 Perplexes sovereigns throughout its range." 
 " Do he ?" cried John ; 
 " Well, let him flare on, 
 
 J haven't got no sovereigns to 
 
 TWENTY YEARS AGO. 
 
 P'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've 
 sat beneath the tree. 
 Upon the school-house play-ground, that 
 i sheltered you and me ; 
 
 X, But none were left to greet me, Tom ; and 
 
 few were left to know, 
 Who played with us upon the green, some 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 The grass is just as green, Tom ; bare-footed 
 
 boys at play 
 Were sporting, just as we did then, with 
 
 spirits just as gay. 
 But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, 
 
 coated o'er with snow, 
 Afforded us a sliding-place, some twenty 
 
 years ago. 
 
 The old school-house is altered now ; the 
 benches are replaced 
 
 By new ones, very like the same our pen- 
 knives once defaced ; 
 
 But the same old bricks are in the wall, the 
 bell swings to and fro ; 
 
 Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 The boys were playing some old game, 
 beneath that same old tree ; 
 
 I have forgot the name just now, — you ve 
 played the same with me. 
 
 On that same spot ; 'twas played with knives, 
 by throwing so and so ; 
 18 
 
 The loser had a task to do, — there, twenty 
 years ago. 
 
 The river's running just as still ; the willows 
 
 on its side 
 Are larger than they were, Tom ; the stream 
 
 appears less wide ; 
 But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, 
 
 where once we played the beau, 
 And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls, — 
 
 just twenty years ago. 
 
 The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close 
 
 by the spreading beech, 
 Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we 
 
 could scarcely reach. 
 And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom. 
 
 I started so, 
 To see how sadly I am changed since twenty 
 
 years ago. 
 
 'Twas by that spring, upon an elm, you know 
 
 I cut your name. 
 Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and 
 
 you did mine the same ; 
 Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 
 
 'twas dying sure but slow, 
 Just as she died, whose name you cut, some 
 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears 
 came to my eyes ; 
 
262 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 I thought of her I loved so well, those early- 
 broken ties ; 
 
 I visited the old church-yard, and took some 
 flowers to strow 
 
 Upon the graves of those we loved, some 
 twenty years ago. 
 
 Some are in the churcli-yard laid, some sleep 
 
 beneath the sea ; 
 But few are left of our old class, excepting 
 
 you and me ; 
 And when our time shall come, Tom, and 
 
 we are called to go, 
 I hope they'll lay us where we played, just 
 
 twenty years ago, 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS 
 mwa^^ banks and braes and streams around 
 
 Ihe castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your 
 flowers. 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfaulds her robes, 
 And there the langest tarry ; 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 0' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom. 
 As underneath their fragrant shade 
 
 I clasped her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours on angel wings 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace 
 
 Oar parting was fu' tender ; 
 And pledging aft to meet again, 
 
 We tore oursels asunder ; 
 But, 0, fell death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ! 
 
 O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 
 
 I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling gla; 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
 And mouldering now in silent dust 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But still within my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 FROM BYRON'S " CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 ^mpHERE is a pleasure in the pathless 
 ^111^ woods, 
 
 ^W^ There is a rapture on the lonely 
 eji'^ shore, 
 
 There is society where none intrudes 
 
 By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
 
 I love not man the less, but nature more, 
 
 From these oui; interviews, in which I steal 
 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all 
 conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, — roll ! 
 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 
 Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control 
 
THE SEA. 
 
 263 
 
 Stops with the shore; — upon the watery- 
 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 
 
 plain 
 
 mar 
 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 
 
 Alike the Armafl^a's pride or spoils of 
 
 remain 
 
 Trafalgar. 
 
 A shadow of man's ravage save his own, 
 
 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all 
 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
 
 save thee ; 
 
 groan. 
 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 
 
 Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and 
 
 they? 
 
 unknown. 
 
 Thy waters washed them power while they 
 
 
 were free. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy 
 
 And many a tyrant since; their shores 
 
 fields 
 
 obey 
 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength 
 
 Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou ; 
 
 he wields 
 
 Unchangeable save to thy wUd waves' 
 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 
 play, 
 
 liJi^ 
 
 JfdL 
 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 
 
 spray 
 And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
 And dashest him again to earth : — there 
 
 let him lay. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the 
 
 walls 
 Of rock -built cities, bidding nations quake 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 
 
 flake, ^ 
 
 Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure 
 brow; 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 
 
 form 
 Glasses itself in tempests : in all time 
 Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or 
 
 storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving; boundless, 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 
 
264 IMAGES. 
 
 Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 
 less, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a 
 boy 
 
 I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane, — as I do 
 here. 
 
 IMAGES. 
 
 T. B, MACAULAY. 
 
 ^OGICIANS may reason about abstractions. But the great mass of 
 
 i men must have images. The strong tendency of the multitude in 
 
 It all ages and nations to idolatry can be explained on no other prin- 
 
 »; ciple. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, wor- 
 J shipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having something 
 more definite to adore produced, in a few centuries, the innumerable cro 
 of gods and goddesses. In like manner, the ancient Persians thou 
 impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. Yet even these 
 ferred to the sun the worship which, in speculation, they consic 
 only to the Supreme Mind. The history of the Jews is the rec^ 
 continued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the most 
 sanctions, and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible an 
 tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which 
 Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which Christianity spread over 
 the world, while Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more 
 powerfully than this feeling. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, 
 the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so 
 noble a conception; but the crowd turned away in disgust from words 
 which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity, embodied 
 in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, 
 leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the 
 manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and 
 the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces of 
 the Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in the dust. 
 Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had 
 assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Paganism. Patron saints 
 assumed the ofiices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. 
 St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The 
 
GOIN' HOME TO-DAY. 
 
 265 
 
 Virgin Mother and Cecilia succeeded to Venus and the muses. The fasci- 
 nation of sex and lovehness was again joined to that of celestial dignity ; 
 and the homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Reformers 
 have often made a stand against these feelings ; but never with more than 
 apparent and partial success. The men who demolished the images in 
 cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were 
 enshrined in their minds. It would not be difficult to show that in politics 
 the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be 
 embodied before they can exercise a strong public feeling. The multitude 
 is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most 
 insigniticant name than for the most important principle. 
 
 GOIW HOME TO-DA Y. 
 
 WILL CARLETON, 
 
 !|r||[pY business on the jury's done — the 
 quibblin' all is through — 
 txHj^^j^ytp I've watched the lawyers, right and 
 
 left, and give my verdict true; 
 I stuck so long unto my chair, I 
 thought I would grow in ; 
 And if I do not know myself, they'll 
 get me there ag'in. 
 But now the court's adjourned for good, and 
 
 I have got my pay ; 
 I'm loose at last, and thank the Lord, I'm 
 goin' home to-day. 
 
 I've somehow felt uneasy, like, since first day 
 I come down ; 
 
 It is an awkward game to play the gentle- 
 man in town ; 
 
 And this 'ere Sunday suit of mine, on Sunday 
 rightly sets, 
 
 But when I wear the stuS a week, it some- 
 how galls and frets. 
 
 I'd rather wear my homespun rig of pepper- 
 salt and gray — 
 
 I'll have it on in half a jiff, when I get home 
 to-day. 
 
 I have no doubt my wife looked out, as well 
 as any one — 
 
 As well as any woman could — to see that 
 
 things were done : 
 For though Melinda, when I'm there, won't 
 
 set her foot out doors. 
 She's very careful, when I'm gone, to 'tend 
 
 to all the chores. 
 But nothing prospers half so well when I go 
 
 off to stay. 
 And I will put things into shape, when I get 
 
 home to-day. 
 
 The mornin' that I come away, we had a little 
 
 bout; 
 I coolly took my hat and left, before the show 
 
 was out. 
 For what I said was naught whereat she 
 
 ought to take offense ; 
 And she was always quick at words, and 
 
 ready to commence. 
 But then, she's first one to give up when she 
 
 has had her say ; 
 And shp will meet me with a kiss, when I go 
 
 home to-day 
 
 My little boy — I'll give 'em leave to match 
 
 him, if they can ; 
 It's fun to see him strut akout, and try to be 
 
 a man ! 
 
266 
 
 THE NATION'S DEAD. 
 
 The gamest, cheeriest little chap you'd ever 
 
 want to see ! 
 And then they laugh because I think the 
 
 child resembles me. 
 The little rogue ! he goes for me like robbers 
 
 for their prey ; 
 He'll turn my pockets inside out, when I get 
 
 home to-day. 
 
 My little girl — I can't contrive how it should 
 
 happen thus — 
 That God could pick that sweet bouquet, and 
 
 fling it down to us ! 
 My wife, she says that han'some face will 
 
 some day make a stir ; 
 And then I laugh, because she thinks the 
 
 child resembles her. 
 
 She'll meet me half way down the hill, and 
 
 kiss me, anyway ; 
 And light my heart up with her smiles, when 
 
 I go home to-day ! 
 
 If there's a heaven upon the ep.rth, a fellow 
 
 knows it when 
 He's been away from home a week, and then 
 
 gets back again. 
 If there's a heaven above the earth, there 
 
 often, I'll be bound. 
 Some homesick fellow meets his folks, and 
 
 hugs 'em all around. 
 But let my creed be right or wrong, or be it 
 
 as it may. 
 My heaven is just ahead of me — I'm goin' 
 
 home to-day. 
 
 MY CREED. 
 
 ALICE CAEY. 
 
 hold that Christian grace abounds 
 Where charity is seen ; that when 
 
 We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds 
 Of love to men. 
 
 fl hold all else, named piety, 
 A selfish scheme, a vain pretence ; 
 Where centre is not, can there be 
 
 Circumference ? 
 
 This I moreover hold, and dare 
 
 Affirm where'er my rhyme may go, — 
 
 Whatever things be sweet or fair, 
 Love makes them so. 
 
 Whether it be the lullabies 
 
 That charm to rest the nursing bird, 
 
 4 
 
 i fiuslT^H^ 
 
 Or that sweet confidence of si 
 And blushes, made without 
 
 Whether the dazzling and thi 
 
 Of softly sumptuous garden bowers 
 
 Or by some cabin door, a bush 
 Of ragged flowers. 
 
 'Tis not the wide phylactery, 
 
 Nor stubborn fasts, nor stated prayers, 
 That makes us saints ; we judge the tree 
 
 By what it bears. 
 
 And when a man can live apart 
 From works, on theologic trust, 
 
 I know the blood about his heart 
 Is dry as dust. 
 
 THE NATION'S DEAD. 
 
 |i«50UR hundred thousand men 
 
 The brave — the good — the true, 
 f,g.-j In tangled wood, in mountain glen, 
 On battle plain, in prison pen, 
 Lie dead for me and you I 
 
 Four hundred thousand of the brave 
 Have made our ransomed soil their 
 grave. 
 
 For me and you ! 
 Good friend, for me and you I 
 
UNDER THE VIOLETS. 
 
 267 
 
 In many a fevered swamp, 
 
 By many a black bayou, 
 In many a cold and frozen camp, 
 The weary sentinel ceased his tramp. 
 
 And died for me and you ! 
 From Western plain to ocean tide 
 Are stretched the graves of those who died 
 For me and you ! 
 
 Good friend, for me and you ! 
 
 On many a bloody plain 
 
 Their ready swords they drew. 
 And poured their life-blood, like the rain 
 A home — a heritage to gain. 
 
 To gain for me and you ! 
 Our brothers mustered by our side ; 
 They marched, they fought, and bravely died 
 For me and you ! 
 
 Good friend, for me and you ! 
 
 Up many a fortress wall 
 
 They charged — those boys in blue — 
 'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball ; 
 The bravest were the first to fall ! 
 
 To fall for me and you ! 
 
 These noble men — the nation's pride — 
 Four hundred thousand men have died 
 For me and you I 
 Good friend, for me and you 1 
 
 In treason's prison-hold 
 
 Their martyr spirits grew 
 To stature like the saints of old, 
 While amid agonies untold, 
 
 They starved for me and you ! 
 The good, the patient, and the tried, 
 Four hundred thousand men have died 
 For me and you ! 
 
 Good friend, for me and you ! 
 
 A debt we ne'er can pay 
 
 To them is justly du.3. 
 And to the nation's latest day 
 Our children's children still shall say, 
 
 " They died for me and you ! " 
 Four hundred thousand of the brave 
 Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave, 
 For me and you ! 
 
 Good friend, for me and you ! 
 
 UNDER THE VIOLETS. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 ER hands are cold ; her face is white ; I lyhen o'er their boughs the squirrels run. 
 
 No more her pulses come and go ; 
 !§!^^i^ Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — 
 Fold the white vesture, snow on 
 
 snow, 
 And lay her where the violets blow. 
 
 But not beneath a graven stone, 
 To plead for tears with alien eyes ; 
 
 A slender cross of wood alone 
 Shall say, that here a maiden lies 
 In peace beneath the peaceful skies. 
 
 And gray old trees of hugest limb 
 Shall wheel their circling shadows round 
 
 To make the scorching sunlight dim 
 
 That drinks the greenness from the ground, 
 And drop their dead leaves on her mound. 
 
 And through their leaves the robins call, 
 And, ripening in the autumn sun. 
 The acorns and the chestnuts fall. 
 Doubt not that she will heed them all. 
 
 For her the morning choir shall sing 
 Its matins from the branches high, 
 
 And every minstrel-voice of spring. 
 That trills beneath the April sky, 
 Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 
 
 When, turning round their dial-track. 
 Eastward the lengthening shadows pass 
 
 Her little mourners clad in black. 
 
 The crickets, sliding through the grass, 
 Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 
 
268 
 
 BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEriNG. 
 
 At last the rootlets of the trees 
 
 Shall find the prison where she lies, 
 
 And bear the buried dust they seize 
 In leaves and blossoms to the skies. 
 So may the soul that warmed it rise ! 
 
 If any, born of kindlier blood, 
 Should ask, What maiden lies below ? 
 
 Say only this : A tender bud, 
 
 That tried to blossom in the snow. 
 Lies withered where the violets blow 
 
 THE AMERICAN BO Y. 
 
 CAEOLINE OILMAN. 
 
 |00K up, my young American ! 
 H Stand firmly on the earth, 
 
 Where noble deeds and mental power 
 Give titles over birth. 
 
 A hallow'd land thou claim'st my boy. 
 
 By early struggles bought, 
 Heaped up with noble memories. 
 
 And wide, ay, wide as thought! 
 
 What though we boast no ancient towers 
 Where " ivied " streamers twine, 
 
 The laurel lives upon our soil, 
 The laurel, boy, is thine. 
 
 And though on " Cressy's distant field," 
 
 Thy gaze may not be cast. 
 While through long centuries of blood 
 
 Rise spectres of the past, — 
 
 The future wakes thy dreamings high, 
 And thou a note mayst claim — 
 
 Aspirings which in after times 
 Shall swell the trump of fame. 
 
 And when thou'rt told of knighthood': 
 And English battles won, 
 
 shield. 
 
 Look up, my boy, and breathe one word- 
 The name of Washington. 
 
 BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. 
 
 HORATIUS BONAR. 
 
 ^j^gEYOND the smiling and the weeping 
 ^^TO I shall be soon ; 
 
 .;^^v{^ Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
 ^^ Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 
 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Swed home I 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
CALL ME NOT DEAD. 
 
 269 
 
 Beyond the blooming and the fading 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the shining and the shading, 
 Beyond the hoping and the dreading, 
 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 
 Beyond the rising and the setting 
 
 I shall be soon 
 Beyond the calming and the fretting, 
 Beyond remembering and forgetting, 
 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 
 Beyond the gathering and the strowing 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, 
 
 Beyond the coming and the going, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home! 
 
 Beyond the parting and the meeting 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 
 Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
 
 Beyond the pulse's fever beating, 
 
 I shall be soon. 
 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 
 Beyond the frost chain and the fever 
 
 I shall be soon ; 
 Beyond the rock waste and the river. 
 Beyond the ever and the never, 
 I shall be soon. 
 Love, rest, and home ! 
 Sweet home ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come. 
 
 CALL ml: not dead. 
 
 Translated from the Persian of the 12th Century by Edwin Aunold. 
 
 ■mw^E who dies at Azim sends 
 
 This to comfort all his friends. — 
 Faithful friend, it lies, I know. 
 Pale and white, and cold as snow ; 
 And ye say, " Abdallah's dead " — 
 Weeping at the feet and head. 
 I can see yoiir falling tears ; 
 
 I can see your sighs and prayers ; 
 
 Yet I smile and whisper this : 
 
 I am not the thing you miss ! 
 
 Cease your tears and let it lie ; 
 
 It was mine, it is not I. 
 
 Sweet friends, what the women lave 
 
 For the last sleep of the grave 
 
 Is a hut which I am quitting, 
 
 Is a garment no more fitting ; 
 
 Is a cage from which, at last 
 
 Like a bird my soul has passed. 
 
 Love the inmate, not the room ; 
 
 The wearer, not the garb — the plume 
 
 Of the oagle, not the bars 
 
 That kept him from the splendid stars. 
 
 Loving friends, rise and dry 
 Straightway every weeping eye ! 
 What ye lift upon the bier 
 Is not worth a single tear. 
 'Tis an empty sea-shell — one 
 Out of which the pearl is gone. 
 The shell is broken, it lies there ; 
 The pearl, the all, the soul is here. 
 'Tis an earthen jar whose lid 
 Allah sealed, the while it hid 
 The treasure of his treasury — 
 A mind that loved him, let it lie. 
 Let the shards be earth once more, 
 Since the gold is in his store. 
 
 Allah, glorious! Allah, good! 
 Now thy world is understood — 
 Now the long, long wonder ends; 
 Yet we weep, my foolish friends. 
 While the man whom you call dead 
 In unbroken bliss instead 
 Lives and loves you — lost, 'tis true, 
 In the light that shines for you ; 
 
270 
 
 WHAT IS A MINORITY? 
 
 But in the light you cannot see, 
 In undisturbed felicity — 
 In a perfect paradise, 
 And a life that never dies. 
 
 Farewell, friends, yet not farewell, 
 Where I go, you too shall dwell, 
 I am gone before your face — 
 A moment's worth, a little space. 
 When you come where I have stept, 
 Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
 Ye will know, by true love taught, 
 That here is all and there is naught. 
 Weep awhile, if ye are fain — 
 
 Sunshine still must follow rain ; 
 Only not at death, — for death. 
 Now I know, is that first breath 
 Which our souls draw when we enter 
 Life, which is, of all life, centre. 
 
 Be ye certain all seems love, 
 
 Viewed from Allah's throne above ; 
 
 Be ye stout of heart, and come 
 
 Bravely onward to your home ! 
 
 La Allah ilia Allah. Yea ! 
 
 Thou love divine ! Thou love alway ! 
 
 He that died at Azim gave 
 
 This to those who made his grave. 
 
 WHA T IS A MINORITY? 
 
 JOHN B. GOUGH. 
 
 q^l^HAT is a minority ? The chosen heroes of this 
 fj^f^ in a minority. There is not a social, political, or ? 
 ^Jp'^i'^ lege that you enjoy to-day that was not bought for y^ 
 X blood and tears and patient suffering of the minority. It is the 
 
 1 minority that have vindicated humanity in every struggle. It is 
 
 a minority that have stood in the van of every moral conflict, and achieved 
 all that is noble in the history of the world. You will find that each 
 generation has been always busy in gathering up the scattered ashes of 
 the martyred heroes of the past, to deposit them in the golden urn of a 
 nation's history. Look at Scotland, where they are erecting monuments — 
 to whom ? — to the Covenanters. Ah, thcij were in a minority. Read 
 their history, if you can, without the blood tingling to the tips of your 
 fingers. These were in the minority, that, through blood, and tears, and 
 bootings and scourgings — dying the waters with their blood, and staining 
 the heather with their gore — fought the glorious battle of religious free- 
 dom. Minority ! if a man stand up for the right, though the right be on 
 the scaffold, while the wrong sits in the seat of government; if he stand 
 for the right, though he eat, with the right and truth, a wretched crust ; if 
 he walk with obloquy and scorn in the by-lanes and streets, while the 
 falsehood and wrong ruffle it in silken attire, lot him remember that 
 wherever the right and truth are there are always 
 
 Troops of beautiful, tall angels " 
 
THE LAST STATION. 
 
 271 
 
 gathered round him, and God Himself stands within the dim future, and 
 keeps watch over His own ! If a man stands for the right and the truth, 
 though every man's finger be pointed at him, though every woman's lip be 
 curled at him in scorn, he stands in a majority ; for God and good angels 
 are with him, and greater are they that are for him, than all they that be 
 against him. 
 
 THE LAST STATION. 
 ^ _ 
 
 ^E had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four weeks, and the 
 boys on the road dropped in daily to see how he got along, and to 
 learn if they could render him any kindness. The brakeman was 
 + a good fellow, and one and all encouraged him in the hope that he 
 el would pull through. The doctor didn't regard the case as danger- 
 ous ; but the other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that he 
 could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends sat in the room when 
 night came, buthis mind wandered, and he did not recognize them. 
 
 It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks and noisy 
 drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the short, sharp whistles of the 
 yard-engines sounded painfully loud. The patient had been very quiet for 
 half an hour, when he suddenly unclosed his eyes, and shouted : — 
 
 "Kal-a-ma-zoo!" 
 
 One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold forehead, and the 
 brakeman closed his eyes, and was quiet for a time. Then the wind 
 whirled around the depot and banged the blinds on the window of his room, 
 and he lifted his hand, and cried out: — 
 
 " Jack-son ! Passengers going north by the Saginaw Eoad change 
 cars !" 
 
 The men understood. The brakeman thought he was commg east on 
 the Michigan Central. The effort seemed to have greatly exhausted him, 
 for he lay like one dead for the next five minutes, and a watcher felt for 
 his pulse to see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river 
 sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brakeman opened his 
 eyes, and called out : — 
 
 "Ann Arbor!" 
 
 He had been over the road a thousand times, but had made his last 
 trip. Death was drawing a spectral train over the old track, and he was 
 brakeman, engineer, and conductor. 
 
 One of the yard engines uttered a shrill whistle of warning, as if the 
 
272 
 
 THE BURIED FLOWER. 
 
 glare of the headlight had shown to the engineer some stranger in peril, 
 and the brakeman called out : — 
 
 " Yp-silanti ! Change cars here for the Eel River Road !" 
 
 " He is coming in fast," whispered one of the men. 
 
 " And the end of his ' run ' will be the end of his life," said a second. 
 
 The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's forehead, and 
 there was that ghastly look on the face that death always brings. The 
 slamming of a door down the hall startled him again, and he moved his 
 head, and faintly said : — 
 
 " Grand Trunk Junction ! Passengers going east by the Grand Trunk 
 change cars!" 
 
 He was so quiet after that that all the men gathered around the bed, 
 believing that he was dead. His eyes closed, and the brakeman lifted his 
 hand, moved his head, and whispered : — 
 
 "De— " 
 
 Not " Detroit," but Death ! He died with the half-uttered whisper on 
 his lips. And the headlight on death's engine shone full in his face, and 
 covered it with such pallor as naught but death can bring. 
 
 THE BURIED FLO WEB.. 
 
 W. E. AYTOUN. 
 
 ^j^N the silence of my chamber, 
 ^^ When the night is still and deep, 
 ^°s^rf And the drowsy heave ot ocean 
 ^m Mutters in its charmed sleep, 
 
 I Oft 1 hear the angel voices 
 I That have thrilled me long ago, — 
 
 Voices of my lost companions, 
 Lying deep beneath the snow. 
 
 Where are now the flowers we tended ? 
 
 Withered, broken, branch and stem ; 
 Where are now the hopes we cherished '. 
 
 Scattered to the winds with them. 
 
 For ye, too, were flowers, ye dear ones ! 
 Nursed in hope and reared in love, 
 
 Looking fondly ever upward 
 To the clear blue heaven 
 
 Smiling on the sun that cheered us 
 Rising lightly from the rain. 
 
 Never folding up your freshness 
 Save to give it forth again. 
 
 0, 'tis sad to lie and reckon 
 All the days of faded youth. 
 
 All the vows that we believed in. 
 All the words we spoke in truth. 
 
 Severed, — were it severed only 
 By an idle thought of strife, 
 
 Such as time may knit together ; 
 Not the broken chord of life ! 
 
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 273 
 
 0, I fling my spirit backward, 
 And I pass o'er years of pain ; 
 
 All I loved is rising round me, 
 All the lost returns again. 
 
 Robed in everlasting beauty. 
 Shall I see thee once again. 
 
 By the light that never fadeth, 
 Underneath eternal skies. 
 
 Brighter, fairer far than living, 
 
 When the dawn of resurrection 
 
 With no trace of woe or pain, 
 
 Breaks o'er deathless Paradise. 
 
 UNION AND LIBERTY. 
 
 0. W. HOLMES. 
 
 jLAG of the heroes who left us their 
 glory, 
 Borne through their battle-fields' 
 thunder and flame. 
 Blazoned in song and illumined in story. 
 Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame. 
 Up with our banner bright, 
 Sprinkled with starry light, 
 Spread its fair emblems from mountain to 
 shore, 
 While through the sounding sky 
 Loud rings the Nation's cry — 
 Union and Liberty ! One Evermoee ! 
 
 Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, 
 Pride of her children, and honored afar. 
 
 Let the wide beams of thy full constellation 
 Scatter each cloud that would darken a 
 star! 
 
 Empire unsceptred ! what foe shall assail 
 thee 
 
 the standard of Liberty's van ? 
 
 Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail 
 thee. 
 Striving with men for the birthright of man ! 
 
 Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, 
 Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou 
 must draw 
 Then with the arms to thy million united. 
 Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and 
 Law! 
 
 Lord of the universe ! shield us and guide ua, 
 Trusting Thee always, through shadow 
 and sun ! 
 Thou hast united us, who shall divide ub? 
 Keep us, keep us the Many in One I 
 Up with our banner bright, 
 Sprinkled with starry light, 
 Spread its fair emblems from mountain to 
 shore, 
 While through the sounding sky 
 Loud rings the Nation's cry — 
 Union and Liberty I One Evermore ! 
 
 / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 REMEMBER, I remember 
 
 The house where I was born. 
 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at morn. 
 
 He never came a wink too soon. 
 Nor brought too long a day ; 
 
 But now I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then. 
 
 The roses, red and white, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
 The violets, and the lily-cups, — 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 Those flowers made of light! 
 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
 The lilacs where the robin built, 
 
 
 And where my brother set 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high ; 
 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 
 Were close against the sky. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To know I'm farther off from heaven 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 
 
 ELIZABETH AKERS. 
 
 ACKWARD, turn backward, Time, 
 in your flight, 
 5E^^ Make me a child again just for to- 
 night ! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless 
 
 shore, 
 Take me again to your heart as of 
 yore; 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my 
 
 hair ; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 
 
 Backward, flow backward, oh, tide of the 
 years ! 
 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
 
 Take them, and give me my childhood 
 
 again ! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
 Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap : — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleepl 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
 Ivlother, Mother, my heart calls for you ! 
 Many a summer the grass has grotvn green. 
 Blossomed and faded, our faces between ; 
 Yet, with strong yearning and passionate 
 
 pain. 
 Long I to-night for your presence again. 
 
THE GAMIN. 
 
 275 
 
 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 
 No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
 No other worship abides and endures, — 
 Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours; 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 From the sick soul and the world-weary 
 
 brain. 
 Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids 
 
 creep ; 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with 
 
 gold, 
 Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night, 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light; 
 For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
 Ilaply will throng the sweet visions of 
 
 yore; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been 
 
 long 
 Since I last listened your lullaby song ; 
 Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
 Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, 
 With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 THE GA2IIK 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 pARIS has a child ; the forest has a bird. The bird is called a spar- 
 row ; the child is called a gamin. His origin is from the rabble. 
 
 The most terrible embodiment of the rabble is the barricade, and 
 the most terrible of barricades was that of Faubourg St. Antoine. 
 
 iThe street was deserted as far as could be seen. Every door and 
 window was closed ; in the background rose a wall built of paving 
 stones, making the street a cul-de-sac. Nobody could be seen ; nothing 
 could be heard; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre! From 
 time to time, if anybody ventured to cross the street, the sharp, low 
 whistling of a bullet was heard, and the passer fell dead or wounded. For 
 the space of two days this barricade had resisted the troops of Paris, and 
 now its ammunition was gone. During a lull in the firing, a gamin, named 
 Gavroche, took a basket, went out into the street by an opening, and began 
 to gather up the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guards who had been 
 killed in front of the barricade. By successive advances he reached a 
 point where the fog from the firing became transparent, so that the sharp- 
 shooters of the line, drawn up and on the alert, suddenly discovered some- 
 thing moving in the smoke. Just as Gavroche was relieving a Grenadier 
 of his cartridges a ball struck the body. " They are killing my dead for 
 me," said the gamin. A second ball splintered the pavement behind him. 
 
276 I LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. 
 
 A third upset his basket, Gavroche rose up straight on his feet, his hair 
 in the wind, his hands upon his hips, his eyes fixed upon the National 
 Guard, who were firing ; and he sang : 
 
 " They are ugly at Naterre — 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; 
 And beasts at Palaeseau — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." 
 
 Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridges wliich had fallen 
 out, without losing a single one ; and advancing toward the fusilade, began 
 to empty another cartridge-box. Then a fourth ball just missed him 
 again ; Gavroche sang : 
 
 " I am only a scribe, 'tis the fault of Voltaire ; 
 My life one of woe — 'tis the fault of R.ousseau." 
 
 The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche fired at, mrocked the 
 firing and answered each discharge with a couplet. The National Guards 
 laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up ; hid himself 
 in a door-way, then sprang out; escaped, returned. The insurgents, 
 breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes ; the barricade was 
 trembling, he was singing. It was not a child, it was not a man ; it was 
 a strange fairy gamin, playing hide and seek with Death. 
 
 Every time the face of the grim spectre approached, the gamin snapped 
 his fingers. One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than 
 the others, reached the will-o'-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, 
 then fall. The whole barricade gave a cry. But the gamin had fallen 
 only to rise again. A long stream of blood rolled down his face. He 
 raised both arms in the air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, 
 and began to sing: 
 
 " I am buried in earth — 'tis the fault " 
 
 He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him 
 short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement and did not stir 
 again. That little great soul had taken flight. 
 
 / LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. 
 
 EGBERT LOWRY. 
 
 LOVE the morning sunshine — 
 For 'tis bringing to the singing 
 
 Of the early-matined birds, 
 
 Daylight's treasure, without measure, 
 
 Speaking joy with gentle words. 
 
 I love the morning sunshine — 
 For it lightens, warms, and brightens 
 
 Every hillside tinged with gloom ; 
 And its power, every hour, 
 
 Calls e'en spirits from their tomb. 
 
 /-I I 
 
CRADLE SONG. 
 
 277 
 
 I love the morning sunshine — 
 For its gushing, like the rushing 
 
 Of a molten tide of gold, 
 Ripples o'er me and before me. 
 
 And my heart cannot be cold. 
 
 I love the morning sunshine — 
 
 For 'tis telling that the knelling 
 
 Of each cycling day shall cease. 
 
 And the dawning of a morning 
 Never ending will bring peace. 
 
 I love the morning sunshine — 
 For it lies on Life's horizon, 
 
 Pointing out an untombed sward, 
 Where the spirit shall inherit 
 
 Golden daysprings from the Lord. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 
 
 SAMUEL LOVER. 
 
 ^ BABY was sleeping ; 
 
 Its mother was weeping ; 
 For her husband was far on the 
 wild raging sea ; 
 And the tempest was swelling 
 Round the fisherman's dwelling ; 
 And she cried, " Dermot, darling, 
 come back to me!" 
 
 Her beads while she numbered, 
 
 The baby still slumbered. 
 And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : 
 
 " 0, blest be that warning, 
 
 My child, thy sleep adorning, 
 For I know that the angels are whispering 
 with thee. 
 
 " And while they are keeping 
 Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 
 
 0, pray to them softly, my baby, with me ! 
 And say thou wouldst rather 
 They'd watch o'er thy father ! 
 
 For I know that the angels are whispering 
 to thee." 
 
 The dawn of the morning 
 Saw Dermot returning, 
 And the wife wept with joy her babe's 
 father to see ; 
 And closely caressing 
 Her child with a blessing, 
 Said, " I knew that the angels were whisper- 
 ing with thee." 
 
 CRADLE SONG. 
 
 JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. 
 
 '^HAT is the little one thinking about? 
 L'i Very wonderful things, no doubt; 
 ?*% Unwritten history ! 
 
 Unfathomed mystery ! 
 Yet he chuckles, and crows, and 
 
 nods and winks 
 As if his head were as full of kinks. 
 And curious riddles as any sphinx ! 
 Warped by colic, and wet by tears, 
 lU 
 
 Punctured by pms, and tortured by fears 
 Our little nephew will lose two years ; 
 
 And he'll never know 
 
 Where the summers go ; 
 He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. 
 
 Who can tell what a baby thinks? 
 Who can follow the gossamer links 
 By which the manikin feels its way 
 
278 
 
 THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. 
 
 Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
 Blind, and wailing, and alone, 
 
 Into the light of the day ? 
 Out from the shore of the unknown sea. 
 Tossing in pitiful agony ; 
 Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
 Specked with the barks of little souls, — 
 Barks that were launched on the other side. 
 And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! 
 
 What does he think of his mother's eyes ? 
 What does he think of his mother's hair ? 
 
 What of the cradle-roof, that flies 
 Forward and backward through the air ? 
 
 What does he think of his mother's breast. 
 Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
 Seeking it ever with fresh delight, 
 
 Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? 
 What does he think when her quick embrace 
 Presses his hand and buries his face 
 Deep where the heart-throbs sink and fiwell. 
 With a tenderness she never can tell, 
 
 Though she murmur the words 
 
 Of all the birds,— 
 Words she has learned to murmur well ? 
 
 Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
 
 I can see the shadow creep 
 Over his eyes in soft eclipse. 
 Over his brow and over his lips, 
 Out to his little finger-tips ! 
 Softly sinking, down he goes ! 
 Down he goes ! down he goes ! 
 See ! he's hushed in sweet repose. 
 
 THE HERO OF THE COMMUNE. 
 
 ^^fer 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 JARGON! You, you 
 Snared along with this cursed crew ? 
 (Only a child, and yet so bold. 
 Scarcely as much as ten years old !) 
 Do you hear ? do you know 
 Why the gens d'armes put you 
 there, in the row. 
 You with those Commun3 wretches tall, 
 With your face to the wall ? 
 
 " Knowf To be sure I know! Why not? 
 
 We're here to be shot; 
 And there by the pillar's the very spot. 
 Fighting for France, my father fell. 
 Ah, well !— 
 That's just the way J would choose to fall, 
 With my back to the wall !" 
 
 " (Sacre ! Fair, open fight I say, 
 
 Is something right gallant in its way, 
 
 And fine for warming the blood ; but 
 who 
 
 Wants wolfish work like this to do ? 
 Bah ! 'tis a butcher's business !) How f 
 (The boy is beckoning to me now : 
 
 I knew that this poor child's heart would 
 fail, 
 
 Yet his cheek's not pale :) 
 
 Quick ! say your say, for don't you see 
 When the church-clock yonder tolls out Three, 
 You are all to be shot ? 
 — What f 
 ' Excuse you one moment f 0, ho, ho ! 
 Do you think to fool a gen d'armes so ?" 
 
 " But, sir, here's a watch that a friend, one 
 
 day, 
 (My father's friend) just over the way. 
 Lent me ; and if you let me free — 
 It still lacks seven minutes of Three — 
 I'll come on the word of a soldier's son, 
 Straight back into line, when my errand's 
 
 done." 
 
 "Ha, ha! No doubt of it! Off! Begone! 
 (Now, good St. Dennis, speed him on ! 
 The work will be easier since he's saved ; 
 For I hardly see how I could have braved 
 The ardor of that innocent eye, 
 
THE DUMB-WAITER. 
 
 279 
 
 As he stood and heard, 
 
 While I gave the word, 
 
 Dooming him like a dog to die.)" 
 
 " In time? Well, thanks, that my desire 
 Was granted ; and now I'm ready ; — Fire 
 One word ! — that's all ! 
 
 — You'll let me turn my back to the 
 wall?" 
 
 " Parbleu ! Come out of the line, I say. 
 Come out! (Who said that his name was 
 
 Ney?) 
 Ha! France will hear of him yet, one day !" 
 
 THE DUMB-WAITER. 
 
 FREDERICK S. COZZENS. 
 
 |i|||if E have put a dumb-waiter in our house. A dumb-waiter is a good 
 yiki'yl thing to have in the country, on account of its convenience. If 
 ^f^ you have company, every thing can be sent up from the kitchen 
 without any trouble; and if the baby gets to be unbearable, on 
 account of his teeth, you can dismiss the complainant by stuffing 
 him into one of the shelves, and letting him down upon the help. 
 To provide for contingencies, we had all our floors deafened. In conse- 
 quence, you cannot hear anything that is going on in the story below ; 
 and when you are in an upper room of the house, there might be a demo- 
 cratic ratification- meeting in the cellar, and you would not know it. 
 Therefore, if any one should break into the basement, it would not disturb 
 us; but to please Mrs. Sparrowgrass, I put stout iron bars on all the lower 
 windows. Besides, Mrs. Sparrowgrass had bought a rattle when she was 
 in Philadelphia ; such a rattle as watchmen carry there. This is to alarm 
 our neighbor, who, upon the signal, is to come to the rescue with his revol- 
 ver. He is a rash man, prone to pull trigger first, and make inquiries 
 afterward. 
 
 One evening Mrs. S. had retired, and I was busy writing, when it struck 
 me a glass of ice-water would be palatable. So I took the candle and a 
 pitcher, and went down to the pump. Our pump is in the kitchen. A 
 country pump in the kitchen is more convenient; but a well with buckets 
 is certainly most picturesque. Unfortunately our well-water has not been 
 sweet since it was cleaned out. 
 
 First, I had to open a bolted door that lets you into the basement hall, 
 and then I went to the kitchen door, which proved to be locked. Then I 
 remembered that our girl always carried the key to bed with her, and 
 slept with it under her pillow. Then I retraced my steps; bolted the 
 basement door, and went up into the dining-room. As is always the 
 
280 THE DUMB-WAITER. 
 
 case, I found, when I could not get any water I was thirstier than I 
 supposed I was. Then I thought I would wake our girl up. Then I con- 
 cluded not to do it. Then I thought of the well, but I gave that up on 
 account of its flavor. Then I opened the closet doors : there was no water 
 there; and then I thought of the dumb-waiter! The novelty of the idea 
 made rae smile; I took out two of the movable shelves, stood the pitcher 
 on the bottom of the dumb-waiter, got in myself with the lamp ; let myselt 
 down until I supposed I was within a foot of the floor below, and then let 
 go. 
 
 We came down so suddenly that I was shot out of the apparatus as if it 
 had been a catapult ; it broke the pitcher, extinguished the lamp, and 
 landed me in the middle of the kitchen at midnight, with no fire, and the 
 air not much above the zero point. The truth is, I had miscalculated the 
 distance of the descent, — instead of falling one foot, I had fallen five. My 
 first impulse was, to ascend by the way I came down, but I found that im- 
 practicable. Then I tried the kitchen door: it was locked. I tried to 
 force it open ; it was made of two-inch stuff, and held its own. Then I 
 hoisted a window, and there were the rigid iron bars. If I ever felt angry 
 at anybody it was at myself, for putting up those bars to please Mrs 
 Sparrowgrass. I put them up, not to keep people in, but to keep people 
 out. 
 
 I laid ray cheek against the ice-cold barriers, and looked at the sky; not 
 a star was visible ; it was as black as ink overhead. Then I thought of 
 Baron Trenck and the prisoner of Chillon. Then I made a noise ! I 
 shouted until I was hoarse, and ruined our preserving-kettle with the 
 poker. That brought our dogs out in full bark, and between us we made 
 the night hideous. Then I thought I heard a voice, and listened : it was 
 Mrs. Sparrowgrass calling to me from the top of the stair-case. I tried 
 to make her hear me, but the infernal dogs united with howl, and growl, 
 and bark, so as to drown my voice, which is naturally plaintive and ten- 
 der. Besides, there were two bolted doors and double-deafened floors be- 
 tween us. How could she recognize my voice, even if she did hear it? 
 
 Mrs. Sparrowgrass called once or twice, and then got frightened ; 
 the next thing I heard was a sound as if the roof had fallen in, by which I 
 understood that Mrs. Sparrowgrass was springing the rattle ! That called 
 out our neighbor, already wide awake; he came to the rescue with a bull- 
 terrier, a Newfoundland pup, a lantern, and a revolver. The moment he 
 saw me at the window, he shot at me, but fortunately just missed me, I 
 threw myself under the kitchen table, and ventured to expostulate with 
 him, but he would not listen to reason. In the excitement I had forgotten 
 
FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 281 
 
 his name, and that made matters worse. It was not until he had roused 
 up everybody around, broken in the basement door with an axe, gotten 
 into the Icitchen with his cursed savage dogs and shooting-iron, and seized 
 me by the collar, that he recognized me, — and then he wanted me to ex- 
 plain it ! But what kind of an explanation could I make to him ? I told 
 him he would have to wait until my mind was composed, and then I would 
 let him understand the matter fully. But he never would have had the 
 particulars from me, for I do not approve of neighbors that shoot at you, 
 break in your door, and treat you in your own house as if you were a jail- 
 bird. He knows all about it, however, — somebody has told him — some- 
 body tells everybody every thing in our village. 
 
 FLORENCE VANE. 
 
 PHILIP P. COOKE. 
 
 Kl LOVED thee long and dearly, 
 @J|P Florence Vane ; 
 
 f^p My life's bright dream and early 
 4lf Hath come again ; 
 
 r I renew in my fond vision 
 L My heart's dear pain, 
 
 My hopes and thy derision, 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 The ruin, lone and hoary, 
 
 The ruin old, 
 Wliere thou did'st hark my story 
 
 At even told, 
 That spot, the hues elysian 
 
 Of sky and plain 
 I treasure in my vision, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 Thou wast lovelier than the roses 
 
 In their prime ; 
 Thy voice excelled the closes 
 
 Of sweetest rhyme ; 
 Thy heart was as a river 
 
 Without a main, 
 Would I had loved thee never, 
 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 But fairest, coldest wonder ! 
 
 Thy glorious clay 
 Lieth the green sod under ; 
 
 Alas the day ! 
 
282 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 And it boots not to remember 
 
 Thy disdain, 
 To quicken love's pale ember, 
 
 Florence Vane ! 
 
 The lilies of the valley 
 
 By young graves weep, 
 
 The daisies love to dally 
 
 Where maidens sleep. 
 
 May their bloom in beauty vying 
 Never vsrane 
 
 Where thine earthly part is lying, 
 Florence Vane. 
 
 RING THE BELL SOFTLY. 
 
 ^^OME one has gone from this strange 
 world of ours, 
 No more to gather its thorns with 
 its flowers ; 
 
 No more to linger where sunbeams must fade. 
 Where on all beauty death's fingers are laid ; 
 Weary with mingling life's bitter and sweet. 
 Weary with parting and never to meet. 
 Some one has gone to the bright golden shore ; 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 
 Ring the bell soTtly, there's crape on the door ! 
 
 Some one is resting from sorrow and sin, 
 Happy where earth's conflicts enter not in. 
 Joyous as birds when the morning is bright, 
 When the sweet sunbeams have brought us 
 their light. 
 
 DEXTER SMITH. 
 
 Weary with sowing and never to reap, 
 Weary with labor, and welcouiing sleep, 
 Some one's departed to heaven's bright shore; 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 
 
 Angels were anxiously longing to meet 
 One who walks with them in heaven's bright 
 
 street ; 
 Loved ones have whispered that some one 
 
 is blest, — 
 Free from earth's trials and taking sweet rest. 
 Yes ! there is one more in angelic bliss, — 
 One less to cherish and one less to kiss ; 
 One more departed to heaven's bright shore ; 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door ! 
 Ring the bell softly, there's crape on the door i 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIET 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ^^P^ITH fingers weary and worn, 
 ' '" ' With eyelids heavy and red, 
 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 
 Plying her needle and thread — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt. 
 And still, with a voice of dolorous 
 pitch, 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt !" 
 
 " Work 1 work ! work ! 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof: 
 And work — work — work ! 
 
 Till the stars shine through the roof! 
 
 It's oh ! to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, 
 
 If THIS is Christian work ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ! 
 Work — work — work ! 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
 Seam, and gusset, and baml. 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 
 
 And sew them on in niv dream ! 
 
THE WHISTLE. 
 
 283 
 
 " Oh ! men with sisters dear ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 Oh ! men with mothers and wives ! 
 
 In the dull December light ; 
 
 It is not linen you're wearing out, 
 
 And work — work — work ! 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 
 When the weather is warm and bright: 
 
 Stitch— stitch— stitch ! 
 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
 
 The brooding swallows cling, 
 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 A SHROUD as well as a shirt ! 
 
 And twit me with the Spring. 
 
 " But why do I talk of death, 
 
 " Oh ! but to breathe the breath 
 
 That phantom of grisly bone ? 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet ; 
 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape, 
 
 With the sky above my head. 
 
 It seems so like my own- 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet: 
 
 It seems so like my own, 
 
 For only one short hour 
 
 Because of the fast I keep : 
 
 To feel as I used to feel. 
 
 God ! that bread should be so dear, 
 
 Before I knew the woes of want. 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap ! 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 
 " Oh ! but for one short hour ! 
 
 " Work — work — work ! 
 
 A respite, however brief! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope, 
 
 And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, 
 
 But only time for grief ! 
 
 A crust of bread — and rags : 
 
 A little weeping would ease my heart — 
 
 A shatter'd roof— and this naked floor — 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 
 A table — a broken chair — 
 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 
 
 Hinders the needle and thread !" 
 
 For sometimes falling there ! 
 
 
 
 With fingers weary and worn. 
 
 " Work— work— work ! 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red. 
 
 From weary chime to chime ; 
 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. 
 
 Work — work — work ! 
 
 Plying her needle and thread : 
 
 As prisoners work for crime ! 
 
 Stitch— stitch— stitch ! 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam. 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band. 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
 
 Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, 
 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich !— 
 
 As well as the weary hand ! 
 
 She sung this " Song of the Shirt !" 
 
 THE WHISTLE. 
 
 ROBERT STORY. 
 
 r^OU have heard," said a youth to 
 his sweetheart, who stood, 
 t^fi^"'-" While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at 
 (;Ji» daj^light's decline, — 
 
 You have heard of the Danish 
 
 boy's whistle of wood? 
 I wish that that Danish boy's 
 whistle were mine." 
 
 And what would you do with it ? — tell me," 
 she said. 
 
 While an arch smile played over her beau- 
 tiful face. 
 
 I would blow it," he answered; ' and then 
 my fair maid 
 
 Would fly to my side, and would here take 
 her place." 
 
284 
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 " Is that all you wish it for ?— That may be 
 
 " Yet once more would I blow, and the music 
 
 youra 
 
 divine 
 
 "Without any magic," the fair maiden 
 
 Would bring me the third time an exqui- 
 
 cried: 
 
 site bliss : 
 
 "A favor so light one's good nature secures" ; 
 
 You would lay your fair cheek to this brown 
 
 And she playfully seated herself by his 
 
 one of mine, 
 
 side. 
 
 And your li[)S, stealing past it, would give 
 
 
 me a kiss." 
 
 " I would blow it again," said the youth, 
 
 
 " and the charm 
 
 The maiden laughed out in her innocent 
 
 Would work so, that not even Modesty's 
 
 glee,- 
 
 check 
 
 " What a fool of yourself with your whistle 
 
 Would be able to keep from my neck your 
 
 you'd make ! 
 
 fine arm" : 
 
 For only consider, how silly 't would be, 
 
 She smiled, — and she laid her fine arm 
 
 To sit there and whistle for — what you 
 
 round his neck. 
 
 might take." 
 
 A SUFI SAINT. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN BY WM. R. ALGER. 
 
 ^^MKT heaven approached a Sufi Saint, 
 ^^fi^^ From groping in the darkness late, 
 '^^'^'1 ^^^1 tapping timidly and faint, 
 (■A Besought admission at God's gate. 
 
 Said God, " Who seeks to enter here ?" 
 
 " 'Tis I, dear Friend," the Saint replied. 
 And trembling much with hope and fear. 
 " If it be thou, without abide." 
 
 Sadly to earth the poor Saint turned, 
 To bear the scourgmg of life's rods ; 
 
 But aye his heart within him yearned 
 To mix and lose its love in God's. 
 
 He roamed alone through weary years. 
 By cruel men still scorned and mocked. 
 
 Until from faith's pure fires and tears 
 Again he rose, and modest knocked. 
 
 Asked God, " Who now is at the door?" 
 " It is thyself, beloved Lord," 
 
 Answered the Saint, in doubt no more, 
 But clasped and rapt in his reward. 
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 gi.Y«^N rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a 
 man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves 
 him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest 
 and most elevating of external influences. The man of refinement, 
 
 i therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower 
 orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the 
 lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad 
 to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt 
 enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country 
 
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 285 
 
 bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn 
 blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why 
 the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in 
 England than 
 
 they are in any 
 other country ; 
 and why the lat- 
 ter have endured 
 so many exces- 
 sive pressures 
 and extremities, 
 without repining 
 more generally 
 at the unequal 
 distribution of 
 fortune and privilege. 
 
 To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attribu- 
 ted the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use 
 of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature 
 which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from " The 
 Flower and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all 
 the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers 
 of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, 
 and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets 
 have revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — 
 they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in 
 the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could 
 not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble 
 violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been 
 noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into 
 some beautiful morality. 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 
 
 ELIZA COOK. 
 
 LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall dare 
 To chide me for loving that old arm- 
 chair? 
 I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
 
 I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed 
 
 it with sighs. 
 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start; 
 
286 
 
 THE PALACE 0' THE KING. 
 
 Would you know the spoil ? — a mother sat 
 
 there ! 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 The hallowed seat with listening ear ; 
 And gentle words that mother would give 
 To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
 
 And I almost worshipped her when she 
 
 smiled, 
 And turned from her Bible to bless her 
 
 child. 
 Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — 
 My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled \ 
 I learnt how much the heart can bear. 
 When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. 
 
 
 " In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 The hallowed seat with listening ear 
 
 She told me that shame would never betide 
 With truth for my creed, and God for my 
 
 guide ; 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
 A-s 1 knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat and watched her many a day. 
 When her eyes grew dim, and her locks were 
 gray; 
 
 'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now. 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow : 
 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she 
 
 died, 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 
 Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
 But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 THE PALACE 0' THE XING. 
 
 WILLIAM MITCHELL. 
 
 ^T'S a bonnie, bonnie warl' that we're 
 livin' in the noo. 
 An' sunny is the Ian' we aften traivel 
 
 thro'; 
 But in vain we look for something to 
 J which our hearts can cling, 
 
 For its beauty is as naething to the palace 
 o' the King. 
 
 We like the gilded simmer, wi' its merry, 
 merry tread. 
 
 An' we sigh when hoary winter lays its beau- 
 ties wi' the dead ; 
 
PIP'S FIGHT. 
 
 287 
 
 For though bonnie are the snawl 
 
 the down on winter's wing, 
 It's fine to ken it daurna' touch the palace o' 
 the King. 
 
 Then again, I've juist been thinkin' that 
 
 when a'thing here's sae bricht, 
 The sun in a' its grandeur an' the mune wi' 
 
 quiverin' licht. 
 The ocean i' the simmer or the woodland i' 
 
 the spring, 
 What maun it be up yonder i' the palace o' 
 
 the King. 
 
 It's here we hae oor trials, an' it's here that 
 he prepares 
 
 A' his chosen for the raiment which the ran- 
 somed sinner wears, 
 
 An' it's here that he wad hear us, 'mid oor 
 tribulations sing, 
 
 " We'll trust oor God wha reigneth i' the 
 palace o' the King." 
 
 Though his palace is up yonder, he has king- 
 doms here below. 
 
 An' we are his ambassadors, wherever we 
 may go ; 
 
 We've a message to deliver, an' we've lost 
 anes hame to bring 
 
 To be leal and loyal-heartit i' the palace o' 
 the King. 
 
 Oh, it's honor heaped on honor that his cour- 
 tiers should be ta'en 
 
 Frae the wand'rin' anes he died for i' this 
 warl' o' sin an' pain. 
 
 An' it's fu'est love an' service that the Chris- 
 tian aye should bring 
 
 To the feet o' him wha reigneth i' the palace 
 o' the King. 
 
 An' let us trust him better than we've ever 
 
 done afore, 
 For the King will feed his servants frae his 
 
 ever bounteous store. 
 Let us keep closer grip o' him, for time is on 
 
 the wing, 
 An' sune he'll come and tak' us to the palace 
 
 o' the King. 
 
 Its iv'ry halls are bonnie, upon which the 
 
 rainbows shine, 
 An' its Eden bow'rs are trellised wi' a never 
 
 fadin' vine. 
 An' the pearly gates o' heaven do a glorious 
 
 radiance fling 
 On the starry floor that shimmers i' the pai- 
 » ace o' the King. 
 
 Nae nicht shall be in heaven an' nae deso- 
 latin' sea, 
 
 An' nae tyrant hoofs shall trample i' the city 
 o' the free. 
 
 There's an everlastin' daylight, an' a never- 
 fadin' spring, 
 
 Where the Lamb is a' the glory, i' the pal- 
 ace o' the King. 
 
 We see oor frien's await us ower yonder at 
 
 his gate: 
 Then let us a' be ready, for ye ken it's gettin' 
 
 late. 
 Let oor lamps be brichtly burnin' ; let's raise 
 
 oor voice an' sing, 
 "Sune we'll meet, to pairt nae mair, i' the 
 
 palace o' the King." 
 
 PIP'S FIGHT. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 " ^wOME and fight," said the pale young gentleman. 
 
 i^ What could I do but follow him ? I have often asked myself 
 \L the question since : but what else could I do ? His manner was so 
 * final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I 
 I had been under a spell. 
 
288 PIP'S FIGHT. 
 
 " Stop a minute, though/' he said, wheehng round before we had 
 got many paces. " I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There 
 it is ! " In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands 
 against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled 
 my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my 
 stomach. 
 
 The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestion- 
 ably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable 
 just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him, and was going to 
 hit out again, when he said, "Aha! Would you?" and began dancing 
 backward and forward in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited 
 experience. 
 
 " Laws of the game ! " said he. Here he skipped from his left leg on 
 to his right. " Regular rules !" Here he skipped from his right leg on to 
 his left. ''Come to the ground and go through the preliminaries ! " Here 
 he dodged backward and forward, and did all sorts of things, while I 
 looked helplessly at him, 
 
 I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous; but I felt 
 morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had 
 no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it 
 irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him 
 without a word to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of 
 two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satis- 
 fied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to ab- 
 sent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water 
 and a sponge dipped in vinegar. " Available for both," he said, placing 
 these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket 
 and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, busi- 
 ness-like and blood-thirsty. 
 
 Although he did not look very healthy — having pimples on his face, 
 and a breaking-out at his mouth — these dreadful preparations quite appalled 
 me. I judged him to be about my own age, but he was much taller, and 
 he had a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For 
 the rest, he was a young gentleman in a gray suit (when not denuded for 
 battle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of 
 the rest of him as to development. 
 
 My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at me with every de- 
 monstration of mechanical nicety, and eying my anatomy as if he were 
 minutely choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my life as 
 I was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his back, look- 
 
THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 289 
 
 ing up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly fore- 
 shortened. 
 
 But he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great 
 show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I 
 have ever had in my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at 
 me out of a black eye. 
 
 His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no 
 strength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked 
 down; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drink- 
 ing out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding 
 himself according to form, and then came at me with an air and show that 
 made me believe he really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily 
 bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit 
 him ; but he came up again and again and again, until at last he got a bad 
 fall with the back of his head against the wall. Even after that crisis in our 
 affairs, he got up and turned round and round confusedly a few times, not 
 knowing where I was ; but finally went on his knees to his sponge and 
 threw it up : at the same time panting out, " That means you have won." 
 
 He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed 
 the contest I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so 
 far as to hope that I regarded myself, while dressing, as a species of savage 
 young wolf, or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly wiping 
 my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, "Can I help you?" and he 
 said, " No, thankee," and I said, " Good afternoon," and he said, " Same 
 to you." 
 
 THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. 
 
 And he buried him 
 
 valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man kaoweth of his 
 sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xixiv. 6. 
 
 j^^^Y Nebo's lonely mountain, 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 In a vale in the land of Moab, 
 
 There lies a lonely grave ; 
 But no man dug that sepulchre. 
 
 And no man saw it e'er, 
 For the angels of God upturned the 
 sod, 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 But no man heard the tramping, 
 
 Or saw the train go forth ; 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes when the night is done, 
 And the crimson streak on the 
 cheek 
 
 Grows into the grea-t sun, — 
 
290 
 
 PUTTING UP O' THE STOVE. 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves, 
 
 That ever buoKled sword ; 
 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 Open their thousand leaves, — 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 
 So, without sound of music, 
 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Or voice of them that wept, 
 
 Traced, with his golden pen, 
 
 Silently down from the mountain crown 
 
 On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle, 
 
 And had he not high honor ? 
 
 On gray Beth-peor's height. 
 
 The hill-side for his pall. 
 
 Out of his rocky eyrie, 
 
 To lie in state while angels wait, 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight. 
 
 With stars for tapers tall ; 
 
 Perchance the lion, stalking. 
 
 And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes 
 
 Still shuns the hallowed spot ; 
 
 Over his bier to wave ; 
 
 For beast and- bird have seen and heard 
 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 To lay him in the grave, — 
 
 Lo ! when the warrior dieth. 
 
 In that deep grave, without a name, 
 
 His comrades in the war. 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 
 With arms reversed, and muffled drum, 
 
 Shall break again, — wondrous thought 1— 
 
 Follow the funeral car. 
 
 Before the judgment day ; 
 
 They show the banners taken. 
 
 And stand, with glory wrapped around. 
 
 They tell his battles won. 
 
 On the hills he never trod, 
 
 And after him lead his masterless steed, 
 
 And speak of the strife that won our life. 
 
 While peals the minute gun. 
 
 With the incarnate Son of God. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 lonely tomb in Moab's land ! 
 
 Men lay the sage to rest. 
 
 dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
 
 With costly marble dressed. 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 
 In the great minster transept. 
 
 God hath his mysteries of grace, — 
 
 Where lights like glories fall. 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell ; 
 
 And the choir sings and the organ rings 
 
 He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 Of him he loved so well. 
 
 PUTTING UP a THE STOVE. 
 
 OR THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL HOUSEHOLDER. 
 
 ^IIE melancholy days have come that 
 ijivl no householder loves. 
 
 Days of the taking down of blinds 
 
 and putting up of stoves ; 
 The lengths of pipe forgotten lie in 
 
 the shadow of the shed. 
 Dinged out of symmetry they be 
 and all with rust are red ; 
 
 The husband gropes amid the mass that hs 
 
 placed there anon, 
 And swears to find an elbow joint and eke a 
 
 leg are gone. 
 
 So fared it with good Mister Brown, when 
 his spouse remarked: " Behold ! 
 
PUTTING UP 0' THE STOVE. 
 
 291 
 
 Unless you wish us all to go and catch our 
 
 deaths of cold, 
 Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their 
 
 storing place conveyed, 
 And to black-lead and set them up, lo 1 I 
 
 will lend my aid." 
 
 This, Mr. Brown he trembling heard, I trow 
 
 his heart was sore, 
 For he was married many years and had 
 
 been there before, 
 And timidly he said, " My love, perchance 
 
 the better plan 
 'Twere to hie to the tinsmith's shop and bid 
 
 him send a man?" 
 
 His spouse replied indignantly : " So you 
 
 would have me then 
 To waste our substance upon riotous 'tin- 
 smith's journeymen ? 
 ' A penny saved is twopence earned,' rash 
 
 prodigal of pelf, 
 Go ! false one, go ! and I will black and set 
 
 it up myself." 
 When thus she spoke the husband knew that 
 
 she had sealed his doom . 
 " Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and 
 
 gimme down that broom," 
 He cried ; then to the outhouse marched. 
 
 Apart the doors he hove 
 And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, 
 
 the stove. 
 
 Round 1. — They faced each other ; Brown, 
 
 to get an opening, soarred 
 Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious — on 
 
 its guard. 
 Brown led off with his left to where a length 
 
 of stove-pipe stood 
 And nearly cut his fingers off. {The stove 
 
 allowed First Blood.) 
 Hound 2.— Brown came up swearing, in 
 
 Graeco-Roman style 
 Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove 
 
 at it a weary while ; 
 At last the leg he held gave way ; flat on his 
 
 back fell Brown, 
 And the stove fell on top of him and claimed 
 the First Knock-down. 
 
 * * * The fight is done and Brown has won ; 
 
 his hands are rasped and sore, 
 And perspiration and black lead stream from 
 
 his every pore ; 
 Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner 
 
 a shove, 
 He cries, " Where, my good angel, shall I put 
 
 this blessed stove?" 
 And calmly Mrs. Brown to him she indicates 
 
 the spot. 
 And bids him keep his temper and remarks 
 
 that he looks hot. 
 And now comes in the sweet o' the day •, the 
 
 Brown holds in his gripe 
 And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five 
 
 inch pipe ; 
 He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while 
 
 his wife scornfully 
 Telia him how she would manage if only she 
 
 were he. 
 
 At last the joints are joined, they rear a 
 pyramid m air, 
 
 A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a 
 chair, 
 
 And on chair and supporters are the stove- 
 pipe and the Brown, 
 
 Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting for 
 the crown ; 
 
 While Mistress Brown she cheerily says to 
 him, " I expec' 
 
 'Twould be just like your clumsiness to fall 
 and break your neck." 
 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said before 
 she was aware 
 
 Of what might be called " a miscellaneous 
 music in the air," 
 
 And in wild crash and confusion upon the 
 floor rained down 
 
 Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathe- 
 mas and — Brown. 
 
 There was a moment's silence — Brown had 
 
 fallen on the cat ; 
 She was too thick for a book-mark but too 
 
 thin for a mat, 
 And he was all wounds and bruises, from his 
 
 head to his foot, 
 And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined 
 
 with the soot. 
 
292 
 
 USEFUL STUDIES. 
 
 " wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a 
 
 thing thou art!" 
 U{> from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she 
 
 saw him falling, start, 
 Aud shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did 
 
 her inmost heart-strings gripe, 
 " Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you 
 
 gone and smashed that pipe?" 
 
 Then fiercely starts that Mister Brown, as 
 
 one that had been wode 
 And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and 
 
 red his visage glowed ; 
 
 Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his 
 
 voice was sharp and shrill), 
 " I have not, madam, but, by — by — by the 
 
 nine gods, I will !" 
 He swung the pipe above his head, he dashed 
 
 it on the floor. 
 And that stove-pipe, as a stove-pipe, it did 
 
 exist no more ; 
 Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and 
 
 his face was stern and wan. 
 As in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed: 
 
 " Send for that tinsmith's man! " 
 
 USEFUL STUDIES. 
 
 JEREMY TAYLOR. 
 
 iPEND not your time in that which profits not; for your lahor and 
 your health, your time and your studies, are very valuable ; and 
 it is a thousand pities to see a diligent and hopeful person spend 
 himself in gathering cockle-shells and little pebbles, in telling 
 sands upon the shores, and making garlands of useless daisies. 
 Study that which is profitable, that which will make you useful to 
 churches and commonwealtlia^ that which will make you desirable and 
 
'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. 
 
 293 
 
 wise. Only I shall add this to you, that in learning there are a variety of 
 things as well as in religion : there is mint and cummin, and there are the 
 weighty things of the law ; so there are studies more and less useful, and 
 everything that is useful will be required in its time : and. I may in' this 
 also use the words of our blessed Saviour, " These things ought you to look 
 after, and not to leave the other unregarded." But your great care is to 
 be in the things of God and of religion, in holiness and true wisdom, re- 
 membering the saying of Origen, " That the knowledge that arises from 
 goodness is something that is more certain and more divine than all 
 demonstration," than all other learnings of the world. 
 
 'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 lil^riEY were walking silently and gravely home one Sunday after- 
 
 ^K noon, under the tall elms that lined the street for half a mile. 
 
 '*^^ Neither had spoken. There had been some little parish quarrel, 
 
 I" and on that afternoon the text was, " A new commandment I 
 
 \ write unto you, that ye love one another." But after the sermon 
 
 was done the text was the best part of it. Some one said that 
 
 Parson Marsh's sermons were like the meeting-house, — the steeple was 
 
 the only thing that folks could see after they got home. 
 
 They walked slowly, without a word. Once or twice 'Biah essayed to 
 speak, but was still silent. He plucked a flower from between the pickets 
 of the fence, and unconsciously pulled it to pieces, as, with a troubled face, 
 he glanced at Eachel, and then, as fearing she would catch his eye, he 
 looked at the trees, at the clouds, at the grass, at everything, and saw nothing 
 — nothing but Rachel. The most solemn hour of human experience is not 
 that of Death, but of Life, — when the heart is born again, and from a natural 
 heart becomes a heart of Love ! What wonder that it is a silent hour and 
 perplexed ! 
 
 Is the soul confused ? "Why not, when the divine Spirit, rolling clear 
 across the aerial ocean, breaks upon the heart's shore with all the mystery 
 of heaven ? Is it strange that uncertain lights dim the eye, if above the 
 head of him that truly loves hover clouds of saintly spirits ? Why should 
 not the tongue stammer and refuse its accustomed offices, when all the world 
 — skies, trees, plains, hills, atmosphere, and the solid earth — springs forth in 
 new color, with strange meanings, and seems to chant for the soul the 
 
 20 
 
294 'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL. 
 
 glory of that mystic Law with which God has bound to himself his infinite 
 realm, — the law of Love ? Then, for the first time, when one so loves that 
 love is sacrifice, death to self, resurrection, and glory, is man brought 
 into harmony with the whole universe; and, like him who beheld the 
 seventh heaven, hears things unlawful to be uttered. 
 
 The great elm-trees sighed as the fitful breeze swept their tops. The 
 soft shadows flitted back and forth beneath the walker's feet, fell upon 
 them in light and dark, ran over the ground, quivered and shook, until 
 sober Cathcart thought that his heart was throwing its shifting network 
 of hope and fear along the ground before him. How strangely his voice 
 
 sounded to him, as, at length, 
 r all his emotions could only 
 
 say, " Rachel, — how did you 
 like the sermon ? " 
 
 Quietly she answered, — 
 " I liked the text." 
 " ' A new commandment 
 I write unto you, that ye love 
 one another.' Rachel, will 
 you help me to keep it ? " 
 At first she looked down 
 and lost a little color ; then, raising her face, she turned upon him her large 
 eyes, with a look both clear and tender. It was as if some painful restraint 
 had given way, and her eyes blossomed into full beauty. 
 
 Not another word was spoken. They walked home hand in hand. 
 He neither smiled nor exulted. He saw neither the trees, nor the long level 
 rays of sunlight that were slanting across the fields. His soul was over- 
 shadowed with a cloud, as if God were drawing near. He had never felt 
 so solemn. This woman's life had been entrusted to him ! 
 
 Long years, — the whole length of life, — the eternal years beyond, 
 seemed in an indistinct way to rise up in his imagination. All he could 
 say, as he left her at the door, was — " Rachel, this is forever — 'forever." 
 
 She again said nothing, but turned to him with a clear and open face, 
 in which joy and trust wrought beauty. It seemed to him as if a light fell 
 upon him from her eyes. There was a look that descended and covered 
 him as with an atmosphere ; and all the way home he was as one walking 
 in a luminous cloud. He had never felt such personal dignity as now. 
 He that wins such love is crowned, and may call himself king. He did 
 not feel the earth under his feet. As he drew near his lodgings, the sun 
 went down. The children began to pour forth, no longer restrained. 
 
THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 
 
 295 
 
 Abiah turned to his evening chores. No animal that night but had rea- 
 son to bless him. The children found him unusually good and tender. 
 And Aunt Keziah said to her sister, — " Abiah's been goin' to meetin' very 
 regular for some weeks, and I shouldn't wonder, by the way he looks, if he 
 had got a hope : I trust he ain't deceivin' himself." 
 
 He had a hope, and he was not deceived ; for in a few months, at the 
 close of the service one Sunday morning, the minister read from the pul- 
 pit : " Marriage is intended between Abiah Cathcart and Eachel Liscomb, 
 both of this town, and this is the first publishing of the banns." 
 
 THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 
 
 , rsCJ?^ , 
 
 i^ji5|0, children, my trips are over 
 The Engineer needs rest 
 My hands is shaky ; I'm feeling 
 
 A tugging pain i' my breast; 
 But here, as the twilight gathers 
 
 I'll tell you a tale of the road, 
 That'll ring in my head forever. 
 
 Till it rests beneath the sod. 
 
 We were lumbering along in the twilight, 
 
 The night was dropping her shade, 
 And the " Gladiator " labored^ 
 
 Climbing the top of the grade ; 
 The train was heavily laden. 
 
 So I let my engine rest, 
 Climbing the grading slowly, 
 
 Till we reached the upland's crest. 
 
 I held my watch to the lamplight — 
 
 Ten minutes behind the time ! 
 Lost in the slackened motion 
 
 Of the up grade's heavy climb ; 
 But I knew the miles of the prairie 
 
 That stretched a level track, 
 80 I touched the gauge of the boiler. 
 
 And pulled the lever back. 
 
 Over the rails a-gleaming, 
 
 Thirty an hour, or so. 
 The engine leaped like a demon. 
 
 Breathing a fiery glow ; 
 But to me — ahold of the lever — 
 
 It seemed a child alway. 
 Trustful and always ready 
 
 My lightest touch to obey. 
 
 I was proud you know, of my engine^ 
 
 Holding it steady that night, 
 And my eye on the track before us. 
 
 Ablaze with the Drummond light. 
 We neared a well-known cabin, 
 
 Where a child of three or four, 
 As the up train passed, oft called me, 
 
 A playing around the door. 
 
 My hand was firm on the throttle 
 
 As we swept around the curve, 
 When something afar in the shadow, 
 
 Struck fire through every nerve. 
 I sounded the brakes, and crashing 
 
 The reverse lever down in dismay, 
 Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces 
 
 Ahead was a child at its play ! 
 
 One instant — one awful and only. 
 
 The world flew around in my brain. 
 And I smote my hand hard on my forehead 
 
 To keep back the terrible pain ; 
 The train I thought flying forever, 
 
 With mad irresistible roll. 
 While the cries of the dying, the night-wind 
 
 Swept into my shuddering soul. 
 
 Then I stood on the front of the engine, — 
 
 How I got there I never could tell, — 
 My feet planted down on the crossbar. 
 
 Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, 
 One hand firmly locked on the coupler, 
 
 And one held out in the night. 
 While my eye gauged the distance, and 
 measured 
 
 The speed of our slackening flight. 
 
296 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady ; 
 
 I saw the curls of her hair, 
 And the face that, turning in wonder, 
 
 Was lit by the deadly glare. 
 I know little more — but I heard it — 
 
 The groan of the anguished wheels. 
 And remember thinking — the engine 
 
 In agony trembles and reels. 
 
 One rod ! To the day of my dying 
 
 I shall think the old engine reared back. 
 And as it recoiled, with a shudder 
 
 I swept my hand over the track ; 
 Then darkness fell over my eyelids, 
 
 But I heard the surge of the train, 
 And the poor old engine creaking. 
 
 As racked by a deadly pain. 
 
 They found us they said, on the gravel, 
 
 My fingers enmeshed in her hair, 
 And she on my bosom a-climbing, 
 
 To nestle securely there. 
 We are not much given to crying — 
 
 We men that run on the road — • 
 But that night, they said, there were faces, 
 
 With tears on them, lifted to God. 
 
 For years in the eve and the morning 
 
 As I neared the cabin again. 
 My hand on the lever pressed downward 
 
 And slackened the speed of the train. 
 When my engine had blown her a greeting. 
 
 She always would come to the door ; 
 And her look with a fullness of heaven 
 
 Blessed me evermore. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 MlipHE Assyrian came down like the wolf 
 P5 on the fold, 
 
 ','^ And his cohorts were gleaming in 
 purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was 
 like stars on the sea 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on 
 deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when summer 
 
 is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were 
 
 seen ; 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn 
 
 hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay withered and 
 
 strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings 
 
 on the blast. 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he 
 
 passed ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly 
 
 and chill. 
 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for- 
 ever grew still. 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostrils all 
 
 wide, 
 But through it there rolled not the breath of 
 
 his pride : 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on 
 
 the turf. 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow and the rust on 
 
 his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the bannert 
 
 alone; 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their 
 
 wail. 
 And the idols are broke in the temples of 
 
 Baal; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by 
 
 the sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 
 
 Lord! 
 
DER DRUMMER. 
 
 297 
 
 DER DRUMMER. 
 
 CHAS. F. ADAMS. 
 
 no puts oup at der pest hotel, 
 Unci dakes his oysders on der schell, 
 Und mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? 
 Der drui 
 
 Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, 
 Drows down his pundles on der vloor, 
 Und nefer schtops to shut der door ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 ^iiis^-^ 
 
 g;_..-.^^ 
 
 Who dakes me py der handt, und say, 
 " Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day ?" 
 Und goes vor peeseness righdt avay ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, 
 Und dells me, " Look, und see how nice?" 
 Und says I gets "der bottom price?" 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, 
 Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, 
 But lets dem go as he vas " short?" 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, — 
 " Vrom Sharraany, ubon der Rhine," — 
 Und sheats me den dimes oudt off nine? 
 Der drummer. 
 
298 
 
 VOICES OF THE DEAD. 
 
 Who varrants all der goots to suit 
 Der gustomers ubon his route, 
 Und ven dey gomes dey vas no goot? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Und kiss Katrina in der mout' ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, 
 Vill hear vot Pfeiffer has to say, 
 
 Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, 
 Drinks oup mine bier, and cats mine kraut, 
 
 Und mit a plack eye goes avay ? 
 Der drummer. 
 
 VOICES OF THE DEAD. 
 
 JOHN GUMMING. 
 
 ^E die, but leave an influence behind us that survives. The echoes 
 of our words are evermore repeated, and reflected along the ages. 
 It is what man was that lives and acts after him. What he said 
 sounds along the years like voices amid the mountain gorges ; and 
 what he did is repeated after him in ever-multiplying and never- 
 ceasing reverberations. Every man has left behind him influences for 
 good or for evil that will never exhaust themselves. The sphere in which he 
 acts may be small, or it may be great. It may be his fireside, or it may be a 
 kingdom ; a village, or a great nation ; it may be a parish, or broad Europe ; 
 but act he does, ceaselessly and forever. His friends, his family, his succes- 
 sors in office, his relatives, are all receptive of an influence, a moral influ- 
 ence which he has transmitted and bequeathed to mankind ; either a bless- 
 ing which will repeat itself in showers of benedictions, or a curse which 
 will multiply itself in ever-accumulating evil. 
 
 Every man is a missionary, now and forever, for good or for evil, 
 whether he intends and designs it, or not. He may be a blot, radiating his 
 
VOICES OF THE- DEAD. 299 
 
 dark influence outward to the very circumference of society, or he may be 
 a blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and breadth of the 
 world ; but a blank he cannot he. The seed sown in life springs up in 
 harvests of blessings, or harvests of sorrow. Whether our influence be 
 great or small, whether it be for good or evil, it lasts, it lives somewhere, 
 within some limit, and is operative wherever it is. The grave buries the 
 dead dust, but the character walks the world, and distributes itself, as a 
 benediction or a curse, among the families of mankind. 
 
 The sun sets beyond the western hills, but the trail of light he leaves 
 behind him guides the pilgrim to his distant home. The tree falls 
 in the forest ; but in the lapse of ages it is turned into coal, and our 
 fires burn now the brighter because it grew and fell. The coral insect 
 dies, but the reef it raised breaks the surge on the shores of great conti- 
 nents, or has formed an isle in the bosom of the ocean, to wave with har- 
 vests for the good of man. We live and we die ; but the good or evil that 
 we do lives after us, and is not " buried with our bones." 
 
 The babe that perished on the bosom of its mother, like a flower that 
 bowed its head and drooped amid the death-frosts of time — that babe, not 
 only in its image, but in its influence, still lives and speaks in the cham- 
 bers of the mother's heart. 
 
 The friend with whom we took sweet counsel is removed visibly from 
 the outward eye ; but the lessons that he taught, the grand sentiments 
 that he uttered, the holy deeds of generosity by which he was character- 
 ized, the moral lineaments and likeness of the man, still survive and ap- 
 pear in the silence of eventide, and on the tablets of memory, and in the 
 light of morn and noon and dewy eve ; and, being dead, he yet speaks elo- 
 quently, and in the midst of us. 
 
 Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous influence in the East. 
 Napoleon still is France, and France is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther's 
 dead dust sleeps at Wittenberg, but Martin Luther's accents still ring 
 through the churches of Christendom. Shakspeare, Byron, and Milton, 
 all live in their influence for good or evil. The apostle from his chair, the 
 minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman 
 from his cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all 
 have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they 
 did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left be- 
 hind them. 
 
 " None of us liveth to himself; " — others are affected by that life ; — " or 
 dieth to himself;" — others are interested in that death. Our queen's 
 crown may moulder, but she who wore it will act upon the ages which are 
 
300 THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. 
 
 yet to come. The noble's coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer of 
 it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who will be made and 
 moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and 
 worthless ; but moral character has an immortality that no sword-point can 
 destroy ; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind. 
 
 What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are 
 spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that will never cease. 
 What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral 
 we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak ; and the whole universe 
 is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening; and all nature 
 the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the pas- 
 sions of mankind. 
 
 Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, 
 statesmen, are all influences that extend into the future ages. " The blind 
 old man of Scio's rocky isle" still speaks. The Mantuan bard still sings in 
 every school. Shakspeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated into every 
 tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite is still felt in every academy. 
 Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, they are influences 
 fraught with power. How blest must be the recollection of those who, 
 like the setting sun, have left a trail of light behind them by which others 
 may see the way to that rest which remaineth for the people of God ! 
 
 It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good 
 tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all pro- 
 ceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy 
 also. Gro forth, then, into the sphere that you occupy, the employments, 
 the trades, the professions of social life ; go forth into the high places, or 
 into the lowly places of the land; mix with the roaring cataracts of social 
 convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic 
 life ; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will radi- 
 ate around you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficial 
 influences. 
 
 THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. 
 
 sWAS a ferocious baggage-man, with 
 Atlantean back, 
 And biceps upon each arm piled in 
 
 a formidable stack, 
 That plied his dread vocation beside 
 
 a railroad track. eggshell. 
 
 Wildly he tossed the baggage round the 
 
 I-latform there, pellmell, 
 And crushed to naught the frail bandbox 
 
 where'er it shapeless fell, 
 Or stove the "Saratoga" like the flimsiest 
 
NIGHT. 
 
 301 
 
 On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly, 
 And eke the trunk derisively called "Cottage 
 
 by the Sea;" 
 And pulled and hauled and rammed and 
 
 jammed the same vindictively, 
 
 Until a yearning breach appeared, or frac- 
 tures two or three. 
 
 Or straps were burst, or lids fell ott, or some 
 catastrophe 
 
 Crowned his Satanic zeal or moved his dia- 
 bolic glee. 
 
 The passengers surveyed the wreck with di- 
 verse discontent. 
 
 And some vituperated him, and some made 
 loud lament, 
 
 But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly 
 spent. 
 
 To him there came a shambling man, sad- 
 eyed and meek and thin. 
 
 Bearing an humble carpet-bag, with scanty 
 stuff therein. 
 
 And unto that fierce baggage-man he spake, 
 with quivering chin : 
 
 " Behold this scanty carpet-bag ! I started a 
 
 month ago. 
 With a dozen Saratoga trunks, hat-box, and 
 
 portmanteau, 
 But baggage-men along the route have 
 
 brought me down so low. 
 
 " Be careful with this carpet-bag, kind sir," 
 
 said he to him. 
 The baggage-man received it with a smile 
 
 extremely grim. 
 And softly whispered " Mother, may I go 
 
 out to swim ?" 
 
 Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wild, 
 
 sardonic spleen. 
 And into countless fragments flew — to hi.i 
 
 profound chagrin — 
 For that lank bag contained a pint of nitro- " 
 
 glycerine. 
 
 The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and 
 stroked his quivering chin. 
 
 And then he winked with one sad eye, and 
 said, with smile serene, 
 
 " The stuff to check a baggage-man is nitro- 
 glycerine!" 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY, 
 
 pIGHT is the time for rest; 
 
 How sweet, when labors close. 
 To gather round an aching breast 
 
 The curtain of repose, 
 Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the 
 
 head 
 Down on our own delightful bed ! 
 
 Night is the time for dreams : 
 
 The gay romance of life, 
 When truth that is, and truth that seems, 
 
 Mix in fantastic strife ; 
 Ah ! visions, less beguiling far 
 Than waking dreams by daylight are ! 
 
 Night is the time for toil : 
 To plough the classic field. 
 
 Intent to find the buried spoil 
 
 Its wealthy furrows yield ; 
 Till all is ours that sages taught, 
 That poets sang, and heroes wrought. 
 
 Night is the time to weep : 
 
 To wet with unseen tears 
 Those graves of Memory, where sleep 
 
 The joys of other years ; 
 Hopes, that were Angels at their birth, 
 But died when young, like things of earth 
 
 Night is the time to watch : 
 
 O'er ocean's dark expanse, 
 To hail the Pleiades, or catch 
 
 The full moon's earliest glance, 
 That brings into the homesick mind 
 All we have loved and left behind. 
 
302 
 
 NOBODY'S CHILD. 
 
 Night is the time for care : 
 
 
 Night is the time to pray : 
 
 Brooding on hours misspent, 
 
 
 Our Saviour oft withdrew 
 
 To see the spectre of Despair 
 
 
 To desert mountains far away ; 
 
 Come to our lonely tent; 
 
 
 So will his followers do, 
 
 Like Brutus, midst his slumbering 
 
 host, 
 
 Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
 
 Summoned to die by Caesar's ghost. 
 
 
 And commune there alone with God. 
 
 Night is the time to think : 
 
 
 Night is the time for Death : 
 
 "When, from the eye, the soul 
 
 
 When all around is peace, 
 
 Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink 
 
 Calmly to yield the weary breath, 
 
 Of yonder starry pole 
 
 
 From sin and suffering cease. 
 
 Discern beyond the abyss of night 
 
 
 Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign 
 
 The dawn of uncreated light. 
 
 
 To parting friends ; — such death be mine. 
 
 NOBODY'S CHILD. 
 
 PHILA H. CASE. 
 
 J^R^jLONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, 
 ^m^ With my torn old dress and bare 
 %" cold feet, 
 
 All day I wandered to and fro, 
 Hungry and shivering and nowhere 
 to go; 
 The night's coming on in darkness 
 and dread, 
 And the chill sleet beating upon my bare 
 
 head ; 
 Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so 
 
 wild ? 
 Is it because I'm nobody's child? x 
 
 Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
 And warmth and beauty, and all things 
 
 bright ; 
 Beautiful children, in robes so fair, 
 Are caroling songs in rapture there. 
 
 I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
 Would pity a poor little beggar like me, 
 Wandering alone in the merciless street. 
 Naked and shivering and nothing to eat. 
 
 Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes 
 
 down 
 In its terrible blackness all over the town ? 
 Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, 
 On the cold hard pavements alone to die ? 
 When the beautiful children their prayers 
 
 have said, 
 And mammas have tucked them up snugly 
 
 in bed. 
 No dear mother ever upon me smiled — 
 Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child' 
 
 No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
 
THE GOLDEN CITY. 
 
 In all the world loves me ; e'en the little dogs 
 run 
 
 When I wander too near them ; 'tis won- 
 drous to see, 
 
 How everything shrinks from a beggar like 
 me ! 
 
 Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but, sometimes, when 
 I lie 
 
 Gazing far up in the dark blue sky, 
 
 Watching for hours some large bright star, 
 
 I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, 
 
 And a host of white-robed, nameless things. 
 Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings; 
 A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
 
 Caresses gently my tangled hair, 
 
 And a voice like the carol of some wild bird 
 
 The sweetest voice that was ever heard — 
 
 Calls me many a dear pet name. 
 
 Till my heart and spirits are all aflame ; 
 
 And tells me of such unbounded love. 
 And bids me come up to their home above. 
 And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise. 
 They look at me with their sweet blue eyes. 
 And it seems to me out of the dreary night, 
 I am going up to the world of light. 
 And away from the hunger and storms so 
 
 wild — 
 I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. 
 
 THE GOLDEN CITY, 
 
 JOHN BUNYAN. 
 
 lllpOW just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked in after 
 ^^^ them, and behold the city shone like the sun ; the streets, also 
 were paved with gold, and in them walked many men with crowns 
 on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden harps, to sino- 
 praises withal. 
 
 There were also of them that had wings, and they answered one 
 another without intermission, saying, "Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord." And 
 after that they shut up the gates ; which when I had seen, I wished myself 
 among them. 
 
 Now, while I was gazing upon all these things, I turned my head to 
 look back, and saw Ignorance coming up to the river side ; but he soon 
 got over, and that without half the difficulty which the other two men 
 met with. For it happened that there was then in that place one Vain- 
 Hope, a ferryman, that with his boat helped him over ; so he, as the other, 
 I saw, did ascend the hill, to come up to the gate, only he came alone ; 
 neither did any man meet him with the least encouragement. When he was 
 coming up to the gate, he looked up to the writing that was above, and then 
 began to knock, supposing that entrance should have been quickly admin- 
 istered to him : but he was asked by the men that looked over the top of 
 the gate, " Whence come you, and what would you have ?" . . He answered, 
 " I have eat and drank in the presence of the King, and he has taught in 
 
304 
 
 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 
 
 our streets." Then they asked for his certificate, that they might go in 
 and show it to the King; so he fumbled in his bosom for one, and found 
 none. Then said they, " You have none !" but the man answered never a 
 word. So they told the King, but he would not come down to see him, 
 but commanded the two shining ones that conducted Christian and Hope- 
 ful to the city to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, 
 and have him away. Then they took him up and carried him through the 
 air to the door that I saw on the side of the hill, and put him in there. 
 Then I saw that there was a way to hell, even from the gates of heaven, 
 as well as from the City of Destruction. " So I awoke. It was a dream." 
 
 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 
 
 apffl^LANG, clang ! the massive anvils ring ; 
 nM^ Clang, clang ! a hundred hammers 
 ^fl? swing ; 
 
 YI'^ Like the thunder-rattle of a tropic sky, 
 
 The mighty blows still multiply, — 
 
 Clang, clang! 
 
 Say, brothers of the dusky brow. 
 What are your strong arms forging now ? 
 
 Clang, clang ! — we forge the coulter now, — 
 
 The coulter of the kindly plough. 
 
 Sweet Mary mother, bless our toil ! 
 
 May its broad furrow still unbind 
 
 To genial rains, to sun and wind, 
 
 The most benignant soil ! 
 
 Clang, clang ! — our coulter's course shall be 
 On many a sweet and sheltered lea, 
 By many a streamlet's silver tide ; 
 Amidst the song of morning birds, 
 Amidst the low of sauntering herds. 
 Amidst soft breezes, which do stray 
 Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 
 Along the green hill's side. 
 
 When regal Autumn's bounteous nand 
 With wide-spread glory clothes the land, — 
 When to the valleys, from the brow 
 Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
 A ruddy sea of living gold, — 
 We bless, we bless the plough. 
 
DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM 
 
 805 
 
 Clang, clang ! — again, my mates, what grows 
 Beneath the hammer's potent blows? 
 Clink, clank ! — -we forge the giant chain, 
 Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 
 Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; 
 Secured by this, the good ship braves 
 The rocky roadstead, and the waves 
 Which thunder on her sides. 
 
 Anxious no more, the merchant sees 
 The mist drive dark before the breeze, 
 The storm-cloud on the hill ; 
 Calmly he rests, — though far away. 
 In boisterous climes, his vessel lay,— 
 Reliant on our skill. 
 
 Say on what sands these links shall sleep. 
 Fathoms beneath the solemn deep ? 
 By Afric's pestilential shore , 
 By many an iceberg, lone and hoar ; 
 By many a balmy western isle. 
 Basking in spring's perpetual smile ; 
 By stormy Labrador. 
 
 Say, shall they feel the vessel reel. 
 
 When to the battery's deadly peal 
 
 The crashing broadside makes reply ; 
 
 Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
 
 Hold grappling ships, that strive the while 
 
 For death or victory ? 
 
 Hurrah' — cling, clang! — once more, what 
 glows, 
 
 Dark brothers of the forge, beneath 
 The iron tempest of your blows. 
 
 The furnace's red breath ? 
 
 Clang, clang ! — a burning torrent, clear 
 And brilliant of bright sparks, is poured 
 
 Around, and up in the dusky air, 
 As our hammers forge the sword. 
 
 The sword !— a name of dread ! yet when 
 Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound, — 
 While for his altar and his hearth, 
 While for the land that gave him birth, 
 The war-drums roll, the trumpets sound, — 
 How sacred is it then ! 
 
 Whenever for the truth and right 
 It flashes in the van of fight, — 
 Whether in some wild mountain pass, 
 As that where fell Leonidas ; 
 Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
 A Marston or a Bannockburn ; 
 Or amidst crags and bursting rills, 
 The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 
 Or as, when sunk the Armada's pride, 
 It gleams above the stormy tide, — 
 Still, still, whene'er the battle word 
 Is liberty, when men do stand 
 For justice and their native land, — 
 Then Heaven bless the sword ! 
 
 DAVIUS LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 j^HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil 
 hung low 
 On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies 
 
 curled 
 Their glassy rings beneath it, like 
 
 the still. 
 Unbroken beating of the sleeper's 
 pulse. 
 The reeds bent down the stream : the willow 
 
 leaves 
 With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide. 
 Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long 
 
 Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurso 
 Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. 
 And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. 
 How strikingly the course of nature tells 
 By its light heed of human suff'ering, 
 That it was fashioned for a happier world. 
 
 King David's limbs were weary. He had 
 fled 
 From far Jerusalem : and now he stood 
 With his faint people, for a little space, 
 Upon the shore of Jordan The light wind 
 
306 
 
 DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM. 
 
 Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow, 
 To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn 
 The mourner's covering, and had not felt 
 That he could see his people until now. 
 They gathered round him on the fresh green 
 
 bank 
 And spoke their kindly words : and as the 
 
 sun 
 Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them 
 
 there. 
 And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. 
 Oh ! when the heart is full, — when bitter 
 
 thoughts 
 Come crowding thickly up for utterance. 
 And the poor common words of courtesy. 
 Are such a very mockery — how much 
 The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! 
 He prayed for Israel : and his voice went up 
 Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those. 
 Whose love had been his shield: and his 
 
 deep tones 
 Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom, — 
 For his estranged, misguided Absalom,— 
 The proud bright being who had burst away 
 In all his princely beauty, to defy 
 The heart that cherished him — for him he 
 
 poured 
 In agony that would not be controlled 
 Strong supplication, and forgave him there. 
 Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. 
 
 The pall was settled. He who slept beneath 
 Was straightened for the grave : and as the 
 
 folds 
 Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed 
 The matchless symmetry of Absalom. 
 His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls 
 
 Were floating round the ta-^seh 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 jeweled hilt 
 Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, 
 Rested like mockery on his covered brow. 
 The soldievs of the king trod to and fro, 
 
 Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, 
 The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, 
 And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, 
 As if he feared the slurnberer might stir. 
 A slow step startled him. He grasped hia 
 
 blade 
 As if a trumpet rang : but the bent form 
 Of David entered, and he gave command 
 In a low tone to his few followers, 
 And left him with his dead. The King stood 
 
 still 
 Till the last echo died : then, throwing off 
 The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 
 The pall from the still features of bis child. 
 He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth 
 In the resistless eloquence of woe : 
 
 "Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st 
 die, — 
 Thou who wert made so beautifully fair ! 
 That death should settle in thy glorious eye, 
 And leave his stillness in this clustering 
 hair — 
 How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, 
 My proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill 
 As to my bosom I have tried to press thee — 
 How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill. 
 Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress 
 thee — 
 And hear thy sweet ' My father' from these 
 dumb 
 And cold lips, Absalom ! 
 
 " The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the 
 gush 
 Of music, and the voices of the young : 
 And life will pass me in the mantling blush. 
 And the dark tresses to the soft winds 
 flung, — 
 But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt 
 come 
 To meet me, Absalom ! 
 
 " And, oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart 
 Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be 
 broken, 
 How will its love for thee, as I depart. 
 Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep 
 token ! 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 
 
 307 
 
 It were so sweet, amid death'; 
 gloom, 
 To see thee, Absalom ! 
 
 gathering 
 
 " And now farewell. 'Tis hard to give thee 
 up. 
 With death so like a gentle slumber on 
 thee; 
 And thy dark sin — oh ! I could drink the 
 cup 
 If from this woe its bitterness had won 
 thee. 
 
 May God have called thee, like a wanderer, 
 home, 
 My lost boy, Absalom !" 
 
 He covered up his face, and bowed himself 
 A moment on his child ; then giving him 
 A look of melting tenderness, he clasped 
 His hands convulsively, as if in prayer: 
 And as if strength were given him of God, 
 He rose up calmly and composed the pall 
 Firmly and decently, — and left him there. 
 As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^1^ HAVE been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children 
 ^ assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas tree. 
 
 Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house 
 awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do 
 not care to resist, to my own childhood. Straight in the middle of 
 the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls 
 or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises ; and, looking up into the 
 dreamy brightness of its top, — for I observe in this tree the singular 
 property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, — I look 
 into my youngest Christmas recollections. 
 
 All toys at first I find. But upon the branches of the tree lower 
 down, how thick the books begin to hang ! Thin books, in themselves, at 
 first, but many of them, with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or 
 green. What fat black letters to begin with ! 
 
 " A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was 
 an apple-pie also, and there he is ! He was a good many things in his 
 time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little 
 versatility that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe : like 
 Y, who was always confined to a yacht or a yew-tree ; and Z, condemned 
 forever to be a zebra or a zany. 
 
 But now the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk, — the 
 marvelous bean-stalk by which Jack climbed up to the giant's house. 
 Jack, — how noble, with his sword of sharpness and his shoes of swiftness ! 
 
 Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy color of the cloak in which the 
 
308 RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHRISTMAS TREE. 
 
 tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through with her basket, 
 Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas eve, to give me infor- 
 mation of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling wolf who ate her 
 grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate 
 her, after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first 
 love, I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding-Hood I should 
 have known perfect bliss. But it was not to be, and there was nothing for 
 it but to look out the wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in 
 the procession, on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. 
 
 Oh, the wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not found seaworthy when 
 put in a washing-tub, and the anhnals were crammed in at the roof, and 
 needed to have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in 
 even there ; and then ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, 
 which was but imperfectly listened with a wire latch; but what was that 
 against it ? 
 
 Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant ; the 
 lady-bird, the butterfly, — all triumphs of art ! consider the goose, whose 
 feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent that he usually 
 tumbled forward and knocked down all the animal creation ! consider Noah 
 and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stoppers ; and how the leopard stuck to 
 warm little fingers ; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually 
 to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string. 
 
 Hush ! Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree, — not Robin Hood, 
 not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf,— I have passed him and all Mother 
 Bunch's wonders without mention, — but an Eastern King with a glittering 
 scimitar and turban. It is the setting in of the bright Arabian Nights. 
 
 Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to 
 me ! All lamps are wonderful ! all rings are talismans ! Common flower- 
 pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top ; trees are 
 for Ali Baba to hide in ; beefsteaks are to throw down into the Valley of 
 Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick to them, and be carried by 
 the eagles to their nests, whence the traders, with loud cries, will scare 
 them. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that unlucky 
 one with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genii's 
 invisible son. All olives are of the same stock of that fresh fruit, con- 
 cerning which the Commander of the Faithful overheard the boy conduce 
 the fictitious trial of the fraudulent olive-merchant. Yes, on every object 
 that I recognize among the upper branches of my Christmas tree I see 
 this fairy light ! 
 
 But hark ! the Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep ! 
 
THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 309 
 
 What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set 
 forth on the Christmas tree ! Known before all the others, keeping far apart 
 from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An ang^l, speaking 
 to a group of shepherds in a field ; some travelers, with eyes uplifted, fol- 
 lowing a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child in a spacious temple, talking 
 with grave men : a solemn figure with a mild and beautiful face, raising a 
 dead girl by the hand ; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a 
 widow on his bier, to life ; a crowd of people looking through the opened 
 roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, 
 with ropes ; the same, in a tempest, walking on the waters ; in a ship, 
 again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude ; again, with a child upon 
 his knees, and other children around ; again, restoring sight to the blind, 
 speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the 
 lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a cross, watched by 
 armed soldiers, a darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and 
 only one voice heard, " Forgive them, for they know not what they do !" 
 
 Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the 
 benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged ! In every cheerful 
 image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that 
 rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world ! 
 
 A moment's pause, vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are 
 dark to me yet, and let me look once more. I know there are blank spaces 
 on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled, from 
 which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl 
 and the widow's son, — and God is good ! 
 
 THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 
 
 GEORGE W. BUNGAY. 
 
 Sabbath ] " This is the church not built on sands, 
 
 bells ! 
 Each one its creed in music tells, 
 In tones that float upon the air. 
 As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; 
 And I will put in simple rhyme 
 The language of the golden chime ; 
 My happy heart with rapture swells 
 Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. 
 
 " In deeds of love excel ! excel !" 
 Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; 
 21 
 
 Emblem of one not built with hands ; 
 Its forms and sacred rights revere. 
 Come worship here ! come worship here ! 
 In rituals and faith excel !" 
 Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 
 
 " Oh heed the ancient landmarks well!" 
 In solemn tones exclaimed a bell ; 
 " No progress made by mortal man 
 Can change the just eternal plan : 
 
310 
 
 THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 
 
 With God there can be nothing new ; 
 Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
 While all is well ! is well ! is well !" 
 Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 
 
 :' Ye purifying waters swell!" 
 In mellow tones rang out a bell ; 
 '• Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
 Man must be plunged beneath the wave. 
 To show the world unfaltering faith 
 In what the sacred scripture saith ; 
 P swell ! ye rising waters, swell !" 
 Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 
 
 " Not faith alone, but works as well, 
 Must test the soul !" said a soft bell ; 
 " Come here and cast aside your load, 
 And work your way along the road, 
 With faith in God, and faith in man, 
 And hope in Christ, where hope began ; 
 Do well! do well ! do well! do well;" 
 Rang out the Unitarian bell. 
 
 " Farewell ! farewell ! base world, farewell !' 
 In touching tones exclaimed a bell ; 
 " Life is a boon, to mortals given. 
 To fit the soul for bliss in heaven ; 
 Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
 Come here and learn the way to God ; 
 Say to the world farewell ! farewell !" 
 Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 
 
 " To all the truth we tell ! we tell !" 
 Shouted in ecstacies a bell ; 
 " Come all ye weary wanderers, see ! 
 Our Lord has made salvation free ! 
 
 Repent, believe, have faith, and then 
 Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! 
 Salvation's free, we tell 1 we tell 1" 
 Shouted the Methodistic bell. 
 
 " In after life there is no hell !" 
 In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; 
 " Look up to heaven this holy day, 
 Where angels wait to lead the way ; 
 There are no fires, no fiends to blight 
 The future life ; be just and right. 
 No hell ! no hell! no hell ! no hell!" 
 Rang out the Universalist bell. 
 
 " The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 
 My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell: 
 " No fetters here to clog the soul ; 
 No arbitrary creeds control 
 The free heart and progressive mind. 
 That leave the dusty past behind. 
 Speed well, speed well, speed well, 
 
 well !" 
 Pealed out the Independent bell. 
 
 " No pope, no pope, to doom to hell !" 
 The Protestant rang out a bell ; 
 " Great Luther left his fiery zeal 
 Within the hearts that truly feel 
 That loyalty to God will be 
 The fealty that makes man free. 
 No images where incense fell !" 
 Rang out old Martin Luther's bell. 
 
 " All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell 
 Close by the cross !" exclaimed a bell ; 
 " Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 
 And deign to bless a world like this ; 
 Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
 Adore the water and the wine ! 
 All hail ye saints, the chorus swell !" 
 Chimed in the Roman Catliolic bell. 
 
 " Ye workers who have toiled so well, 
 
 To save the race !" said a sweet bell ; 
 
 " With pledge, and badge, and banner, com(^ 
 
 Each brave heart beating like a drum ; 
 
 Be royal men of noble deeds. 
 
 For love is holier than creeds ; 
 
 Drink from the well, the well, the well !" 
 
 In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 
 
HANS AND FRITZ. 
 
 311 
 
 
 HAA^S AND FRITZ. 
 
 CHARLES F. ADAMS. 
 
 l^pANS and Fritz were two Deutscliers 
 1^^ who lived side by side, 
 
 Remote from the world, its deceit 
 
 and its pride : 
 With their pretzels and beer the 
 spare moments were spent, 
 And the fruits of their labor were peace 
 and content. 
 
 Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor ore 
 
 day, 
 And, lacking a part of the Geld,— as they 
 
 say, — • 
 Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan 
 To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. 
 
 Fritz kindly consented the money to lend. 
 
312 
 
 KORNER'S SWORD SONG. 
 
 And gave the required amount to his friend ; 
 Remarking, — his own simple language to 
 
 quote, — 
 " Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note." 
 
 The note was drawn up in their primitive 
 way, — 
 
 " I Hans, gets from Fritz feefty toUars to- 
 day ;" 
 
 When the question arose, the note being made, 
 
 " Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid?" 
 
 "You geeps dot," says Fritz, "und den you 
 
 vill know 
 You owes me dot money." Says Hans, " Dot 
 
 ish so : 
 Dot makes me remempers I haf dot to bay, 
 
 Und I prings you der note und der money 
 some day." 
 
 A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed, 
 
 Paid back the amount, and from debt he waa 
 freed. 
 
 Says Fritz, " Now dot settles us." Hans re- 
 plies, " Yaw : 
 
 Now who dakes dot baper accordings by 
 law ?" 
 
 "I geeps dot now, aind't it?" say.s Fritz; 
 
 "den you see, 
 I alvays remempers you paid dot to me." 
 Says Hans, "Dot ish so: it vas now shust so 
 
 blain. 
 Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again.' 
 
 KOBNEES SWORD SONG. 
 
 Completed one hour before he fell on the battle-field, August 26, 1813. 
 
 r^wJ|WORD at my left side gleaming ! 
 Why is thy keen glance, beaming, 
 So fondly bent on mine ? 
 I love that smile of thine ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 " Borne by a trooper daring, 
 t My looks his fire glance wearing, 
 I arm a freeman's hand : 
 This well delights thy band 
 Hurrah !" 
 
 Ay, good sword, free I wear thee ; 
 
 And, true heart's love, I bear thee. 
 Betrothed one, at my side, 
 As my dear, chosen bride ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 •' To thee till death united. 
 
 Thy steel's bright life is plighted ; 
 
 Ah, were my love but tried ! 
 
 When wilt thou wed thy brido ? 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 The tempest's festal warning 
 Shall hail our bridal morning ; 
 
 When loud the cannon chide, 
 Then clasp I my loved bride ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 " joy, when thine arms hold me ! 
 I pine until they fold me. 
 
 Come to me! bridegroom, come! 
 
 Thine is my maiden bloom. 
 Hurrah !" 
 
 Why, in thy sheath upspringing, 
 Thou wild, dear steel, art ringing ? 
 
 Why clanging with delight, 
 
 So eager for the fight ? 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 " Well may thy scabbard rattle ; 
 
 Trooper, I pant for battle ; 
 Right eager for the fight, 
 I clang with wild deliglit. 
 
 Hurrali !" 
 
 Why thus, my love, forth creeping? 
 Stay in thy chamber, sleeping ; 
 
 Wait still, in the narrow room ; 
 
 Soon for my bride I come. 
 Hurrah ! 
 
SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 
 
 313 
 
 " Keep me not longer pining ! 
 
 God plights your bride in the light ! 
 
 for love's garden shining 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 With roses bleeding red, 
 
 
 And blooming with the dead ! 
 Hurrah !" 
 
 Then press with warm caresses, 
 
 Close lips and bridal kisses, 
 
 
 Your steel ; — cursed be his head 
 
 Come from thy sheath, then, treasure ! 
 
 Who fails the bride he wed ! 
 
 Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Come forth, my good sword, come 
 
 ^^^^^^^-.^ 
 
 Enter thy father-home ! 
 
 ^^^^^P^'^WS. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 mS^^^-jr ^ 
 
 " Ha ! in the free air glancing, 
 
 JisgdiBfltttt^ 
 
 How brave this bridal dancing ! 
 
 ^^H^BbBHHH^^^ 
 
 How, in the sun's glad beams ! 
 
 BBfe||jtfy^^fe||fl^^^g 
 
 Bride -like, thy bright steel gleams! 
 
 ^m^I^^^MSSSr^^^'^^ 
 
 Hurrah !" 
 
 wi^^^^^^^^^' 
 
 Come on, ye German horsemen ! 
 
 ^R^^^^9^r 
 
 Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! 
 
 ^^^S^^^^uBt^ 
 
 Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? 
 
 ^^^jjj^^^^^^ 
 
 Clasp each in hand his bride ! 
 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Now till your swords flash, flinging 
 
 
 Clear sparks forth, wave them singing. 
 
 Once at your left side sleeping, 
 
 Day dawns for bridal pride ; 
 
 Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping, 
 
 Hurrah, thou iron bride ! 
 
 Now wedded with your right. 
 
 Hurrah! 
 
 SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 
 
 r 
 
 '■3RS. CENTRE was jealous. She was one of those discontented 
 women who are never satisfied unless something goes wrong. 
 When the sky is bright and pleasant they are annoyed because 
 there is nothing to grumble at. The trouble is not with the out- 
 I ward world, but with the heart, the mind : and every one who 
 
 1 wishes to grumble will find a subject. 
 
 Mrs. Centre was jealous. Her husband was a very good sort of 
 person, though he probably had his peculiarities. At any rate, he had a 
 cousin, whose name was Sophia Smithers, and who was very pretty, very 
 intelligent, and very amiable and kind-hearted. I dare say he occasionally 
 made her a social call, to which his wife solemnly and seriously objected, 
 for the reason that Sophia was pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind- 
 hearted. These were the sum total of her sins. 
 
 Centre and his wife boarded at a private establishment at the South 
 
314 SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 
 
 end of Boston. At the same house also boarded Centre's particular, inti- 
 mate, and confidential friend, Wallis, with his wife. Their rooms might 
 almost be said to be common ground, for the two men and the two women 
 were constantly together. 
 
 Wallis could not help observing that Mrs. Centre watched her husband 
 very closely, and Centre at last confessed that there had been some 
 difficulty. So they talked the matter over together, and came to the con- 
 clusion that it was very stupid for any one to be jealous, most of all for 
 Mrs. Centre to be jealous. What they did I don't know, but one evening 
 Centre entered the room, and found Mrs. Wallis there, 
 
 "My dear, I am obliged to go oat a few moments to call upon a 
 friend," said Centre. 
 
 " To call upon a friend !" sneered Mrs. Centre. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I shall be back presently;" and Mr. Centre left the room. 
 
 " The old story," said she, when he had gone. 
 
 " If it was my husband I would follow him," said Mrs. Wallis. 
 
 " I will !" and she immediately put on her bonnet and shawl. " So- 
 phia Smithers lives very near, and I am sure he is going there." 
 
 Centre had gone up stairs to put on his hat and overcoat, and in a 
 moment she saw him on the stairs. She could not mistake him, for there 
 was no other gentleman in the house who wore such a peculiarly shaped 
 Kossuth as he wore. 
 
 He passed out, and Mrs. Centre passed out after him. She followed 
 
 the queer shaped Kossuth of her husband, and it led her to C Street, 
 
 where she had suspected it would lead her. And further, it led her to the 
 house of Smithers, the father of Sophia, where she suspected also it would 
 lead her. 
 
 Mrs. Centre was very unhappy. Her husband had ceased to love her; 
 he loved another ; he loved Sophia Smithers. She could have torn the 
 pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted cousin of her husband in 
 pieces at that moment ; but she had the fortitude to curb her belligerent 
 tendencies, and ring the door-bell. 
 
 She was shown into the sitting-room, where the beautiful girl of many 
 virtues was engaged in sewing. 
 
 " Is my husband here ?" she demanded. 
 
 " Mr. Centre ? Bless you, no ! He hasn't been here for a month." 
 
 Gracious! What a whopper ! Was it true that she whose multitudi- 
 nous qualities had been so often rehearsed to her could tell a lie ? Hadn't she 
 .seen the peculiar Kossuth of her husband enter that door? Hadn't she 
 followed that unmistakable hat to the house ? 
 
SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 315 
 
 She was amazed at the coolness of her husband's fair cousin. Before, 
 she had believed it was only a flirtation. Now, she was sure it was some- 
 thing infinitely worse, and she thought about a divorce, or at least a separa- 
 tion. 
 
 She was astounded, and asked no more questions. Did the guilty pair 
 hope to deceive her — her, the argus-eyed wife ? She had some shrewd- 
 ness, and she had the cunning to conceal her purpose by refraining from 
 any appearance of distrust. After a few words upon commonplace topics, 
 she took her leave. 
 
 When she reached the sidewalk, there she planted herself, determined 
 to wait till Centre came out. For more than an hour she stood there, 
 nursing the yellow demon of jealousy. He came not. While she, the true, 
 faithful, and legal wife of Centre, was waiting on the cold pavement, 
 shivering in the cold blast of autumn, he was folded in the arms of the 
 black-hearted Sophia, before a comfortable coal-fire. 
 
 She was catching her death a-cold. What did he care — the brute ! 
 He was bestowing his affections upon her who had no legal right to them. 
 
 The wind blew, and it began to rain. She could stand it no longer. 
 She should die before she got the divorce, and that was just what the 
 inhuman Centre would wish her to do. She must preserve her precious 
 life for the present, and she reluctantly concluded to go home. Centre had 
 not come out, and it required a struggle for her to forego the exposure of 
 the nefarious scheme. 
 
 She rushed into the house, — into her room. Mrs. Wallis was there 
 still. Throwing herself upon the sofa, she wept like a great baby. Her 
 friend tried to comfort her, but she was firmly resolved not to be comforted. 
 In vain Mrs. Wallis tried to assure her of the fidelity of her husband. She 
 would not listen to the words. But while she was thus weeping, Mr. 
 Centre entered the room, looking just as though nothing had happened, 
 
 "You wretch !" sobbed the lady. 
 
 "What is the matter, my dear?" coolly inquired the gentleman, for he 
 had not passed through the battle and storm of matrimonial warfare with- 
 out being able to " stand fire." 
 
 " You wretch !" repeated the lady, with compound unction. 
 
 " What has happened ?" 
 
 " You insult me, abuse me, and then ask me what the matter is '" 
 
 cried the lady. " Haven't I been waiting in C Street for two hours 
 
 for you to come out of Smithers' house?" 
 
 "Have you?" 
 
 " I have, you wretch !" 
 
316 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 "And I did not come out ?" 
 
 " No ! You know you didn't i" 
 
 " There was an excellent reason for that, my dear. I wasn't there," 
 said Centre, calmlv. 
 
 " You weren't there, you wretch ! How dare you tell me such an 
 abominable lie ! But I have found you out. You go there every day, yes, 
 twice, three times, a day ! I know your amiable cousin, now ! She can lie 
 as well as you !" 
 
 " Sophia tell a lie ! Oh, no, my dear !" 
 
 " But she did. She said you were not there." 
 
 "That was very true; I was not." 
 
 " How dare you tell me such a lie ! You have been with Sophia all 
 the evening. She is a nasty baggage !" 
 
 " Nay, Mrs. Centre, you are mistaken," interposed Mrs. Wallis. "Mr. 
 Centre has been with me in this room all the evening." 
 
 " What ! didn't I see him go out, and follow him to C Street ?" 
 
 " No, my dear, I haven't been out this evening. I changed my 
 mind." 
 
 Just then Wallis entered the room with that peculiar Kossuth on his 
 head, and the mystery was explained. Mrs. Centre was not a little con- 
 fused, and very much ashamed of herself. 
 
 Wallis had been in Smithers' library smoking a cigar, and had not 
 seen Sophia. Her statement that she had not seen Centre for a month was 
 strictly true, and Mrs. Centre was obliged to acknowledge that she had 
 been jealous without a cause, though she was not "let into" the plot of 
 Wallis. 
 
 But Centre should have known better than to tell his wife what a 
 pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted girl Sophia was. No hus- 
 band should speak well of any lady but his wife. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ^l^ULL knoe-deep lies the winter snow, 
 jjp^l And the winter winds are wearily 
 
 f-4f^ sighing: 
 
 'u Toll ye the church-bell, sad and slow, 
 -' And tread softly and speak low ; 
 
 J For the old year lies a-dying. 
 
 Old year, you must not die ; 
 
 You came to us so readily, 
 You lived with us so steadily ; 
 Old year, you shall not die. 
 
 He lieth still ; he doth not move ; 
 
 He will not see the dawn of day; 
 He hath no other life above : 
 
BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 317 
 
 He gave me a friend, and a true, true love, 
 And the New-year will take them away. 
 
 Old year, you must not go ; 
 So long as you have been with us, 
 Such joy as you have seen with us, — 
 
 Old year, you shall not go. 
 
 He frothed his bumpers to the brim ; 
 
 A jollier year we shall not see. 
 But though his eyes are waxing dim. 
 And though his foes speak ill of him, 
 He was a friend to me. 
 
 Old year, you shall not die ; 
 We did so laugh and cry with you, 
 I've half a mind to die with you. 
 Old year, if you must die. 
 
 He was full of joke and jest ; 
 
 But all his merry quips are o'er. 
 To see him die, across the waste 
 His son and heir doth ride post haste. 
 
 But he'll be dead before. 
 Every one for his own. 
 
 The night is starry and cold, my friend. 
 
 And the New-year blithe and bold, my 
 friend, 
 Comes up to take his own. 
 
 How hard he breathes ! o'er the snow 
 I heard just now the crowing cock. 
 The shadows flicker to and fro, 
 The cricket chirps, the light burns low, — 
 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. 
 
 Shake hands before you die. 
 Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. 
 What is it we can do for you? — 
 Speak out before you die. 
 
 His face is growing sharp and thin ; — 
 
 Alack ! our friend is gone. 
 Close up his eyes, tie up his chin. 
 Step from the corpse, and let him in 
 Who standeth there alone. 
 And waiteth at the door. 
 There's a new foot on the floor, my friend. 
 And a new face at the door, my friend, 
 A new face at the door. 
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 ipP from the meadows rich with corn, 
 -«™1^ Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick 
 stand. 
 
 Green-walled by the hills of Mary- 
 land. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 
 
 Fair as a garden of the Lord, 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde. 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early Fall, 
 When Lee marched over the mountain wall. 
 
 Over the mountains winding down, 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars. 
 Forty flags with their crimson bars. 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind : the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
 Bowed with her four-score years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town. 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down. 
 
 In her attic-window the staff she set. 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead ; 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
318 
 
 CIVIL WAR. 
 
 " Halt! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; 
 " Fire ! " — out blazed the nfle-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 gray head. 
 But spare your country's flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman's deed and word. 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon gray 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 more. 
 
 Honor to her ! and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave 
 Flag of Freedem and Union, wave ! 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town. 
 
 I 
 
 CIVIL WAR 
 
 Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot 
 ^^ Straight at the heart of yon 
 
 prowling vedette ; 
 Ring me a ball in the glittering spot 
 That shines on his breast like an 
 J amulet ! " 
 
 'Ah, captain ! here goes for a fine-drawn bead. 
 There's music around when my barrel's in 
 
 tune ! " 
 Crack ! went the rifle, the messenger sped, 
 And dead from his horse fell the ringing 
 
 dragoon. 
 
 " Now, rifleman, steal through the bushes 
 
 and snatch 
 From your victim some trinket to hansel 
 
 first blood ; 
 A button, a loop, or that luminous patch 
 That gleams in the moon like a diamond stud !" 
 
 " Oh captain ! I staggered, and sunk on my 
 
 track, 
 When I gazed on the face of that fallen 
 
 vedette, 
 
 For he looked so like you, as he lay on his 
 
 back. 
 That my heart rose upon me, and masters me 
 
 yet. 
 " But I snatched off the trinket, — ihis locket 
 
 of gold ; 
 An inch from the centre my lead broke its 
 
 way, 
 Scarce grazing the picture, so fair to behold, 
 Of a beautiful lady in bridal array." 
 " Ha ! rifleman, fling me the locket ! — 'tis she, 
 My brother's young bride, — and the fallen 
 
 dragoon 
 Was her husband — Hush ! soldier, 'twas 
 
 Heaven's decree. 
 We must bury him there, by the light of the 
 
 moon ! 
 " But hark ! the far bugles their warnings 
 
 unite ; 
 War is a virtue, — weakness a sin ; 
 There's a lurking and loping around us 
 
 to-night; — 
 Load again, rifleman, keep your hand in ! " 
 
GO, FEEL WHAT I HAVE FELT. 
 
 319 
 
 HARK, HARK! THE LARK 
 
 f^f^k'KK, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate 
 sings, 
 And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 On chaliced flowers that lies ; 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 And winking Mary-buds begin 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 
 With everything that pretty bin, 
 My lady sweet, arise ; 
 Arise, arise ! 
 
 GO, FEEL WHAT T HA VE FELT. 
 
 i^O, feel what I have felt. 
 
 Go, bear what I have born ; 
 aSink 'noath a blow a father dealt, 
 
 And the cold, proud world's scorn. 
 Thus struggle on from year to year, 
 Thy sole relief the scalding tear. 
 
 Go, weep as I have wept 
 
 O'er a loved father's fall ; 
 See every cherished promise swept, 
 Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; 
 Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way. 
 That led me up to woman's day. 
 
 Go, kneel as I have knelt: 
 
 Implore, beseech and pray, 
 Strive the besotted heart to melt, 
 The downward course to stay ; 
 Be cast with bitter curse aside, — 
 Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. 
 
 Go, stand where I have stood. 
 
 And see the strong man bow ; 
 With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, 
 And cold and livid brow ; 
 Go, catch his wandering glance, and see 
 There mirrored his soul's misery. 
 
320 
 
 THE DEACON'S PRAYER. 
 
 Go, hear what I have heard, — 
 
 The sobs of sad despair, 
 As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, 
 And its revealings there 
 Have told him what he might have been, 
 Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. 
 
 Go to my mother's side, 
 
 And her crushed spirit cheer; 
 
 Thine own deep anguish hide, , 
 Wipe from her cheek the tear; 
 Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, 
 The gray that streaks her dark hair now. 
 The toil-worn frame, the trembling limb, 
 And trace the ruin back to him 
 Whose plighted faith in early youth. 
 Promised eternal love and truth, 
 But who, forsworn, hath yielded up 
 This promise to the deadly cup, 
 
 And led her down from love and light. 
 From all that made her pathway bright. 
 And chained her there mid want and strife, 
 That lowly thing, — a drunkard's wife ! 
 And stamped on childhood's brow, so mild, 
 That withering blight, — a drunkard's child! 
 
 Go, hoar, and see, and feel, and know 
 
 All that my soul hath felt and known, 
 Then look within the wine-cup s glow; 
 See if its brightness can atone ; 
 Think of its flavor would you try, 
 If all proclaimed, — ' Tis drink and die. 
 
 Tell me I hate the bowl, — 
 
 Hate is a feeble word ; 
 I loathe, abhor, my very soul 
 
 By strong disgust is stirred 
 Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell 
 
 Of the DARK BEVERAGE OF HELL I 
 
 THE DEACON'S PRAYER. 
 
 WILLIAM 0. STODDART. 
 
 ?N the regular evening meeting 
 \ That the church-holds every w 
 * One night a listening angel sat 
 To hear them pray and 
 
 It puzzled the soul of the angel 
 Why some to that gathering came. 
 But sick and sinful hearts he saw, 
 With grief and guilt aflame. 
 
 They were silent, but said to the angel, 
 " Our lives have need of Him !" 
 
 While doubt, with dull, vague, throbbing 
 pain, 
 Stirred through their spirits dim. 
 
 You could see 'twas the regular meeting, 
 And fhe regular seats were filled, 
 
 And all knew who would pray and talk, 
 Though any one might that willed. 
 
 From his place in front, nogtr the pulpit, 
 In his long-accustomed way, 
 
 When the Book was read, and the hymn waa 
 sung, 
 The Deacon arose to pray. 
 
 First came the long preamble — 
 
 If Peter had opened so. 
 He had been, ere the Lord his prayer had 
 heard, 
 
 Full fifty fathom below. 
 
 Then a volume of information 
 
 Poured forth, as if to the Lord, 
 Concerning His ways and attributes, 
 
 And the things by Him abhorred. 
 
 But not in the list of the latter 
 
 Was mentioned the mocking breath 
 
 Of the hypocrite prayer that is not a prayer, 
 And the make-believe life in death. 
 
 Then he prayed for the church; and the 
 pastor ; 
 And that " eouls might be his hire" — 
 
MEDITATION AT AN INFANT'S TOMB. 
 
 321 
 
 Whatever his stipend otherwise — 
 
 Now, if all of that burden had really 
 
 And the Sunday-school ; and the choir ; 
 And the swarming hordes of India; 
 
 Been weighing upon his soul, 
 'Twould have sunk him through to the China 
 
 And the perishing, vile Chinese ; 
 And the millions who bow to the Pope of 
 
 side, 
 And raised a hill over the hole. 
 
 Rome ; 
 And the pagan churches of Greece ; 
 
 ******** 
 
 And the outcast remnants of Judah, 
 
 'Twas the regular evening meeting. 
 
 Of whose guilt he had much to tell — 
 
 And the regular prayers were made, 
 
 He prayed, or he told the Lord he prayed. 
 For everything out of Hell. 
 
 But the listening angel told the Lord 
 That only the silent prayed. 
 
 MEDITATION AT AN INFANTS TOMB. 
 
 JAMES HERVEY. 
 
 ■=mj|pONDEIl white stone, emblem of the innocence it covers, informs the 
 "'^^ beholder of one who breathed out its tender soul almost in the 
 '^'^ instant of receiving it. There, the peaceful infant, without so 
 much as knowing what labor and vexation mean, " lies still and is 
 quiet; it sleeps and is at rest." What did the little sojourner find 
 so forbidding and disgustful in our upper world, to occasion its 
 precipitate exit ? 'Tis written, indeed, of its suffering Saviour, that when 
 he had tasted the vinegar mingled with gall, he would not drink. And did 
 our new-come stranger begin to sip the cup of life ; but, perceiving the 
 bitterness, turn away its head, and refuse the draught ? 
 
 Happy voyager ! no sooner launched, than arrived at the haven ! But 
 more eminently happy they, who have passed the waves, and weathered all 
 the storms of a troublesome and dangerous world ! who, " through many 
 tribulations, have entered into the kingdom of heaven;'' and thereby 
 brought honor to their divine Convoy, administered comfort to the com- 
 panions of their toil, and left an instructive example. 
 
 Highly favored probationer ! accepted, without being exercised ! It 
 was thy peculiar privilege, not to feel the shghtest of those evils which 
 oppress thy surviving kindred ; which frequently fetch groans from the 
 most manly fortitude or most elevated faith. The arrows of calamity, 
 barbed with anguish, are often fixed deep in our choicest comforts. The 
 fiery darts of temptation, shot from the hand of hell, are always flying in 
 showers around our integrity. To thee, sweet babe, both these distresses 
 and dans;ers were ahke unknown 
 
322 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 Consider this, ye mourning parents, and dry up your tears. Why 
 should you lament that your little ones are crowned with victory, before 
 the sword is drawn or the conflict begun ? Perhaps, the Supreme Disposer 
 of events foresaw some inevitable snare of temptation forming, or some 
 dreadful storm of adversity impending. And why should you be so 
 dissatisfied with that kind precaution, which housed your pleasant plant, 
 and removed into shelter a tender flower, before the thunders roared ; before 
 the lightnings flew; before the tempest poured its rage ? 
 
 At the same time, let survivors, doomed to bear the heat and burden of 
 the day, for their encouragement reflect, that it is more honorable to have 
 entered the lists, and to have fought the good fight ; before they come off 
 conquerors. They who have borne the cross, and submitted to afflictive 
 providences, with a cheerful resignation ; have girded up the loins of their 
 mind, and performed their Master's will, wdth an honest and persevering 
 fidelity ; these, having glorified their Kedeemer on earth, will, probably, 
 be as stars of the first magnitude in heaven. 
 
 I 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 . r4: | ?^ . 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 |HE shades of night were falling fast, 
 
 ^^ A youth, 
 
 bore, mid snow and 
 
 A banner with a strange device, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad ; his eye beneath, 
 Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 The accents of that unknown tongue, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
 And from his lips escaped a groan, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 " Try not the pass !" the old rnan said ; 
 " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide !" — 
 And loud that clarion voice replied, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 "Oh! stay," the maiden said, "and rest 
 Thy weary head upon this breast!" 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
 
PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 
 
 323 
 
 But still he answered, with 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 sigh, 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of St. Bernard 
 Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried through the startled air, 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 A traveler, — by the faithful hound. 
 Half buried in the snow was found. 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice. 
 That banner with the strange device. 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and gray, 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell, like a falling star, — 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 PADDY'S EXCELSIOR. 
 
 sh^ 
 
 iWAS growin dark so terrible fasht. 
 Whin through a town up the moun- 
 tain there pashed 
 (g^!^ A broth of a boy, to his neck in 
 ^ the shnow ; 
 
 4* As he walked, his shillalah he 
 
 J swung to and fro, 
 
 Saying : " It's up to the top I am 
 bound for to go, 
 Be jabbers!" 
 
 He looked mortal sad, and bin eye was as 
 
 bright 
 As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night; 
 And niver a word that he said could ye tell 
 As he opened his mouth and let out a yell, 
 " It's up till the top of the mountain I'll go, 
 Onless covered up wid this bodthersome 
 
 shnow. 
 
 Be jabbers!" 
 
 Through the windows he saw, as he thra- 
 
 veled along. 
 The light of the candles and fires so warm, 
 But a big chunk of ice hung over his head ; 
 Wid a shnivel and groan, " By St. Patrick !" 
 
 he said, 
 " It's up to the very tip-top I will rush. 
 And then if it falls, it's not meself it'll crush. 
 Be jabbers !" 
 
 " Whisht a bit," said an owld man, whose 
 hair was as white 
 
 As the shnow that fell down on that miser- 
 able night ; 
 
 '• Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a 
 lad, 
 
 Fur the night is so dark and the walkin' is 
 bad." 
 
 Bedad! he'd not lisht to a word that was 
 said. 
 
 But he'd go to the top, if he went on his 
 head, 
 
 Be jabbers ! 
 
 A bright, buxom young girl, such as likes to 
 
 be kissed. 
 Axed him wouldn't he stop, and how could 
 
 he resist ? 
 So shnapping his fingers and winking his 
 
 eye. 
 While shmiling upon her, he made this re- 
 ply— 
 " Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to the 
 
 top, 
 But, as yer shwate self has axed me, I may 
 as well shtop 
 
 Be jabbers !" 
 
 He shtopped all night and he shtopped all 
 day, — 
 
324 
 
 FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. 
 
 And ye musn't be axin whin he did go 
 
 away ; 
 Fur wouldn't he bo a bastely gossoon 
 To be lavin his darlint in the swate honey- 
 moon ? 
 
 Whin the owld man has peraties enough and 
 
 to spare, 
 Shure he moight as well shtay if he's com> 
 
 fortable there, 
 
 Be jabbers! 
 
 THE CHINESE EXCELSIOR. 
 
 FROM "THE BOY TEAVELEIIE 
 
 Ifiji^IIAT nightee teem he come chop-chop 
 ^^ One young man walkee, no can stop ; 
 Maskee snow, maskee ice ; 
 He cally flag wit'h chop so nice — 
 
 Top-side Galah ! 
 'He muchee solly : one piecee eye 
 Lookee sharp — so fashion — my ; 
 He talkee large, he talkee stlong. 
 Too muchee culio ; allee same gong. — 
 Top-side Galah ! 
 
 'Insidee house he can see light. 
 And evly loom got fire all light, 
 He lookee plenty ice more high, 
 Insidee mout'h he plenty cly — 
 
 Top- side Galah ! 
 
 'Ole man talkee, " No can walk, 
 Bimeby lain come, velly dark ; 
 
 Have got water, velly wide ! " 
 Maskee, my must go top-side, — 
 
 Top-side Galah ! 
 " Man-man " one girlee talkee he : 
 " What for you go top-side look — see ? " 
 And one teem more he plenty cly, 
 But allee teem walk plenty high — 
 
 Top -side Galah! 
 " Take care t'hat spilum tlee, ycung man, 
 Take care t'hat ice, must go man-man." 
 One coolie chin-chin he good-night ; 
 He talkee, " My can go all light " — 
 
 Top-side Galah ! 
 T'hat young man die : one large dog see 
 Too muchee bobbly findee he, 
 He hand b'long coldee, all same like ice, 
 He holdee flag, wit'h chop so nice — 
 
 Top-side Galah ! 
 
 FATHER TIME'S CHANGELING. 
 
 A STORY TOLD TO GRACIE. 
 
 SNE day in summer's glow. 
 Not many j^ears ago, 
 A little babe lay on my knee, 
 With rings of silken hair. 
 And fingers waxen fair. 
 Tiny and soft, and pink as 
 could be. 
 
 pink 
 
 We watched it thrive and grow — 
 
 Ah me ! We loved it so — 
 And marked its daily gain in sweeter charms ; 
 
 It learned to laugh and crow. 
 
 And play and kiss us — so — 
 Until one day we missed it from our arms. 
 
 In sudden, strange surprise 
 
 We met each other's eyes, 
 Asking, " Who stole our pretty babe away ?" 
 
 We questioned earth and air, 
 
 But, seeking everywhere, 
 We never found it from that summer day. 
 
 But in its wonted place 
 
 There was another face — 
 A little girl's, with yellow curly hair 
 
 About her shoulders tossed ; 
 
 And the sweet babe we lost 
 Seemed sometimes looking from her eyes so 
 fair. 
 
AIRY NOTHINGS. 
 
 325 
 
 She dances, romps, and sings. 
 
 
 Ah, Blue-eyes, do you see 
 
 And does a hundred things 
 
 
 Who stole my babe from me. 
 
 Which my lost baby never tried to do ; 
 
 
 And brought the little girl from fairy clime ? 
 
 She longs to read in books, 
 
 
 A gray old man with wings, 
 
 And with bright eager looks 
 
 
 Who steals all precious things ; 
 
 Is always asking questions strange and 
 
 new. 
 
 He lives forever, and his name is Time. 
 
 And I can scarcely tell, 
 
 
 He rules the world they say ; 
 
 I love the rogue so well, 
 
 
 He took my babe away — 
 
 Whether I would retrace the four years' 
 
 My precious babe — and left me in its place 
 
 track, 
 
 
 This little maiden fair. 
 
 And lose the merry sprite 
 
 
 With yellow curly hair, 
 
 Who makes my home so bright 
 
 
 Who lives on stories, and whose name is 
 
 To have again my little baby back. 
 
 
 Grace ! 
 
 AIRY NOTHINGS. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 ^UR revels now are ended. These, our 
 actors, 
 
 %f As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 
 ""^ Are melted into air — into thin air ; 
 And, like the baseless fabric of this 
 vision. 
 
 The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 22 
 
 The solemn temples, the great globe it?elf, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind. We are such 
 
 stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with sleep. 
 
326 THE CHARITY DINNER. 
 
 THE CHARITY DINNER. 
 
 Time: liulf-past six o'clock. Place: The London Tavern. Occasion: Fifteenth Annual Festival of the So- 
 ciety for t)ie Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the Natives of tlie Cannibal Islands. 
 
 LITCHFIELD MOSELY. 
 
 WKN entering the room we find more than two hundred noblemen and 
 ^P gentlemen already assembled ; and the number is increasing every 
 it^'^'i minute. The preparations are now complete, and we are in 
 readiness to receive the chairman. After a short pause, a little 
 door at the end of the room opens, and the great man appears, attended 
 by an admiring circle of stewards and toadies, carrying white wands 
 like a parcel of charity-school boys bent on beating the bounds. He 
 advances smilingly to his post at the principal table, amid deafening and 
 long-continued cheers. 
 
 The dinner now makes its appearance, and we yield up ourselves to the 
 enjoyments of eating and drinking. These important duties finished, and 
 grace having been beautifully sung by the vocalists, the real business of the 
 evening commences. The usual loyal toasts having been given, the noble 
 chairman rises, and after passing his fingers through his hair, places his 
 thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, gives a short preparatory cough, 
 accompanied by a vacant stare round the room, and commences as follows : 
 "My Lords and Gentlemen: — It is with feelings of mingled pleasure 
 and regret that I appear before you this evening : of pleasure, to find that 
 this excellent and world-wide-known society is in so promising a condition ; 
 and of regret, that you have not chosen a worthier chairman ; in fact, one 
 who is more capable than myself of dealing with a subject of such vital im- 
 portance as this. (Loud cheers.) But, although I may be unworthy of the 
 honor, I am proud to state that I have been a subscriber to this society 
 from its commencement ; feeling sure that nothing can tend more to the 
 advancement of civilization, social reform, fireside comfort, and domestic 
 economy among the Cannibals, than the diffusion of blankets and top-boots. 
 (Tremendous cheering, which lasts for several minutes.) Here in this 
 England of ours, which is an island surrounded by watei', as I suppose you 
 all know — or, as our great poet so truthfully and beautifully expresses the 
 same fact, ' England bound in by the triumphant sea ' — what, down the 
 long vista of years, have conduced more to our successes in arms, and arts, 
 and song, than blankets ? Indeed I never gaze upon a blanket without my 
 thoughts reverting fondly to the days of my early childhood. Where 
 should we all have been now but for those warm and fleecy coverings ? 
 
THE CHARITY DINNER. 327 
 
 My Lords and Gentlemen ! Our first and tender memories are all 
 associated with blankets : blankets when in our nurses' arms, blankets 
 in our cradles, blankets in our cribs, blankets to our French bedsteads in 
 our school-days, and blankets to our marital four-posters now. Therefore, I 
 say, it becomes our bounden duty as men — and, with feelings of pride, I add, 
 as Englishmen — to initiate the untutored savage, the wild and somewhat un- 
 cultivated denizen of the prairie, into the comfort and warmth of blankets ; 
 and to supply him, as far as practicable, with those reasonable, seasonable, 
 luxurious and useful appendages. At such a moment as this, the lines of 
 another poet strike familiarly upon the ear. Let me see, they are some- 
 thing like this — ah — ah — 
 
 " Blankets have charms to soothe the savage breast, 
 And to — to do — a — '' 
 
 I forget the rest. (Loud cheers.) 
 
 " My Lords and Gentlemen ! I will not trespass on your patience by 
 making any further remarks; knowing how incompetent I am — no, no! 
 I don't mean that — knowing how incompetent you all are — no ! I don't 
 mean that either — but you all know what I mean. Like the ancient 
 Roman lawgiver, I am in a peculiar position ; for the fact is I cannot 
 sit down— I mean to say, that I cannot sit down without saying that, if 
 there ever ivas an institution, it is this institution; and therefore, I beg to 
 propose, ' Prosperity to the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and 
 Top-Boots among the Natives of the Cannibal Islands.' " 
 
 The toast having been cordially responded to, his lordship calls upon 
 Mr. Buffer, the secretary, to read the report. Whereupon that gentle- 
 man, who is of a bland and oily temperament, and whose eyes are con- 
 cealed by a pair of green spectacles, produces the necessary document, and 
 reads in the orthodox manner — 
 
 " Thirtieth Half-yearly Report of the Society for the Distribution of 
 Blankets and Top-Boots to the Natives of the Cannibal Islands." 
 
 The reading concluded, the secretary resumes his seat amid hearty ap- 
 plause which continues until Mr. Alderman Gobbleton rises, and, in a 
 ■3om.ewhat lengthy and discursive speech — in which the phrases, ' the Cor- 
 poration of the City of London,' 'suit and service,' 'ancient guild,' 'liber- 
 ties and privileges,' and 'Court of Common Council,' figure frequently — 
 states that he agrees with everything the noble chairman has said ; and 
 has, moreover, never listened to a more comprehensive and exhaustive 
 document than the one just read ; which is calculated to satisfy even the 
 most obtuse and hard-headed of individuals. 
 
328 THE CHARITY DINNER. 
 
 Gobbleton is a great man in the city. He lias either been lord mayor, 
 or sheriff, or something of the sort; and, as a few words of his go a long 
 way with his friends and admirers, his remarks are very favorably received. 
 
 " Clever man, Gobbleton ! " says a common councilman, sitting near us, 
 to his neighbor, a languid swell of the period. 
 
 " Ya-as, vewy ! Wemarkable style of owatowy — gweat fluency," replies 
 the other. 
 
 But attention, if you please ! — for M. Hector de Longuebeau, the great 
 French writer, is on his legs. He is staying in England for a short time, 
 to become acquainted with our manners and customs, 
 
 " Milors and Gentlemans ! " commences the Frenchman, elevating his 
 eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. " Milors and Gentlemans — You 
 excellent chairman, M. le Baron de Mount-Stuart, he have to say to me, 
 ' Make de toast.' Den I say to him I have no toast to make ; but he nudge 
 my elbow very soft, and say dat dere is one toast dat nobody but von 
 Frenchman can make proper ; and, darefore, wid your kind permission, I 
 vill make de toast. ' De brevete is de sole of de feet," as your great philo- 
 sophere, Dr. Johnson, do say, in dat amusing little vork of his, de Pro- 
 nouncing Dictionnaire; and, darefore, I vill not say ver moch to de point. 
 Ven I was a boy, about so moch tall, and used for to promenade the streets 
 of Marseilles et of Rouen, vid no feet to put onto my shoe, I nevare to 
 have expose dat dis day vould to have arrive. I was to begin de vorld as 
 von garcon — or what you call in dis countrie von vaitaire in a cafe — 
 vere I vork ver hard, vid no habillements at all to put onto myself, 
 and ver little food to eat, excep' von old bleu blouse vat vas give 
 to me by de proprietaire, j ust for to keep myself fit to be showed at ; but, 
 tank goodness, tings dey have change ver moch for me since dat time and 
 I have rose myself, seulement par mon Industrie et perseverance. (Loud 
 cheers.) Ah ! mes amis ! ven I hear to myself de flowing speech, de oration 
 magnifique of you Lor' Maire, Monsieur Gobbledown, I feel dat it is von 
 great privilege for von stranger to sit at de same table, and to eat de same 
 food, as dat grand, dat majestique man, who are de terreur of de voleurs 
 and de brigands of de metropolis ; and who is also, I for to suppose, a halter- 
 man and de chief of you common scoundrel. Milors and gentlemans, I 
 feel dat I can perspire to no greatare honneur dan to be von common 
 scoundrelman myself ; but helas ! dat plassir are not for me, as I are not 
 freeman of your great city, not von liveryman servant of von of you cora- 
 pagnies joint-stock. But I must not forget de toast. Milors and Gentle- 
 mans ! De immortal Shakispeare he have write, * De ding of beauty are 
 de joy for nevermore.' It is de ladies who are de toast. Vat is more en- 
 
PRAYERS OF CHILDREN. 
 
 329 
 
 trancing dan de charmante smile, de soft voice, de vinking eye of de beau- 
 tiful lady ! It is de ladies who do sweeten the cares of life. It is de ladies 
 who are de guiding stars of our existence. It is de ladies who do cheer 
 but not inebriate, and, darefore, vid all homage to dere sex, de toast dat I 
 have to propose is, ' De Ladies ! God bless dera all ! ' " 
 
 And the little Frenchman sits down amid a perfect tempest of cheers. 
 
 A few more toasts are given, the list of subscriptions is read, a vote of 
 thanks is passed to the noble chairman ; and the Fifteenth Annual Festival 
 of the Society for the Distribution of Blankets and Top-Boots among the 
 Natives of the Cannibal Islands is at an end. 
 
 PRA YERS OF CHILDREN. 
 
 ^N the quiet nursery chambers, — 
 Snowy pillor/s yet unpressed, — 
 See the forms of little children 
 Kneeling, white robed, for 
 
 irest. 
 All in quiet nursery chambers, 
 While the dusky shadows creep, 
 Hear the voices of the children ; 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep." 
 
 In the meadow and the mountain 
 Calmly shine the Winter stars, 
 
 But across the glistening lowlands 
 Stand the moonlight's silver bars. 
 
 In the silence and the darkness, 
 Darkness growing still more deep. 
 
 Listen to the little children. 
 Praying God their souls to keep. 
 
 " If we die " — so pray the children, 
 
 And the mother's head droops low, 
 One from out her fold is sleeping 
 
 Deep beneath the winter's snow — 
 " Take our souls ;" — and past the casement 
 
 Flits a gleam of crystal light. 
 Like the trailing of his garments, 
 
 Walking evermore in white. 
 
 Little souls that stand expectant. 
 
 Listening at the gates of life. 
 Hearing, far away the murmur 
 
 Of the tumult and the strife, 
 
330 
 
 LITTLE MARGERY. 
 
 We who fight beneath those banners, 
 
 In the warring of temptation, 
 
 Meeting ranks of foemen there, 
 
 Firm and true your souls to keep. 
 
 Find a deeper, broader meaning 
 
 
 In your simple vesper prayer. 
 
 When the combat ends, and slowly 
 
 
 Clears the smoke from out the skies ; 
 
 When your hand shall grasp this standard 
 
 When, far down the purple distance, 
 
 Which to-day you watch from far, 
 
 All the noise of battle dies ; 
 
 When your deeds shall shape the conflict 
 
 When the last night's solemn shadow 
 
 In this universal war: 
 
 Settles down on you and me. 
 
 Pray to Him, the God of battles, 
 
 May the love that never faileth 
 
 Whose strong eyes can never sleep, 
 
 Take our souls eternally ! 
 
 LITTLE MARGERY. 
 
 MRvS. SALLIE J. WHITE. 
 
 H^^NEELING, white-robed, sleepy eyes, 
 ^j^^ Peeping through the tangled hair, 
 ¥#^3^ " Now I lay me — I'm so tired — 
 ijl* Aunty, God knows all my prayer; 
 
 4 He'll keep little Margery." 
 
 Watching by the little bed. 
 Dreaming of the coming years, 
 
 Much I wonder what they'll bring, 
 Most of smiles or most of tears, 
 To my little Margery. 
 
LEARNING TO PRAY. 
 
 331 
 
 Will the simple, trusting faith 
 Shining in the childish breast 
 
 Always be so clear and bright? 
 Will God always know the rest, 
 Loving little Margery ? 
 
 As the weary years go on, 
 And you are a child no more, 
 
 But a woman, trouble-worn. 
 
 Will it come — this faith of yours- 
 you, dear Margery ? 
 
 If your sweetest love shall fail. 
 And your idol turn to dust, 
 
 Will you bow to meet the blow. 
 Owning all God's ways are just? 
 Can you, sorrowing Margery ? 
 
 Should your life-path grow so dark 
 You can see no steps ahead. 
 
 Will you lay your hand in His, 
 Trusting by him to be led 
 To the light, my Margery ? 
 
 Will the woman, folding down 
 Peaceful hands across her breast, 
 
 Whisper, with her old belief, 
 
 " God, my Father, knows the rest, 
 He'll take tired Margery ?" 
 
 True, my darling, life is long. 
 And its ways are dark and dim ; 
 
 But God knows the path you tread ; 
 I can leave you safe with Him, 
 Always, little Margery. 
 
 He will keep your childish faith. 
 Through your weary woman years, 
 
 Shining ever strong and bright, 
 Never dimmed by saddest tears, 
 Trusting little Margery. 
 
 You have taught a lesson sweet 
 To a yearning, restless soul ; 
 
 We pray in snatches, ask a part. 
 But God above us knows the whole, 
 And answers, baby Margery. 
 
 LEARNING TO PRA Y. 
 
 MARY M. DODGE. 
 
 1^|§NEELING fair in the twilight gray, 
 J^P A beautiful child was trying to 
 ffi^'f pi-ay ; 
 
 i] l» His cheek on his mother's knee, 
 
 His bare little feet half hidden, 
 His smile still coming unbidden. 
 And his heart brimful of glee. 
 
 " I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, 
 
 mamma ! I've had such fun to-day 
 
 1 hardly can say my prayers. 
 
 I don't feel just like praying ; 
 
 I want to be out-doors playing. 
 
 And run, all undressed, down stairs. 
 
 " I can see the flowers in the garden bed. 
 
 Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; 
 
 And Sammy is swinging, I guess. 
 Oh ! everything is so fine out there, 
 I want to put it all in the prayer, — 
 
 Do you mean I can do it by ' Yes ?' 
 
 " When I say, ' Now I lay me,'-word for word, 
 It seems to me as if nobody heard. 
 Would ' Thank you dear God,' be right? 
 
 He gave me my mammy. 
 And papa, and Sammy, — 
 mamma ! you nodded I might. 
 
332 
 
 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. 
 
 Clasping his hands and hiding his face, 
 
 Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, 
 
 The little one now began ; 
 
 His mother's nod and sanction sweet 
 Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, 
 
 And his words like music ran : 
 
 " Thank you for making this home so nice. 
 
 The flowers, and my two white mice, — 
 
 I wish I could keep right on ; 
 
 I thank you, too, for every day — 
 Only I'm most too glad to pray. 
 
 Dear God, I think I'm done. 
 
 " Now, mamma, rock me — just a minute — 
 And sing the hymn with ' darling ' in it. 
 I wish I could say my prayers ! 
 
 When I get big, I know I can. 
 
 Oh I won't it be nice to be a man, 
 And stay all night down stairs !" 
 
 The mother, singing, clasped him tight, 
 
 Kissing and cooing her fond " Good-night," 
 
 And treasured his every word. 
 
 For well she knew that the artless joy 
 And love of her precious, innocent boy, 
 
 Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. 
 
 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. 
 
 ^i^OLDEN head so lowly bending, 
 ^^fk Little feet so white and bare, 
 ftii'-j Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, 
 <i£^ Lisping out her evening prayer. 
 
 " Now I lay," — repeat it, darling — 
 " Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 
 
 Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
 O'er the folded finger tips. 
 
 " Down to sleep,"-" To sleep," she murmured, 
 
 And the curly head bent low ; 
 " I pray the Lord," I gently added, 
 " You can say it all, I know." 
 
 "Pray the Lord," the sound came faintly. 
 Fainter still — "My soul to keep;" 
 
 Then the tired heart fairly nodded, 
 And the child was fast asleep. 
 
 But the dewy eyes half opened 
 
 When I clasped her to my breast. 
 And the dear voice softly whispered, 
 " Mamma, God knows all the rest." 
 
 Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding 
 Of the child-heart ! would that I 
 
 Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, 
 He who hears my feeblest cry. 
 
 0, the rapture, sweet, unbroken. 
 
 Of the soul who wrote that prayer ! 
 
 Children's myriad voices floating 
 Up to Heaven, record it there. 
 
 If, of all that has been written, 
 
 I could choose what might be mine, 
 
 It should be that child's petition. 
 Rising to the throne divine. 
 
 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. 
 
 J. B. GOUGH. 
 
 iHERE is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his child- 
 ren ? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with 
 poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors, 
 and rank corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the 
 precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green 
 
FATHER, TAKE MY HAND. 
 
 333 
 
 glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to 
 play ; there God brews it. And down, low down in the lowest valleys, 
 where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high upon the tall 
 mountain tops, where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun ; where 
 the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder-storms crash ; and away far out 
 on the wide wild sea, where the hurricane howls music, and the big waves 
 roar ; the chorus sweeping the march of God : there he brews it — that 
 beverage of life and health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of 
 beauty, gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain ; shining in 
 the ice-gems till the leaves all seem to turn to living jewels; spreading a 
 golden veil over the setting sun ; or a white gauze around the midnight 
 moon. 
 
 Sporting in the cataract; sleeping in the glacier; dancing in the hail 
 shower ; folding its bright snow curtains softly about the wintry world ; 
 and waving the many-colored iris, that seraph's zone of the sky, whose 
 warp is the rain-drop of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven ; all 
 checkered over with celestial flowers, by the mystic hand of refraction. 
 
 Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water ; no poison bubbles on 
 its brink ; its foam brings not madness and murder ; no blood stains ita 
 liquid glass ; pale widows and starving orphans weep no burning tears in 
 its depth ; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the 
 words of eternal despair ; speak on, my friends, would you exchange for it 
 demon's drink, alcohol ! 
 
 FATHER, TAKE MY HAJSfD." 
 
 HENRY N. COBB. 
 
 |HE way i.<? dark, my Father ! Cloud 
 on cloud 
 
 #5.'^ Is gathering thickly o'er my head, 
 '' ^ and loud 
 
 The thunders roar above me. See, 
 
 I stand 
 Like one bewildered! Father, take 
 
 my hand. 
 And through the gloom 
 Lead safely home 
 Thy child ! 
 
 The day goes fast, my Father ! and the night 
 
 Is drawing darklydown. My faithless sight 
 Sees ghostly visions. Fears, a spectral band, 
 Encompass me. Father ! take my hand, 
 
 And from the night 
 
 Lead up to light 
 Thy child! 
 
 The way is long, my Father ! and my soul 
 Longs for the rest and quiet of the goal ; 
 "While yet I journey through this weary 
 
 land. 
 Keep me from wandering. Father, take my 
 
 hand ; 
 
334 
 
 THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. 
 
 Quickly and straight 
 Lead to lioaven's gate 
 Thy child ! 
 
 The path is rough, my Father! Many a 
 
 thorn 
 Has pierced me ; and my weary feet, all 
 
 torn 
 And bleeding, mark the way. Yet thy 
 
 command 
 Bids me press forward. Father, take my 
 hand ; 
 
 Then safe and blest, 
 Lead up to rest 
 Thy child! 
 
 The throng is great, my Father ! Many a 
 
 doubt 
 And fear and danger compass me about ; 
 And foes oppress me sore. I cannot stand 
 Or go alone. Father I take my hand, 
 And through the throng 
 Lead safe along 
 Thy child ; 
 
 The cross is heavy. Father ! I have borne 
 It long, and still do bear it. Let my worn 
 And fainting spirit rise to that blest land 
 Where crowns are given. Father, take my 
 hand ; 
 
 And reaching down 
 Lead to the crown 
 Thy child ! 
 
 THE GRACIOUS ANSWER. 
 
 HENRY N. COBB. 
 
 jiHE way is dark, my child ! but leads 
 to light. 
 I would not always have thee walk 
 
 by sight. 
 My dealings now thou canst not un- 
 derstand. 
 I meant it so ; but I will take thy 
 
 hand, 
 And through the gloom 
 Lead safely home 
 My child ! 
 
 The day goes fast, my child ! But is the 
 
 night 
 Darker to me than day ? In me is light ! 
 Keep close to me, and every spectral band 
 Of fears shall vanish. I will take thy hand. 
 And through the night 
 Lead up to light 
 My child ! 
 
 The way is long, my child ! But it shall be 
 Not one step longer than is best for thee ; 
 And thou shalt know, at last, when thou 
 8halt stand 
 
 Safe at the goal, how I did take thy hand. 
 
 And quick and straight 
 
 Lead to heaven's gate 
 
 lij child 1 
 
 The path is rough, my child ! But oh ! how 
 
 sweet 
 Will be the rest, for weary pilgrims meet. 
 When thou shalt reach the borders of that 
 
 land 
 To which I lead thee, as I take thy hand. 
 And safe and blest 
 With me shall rest 
 My child ! 
 
 The throng is great, my child ! But at thy 
 
 side 
 Thy Father wulks: then be not terrified, 
 For I am with thee; will thy foes com 
 
 mand 
 To let thee freely pass ; will take thy hand, 
 And through the throng 
 Lead safe along 
 Mv child! 
 
THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. 
 
 335 
 
 The cross is heavy, child ! Yet there was 
 
 One 
 Who bore a heavier for thee ; my Son, 
 My well-beloved. For him bear thine; and 
 
 stand 
 
 With him at last; and, from thy Father's 
 hand, 
 
 Thy cross laid down, 
 Receive a crown. 
 My child! 
 
 THE FRENCHMAN AND THE RATS. 
 
 ^^P FRENCHMAN once, who was a 
 pi!^l| merry wight, 
 
 %^=Y Passing to town from Dover, in the 
 ^'° night, 
 
 4 Near the roadside an alehouse 
 
 ¥ chanced to spy, 
 
 j And being rather tired as well as 
 
 dry. 
 Resolved to enter ; but first he took a peep. 
 In hopes a supper he might get, and cheap. 
 He enters : " Hallo ! Garcon, if you please. 
 Bring me a leetel bit of bread and cheese, 
 And hallo ! Garcon, a pot of porter, too !" 
 
 he said, 
 " Vich I shall take, and den myself to bed." 
 His supper done, some scraps of cheese were 
 
 left. 
 Which our poor Frenchman, thinking it no 
 
 theft, 
 Into his pocket put ; then slowly crept 
 
 To wished-for bed ; but not a wink he slept — 
 
 For on the floor some sacks of flour were laid, 
 
 To which the rats a nightly visit paid. 
 
 Our hero, now undressed, popped out the 
 light. 
 
 Put on his cap and bade the world good- 
 night ; 
 
 But first his breeches, which contained the 
 fare. 
 
 Under his pillow he had placed with care. 
 
 Sans ceremonie, soon the rats all ran. 
 
 And on the flour-sacks greedily began ; 
 
 At which they gorged themselves; then 
 smelling round, 
 
 Under the pillow soon the cheese they found ; 
 
 And while at this they all regaling sat, 
 
 Their happy jaws disturbed the Frenchman's 
 nap ; 
 
 Who, half-awake, cries out, "Hallo! hallo! 
 
 Vat is dat nibble at my pillow so ? 
 
336 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis one big — one very big, huge rat ! 
 Vat is it that he nibble — nibble at/" 
 
 In vain our little hero sought repose ; 
 
 .Sometimes the vermin galloped o'er his 
 nose; 
 
 And such the pranks they kept up all the 
 night, 
 
 That he, on end — antipodes upright 
 
 Brawling-aloud, called stoutly for a light. 
 
 " Hallo ! Maison ! Garcon, I say ! 
 
 Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay !" 
 
 The bill was brought, and to his great sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Ten shillings was the charge : he scarce be- 
 lieved his eyes. 
 
 With eager haste, he quickly runs it o'er, 
 
 And every time he viewed it thought it 
 more. 
 
 " Vy, zounds and zounds !" he cries, " I sail 
 no pay ; 
 
 Vat ! charge ten shelangs for what I have 
 mange ? 
 
 A leetel sop of portar, dis vile bed, 
 
 Vare all de rats do run about my head ?" 
 "Plague on those rats !" the landlord mut- 
 tered out ; 
 " I wish, upon my word, that I could make 
 
 'em scout: 
 I'll pay him well that can." "Vat's dat you 
 
 say ?" 
 '•I'll pay him well that can." " Attend to 
 
 me, I pray : 
 Vill you dis charge forego, vat I am at, 
 If from your house I drive away de rat?" 
 " With all my heart," the jolly host re- 
 plies. 
 " Ecoutez, done ami;" the Frenchman cries. 
 " First den — Regardez, if you please, 
 Bring to dis spot a leetel bread and cheese : 
 Eh bien ! a pot of portar, too ; 
 And den invite de rats to sup vid you: 
 And after dat — no matter dey be villing — 
 For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten 
 
 shelang : 
 And I am sure, ven dey behold de score, 
 Dey'U quit your house, and never come no 
 more." 
 
 DUNCAN GRAY CAM' HERE TO WOO. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 H^jUNCAN Gray cam' here to woo— 
 Ha, ha! the wooing o't ! 
 On blythe Yule night when we 
 were fu' — 
 Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 
 Maggie coost her head fu' high. 
 Looked asklent and unco sneigh. 
 Cart poor Duncan stand abeigh — 
 Ila, ha! the wooing o't! 
 
 Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 Duncan sighed baith oot and in, 
 Gart his een baith bleer't and blin' 
 Spake o' lowpin o'er a linn — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Time and chance are but a tide — 
 Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 
 
 Slighted love is sair to bide — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't — 
 
 Shall I, like a fule, quoth he. 
 
 For a haughty hizzie dee ? 
 
 She may gae to — France for me ! 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 How it comes let doctors tell — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I 
 Meg grew sick as he grew well — 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 Something in her bosom wrings, — 
 For relief a sigh she brings, — 
 And 0, her ccn the}' speak sic things I 
 Ha ha ! the wooing o't ' 
 
SUNRISE AT SEA. 
 
 337 
 
 Duncan was a lad o' grace — 
 
 Ha, ha! the wooing o't! 
 
 Maggie's was a piteous case — 
 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't ! 
 
 Duncan could na be her death : 
 Swelling pity smoored his wrath, 
 Now they're crouse and canty baith, 
 Ha, ha ! the wooing o't I 
 
 THE HOME OF PEACE. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 ^Ij^ KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully 
 Mm curled 
 
 \^vj Above the green elms, that a cottage 
 (|!i© was near. 
 
 And I said, " H there's peace to be 
 found in the world, 
 A heart that is humble might hope 
 for it here!" 
 
 It was noon, and on flowers that languished 
 
 around 
 In silence, reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
 Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a 
 
 sound 
 But the woodpecker tapping the hollow 
 
 beech-tree. 
 
 And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- 
 claimed, 
 " With a maid who was lovely to soul and 
 to eye ; 
 Who would blush when I praised her, and 
 weep if I blamed. 
 How blest could I live, and how calm 
 could I die ! 
 
 " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red 
 berry dips 
 In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to 
 recline, 
 And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips, 
 Which had never been sighed on by any 
 but mine !" 
 
 SUNRISE AT SEA. 
 
 W. V. KELLY. 
 
 JpOW slowly the day dawns, yet how suddenly the sun rises ! Did 
 *^ you ever witness a sunrise at sea on a calm morning? You look 
 out of your port-hole before dawn and see the faintest possible 
 hint of daylight yonder. You go on deck. The east gives a pale 
 promise of the morning, just the first soft glimmer from the gates 
 ajar of that heavenly chamber whence the sun will, by-and- 
 come rejoicing. A low, doubtful, slowly-growing light, spreads 
 encroaching on the shadows on the east. The sky beds itself on the 
 dark gray sea, with a deep foundation of intense dark rich orange, and 
 builds upwards with gradations of yellow, and green, and colors no one 
 could name. Infinite changes gently succeed. Miracles of transforma- 
 tion, glory passing into glory. The stars fade slowly, blinking at the 
 
338 SLEIGHING SONG. 
 
 increasing light, lilce old religions dying before the Gospel. So smooth is 
 the water, it is certain that when the sun rises above the horizon he will 
 stand with his feet on a sea of burnished glass. The clouds have bent a 
 triumphal arch over the place of his coming, and one broad cloud makes 
 a crimson canopy to the pavilion which awaits the king. Graceful, airy 
 clouds hover like spirits that expect a spectacle ; shortly they put on 
 glorious robes, and their faces are bright, as if, like Moses, in some lofty 
 place, they had seen God face to face : the meanest tattered cloud that lies 
 waiting, like a beggar, at the gates of the morning, for the coming of the 
 King from his inaccessible chambers of splendor, is dressed, while it waits, 
 in glory beside which the apparel of princes is sordid and vile. For more 
 than an hour, a long, long hour, you watch the elaborate unfolding pageant 
 of preparation go on in the east. With a trembling hush of culminating 
 wonder, you await impatiently the grand uprise of the sun. Will he ever 
 come ? You almost doubt. At last, when the ecstacy of expectation has 
 grown intense, a thin, narrow flash of brilliant, dazzling fire shoots level 
 along the sea, swift as lightning. Swiftly it rises and broadens till, in one 
 moment, the dusk immensity above is kindled by it ; another moment, and 
 the far-off, gloomy west sees it; in another, the whole heaven feels it ; and 
 yet one moment more, and the wide circle of the level sea is molten silver. 
 It is done, all done. The thing, so long preparing and approaching, bursts 
 into completion. The day is full-blown in a moment. The few heavy 
 piles of cloud on the horizon, look like castles in conflagration and consume 
 away ; the sun's burning gaze scorches from the rafters of the sky the 
 light cobwebs of mist and fleece ; and now the sun has the clean temple of 
 the heavens all to himself, paved with silver, domed with azure, pillared 
 with lijrht. 
 
 SLEIGHING SONG. 
 
 G. W. PETTEE. 
 ^I^INGLE, jingle, clear the way, Roguish archers, I'll be bound, 
 
 |fe|l(s 'Tis the merry, merry sleigh, 
 ■ ~ " As it swiftly scuds along 
 
 Hear the burst of happy song. 
 See the gleam of glances bright. 
 Flashing o'er the pathway white. 
 Jingle, jingle, past it flies. 
 Sending shafts from hooded eyes, — 
 
 Little heeding who they wound ; 
 
 See them, with capricious pranks, 
 
 Ploughing now the drifted banks ; 
 
 Jingle, jingle, mid the glee 
 
 Who among them cares for me ? 
 
 Jingle, jingle, on they go. 
 
 Capes and bonnets white with snow. 
 
JIM. 
 
 339 
 
 Not a single robe they fold 
 To protect them from the cold ; 
 Jingle, jingle, mid the storm, 
 Fun and frolic keep them warm ; 
 Jingle, jingle, down the hills. 
 
 O'er the meadows, past the mills, 
 Now 'tis slow, and now 'tis fast; 
 Winter will not always last. 
 Jingle, jingle, clear the way, 
 'Tis the merry, merry 
 
 JIM. 
 
 F. BRET HARTE. 
 
 ?AY there ! P'r'aps 
 
 }^i Some on you chaps 
 
 f^^ Might know Jim Wild? 
 
 Well, — no offence: 
 
 Thar aint no sense 
 
 In gittin' riled ! 
 
 Jim was my chum 
 Up on the Bar : 
 
 That's why I come 
 Down from up thar, 
 
 Lookin' for Jim. 
 
 Thank ye, sir ! you 
 
 Ain't of that crew, — 
 Blest if vou are ! 
 
 Well, this yer Jim, 
 Did you know him ? — 
 Jess 'bout your size ; 
 Same kind of eyes ! — 
 Well that is strange : 
 Why it's two year 
 Since he come here, 
 Sick, for a change. 
 
 Well, here's to us ; 
 
 Eh? 
 The deuce you say ! 
 
 Dead? 
 That little cuss ? 
 
 Money ? — Not much : 
 That ain't my kind 
 
 I ain't no such. 
 
 Rum ? — I don't mind, 
 Seem' it's you. 
 
 What makes you staar,- 
 You over thar ? 
 Can't a man drop 
 's glass in yer shop 
 But you must rar'? 
 
340 
 
 THE MINUET. 
 
 It wouldn't take 
 Demed much to break 
 You and your bar. 
 
 Dead! 
 Poor — little — Jim ! 
 —Why there was me, 
 Jones, and Bob Lee, 
 Harry and Ben, — 
 No-account men : 
 Then to take him I 
 
 Well, thar— Good by,- 
 No more, sir, — I — 
 
 Eh? 
 What's that you say ? — 
 Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
 No? Yes! By Jo! 
 
 Sold! 
 Sold ! Why you limb, 
 You onery, 
 
 Derned old 
 Long-legged Jim I 
 
 THE MINUET. 
 
 MRS. MARY M. DODGE. 
 
 JRANDMA told me all about it, 
 1^ Told me so I couldn't doubt it. 
 
 How she danced — my grandma 
 danced — 
 
 Long ago. 
 How she held her pretty head, 
 How her dainty skirt she spread, 
 How she turned her little toes — 
 Smiling little human rose 1 — 
 Long ago. 
 
 Grandma's hair was bright and sunny ; 
 Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! 
 Really quite a pretty girl, 
 Long ago. 
 Bless her ! why she wears a cap, 
 Grandma does, aud takes a nap 
 Every single day ; and yet 
 Grandma danced the minuet 
 Long ago. 
 
 Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, 
 Always knitting grandpa's stocking — 
 (Every girl was taught to knit 
 
 Long ago,) 
 Yet her figure is so neat. 
 And her way so staid and sweet, 
 I can almost see her now 
 Bending to her partner's bow, 
 
 Long aeo. 
 
 Grandma says our modern jumping. 
 Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
 Would have shocked the gentle folk 
 Long ago. 
 No — they moved with stately grace, 
 Everything in proper place. 
 Gliding slowly forward, then 
 Slowly courtesying back again, 
 Long ago. 
 
 Modern ways are quite alarming, 
 Grandma says; but boys were charming- 
 Girls and boys, I mean, of course — 
 
 Long ago. 
 Bravely modest, grandly shy — 
 What if all of us should try 
 Just to feel like those who met 
 In the graceful minuet 
 
 Long ago ? 
 
 With the minuet in fashion, 
 Who could fly into a passion ? 
 
 All would wear the calm they wore 
 Long ago. 
 In time to come, if I perchance. 
 Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
 I should really like to say, 
 " We did it, dear, in some such way 
 Long ago." 
 
EARLY RISING. 
 
 34i 
 
 TEE LOST DOLL, 
 
 C. KINGSLEY. 
 
 ®l® ONCE had a sweet little doll, dears, 
 H^ The prettiest doll in the world ; 
 "^ Her cheeks were so red and so white, 
 i dears, 
 
 X And her hair was so charmingly 
 
 ¥ curled, 
 
 j But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 
 
 As I played on the heath one day ; 
 And I cried for her more than a week, dears. 
 
 But I never could find where she lay. 
 
 I found my poor little doll, dears, 
 
 As I played on the heath one day ; 
 Folks say she is terribly changed, dears. 
 
 For her paint is all washed away. 
 And her arm's trodden off by the cows, 
 dears, 
 
 And her hair's not the least bit curled ; 
 Yet for old times' sake, she is still, dears. 
 
 The prettiest doll in the world. 
 
 EARLY RISING. 
 
 I^^OD bless the man who first invented 
 '^'^ sleep!" 
 
 So Sancho Panza said, and so say 
 I; 
 
 SAnd bless' him, also, that he didn't 
 keep 
 His great discovery to himself, 
 nor try 
 To make it — as the lucky fellow might — 
 A close monopoly by patent-right ! 
 
 Yes, — bless the man who first invented sleep, 
 
 (I really can't avoid the iteration ;) 
 But blast the man with curses loud and 
 deep, 
 Whate'er the rascal's name or age or 
 station. 
 Who first invented, and went round advising, 
 That artificial cut-off, — Early Rising ! 
 
 " Rise with the lark, and with the lark to 
 bed," 
 Observes some solemn, sentimental owl ; 
 Maxims like these are very cheaply said ; 
 
 But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl. 
 Pray just inquire about his rise and fall. 
 And whether larks have any beds at all! 
 23 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 " The time for honest folks to be abed 
 Is in the morning, if I reason right; 
 
 And he who cannot keep his precious head 
 Upon his pillow till it's fairly light, 
 
 And so enjoy his forty morning winks, 
 
 Is up to knavery, or else — he drinks ! 
 
 Thomson, who sung about the " Seasons," 
 said 
 It was a glorious thing to rise in season ; 
 But then he said it — lying — in his bed. 
 
 At ten o'clock, a. m., — the very reason 
 He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is. 
 His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his 
 practice. 
 
 'Tis doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, — 
 
 Awake to duty, and awake to truth, — 
 But when, alas ! a nice review we take 
 Of our best deeds and days, we find, in 
 sooth. 
 The hours that leave the slightest cause to 
 
 weep 
 Are those we passed in childhood, or asleep ! 
 
 'Tis beautiful to leave the world awhile 
 For the soft visions of the gentle night ; 
 
342 
 
 HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 
 
 And free, at last, from mortal care or guile, 
 
 To live as only in the angel's sight, 
 In sleep's sweet realm so cosily shut in, 
 Where, at the worst, we only dream of sin ! 
 
 So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise. 
 I like the lad who, when his father thought 
 
 To clip his morning nap by hackneyed 
 phrase 
 Of vagrant worm by early songster caught, 
 Cried, "Served him right! — it's not at all 
 surprising ; 
 The worm was punished, sir, for early 
 risinsr!" 
 
 HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 
 
 H. W. LONaFELLOW. 
 
 ^|S unto the bow the cord is. 
 So unto the man is woman. 
 Though she bends him, she obeys 
 him. 
 Though she draws him, yet she 
 follows, 
 Useless one without the other ! " 
 
 Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
 Is a neighbor's homely daughter, 
 Like the starlight or the moonlight 
 Is the handsomest of strangers!" 
 
 Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
 And my Hiawatha answered 
 
 Thus the youthful Hiawatha, 
 Said within himself and pondered, 
 Much perplexed by various feelings, 
 Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
 Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
 Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
 In the land of the Dacotahs. 
 
 " Wed a maiden of your people," 
 Warning said the old Nokomis ; 
 " Go not eastward, go not westward, 
 For a stranger, whom we know not ! 
 
 Only this : " Dear old Nokomis, 
 Very pleasant is the firelight. 
 But I like the starlight better. 
 Better do I like the moonlight !" 
 
 Gravely then said old Nokomis : 
 " Bring not here an idle maiden, 
 Bring not here a useless woman, 
 Hands unskillful, feet unwilling ; 
 Bring a wife with nimble fingers. 
 
"Thus departed Hiawatha 
 To the land of the Dacotahs. 
 
I 
 
HIAWATHA'S JOURNEY. 
 
 343 
 
 Heart and hand that move together, 
 Feet that run on willing errands!" 
 
 Smiling answered Hiawatha : 
 " In the land of the Dacotahs 
 Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Handsomest of all the women, 
 I will bring her to your wigwam. 
 She shall run upon your errands. 
 Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
 Be the sunlight of my people !" 
 
 Still dissuading said Nokcmis : 
 " Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
 From the land of the Dacotahs ! 
 Very fierce are the Dacotahs, 
 Often is there war between us, 
 There are feuds yet unforgotten. 
 Wounds that ache and still may open !" 
 
 Laughing answered Hiawatha : 
 " For that reason, if no other, 
 Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
 That our tribes might be united. 
 That old feuds might be forgotten, 
 And old wounds be healed forever !" 
 
 Thus departed Hiawatha 
 To the land of the Dacotahs, 
 To the land of handsome women ; 
 Striding over moor and meadow, 
 Through interminable forests. 
 Through uninterrupted silence. 
 
 With his moccasins of magic, 
 At each stride a mile he measured ; 
 Yet the way seemed long before him. 
 And his heart outran his footsteps ; 
 And he journeyed without resting, 
 Till he heard the cataract's laughter. 
 Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
 Calling to him through the silence. 
 " Pleasant is the sound !" he murmured, 
 " Pleasant is the voice that calls me !" 
 
 On the outskirts of the forest, 
 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine. 
 Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
 
 But they saw not Hiawatha ; 
 
 To his bow he whispered, " Fail not !" 
 
 To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not!" 
 
 Sent it singing on its errand, 
 
 To the red heart of the roebuck ; 
 
 Threw the deer across his shoulder, 
 
 And sped forward without pausing. 
 
 At the doorway of his wigwam 
 Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
 In the land of the Dacotahs, 
 Making arrow-heads of jasper, 
 Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
 At his side, in all her beauty, 
 Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
 Sat his daughter. Laughing Water, 
 Plaiting mats of flags and rushes ; 
 Of the past the old man's thoughts were. 
 And the maiden's of the future. 
 
 He was thinking, as he sat there. 
 Of the days when with such arrows 
 He had struck the deer and bison. 
 On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 
 Shot the wild goose, flying southward, 
 On the wing, the clamorous Wawa ; 
 Thinking of the great war-parties. 
 How they came to buy his arrows. 
 Could not fight without his arrows. 
 Ah, no more such noble warriors 
 Could be found on earth as they were ! 
 Now the men were all like women. 
 Only used their tongues for weapons I 
 
 She was thinking of a hunter, 
 From another tribe and country, 
 
 ] Young and tall and very handsome, 
 
 j Who one morning in the Spring-time, 
 Came to buy her father's arrows. 
 Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
 
 j Lingered long about the doorway. 
 Looking back as he departed. 
 She had heard her father praise him, 
 Praise his courage and his wisdom ; 
 Would he come again for arrows 
 
 ! To the falls of Minnehaha ? 
 
 I On the mat her hands lay idle, 
 And her eyes were very dreamy. 
 
344 
 
 HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 
 
 HIAWATHA'S WOOING. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ^fjplT the feet of Laughing Water 
 ^it^^ Hiawatha laid his burden, 
 
 Threw the red deer from his should- 
 ers ; 
 And the maiden looked up at him, 
 Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
 Said with gentle look and accent, 
 " You are welcome, Hiawatha !" 
 
 Very spacious was the wigwam, 
 Made of deer-skm dressed and whitened, 
 With the gods of the Dacotahs 
 Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
 And so tall the doorway, hardly 
 Hiawatha stooped to enter. 
 Hardly touched his eagle-feathers 
 As he entered at the doorway. 
 
 Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
 From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
 Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
 Brought forth food and set before them. 
 Water brought them from the brooklet. 
 Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
 Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
 Listened while the guest was speaking, 
 Listened while her father answered, 
 But not once her lips she opened, 
 Not a single word she uttered. 
 
 Yes, as in a dream she listened 
 To the words of Hiawatha, 
 As he talked of old Nokomis, 
 Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
 As he told of his companions, 
 Chibiabos, the musician, 
 And the very strong man, Kwasind, 
 And of happiness and plenty, 
 In the land of the Ojibways," 
 In the pleasant land and peaceful. 
 
 " After many years of warfare, 
 Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
 There is peace between the Ojibways 
 And the tribe of the Dacotahs :" 
 Thus continued Hiawatha, 
 And then added, speaking slowly, 
 " That this peace may last forever, 
 And our hands be clasped more closely. 
 And our hearts be more united, 
 
 Give me as my wife this maiden, 
 Minnehaha, Laughing water. 
 Loveliest of Dacotah women ?" 
 
 And the ancient Arrow-maker 
 Paused a moment ere he answered, 
 Smoked a little while in silence. 
 Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
 Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
 And made answer very gravely : 
 "Yes, if Minnehaha wishes ; 
 Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" 
 
 And the lovely Laughing Water 
 Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
 Neither willing nor reluctant. 
 As she went to Hiawatha, 
 Softly took the seat beside him, 
 While she said, and blushed to say it, 
 " I will follow you, my husband !" 
 
 This was Hiawatha's wooing ! 
 Thus it was he won the daughter 
 Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
 In the land of the Dacotahs ! 
 From the wigwam he departed. 
 Leading with him Laughing Water ; 
 Hand in hand they went together, 
 Through the woodland and the meadow, 
 Left the old man standing lonely 
 At the doorway of his wigwam. 
 Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
 Calling to them from the distance. 
 Crying to them from afar off, 
 " Fare thee well, Minnehaha!" 
 
 And the ancient Arrow-maker 
 Turned again unto his labor, 
 Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
 Murmuring to himself, and saying : 
 "Thus it is our daughters leave us, 
 Those we love, and those who love us ! 
 Just when they have learned to help us, 
 When we are old and lean upon them. 
 Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
 With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
 Wanders piping through the village. 
 Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
 And she follows where he leads her. 
 Leaving all things for the stranger !" 
 
"On the outskirts of the forest, 
 'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
 Herds of fallow deer were feeding." 
 
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 
 
 345 
 
 HIAWATHA S RETURN. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 gLEASANT was the journey home- 
 ward 
 Through interminable forests, 
 Over meadow, over mountain. 
 Over river, hill, and hollow. 
 Short it seemed to Hiawatha, 
 Though they journeyed very slowly, 
 Though his pace he checked and 
 
 • slackened 
 To the steps of Laughing Water. 
 
 Over wide and rushing rivers 
 In his arms he bore the maiden ; 
 Light he thought her as a feather, 
 As the plume upon his head-gear ; 
 Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
 Bent aside the swaying branches, 
 Made at night a lodge of branches. 
 And a bed with boughs of hemlock. 
 And a fire before the doorway 
 With the dry cones of the pine-tree. 
 
 All the traveling winds went with them 
 O'er the meadow, through the forest ; 
 All the stars of night looked at them, 
 Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber ; 
 From his ambush in the oak-tree 
 Peered the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
 Watched with eager eyes the lovers ; 
 And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
 Scampered from the path before them. 
 Peeping, peeping from his burrow. 
 Sat erect upon his haunches. 
 Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 
 
 Pleasant was the journey homeward 1 
 All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
 Songs of happiness and heart's-ease ; 
 Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
 " Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
 Having such a wife to love you ! " 
 Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
 " Happy are you. Laughing Water, 
 Having such a noble husband ! " 
 
 From the sky the sun benignant 
 Looked upon them through the branches, 
 Saying to them, " my children. 
 Love is sunshine, hate is shadow. 
 Life is checkered shade and sunshine, 
 Rule by love, Hiawatha ! " 
 
 From the sky the moon looked at them. 
 Filled the lodge with mystic splendors. 
 Whispered to them, " my children. 
 Day is restless, night is quiet, 
 Man imperious, woman feeble ; 
 Half is mine, although I follow ; 
 Ruled by patience, Laughing Water ! " 
 
 Thus it was they journeyed homeward. 
 Thus it was that Hiawatha 
 To the lodge of old Nokomis 
 Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight. 
 Brought the sunshine of his people, 
 Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
 Handsomest of all women 
 In the land of the Dacotahs, 
 In the land of handsome women. 
 
 A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 pHEEE was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought 
 of a number of things. He had a sister who was a child too, and 
 his constant compaHion. They wondered at the beauty of flowers; 
 
346 A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 
 
 they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky ; they wondered at 
 the depth of the water ; they wondered at the goodness and power of God, 
 who made them so lovely. 
 
 They used to say to one another sometimes : Supposing all the 
 children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the 
 sky be sorry ? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the 
 buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that 
 gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water, and the smallest 
 bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night must surely be 
 the children of the stars; and they would all be grieved to see their 
 play-mates, the children of men, no more. 
 
 There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky 
 before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger 
 and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they 
 watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw it first, 
 cried out, " I see the star." And after that, they cried out both together, 
 knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such 
 friends with it, that before laying down in their bed, they always looked 
 out once again to bid it good night ; and when they were turning around 
 to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star !" 
 
 But while she was still very young, oh, very young, the sister 
 drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand at the 
 window at night, and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when 
 he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, 
 " I see the star !" and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little 
 weak voice used to say, " God bless my brother and the star !" 
 
 And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked out all 
 alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and when there was a grave 
 among the graves, not there before, and when the star made long rays 
 down toward him as he saw it through his tears. Now these rays were so 
 bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to heaven, 
 that when the child went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star ; 
 and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up 
 that sparkling road by angels ; and the star, opening, showing him a great 
 world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. 
 
 All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon 
 the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came out from the 
 long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed 
 them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were 
 so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. 
 
A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. 347 
 
 But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among 
 them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was 
 glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the 
 host. 
 
 His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the 
 leader among those who had brought the people thither : 
 
 " Is my brother come ?" 
 
 And he said, " No !" 
 
 She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his 
 arms, and cried, " Oh, sister, I am here ! Take me !" And then she 
 turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it was night ; and the star was 
 shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he saw it 
 through his tears. 
 
 From that hour forth the child looked out upon the star as the home 
 he was to go to when his time should come ; and he thought that he did 
 not belong to the earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's 
 angel gone before. 
 
 There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and, while he was 
 so little that he never yet had spoken a word, he stretched out his tiny 
 form on his bed, and died. 
 
 Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of 
 angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming 
 eyes all turned upon those people's faces. 
 
 Said his sister's angel to the leader : 
 
 " Is my brother come ?" 
 
 And he said, " Not that one, but another !" 
 
 As the child beheld his brother's apgel in her arms, he cried, " Oh, 
 my sister, I am here ! Take me !" And she turned and smiled upon 
 him, — and the star was shining. 
 
 He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old 
 servant came to him and said : 
 
 " Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son." 
 
 Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said 
 his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" 
 
 And he said, '' Thy mother !" 
 
 A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the 
 mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms 
 and cried, " Oh, mother, sister, and brother, I am here ! Take me !'* 
 And they answered him, " Not yet !" — and the star was shining. 
 
 He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was 
 
348 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 
 
 sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face 
 bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. 
 
 Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" 
 
 And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter !" 
 
 And the man who had been a child, saw his daughter, newly lost to 
 him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said : " My daughter's 
 head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, 
 and at her feet is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from 
 her, God be praised !" — And the star was shining. 
 
 Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was 
 wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And 
 one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as 
 he cried so long ago : " I see the star !" 
 
 They whispered one another, " He is dying." And he said, " I am. 
 My age is falHng from me like a garment, and I move towards the star aa 
 a child. And 0, my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened 
 to receive those dear ones who await me !" — 
 
 And the star was shining ; and it shines upon his grave. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ?REAK, break, break. 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, Sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could 
 utter 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 well for the fisherman's boy, 
 That he shouts with his sister at 
 play, 
 
 well for the sailor lad, 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the 
 
THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 349 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 To their haven under the hill ; 
 
 But for the touch of a vanished hand, 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 P|HE melancholy days a 
 I saddest of the year, 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 thf 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
 and meadows brown and sear. 
 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, 
 the autumn leaves lie dead ; 
 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and 
 to the rabbit's tread. 
 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from 
 
 the shrubs the jay. 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow through 
 
 all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, 
 
 that lately sprang and stood 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 
 
 sisterhood ? 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle 
 
 race of flowers 
 Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair 
 
 and good of ours. 
 The rain is falling where they lie ; but the 
 
 cold November rain 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 
 
 ones again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perished 
 
 long ago. 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid 
 
 the summer glow ; 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster 
 
 in the wood, 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in 
 
 autumn beauty stood. 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, 
 
 as falls the plague on men, 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone 
 
 from upland, glade, and glen, 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as 
 
 still such days will come. 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 
 
 winter home ; 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, 
 
 though all the trees are still. 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters 
 
 of the rill. 
 The south-wind searches for the flowers 
 
 whose fragrance late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by 
 
 the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youth- 
 ful beauty died. 
 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and 
 faded by my side. 
 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the 
 forests cast the leaf. 
 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have 
 a life so brief; 
 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 
 young friend of ours. 
 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with 
 the flowers. 
 
350 
 
 ROME AND CARTHAGE. 
 
 BENEDICITE. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 fOD'S love and peace be with thee, where 
 Soe'er this soft autumnal air 
 Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! 
 
 Whether through city casements comes 
 1 Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
 Y Or, out among the woodland blooms. 
 
 The hills we climbed, the river seen 
 By gleams along its deep ravine, — 
 All keep thy memory fresh and green. 
 
 Where'er I look, where'er I stray, 
 Thy thought goes with me on my way. 
 And hence the prayer I breathe to-day ; 
 
 O'er lapse of time and change of scene, 
 The weary waste which lies between 
 Thyself and me, my heart I lean. 
 
 Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor 
 The half-unconscious power to draw 
 All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law. 
 
 It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face. 
 Imparting, in its glad embrace, 
 Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! 
 
 Fair Nature's book together read, 
 
 The old wood-paths that knew our tread. 
 
 The maple shadows overhead, — 
 
 With these good gifts of God is cast 
 Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast 
 To hold the blessed angels fast. 
 
 If, then, a fervent wish for thee 
 
 The gracious heavens will heed from me, 
 
 What should, dear heart, its burden be ? 
 
 The sighing of a shaken reed, — 
 What can I more than meekly plead 
 The greatness of our common need ? 
 
 God's love, — unchanging, pure, and true, 
 The Paraclete white-shming through 
 His peace, — the fall of Hermon's dew ! 
 
 With such a prayer, on this sweet day. 
 As thou mayst hear and I may say, 
 I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 
 
 ROME AND CARTHAGE. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 OME and Carthage ! — behold them drawing near for the struggle 
 »^jy that is to shake the world ! Carthage, the metropolis of Africa, 
 jlt^ * is the mistress of oceans, of kingdoms, and of nations ; a magni- 
 '■y ficent city, burthened with opulence, radiant with the strange arts 
 i and trophies of the East. She is at the acme of her civilization. She 
 ^ can mount no higher. Any change now must be a decline. Rome is 
 comparatively poor. She has seized all within her grasp, but rather from 
 the lust of conquest than to fill her own coffers. She is demi-barbarous,, 
 
ROME AND CARTHAGE. 
 
 351 
 
 and has her ed- 
 ucation and her 
 fortune both to 
 make. All is be- 
 fore her, noth- 
 ing behind. For 
 a time these two 
 nations exist in 
 distinct view of 
 each other. The 
 
 TRIUMPHAL ARCH AT ROME. 
 
 one r( 
 
 the noontide of 
 her splendor ; 
 the other waxes 
 strong in the 
 shade. But, lit- 
 tle by little, air 
 and space are 
 wanting to each, 
 for the develop- 
 ment of each. 
 Rome begins to 
 systematically 
 perplex Carth- 
 age, and Carthage is an eyesore to Rome. Seated on opposite banks of 
 the Mediterranean, the two cities look each other in the face. The sea 
 no longer keeps them apart. Europe and Africa weigh upon each other. 
 Like two clouds surcharged with electricity, they impend. With their 
 contact must come the thunder-shock. 
 
 The catastrophe of this stupendous drama is at hand. "What actors 
 are met ! Two races, — that of merchants and mariners, that of laborers 
 and soldiers ; two Nations, — the one dominant by gold the other by steel ; 
 two Republics, — the one theocratic, the other aristocratic. Rome and 
 Carthage ! Rome with her army, Carthage with her fleet ; Carthage old, 
 rich, and crafty, — Rome, young, poor, and robust ; the past and the 
 future ; the spirit of discovery, and the spirit of conquest ; the genius of 
 commerce, the demon of war ; the East and the South on one side, the 
 West and the North on the other ; in short, two worlds, — the civilization 
 of Africa, and the civilization of Europe. They measure each other from 
 head to foot. They gather all their forces. Gradually the war kindles. 
 
352 
 
 FARM-YARD SONG. 
 
 The world takes fire. These colossal powers are locked in deadly strife. 
 Carthage has crossed the Alps ; Eome the seas. The two Nations, per- 
 sonified in two men, Hannibal and Scipio, close with each other, wrestle, 
 and grow infuriate. The duel is desperate. It is a struggle for life. 
 Rome wavers. — She utters that cry of anguish — Hannibal at the gates 1 
 But she rallies, — collects all her strength for one last, appalling effort, — 
 throws herself upon Carthage, and sweeps her from the face of the 
 earth ! 
 
 FARM-YARD SONG. 
 
 J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 jVER the hill the farm-boy goes : 
 His shadow lengthens along the land, 
 A giant staff in his giant hand ; 
 In the poplar-tree above the spring 
 The katydid begins to sing ; 
 
 The early dews are falling : 
 Into the stone-heap darts the mink, 
 The swallows skim the river's brink. 
 
 And home to the woodland fly the crows, 
 When over the hill the farm-boy goes, 
 
 Cheerily calling — 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !' 
 Farther, farther over the hill, 
 Faintly calling, calling still — 
 
 " Co', boss ! go', boss ! co' 1 co' !" 
 
 Into the yard the farmer goes. 
 
 With grateful heart, at the close of day : 
 
 Harness and chain are hung away ; 
 
 In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; 
 The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow ; 
 
 The cooling dews are falling : 
 The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, 
 The pigs come grunting to his feet. 
 The whinnying mare her master kno-ws. 
 When into the yard the farmer goes, 
 
 His cattle calling — 
 
 "Co", boss! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' I" 
 While still the cow-boy, far away, 
 Goes seeking those who have gone astray — 
 
 Co', 
 
 i! co', boss! co' ! co'I 
 
 Now to her task the milkmaid goes ; 
 
 The cattle come crowding through the gate, 
 
 Lowing, pushing, little and great ; 
 
 About the trough, by the farm-yard pump. 
 
 The frolicksome yearlings frisk and jump, 
 
 While the pleasant dews are falling : 
 The new milch heifer is quick and shy, 
 But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; 
 And the white stream into the bright pail 
 
 flows, 
 When to her task the milkmaid goes. 
 
 Soothingly calling — 
 
 " So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! 
 The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, 
 And sits and milks in the twilight cool, 
 
 Saying, "So, so, boss! so, so I" 
 
 To supper at last the farmer goes : 
 The apples are pared, the paper is read, 
 The stories are told, then all to bed : 
 Without, the cricket's ceaseless song 
 Makes shrill the silence all night long ; 
 
HOW'S MY BOY' 
 
 353 
 
 The heavy dews are falling : 
 The housewife's hand has turned the lock ; 
 Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; 
 The household sinks to deep repose ; 
 But still in sleep the farm-boy goes 
 
 Singing, calling — 
 
 " Co', boss ! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' ! 
 And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, 
 Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, 
 
 Murmuring, "So, boss! so V 
 
 I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 
 
 R. MUHLENBEEG. 
 
 ^^ would not live alway ; I ask not to stay 
 Mm ^^^^® storm after storm rises dark o'er 
 1^ the way; 
 
 !^M\ The few lurid mornings that dawn on 
 
 '|,* us here 
 
 !Are enough for life's joys, full enough 
 for its cheer. 
 
 I would not live alway ; no, — welcome the 
 
 tomb ! 
 Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its 
 
 gloom ; 
 There sweet be my rest till he bid me arise. 
 To hail him in triumph descending the skies. 
 
 Who, who would live alway, away from his 
 
 God,— 
 Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, 
 Where rivers of pleasure flow bright o'er the 
 
 plains. 
 And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ? 
 
 There saints of all ages in harmony meet, 
 Their Saviour and brethren /^ransported to 
 
 greet ; 
 While anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, 
 And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the 
 
 soul. 
 
 HOW'S MY BOY? 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 ^jpO, Sailor of the sea ! [ How's my boy — my boy ? 
 
 ^^ How's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know 
 
 What's your boy's name, good wife, | I'll swear you are no sailor, 
 
 And in what good ship sailed he?" 
 
 My boy John — 
 He that went to sea — 
 What care I for the ship, sailor ? 
 My boy's my boy to me. 
 
 You come back from sea, 
 And not know my John ? 
 I might as well have asked some landsman 
 Yonder down in the town. 
 There's not an ass in all the parish 
 But he knows my John. 
 24 
 
 Blue jacket or no. 
 
 Brass button or no, sailor. 
 
 Anchor or crown or no ! 
 
 Sure his ship was the JoUy Briton — 
 
 " Speak low, woman, speak low '" 
 
 And why should I speak low, sailor ? 
 
 About my own boy John ? 
 
 If I was loud as I am proud 
 
 I'd sing him over the town ! 
 
 Why should I speak low, sailor ? — 
 
 " That good ship went down." 
 
354 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 How's my boy — ^my boy ? 
 
 What care I for the ship, sailor, 
 
 I never was aboard her. 
 
 Be she afloat, or be she aground, 
 
 Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound, 
 
 Her owners can afford her ! 
 
 I say, how's my John ? — 
 
 " Every man on board went down, 
 Every man aboard her." 
 
 How's my boy — my boy ? 
 What care I for the men, sailor ? 
 I'm not their mother — 
 How's my boy — my boy ? 
 Tell me of hira and no other I 
 How's my boy — my boy ? 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 ►^fe. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ^NE more unfortunate 
 Weary of breath, 
 ^ Rashly importunate. 
 Gone to her death ! 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashioned so slenderly — 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments, 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 Whilst the wave constantly , 
 
 Drips from her clothing; 
 Take her up instantly, 
 
 Loving, not loathing \ 
 
 Touch her not scornfully ! 
 Think of her mournfully. 
 
 Gently and humanly — 
 Not of the stains of her ; 
 All that remains of her 
 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny. 
 Into her mutiny, 
 
 Rash and undutiful ; 
 Past all dishonor, 
 Death has left on her 
 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, — 
 One of Eve's family, — 
 
 Wipe those poor lips of here. 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 
 Loop up her tresses 
 
 Escaped from the comb, — 
 Her fair auburn tresses, — 
 Whilst wonderment guesses, 
 
 Where was her home? 
 
 Who was her father? 
 
 Who was her mother ? 
 
 Had she a sister? 
 
 Had she a brother ? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 
 Yet, than all other ? 
 
 Alas ! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 
 Under the sun ! 
 Oh, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full, 
 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 
 Feelings had changed, — 
 Love, by harsh evidence. 
 Thrown from its eminence ; 
 Even God's providence 
 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 So far in the river. 
 
 With many a light 
 From window and casement, 
 From garret to basement, 
 She stood, with amazement. 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
MORNING. 
 
 355 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 
 Made her tremble and shiver ; 
 But not the dark arch, 
 
 Or the black, flowing river ; 
 Mad from life's history. 
 Glad to death's mystery, 
 
 Swift to be hurled — 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly, — 
 No matter how coldly 
 
 The rough river ran, — 
 Over the brink of it ! 
 Picture it, — think of it 
 
 Dissolute man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it 
 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 
 Lift her with care ; 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Ere her limbs, frigidly. 
 Stiffen too rigidly, 
 
 Decently, kindly. 
 Smooth and compose them ; 
 And her eyes, close them, 
 
 Staring so blindly ! — 
 Dreadfully staring 
 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, 
 Spurred by contumely, 
 Cold inhumanity. 
 Burning insanity, 
 
 Into her rest ! 
 Cross her hands humbly, 
 As if praying dumbly. 
 
 Over her breast ! 
 Owning her weakness, 
 
 Her evil behaviour, 
 And leaving, with meekness 
 
 Her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 ^I^S we proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more per- 
 ceptible ; the intense blue of the sky began to soften ; the smaller 
 stars, like little children, went first to rest ; the sister beams of the 
 Pleiades soon melted together ; but the bright constellations of the 
 west and north remained unchanged. Steadily the wondi'ous trans- 
 figuration went on. Hands of angels hidden fi^om mortal eyes shifted 
 
35G 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 the scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night dissolved into the glories 
 of dawn. The blue sky now turned more softly gray ; the great watch- 
 stars shut up their holy eyes ; the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of 
 purple soon blushed along the sky; the whole celestial concave was filled 
 with the inflowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down 
 from above in one great ocean of radiance ; till at length, as we reached the 
 Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above the horizon, and 
 turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf into rubies and diamonds. 
 In a few seconds the everlasting gates of the morning were thrown wide 
 open, and the lord of day, arrayed in glories too severe for the gaze of 
 man, began his state. 
 
 THE PARTING LOVERS. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE CHINESE BY WILLIAM R. ALGER. 
 
 ^^HE says, " The cock crows, — hark !" 
 ^^m He saya, " No ! still 't is dark." 
 
 She says, "The dawn grows bright," 
 He says, " no, my Light." 
 
 ' ■ She says, " Stand up and say. 
 Gets not the heaven gray?" 
 
 He says, " The morning star 
 Climbs the horizon's bar." 
 
 She says, " Then quick depart: 
 
 Alas ! you now must start ; 
 
 But give the cock a blow 
 Who did begin our woe !" 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. 
 
 ^^EFORE I trust my fate to thee. 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 Before I let thy future give 
 
 Color and form to mine. 
 Before I peril all for thee, 
 Question thy soul to-night for i 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
 
 A shadow of regret : 
 Is there one link within the past 
 
 That holds thy spirit yet ? 
 Or is thy faith as clear and free 
 As that which I can pledge to thee ? 
 
 I Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
 
 A possible future shine, 
 Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
 
 Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
 If so, at any pain or cost, 
 0, tell me before all is lost ! 
 
 Look deeper still : if thou cansi feel, 
 
 Within thy inmost soul, 
 Tliat thou hast kept a portion back, 
 
 While I have staked the whole. 
 Let no false jiity spare the blow, 
 But in true mercy tell me so. 
 
THE TIGER. 
 
 357 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
 
 That mine cannot fulfil ? 
 
 And answer to my claim, 
 
 One chord that any other hand 
 
 That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — 
 
 Could better wake or still ? 
 
 Not thou, — had been to blame ? 
 
 Speak now, last at some future day 
 
 Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
 
 My whole life wither and decay. 
 
 Wilt surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature hid 
 
 Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear. 
 
 The demon-spirit, change. 
 
 The words would come too late ; 
 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 
 Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
 
 On all things new and strange ? 
 
 So comfort thee, my fate : 
 
 It may not be thy fault alone, — 
 
 Whatever on my heart may fall, 
 
 But shield my heart against thine own. 
 
 Remember I would risk it all ! 
 
 TRF TIGEE. 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 SIGER ! tiger ! burning bright. 
 In the forest of the night. 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 
 Burned the ardor of thine eyes ? 
 On what wings dare he aspire ? 
 What the hand dare seize the fire ? 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art, 
 Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
 And when thy heart began to beat. 
 What dread hand forged thy dread feet ? 
 
 What the hammer ? what the chain ? 
 In what furnace was thy brain ? 
 What the anvil ? What dread grasp 
 Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 
 
358 
 
 POOR LITTLE JOE. 
 
 When the stars threw down their spears, 
 And watered heaven with their tears, 
 Did God smile his work to see ? 
 Did He who made the lanih make thf^e ? 
 
 Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright, 
 In the forest of the night. 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Dare frame thy fearful symmetry. 
 
 THE CHURCH WINDOW. 
 
 JXO. W. GOETHE. 
 
 PrHE minster window, richly glowing i But enter once the holy portal 
 
 1^ With many a gorgeous stain and dye, 
 -jltself a parable, is showing 
 The might, the power of Poesy. 
 
 Look on it from the open square. 
 And it is only dark and dreary ; 
 Yon blockhead views it always there, 
 And vows its aspect makes him weary. 
 
 What splendor bursts upon the eye ! 
 There symbols, deeds and forms immortal, 
 Are blazing forth in majesty. 
 
 Be thankful, you who have the gift 
 To read and feel each sacred story ; 
 
 And, oh ! be reverent, when you lift 
 Your eyes to look on heavenly glory. 
 
 POOR LITTLE JOE. 
 
 r. ARKWRKIHT. 
 
 kROP yer eyes wide open Joey, 
 
 For I've brought you sumpin' great. 
 Apples f No, a heap sight better ! 
 
 Don't you take no int'rest ? Wait ! 
 Flowers, Joe — I know'd you'd like 
 
 Ain't them scrumptious ? Ain't them high ? 
 
 Tears, my boy ? Wot's them fur, Joey ? 
 There — poor little Joe ! — don't cry ! 
 
 I was skippin' past a winder. 
 Where a bang-up lady sot. 
 
THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 
 
 359 
 
 All amongst a lot of bushes — 
 Each one climbin' from a pot ; 
 
 Every bush had flowers on it — 
 Pretty f Mebbe not ! Oh, no ! 
 
 Wish you could a seen 'em growin', 
 It was sich a stunnin' show. 
 
 Well, I thought of you, poor feller, 
 
 Lyin' here so sick and weak, 
 Never knowin' any comfort, 
 
 And I puts on lots o' cheek. 
 " Missus," says I, " If you please, mum, 
 
 Could I ax you for a rose ? 
 For my little brother, missus — 
 
 Never seed one, I suppose." 
 
 Then I told her all about you, — 
 
 How I bringed you up — poor Joe ! 
 (Lackin' women folks to do it.) 
 
 Sich a' imp you was, you know — 
 Till yer got that awful tumble, 
 
 Jist as I had broke yer in. 
 (Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin' 
 
 Blackin' boots fo- honest tin. 
 
 How that tumble crippled of you. 
 
 Sp's you couldn't hyper much — 
 Joe, it hurted when I seen you 
 
 Fur the first time with yer crutch. 
 " But," I says, " he's laid up now, mum, 
 
 'Pears to weaken every day ;" 
 Joe, she up and went to cuttin' — 
 
 That's the how of this bokay. 
 
 Say ! It seems to me, ole feller, 
 
 You is quite yerself to-night ; 
 Kind o' chirk — it's been a fortnit 
 
 Sence yer eyes has been so bright. 
 Better f Well, I'm glad to hear it ! 
 
 Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. 
 Smelliri of 'evis made you happy f 
 
 Well, I thought it would, you know I 
 
 Never see the country, did you ? 
 
 Flowers growin' everywhere ! 
 Some time when you're better, Joey, 
 
 Mebbe I kin take you there. 
 Flowers in heaven f 'M — I s'pose so ; 
 
 Dunno much about it, though ; 
 Ain't as fly as wot I might be 
 
 On them topics, little Joe. 
 
 But I've heard it hinted somewheres 
 
 That in heaven's golden gates 
 Things is everlastin' cheerful — • 
 
 B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. 
 Likewise, there folks don't git hungry ; 
 
 So good people, when they dies. 
 Finds themselves well fixed forever — 
 
 Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes ? 
 
 Thought they looked a little sing'ler. 
 
 Oh, no ! Don't you have no fear ; 
 Heaven was made fur such as you is — 
 
 Joe, wot makes you look so queer ? 
 Here — wake up ! Oh, don't look that way ! 
 
 Joe ! My boy ! Hold up yer head ! 
 Here's yer flowers — you dropped 'em Joey 1 
 
 Oh, my God, can Joe be dead f 
 
 THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 '^|^|OME here, Tops, you monkey !" said St. Clare, calling the child up 
 
 "^Y" Topsy came up ; her round, hard eyes glittering and blinking 
 
 I with a mixture of apprehensiveness and their usual odd drollery. 
 i " What makes you behave so ?" said St. Clare, who could not help 
 being amused with the child's expression. 
 
360 THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 
 
 " Spects it's my wicked heart," said Topsy, demurely ; " Miss Feely 
 says so." 
 
 " Don't you see how much Miss Ophelia has done for you ? She says 
 she has done every thing she can think of." 
 
 " Lor, yes, Mas'r ! old Missus used to say so, too. She whipped me 
 a heap harder, and used to pull my har, and knock my head agin the door; 
 but it didn't do me no good ! I spects, if they's to pull every spear o' har 
 out o' my head it wouldn't do no good, neither — I's so wicked ! Laws ! 
 I's nothin' but a nigger, no ways !" 
 
 ''Well, I shall have to give her up," said Miss Ophelia; "I can't 
 have that trouble any longer." 
 
 " Well, I'd just like to ask one question," said St. Clare. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " Why, if your Gospel is not strong enough to save one heathen 
 child, that you can have at home here, all to yourself, what's the use of 
 sending one or two poor missionaries off with it among thousands of just 
 such ? I suppose this child is about a fair sample of what thousands of 
 your heathen are." 
 
 Miss Ophelia did not make an immediate answer ; and Eva, who had 
 stood a silent spectator of the scene thus far, made a silent sign to Topsy 
 to follow her. There was a little glass room at the corner of the verandah, 
 which St. Clare used as a sort of reading-room ; and Eva and Topsy dis- 
 appeared into this place. 
 
 " What's Eva going about now ?" said St. Clare ; " I mean to see." 
 
 And advancing on tiptoe, he lifted up a curtain that covered the 
 glass door, and looked in. In a moment, laying his finger on his lips, he 
 made a silent gesture to Miss Ophelia to come and look. There sat the 
 two children on the floor, with their side faces towards them, Topsy with 
 her usual air of careless drollery and unconcern ; but opposite to her, Eva, 
 her whole face fervent with feeling, and tears in her large eyes. 
 
 " What does make you so bad, Topsy ? Why won't you try and be 
 good ? Don't you love anybody, Topsy?" 
 
 " Dunno nothin' 'bout love ; I loves candy and sich, that's all," said 
 Topsy. 
 
 " But you love your father and mother ?" 
 
 " Never had none, ye know. I telled ye that. Miss Eva." 
 
 " Oh, I know," said Eva, sadly ; " but had you any brother, or sister, 
 or aunt, or — " 
 
 " No, none on 'cm — never had nothin' nor nobody." 
 
 " But, Topsy, if you'd only try and be good, you might — " 
 
THE LITTLE EVANGELIST. 361 
 
 " Couldn't never be nothin' but a nigger if I war ever so good," said 
 Topsy. " If I could be skinned, and come white, I'd try then." 
 
 " But people can love you, if you are black, Topsy. Miss Ophelia 
 would love you, if you were good." 
 
 Topsy gave a short, blunt laugh that was her common mode of ex- 
 pressing incredulity. 
 
 "Don't you think so ?" said Eva. 
 
 "No; she can't bar me, 'cause I'm a nigger — she'd 's soon have a 
 toad touch her ! There can't nobody love niggers, and niggers can't do 
 nothin'! /don't care," said Topsy, beginning to whistle. 
 
 "Oh, Topsy, poor child, / love you!" said Eva, with a sudden burst 
 of feeling, and laying her little thin, white hand on Topsy 's shoulder; "I 
 love you, because you haven't had any father, or mother or friends; because 
 you've been a poor, abused child ! I love you, and I want you to be good. 
 I am very unwell, Topsy, and I think I sha'n't live a great while ; and it 
 really grieves me to have you be so naughty. I wish you would try to 
 be good for my sake — it's only a little while I shall be with you." 
 
 The round, keen eyes of the black child were overcast with tears — 
 large, bright drops rolled heavily down, one by one, and fell on the little 
 white hand. Yes, in that moment a ray of real belief, a ray of heavenly 
 love had penetrated the darkness of her heathen soul ! She laid her head 
 down between her knees, and wept and sobbed — while the beautiful child, 
 bending over her, looked like the picture of some bright angel stooping to 
 reclaim a sinner. 
 
 "Poor Topsy!" said Eva, "Don't you know that Jesus loves all 
 alike? He is just as willing to love you as me. He loves you just as I 
 do — only more, because He is better. He will help you to be good ; and 
 you can go to heaven at last, and be an angel forever, just as much as if 
 you were white. Only think of it, Topsy ! you can be one of those spirits 
 bright. Uncle Tom sings about." 
 
 "0, dear Miss Eva, dear Miss Eva!" said the child; "I will try; I 
 never did care nothin' about it before." 
 
 St. Clare, at that instant, dropped the curtain. " It puts me in mind 
 of mother," he said to Miss Ophelia. " It is true what she told me ; if 
 we want to give sight to the blind, we must be willing to do as Christ did 
 — call them to us, and^i our hands on them." 
 
 " I've always had a prejudice against negroes," said Miss Ophelia, 
 " and it's a fact, I never could bear to have that child touch me ; but I 
 didn't think she knew it." 
 
 " Trust any child to find that out," said St. Clare; "there's no keep- 
 
362 
 
 THE CAVE OF SILVER. 
 
 ing it from them. But I believe that all the trying in the world to benefit 
 a child, and all the substantial favors you can do them, will never excite 
 one emotion of gratitude while that feeling of repugnance remains in the 
 heart — it's a queer kind of a fact — but so it is." 
 
 " I don't know how I can help it," said Miss Ophelia ; " they are 
 disagreeable to me — this child in particular — how can I help feeling so ?" 
 
 " Eva does, it seems." 
 
 " "Well, she is so loving ! After all though, she's no more than Christ- 
 like," said Miss Ophelia ; " I wish I were like her. She might teach me a 
 lesson." 
 
 " It wouldn't be the first time a little child has been used to instruct 
 an old disciple, if it were so," said St. Clare. 
 
 THE SEA. 
 
 BAERY CORNWALL. 
 
 iHEsea! the sea! the open sea! 
 The blue, the fresh, the ever free I 
 Without a mark, without a bound, 
 It runneth the earth's wide region 
 
 round ; 
 It plays with the clouds ; it mocks 
 
 the skies ; 
 Or like a cradled creature lies. 
 
 I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! 
 
 I am where I would ever be ! 
 
 With the blue above, and the blue below, 
 
 And silence wheresoe'er I go ; 
 
 If a storm should come and wake the deep, 
 
 What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 
 
 I never was on the dull tame shore. 
 
 But I love the great sea more and more, 
 
 And backward flew to her billowy breast. 
 Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest •. 
 
 And a mother she was, and is to me, 
 For I was born on the open sea. 
 
 THE CA VE OF SIL VER. 
 
 FITZ-JAMES BRIEN. 
 
 'EEK me the cave of silver ! 
 ^^f Find me the cave of silver I 
 " - Rifle the cave of silver! 
 
 Said Ilda to Brok the Bold : 
 
 So you may kiss me often ; 
 So you may ring my finger ; 
 So you may bind my true love 
 In the round hoop of gold 1 
 
' I love, 0, how I love to ride 
 On the fierce, foaming bursting tide 
 
 Where every mad wave drowns the moon 
 And whistles aloft its tempest tune." 
 
LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGHTON. 
 
 363 
 
 Bring me no skins of foxes ; 
 Bring me no beds of eider ; 
 Boast not your fifty vessels 
 That fish in the northern sea ; 
 
 And Ilda waited and waited, 
 And sat at the door till sunset. 
 And gazed at the wild Lapp mountain 
 That blackened the skies of gold. 
 
 For I would lie upon velvet, 
 And sail in a golden galley, 
 
 I want not a cave of silver ! 
 I care for no caves of silver ! 
 
 And naught but the cave of silver 
 Will win my true love for thee. 
 
 Rena, the witch, hath told me 
 That up in the wild Lapp moun- 
 tains 
 There lieth a cave of silver, 
 
 Down deep in a valley-side ; 
 So gather your lance and rifle, 
 And speed to the purple pastures, 
 And seek ye the cave of silver 
 
 As you seek me for your bride. 
 
 I go said Brok, right proudly ; 
 I go to the purple pastures. 
 To seek for the cave of silver 
 
 So long as my life shall hold ; 
 But when the keen Lapp arrows 
 Are fleshed in the heart that 
 
 loves you, 
 I'll leave my curse on the woman 
 
 Who slaughtered Brok the Bold ! 
 
 But Ilda laughed as she shifted 
 The Bergen scarf on her shoulder, 
 And pointed her small white finger 
 
 Right up at the mountain gate ; 
 And cried, my gallant sailor, 
 You're brave enough to the fishes. 
 But the Lappish arrow is keener 
 
 Than the back of the thorny skate 
 
 The Summer passed, and the Winter 
 Came down from the icy ocean : 
 But back from the cave of silver 
 Returned not Brok the Bold-; 
 
 O €ar beyond caves of silver 
 I pine for my Brok the Bold ! 
 
 O ye strong Norwegian gallants. 
 
 Go seek for my lovely lover. 
 
 And bring him to ring my finger 
 With the round hoop of gold ! 
 
 But the brave Norwegian gallants 
 They laughed at the cruel maiden. 
 And left her sitting in sorrow. 
 
 Till her heart and her face grew old ; 
 While she moaned of the cave of silver. 
 And moaned of the wild Lapp mountains, 
 And him who never will ring her 
 
 With the round hoop of gold ! 
 
 LORD DUNDREARY AT BRIGRTOJSf. 
 
 pj^^WIGHTON is filling fast now. You see dwoves of ladies evewy day 
 on horseback, widing about in all diwections. By the way, I — I 
 muthn't forget to mention that I met those two gii'ls that always 
 
364 THE EAGLE. 
 
 laugh wlien tliey thee me, at a tea-fight. One of 'em — the young one 
 — told me, when I was intwoduced to her, — in — in confidence, mind, — 
 that she had often heard of me and of my widdles. Tho you thee I'm 
 getting quite a weputathun that way. The other morning at Mutton's, she 
 wath ch-chaffing me again, and begging me to tell her the latetht thing in 
 widdles. Now I hadn't heard any mythelf for thome time, tho I couldn't 
 give her any vewy great novelty, but a fwiend of mine made one latht 
 theason which I thought wather neat, tho I athked her. When ith a jar 
 not a jar? Thingularly enough, the moment she heard thith widdle she 
 burtht out laughing behind her pocket handkerchief ! 
 
 "Good gwacious ! what'th the matter ?" said I. "Have you ever 
 heard it before?" 
 
 " Never," she said, " in that form; do please tell me the answer." 
 
 So I told her, — When it ith a door ! Upon which she — she went ofi" again 
 into hystewics. I — I — I — never did see such a girl for laughing. I know 
 it's a good widdle, but I didn't think it would have such an efiect as that. 
 
 By the way, Sloper told me afterwards that he thought he had heard 
 the widdle before, somewhere, but it was put in a different way. He said 
 it was : When ith a door not a door ? — and the answer. When it ith ajar ! 
 
 I — I've been thinking over the matter lately, and though I dare thay it. 
 — d-don't much matter which way the question is put, still — pwaps the last 
 f-form is the betht. It— it seems*to me to wead better. What do you think ? 
 
 Now I weckomember, I made thuch a jolly widdle the other day on 
 the Ethplanade. I thaw a fellah with a big New — Newfoundland dog, 
 and he inthpired me — the dog, you know, not the fellah, — he wath a 
 lunatic. I'm keeping the widdle but I don't mind telling t/ou. 
 
 Why does a dog waggle his tail ? Give it up ? I think motht fellahs 
 will give that up ! 
 
 You thee the dog waggles his tail becauth the dog's stwonger than 
 the tail. If he wathn't the tail would waggle the dog ! 
 
 Ye-eth, — that'th what I call a widdle. If I can only wecollect him, I 
 shall athtonish those two girls thome of these days. 
 
 THIJ EAGLE. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 jl^iJjj^E clasps the crag with hooked hands, 
 I^M Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
 
 Ringed with the azure world he stands. 
 
 The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
 He watches from his mountain walls. 
 And like a thunderbolt he falls. 
 
THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 355 
 
 THE BLIND BOY. 
 
 COLLEY GIBBER. 
 
 SAY what is that thing called Light, 1 And could I ever keep awake 
 
 Which I must ne'er enjoy ? j With me 't were always day. 
 
 What are the blessings of the sight, I 
 
 0, tell your poor blind boy ! | With heavy sighs I often hear 
 
 You talk of wondrous things you see, 
 You say the sun shines bright ; 
 
 I feel him warm, but how can he 
 Or make it day or night ? 
 
 My day or night myself I make 
 Whene'er I sleep or play ; 
 
 You mourn my hapless woe ; 
 But sure with patience I can bear 
 A loss I ne'er can know. 
 
 Then let not what I cannot have 
 My cheer of mind destroy : 
 
 Whilst thus I sing, I am a king. 
 Although a poor blind boy. 
 
 THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ijlllpHERE was no fire in the room ; but a man was crouching mechani- 
 ^1^ cally over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a stool 
 "^^^ to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some 
 
 4 ragged children in another corner ; and in a small recess, opposite 
 
 J the door, there lay upon the ground something covered with an old 
 blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes towards the place, and 
 crept involuntarily closer to his master ; for, though it was covered up, the 
 hoy felt that it was a corpse. 
 
 The man's face was thin and very pale ; his hair and beard were grizzly, 
 and his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled, her two 
 remaining teeth protruded over her under lip, and her eyes were bright 
 and piercing. 
 
 " Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up as the 
 undertaker approached the recess. " Keep back ! d — n you — keep back, 
 if you've a life to lose !" 
 
 " Nonsense, my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well 
 used to misery in all its shapes—" nonsense !" 
 
 " I tell you," said the man," clenching his hands and stamping furiously 
 on the floor — " I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She 
 couldn't rest there. The worms would worry — not eat her — she is so worn 
 away." 
 
360 THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL. 
 
 The undertaker offered no reply to this raving, but producing a tape 
 from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body. 
 
 " Ah !" said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at 
 the feet of the dead woman ; " kneel down, kneel down ; kneel around her 
 every one of you, and mark my words. I say she starved to death. I 
 never knew how bad she was till the fever came upon her, and then her 
 bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle ; 
 she died in the dark — in the dark ! She couldn't even see her children's 
 faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in 
 the streets, and they sent me to prison. When I came back she was 
 dying ; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to 
 death. I swear it before the God that saw it — they starved her !" He 
 twined his hands in his hair, and with a loud scream rolled grovelling upon 
 the floor, his eyes fixed, and the foam gushing from his lips. 
 
 The terrified children cried bitterly ; but the old woman, who had hith- 
 erto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, 
 menaced them into silence ; and having unloosened the man's cravat, 
 who still remained extended on the ground, tottered towards the under- 
 taker. 
 
 " She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the 
 direction of the corpse, and speaking with an idiotic leer more ghastly than 
 even the presence of death itself. " Lord, Lord ! well it is strange that I 
 who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry 
 now, and she lying so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord ! — to think of it ; it's as 
 good as a play, as good as a play !" 
 
 As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merri- 
 ment, the undertaker turned to go away. 
 
 " Stop, stop !" said the old woman in a loud whisper. " Will she be 
 buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night ? I laid her out, and I must 
 walk, you know. Send me a large cloak ; a good warm one, for it is bitter 
 cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go ! Never mind : 
 send some bread ; only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have 
 some bread, dear ?" she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat as 
 he once more moved towards the door. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said the undertaker ; " of course : anything, everything." 
 He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp, and, dragging Oliver 
 after him, hurried away. 
 
 The next day — the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half- 
 quartern loaf, and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself 
 - Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode, where Mr. Bum- 
 
WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE. 
 
 367 
 
 ble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the work house 
 who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the 
 rags of the old woman and the man ; the bare cof&n having been screwed 
 down, was then hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried down 
 stairs into the street. 
 
 BUTE. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD 
 
 -^ 
 
 ^j^HE stood breast high amid the corn, 
 
 I^H Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
 
 Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
 
 Who many a glowing kiss hath won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush 
 Deeply ripened ; — such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was born, 
 Like red poppies grown with corn. 
 
 Round her eyes her tresses fell, — 
 Which were blackest none could t-ell ; 
 
 But long lashes veiled a light 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 And her hat, with shady brim, 
 Made her tressy forehead dim ; — ■ 
 Thus she stood amid the stocks. 
 Praising God with sweetest^ looks. 
 
 Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean 
 Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
 Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
 Share my harvest and my home. 
 
 WHAT CONSTITUTES A STATE? 
 
 SIB, WILLI 
 
 ^" 
 'SlsA^^HAT constitutes a state ? 
 
 Not high-raised battlement or 
 
 labored mound, 
 Thick wall or moated gate ; 
 Not cities proud with spires and 
 
 turret-crowned ; 
 Not bays and broad-armed ports, 
 Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies 
 ride ; 
 Not starred and spangled courts. 
 Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume 
 to pride. 
 
 No: — men, high-minded men, 
 With powers as far above dull brutes endued 
 In forest, brake, or den, 
 25 
 
 AM JONES. 
 
 As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude, 
 
 Men who their duties know, 
 But know their rights, and, knowing, dare 
 maintain. 
 
 Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
 And crush the tyrant while they rend the 
 chain ; 
 
 These constitute a state ; 
 And sovereign law, that state's collected will 
 
 O'er thrones and globes elate, 
 Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill, 
 
 Smit by her sacred frown, 
 The fiend. Dissension, like a vapor sinks ; 
 
 And e'en the all-dazzling crown 
 Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding 
 shrinks ; 
 
368 
 
 THE DOOR-STEP. 
 
 Such wa3 this heaven-loved isle, 
 Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore ! 
 
 No more shall freedom smile ? 
 Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? 
 
 Since all must life resign, 
 Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 
 
 'T is folly to decline, 
 And steal inglorious to the silent grave 
 
 THE B.EAPER. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 |EHOLD her single in the field, 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain ; 
 listen ! for the vale profound 
 Ib overflowing with the sound. 
 
 ^m^ ^ 
 
 No nightingale did ever chant 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travelers in some shady haunt 
 
 Among Arabian sands ; 
 No sweeter voice was ever heard 
 In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird. 
 Breaking the silence of the seas 
 Among the farthest Hebrides. 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 For old, unhappy, far-ofi' things. 
 And battles long ago : 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
 That has been, and may be again ! 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 I saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending; 
 I listened till I had my fill ; 
 And as I mounted up the hill 
 The music in my heart I bore 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 THE DOOR-STEP. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 I|HE conference meeting through at last. 
 We boys around the vestry waited. 
 To see the girls come tripping past 
 Like snow-birds willing to be 
 mated. 
 
 Not braver he that leaps the wall. 
 By level mu.sket-flashes litten, 
 
 Than I, who stepped before them all 
 Who longed to see me get the mitten. 
 
 But no, she blushed and took my arm ! 
 
 We let the old folks have the highway, 
 And started toward the Maple Farm, 
 
 Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 
 
THE DOOR-STEP. 
 
 369 
 
 I can't remember what we paid, 
 'Twas nothing worth a song or story, 
 
 Yet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff— 
 sculptor, if you could but mould it ' 
 
 So slightly touched my jacket-cuff. 
 To keep it warm I had to hold it. 
 
 The snow wa^ crisp beneath our feet, 
 
 The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 
 
 By hood and tippet sheltered sweet 
 
 Her face with youth and health was 
 beaming. 
 
 To have her with me there alone, 
 'Twas love and fear and triumph 
 blended : 
 
 At last we reached the foot- worn stone 
 Where that delicious journey ended. 
 
370 
 
 REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 
 
 She shook her ringlets from her hood, 
 
 And with a " Thank you Ned," dissembled. 
 
 But yet I knew she understood 
 
 With what a daring wish I trembled. 
 
 A cloud passed kindly overhead. 
 
 The moon was slyly peeping through it, 
 
 Yet hid its face, as if it said, 
 " Come, now or never, do it, do it !" 
 
 My lips till then had only known 
 The kiss of mother and of sister, 
 
 But somehow full upon her own 
 Sweet, rosy, darling mouth — I kissed her I 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 
 listless woman ! weary lover ! 
 
 To feel once more that fresh wild thrill, 
 I'd give — But who can live youth over ? 
 
 SONNET FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
 
 ELIZABETH B. BEOWNING. 
 
 ilRST time he kissed me, he but only 
 kissed 
 'j'^The fingers of this hand wherewith I 
 ^f^ write ; 
 
 k" And, ever since, it grew more clean and 
 I white, 
 
 I Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 
 "Olist!" 
 When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
 I could not wear here, plainer to my sight 
 Than that first kiss. The second passed in 
 height » 
 
 The first, and sought the forehead, and hail 
 missed. 
 
 Half falling on the hair. 0, beyond meed ! 
 
 That was the chrism of love, which love's 
 own crown, 
 
 With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
 
 The third upon my lips was folded down 
 
 In perfect, purple state ; since when, in- 
 deed, 
 
 I have been proud, and said, " My love, my 
 
 REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 
 
 'LL does it become me, Senators of Rome, — ill does it become Rega- 
 lus, after having so often stood in this venerable assembly clothed 
 with the supreme dignity of the Republic, to stand before you a 
 captive, — the captive of Carthage. Though outwar(ily I am free, 
 .f though no fetters encumber the limbs, or gall the flesh, — yet the 
 J heaviest of chains, — the pledge of a Roman Consul, — makes me the 
 bondsman of th3 Carthaginians. They have my promise to return to them, 
 in the event of the fxilure of this, their embassy. My life is at their 
 mercy. My honor is my own ; — a possession which no reverse of fortune 
 can jeopard; aflame which imprisonment cannot stifle, time cannot dim, 
 death cannot extinguish. 
 
 Of the train of disasters which followed close on the unexampled 
 successes of our arms, — of the bitter fate which swept off the flower of 
 
 I 
 
REGULUS TO THE ROMAN SENATE. 37 1 
 
 our soldiery, and consigned me, your General, wounded and senseless, to 
 Carthaginian keeping, — I will not speak. For tive years, a rigorous cap- 
 tivity has been my portion. For five years, the society of family and 
 friends, the dear amenities of home, the sense of freedom, and the sight of 
 country, have been to me a recollection and a dream, — no more. But 
 during that period Rome has retrieved her defeats. She has recovered 
 under Metellus what under Regulus she lost. She has routed armies. She 
 has taken unnumbered prisoners. She has struck terror into the heart of 
 the Carthaginians, who have now sent me hither with their ambassadors to 
 sue for peace, and to propose that, in exchange for me, your former Consul, 
 a thousand common prisoners of war shall be given up. You have heard 
 the ambassadors. Their intimations of some unimaginable horror, I know 
 not what, impending over myself, should I fail to induce you to accept their 
 terms, have strongly moved your sympathies in my behalf. Another 
 appeal, which I would you might have been spared, has lent force to their 
 suit. A wife and children, threatened with widowhood and orphanage, 
 weeping and despairing, have knelt at your feet on the very threshold of 
 the Senate-chamber : — Conscript Fathers ! shall not Regulus be saved ? 
 Must he return to Carthage to meet the cruelties which the ambassadors 
 brandish before our eyes? With one voice you answer, No ! 
 
 Countrymen ! Friends ! For all that I have suiffered,— for all that 
 I may have to suffer, — I am repaid in the compensation of this moment ! 
 Unfortunate you may hold me; but 0, not undeserving! Your confidence 
 in my honor survives all the ruin that adverse fortune could inflict. You 
 have not forgotten the past. Ptepublics are not ungrateful. May the 
 thanks I cannot utter bring down blessings from the gods on you and 
 Rome ! 
 
 Conscript Fathers ! There is but one course to be pursued. Abandon 
 all thought of peace. Reject the overtures of Carthage. Reject them 
 wholly and unconditionally. What ! give back to her a thousand able- 
 bodied men, and receive in return this one attenuated, war-worn, fever- 
 wasted frame, — this weed, whitened in a dungeon's darkness, pale and 
 sapless, which no kindness of the sun, no softness of the summer breeze, 
 can ever restore to health and vigor ? It must not, — it shall not be ! ! 
 were Regulus what he was once, before captivity had unstrung his sinews 
 and enervated his limbs, he might pause, — he might proudly think he were 
 well worth a thousand of the foe ; he might say, " Make the exchange ! 
 Rome shall not lose by it!" But now, alas! now 'tis gone, — that impetu- 
 osity of strength, which could once make him a leader indeed, to penetrate 
 a phalanx or guide a pursuit. His very armor would be a burthen now. 
 
372 
 
 LEFT ALONE AT EIGHTY. 
 
 His battle-cry would be drowned in the din of the onset. His sword would 
 fall harmless on his opponent's shield. But if he cannot Hoe, he can at 
 least die for his country. Do not deny him this supreme consolation. 
 Consider : every indignity, every torture, which Carthage shall heap on 
 his dying hours, will be better than a trumpet's call to your armies. They 
 will remember only Regulus, their fellow-soldier and their leader. They 
 will regard only his services to the Republic. Tunis, Sardinia, Sicily, — 
 every well-fought field, won by his blood and theirs — will flash on their 
 remembrance, and kindle their avenging wrath. And so shall E-egulus, 
 though dead, fight as he never fought before against the foe. 
 
 Conscript Fathers ! There is another theme. My family, — forgive 
 the thought ! To you and to Rome I confide them. I leave them no 
 legacy but my name, — -no testament but my example. 
 
 Ambassadors of Carthage ! I have spoken, though not as you 
 expected. I am your captive. Lead me back to whatever fate may await 
 me. Doubt not that you shall find, to Roman hearts, country is dearer 
 than life, and integrity more precious than freedom ! 
 
 LEFT ALONE AT ELGHTY. 
 
 ALICE EOBBINS. 
 
 iIAT did you say, dear, — bi-eakfast ? 
 
 Somehow I've slept too late ; 
 You are very kind, dear Effie ; 
 
 Go tell them not to wait. 
 I'll dress as quick as ever I can, 
 
 My old hands tremble sore. 
 And Polly, who used to help, dear 
 heart, 
 Lies t'other side of the door. 
 
 Put up the old pipe, deary, 
 
 I couldn't smoke to-day : 
 I'm sort o' dazed and frightened. 
 
 And don't know what to say. 
 It's lonesome in the house here, 
 
 And lonesome out o' door — 
 I never knew what lonesome meant 
 
 In all my life before. 
 
 The bees go humming the whole day long, 
 And the first June rose has blown ; 
 
 And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day. 
 
 Too old to be left alone ! 
 Oh, heart of love ! so still and cold, 
 
 Oh, precious lips so white ! 
 For the first sad hours in sixty years, 
 
 You were out of my reach last night. 
 
 You've cut tlie flower. You're very kind ; 
 
 She rooted it last May. 
 It was onl"y a slip ; I pulled the rose. 
 
 And threw the stem away. 
 But she, sweet, thrifty soul, bent down. 
 
 And planted it where she stood; 
 " Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she 
 said, 
 
 " Asleep in this bit of wood." 
 
 I can't rest, dear — I cannot rest ; 
 
 Let the old man have his will, 
 And wander from porch to garden-post — 
 
 The house is so deathly still ; — 
 
SOMETIME. 
 
 373 
 
 Wander, and long for a sight of the gate 
 
 She has left ajar for me ; 
 We had got so used to each other, dear, 
 
 So used to each other, you see. 
 
 Sixty years, and so wise and good, 
 
 She made me a better man ; 
 From the moment I kissed her fair young face, 
 
 Our lover's life began. 
 And seven fine boys she has given mc. 
 
 And out of the seven not one 
 But the noblest father in all the land 
 
 Would be proud to call his son. 
 
 Oh, well, dear Lord, I'll be patient ! 
 But I feel sore broken up ; 
 
 At eighty years it's an awesome thing 
 
 To drain such a bitter cup. 
 I know there's Joseph, and John, and Ilal, 
 
 And four good men beside ; 
 But a hundred sons couldn't be to me, 
 
 Like the woman I made my bride. 
 
 My little Polly— so bright and fair ! 
 
 So winsome and good and sweet ! 
 She had rosea twined in her sunny hair, 
 
 And white shoes upon her feet ; 
 And I held her hand — was it yesterday 
 
 That we stood up to be wed ? 
 And — no, I remember, I'm eighty to-day. 
 
 And my dear wife Polly is dead. 
 
 SOMETIME. 
 
 MARY RILEY SMITH, 
 
 SOMETIME, when all life's 
 have been learned, 
 And sun and stars forevermore have 
 
 set. 
 The things which our weak judg- 
 ments here have spurned — 
 The things o'er which we grieved 
 with lashes wet — 
 Will flash before us out of life's dark night, 
 
 As stars shine most in deepest tints of blue, 
 And we shall see how all God's plans were 
 right. 
 And how what seemed reproof was love 
 most true. 
 
 And we shall see how while we frown and 
 sigh, 
 
 God's plans go on as best for you and me ; 
 flow, when we called, he heeded not our crj', 
 
 Because his wisdon; to the end could see, 
 And e'en as prudent parents disallowed 
 
 Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, 
 So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 
 
 Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth 
 good. 
 
 And if sometimes commingled with life's wine, 
 We find the wormwood, and rebel and 
 shrink, 
 
 Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
 Pours out this potion for our lips to drink ; 
 
 And if some friend we love is lying low 
 Where human kisses cannot reach his face, 
 
 Oh, do not blame the loving Father so. 
 But wear your sorrows with obedient grace. 
 
 And you shall shortly know that lengthened 
 breath 
 
 Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friends, 
 And that sometimes the sable pall of death 
 
 Conceals the fairest boon his love can send. 
 If we could push ajar the gates of life, 
 
 And stand within and all God's workings 
 see, 
 We could interpret all this doubt and strife, 
 
 And for each mystery could find a key. 
 
 But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart ; 
 God's plans, like lilies, pure and white un- 
 fold; 
 We must not tear the close shut leaves apart — 
 
 Time will reveal the calyxes of gold ; 
 And if through patient toil we reach the land 
 Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may 
 rest, 
 When we shall clearly know and understand, 
 I think that we will say, " God knew the 
 best." 
 
374 
 
 SONG OF BIRDS. 
 
 SONG OF BIRDS. 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 fT^ffl|ACK, clouds, away ! and welcome, day ! 
 1^ With night we banish sorrow ; 
 
 =iS^— °*Sweet air, blow soft ! mount lark, aloft ! 
 
 ^, To give my love good-morrow. 
 
 I Wings from the wind to please her mind, 
 
 1 Notes from the lark I'll borrow; 
 
 Bird, prune thy wing ! nightingale, sing ! 
 To give my love good-raorrow : 
 To give my love good-morrow 
 Notes from them all I'll borrow. 
 
 Wake from thy rest, robin red-breast ! 
 Sing, birds, in everj- furrow ! 
 
 And from each hill let music shrill 
 
 Give my fair love good-morrow. 
 
 Blackbird and thrush in every bush, 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow ! 
 
 You pretty elves, among yourselves. 
 
 Sing my fair love good-morrow .- 
 To give my love good-morrow 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow. 
 
MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 
 
 375 
 
 WIDOW 31AL0NK 
 
 CHARLES LEVER. 
 
 ID you hear of the Widow Malone, 
 t^JoK Ohone ! 
 
 '^^ Who lived in the town of Athlone, 
 Alone ! 
 0, she melted the hearts 
 Of the swains in them parts : 
 So lovely the Widow Malone, 
 
 Ohone ! 
 So lovely the Widow Malone. 
 
 Of lovers she had a full score, 
 
 Or more. 
 And fortunes they all had galore, 
 In store ; 
 From the minister down 
 To the clerk of the Crown 
 All were courting the Widov/ Malone, 
 
 Ohone ! 
 All were courting the Widow Malone. 
 
 But 30 modest was Mistress Malone, 
 
 'T was known 
 That no one could see her alone, 
 Ohone ! 
 Let them ogle and sigh, 
 They could ne'er catch her eye, 
 So bashful the Widow Malone, 
 Ohone ! 
 So bashful the Widow Malone. 
 
 Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, 
 
 (How quare ! 
 It's little for blushing they care 
 
 Down there,) 
 Put his arm round her waist, — 
 Gave ten kisses at laste, — ■ 
 " 0," says he, "you're my Molly Malone, 
 
 My own ! 
 0," says he, " you're my Molly Malone !" 
 
 And the widow they all thought so shy. 
 
 My eye ! 
 Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — 
 
 For why ? 
 But, " Lucius," says she, 
 " Since you've now made so free, 
 You may marry your Mary Malone, 
 
 Ohone ! 
 You may marry your Mary Malone." 
 
 There's a moral contained in my song, 
 
 Not wrong ; 
 And one comfort, it's not very long, 
 But strong, — 
 If for widows you die. 
 Learn to kiss, not to sigh ; 
 For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 
 
 Ohone ! 
 0, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone ! 
 
 MB. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^^EAR me, it's time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I 
 shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick !" 
 
 At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang 
 the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, 
 * the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been 
 conveyed to his bed-room, he retired in company with a japanned candle- 
 stick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned 
 
376 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 
 
 candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings, to 
 another. 
 
 " This is your room, sir," said the chambermaid. 
 
 " Very well," replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a 
 tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire ; upon the whole, a more 
 comfortable-looking apartment than Mr, Pickwick's short experience of the 
 accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect. 
 
 " Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course," said Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " Oh, no, sir." 
 
 " Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half- 
 past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to- 
 night." 
 
 " Yes, sir." And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid 
 retired, and left him alone. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into 
 a train of rambling meditations, when he recollected he had left his watch 
 on the table down stairs. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it were 
 ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch-pocket over his head, 
 had never entered Mr. Pickwick's brain. So as it was pretty late now, and 
 he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on 
 his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned 
 candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down stairs. 
 
 The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed 
 to bo to descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some 
 narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the' 
 ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished 
 eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen 
 when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore ; room 
 after room did he peep into ; at length, just as he was on the point of 
 giving up the search in despair, he opened the dooi of the identical room 
 in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the 
 tablt. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace 
 his steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downwards had been 
 attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely 
 more perplexing, He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open 
 door attracted his attention. He peeped in — right at last. There were 
 the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still 
 burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had 
 flickered away in the drifts of air through which he had passed, and sank 
 
MR. nCKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 377 
 
 into the socket, jast as he closed the door after him. "No matter," said 
 Mr. Pickwick, " I can undress myself just as well by the Hght of the fire." 
 
 " It is the best idea," said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost 
 cracked the night-cap strings — " It is the best idea, my losing myself in 
 this place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, 
 droll, very droll." Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than 
 before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the best 
 humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption : 
 to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after 
 locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the hght 
 upon it. 
 
 Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before 
 the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily 
 engaged in brushing what ladies call their ''back hair." However the 
 unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear ^that 
 she contemplated remaining there for the night ; for she had brought a 
 rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution 
 against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glim- 
 mering away like a gigantic lighthouse, in a particularly small piece of 
 water. 
 
 "Bless my soul," thought Mr. Pickwick, "how very dreadful!" 
 
 "Hem !" said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick's head with auto- 
 maton-like rapidity. 
 
 " I never met with anything so awful as this," — thought poor Mr. 
 Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his night-cap. 
 "Never. This is fearful." 
 
 It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was 
 going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick's head again. The prospect 
 was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her 
 hair, and carefully enveloped it in a muslin night-cap with a small plaited 
 border, and was gazing pensively on the fire. 
 
 " This matter is growing alarming " — reasoned Mr. Pickwick with 
 himself. " I can't allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession 
 of that lady, it's clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. 
 If I call out, she'll alarm the house, but if I remain here, the consequence 
 will be still more frightful!" 
 
 He shrank behind the curtains, and called out very loudly : — 
 
 " Ha-hum." 
 
 That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her 
 falling up against the rush-light shade ; that she persuaded herself it must 
 
378 MR. PICKWICK IN THE WRONG ROOM. 
 
 have been the effect of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pick- 
 wick, under the impression that she had fainted away, stone-dead from 
 fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire 
 as before. 
 
 " Most extraordinary female this," thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in 
 again. "Ha-hum." 
 
 " Gracious Heaven !" said the middle-aged lady, " what's that?" 
 
 " It's — it's — only a gentleman, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick from behind 
 the curtains. 
 
 " A gentleman !" said the lady with a terrific scream. 
 
 " It's all over," thought Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " A strange man," shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house 
 would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door. 
 
 "Ma'am" — ^said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the 
 extremity of his desperation, " Ma'am." 
 
 " Wretch," — said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, " what 
 do you want here ?" 
 
 "Nothing, Ma'am — nothing whatever. Ma'am;" said Mr. Pickwick, 
 earnestly. 
 
 " Nothing !" said the lady, looking up. 
 
 " Nothing, Ma'am, upon my honor," said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his 
 head so energetically, that the tassel of his night-cap danced again. " I am 
 almost ready to sink, Ma'am, because of the confusion of addressing a lady 
 in my night-cap (here the lady hastily snatched off her's), but I can't get 
 it off. Ma'am, (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the 
 statement). It is evident to me. Ma'am, now, that I have mistaken this 
 bed-room for my own. I had not been here five minutes. Ma'am, when 
 you suddenly entered it." 
 
 " If this improbable story be really true, sir," — said the lady, sobbing 
 violently, "you will leave it instantly." 
 
 " I will, Ma'am, with the greatest pleasure," — i-eplied Mr. Pickwick. 
 
 " Instantly, sir," said the lady. 
 
 "Certainly, Ma'am," interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. " Cer- 
 tainly, Ma'am. I — I— am very sorry, Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, making 
 his appearance at the bottom of the bed, " to have been the innocent occa- 
 sion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry. Ma'am." 
 
 The lady pointed to the door. 
 
 " I am exceedingly sorry. Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. 
 
 " If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room," said the lady. 
 
 " Immediately, Ma'am ; this instant. Ma'am," said Mr. Pickwick, 
 
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 
 
 379 
 
 opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so 
 doing. 
 
 " I trust, Ma'am," resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and 
 turning round to bow again, '* I trust. Ma'am, that my unblemished charac- 
 ter, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some 
 slight excuse for this " — but before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the 
 sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted 
 the door behind him. 
 
 MERCY. 
 
 W. SHAKSPEAEE. 
 
 ^j||ni^HE quality of mercy is not strained ; 
 ^J^ It droppeth, ag the gentle rain from 
 fl|r heaven 
 
 <^P Upon the place beneath : it is twice 
 
 * blessed ; 
 
 ^ It blesseth him that gives, and him 
 
 J that takes : 
 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power 
 Th' 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 : we do pray for mercy ; 
 And that same prayer should teach us all to 
 
 render 
 The deeds of mercy. 
 
 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 
 
 CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 pf;<2^"Ǥ0RD was brought to the Danish king, 
 (Hurry!) 
 ^)' That the love of his heart lay suf- 
 fering. 
 And p'ned for the comfort his voice 
 would bring ; 
 (0 ! ride as though you were flying !) 
 Better he loves each golden curl 
 On the brow of that Scandinavian girl 
 Than his rich crown -jewels of ruby and pearl ; 
 And his Rose of the Isles is dying. 
 
 Thirty nobles saddled with speed ; (Hurry ! ) 
 Each one mounted a gallant steed 
 
 Which he kept for battle and days of need ; 
 
 (0 ! ride as though you were flying ! ) 
 Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ; 
 Worn-out chargers struggled and sank-. 
 Bridles were slackened, and girtns were burst: 
 But ride as they would, the king rode first; 
 For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 
 
 His nobles are beaten, one by one ; (Hurry !) 
 They have fainted, and faltered, and home- 
 ward gone; 
 His little fair page now follows alone, 
 For strength and for courage crying. 
 The king looked back at that faithful child ; 
 
380 
 
 THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. 
 
 Wan was the face that answering smiled. 
 They passed the draw-bridge with clattering 
 
 din: 
 Then he dropped ; and the king alone rode in 
 Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. 
 
 None welcomed the king from that weary 
 
 ride; 
 For, dead in the light of the dawning day, 
 The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, 
 Who had yearned for his voice while dying. 
 
 The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ; 
 
 (Silence!) 
 No answer carao, but faint and forlorn 
 An echo returned on the cold gray morn, 
 
 Like the breath of a spirit sighing. 
 The castle portal stood grimly wide ; 
 
 The panting steed with a drooping crest 
 
 Stood weary. 
 The king returned from her chamber 
 
 rest, 
 The thick sobs choking in his breast; 
 And, that dumb companion eyeing, 
 
BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 
 
 381 
 
 The tears gushed forth, which he strove to 
 
 check ; 
 He bowed his head on his charger's neck ; 
 
 " 0, steed, that every nerve didst strain. 
 Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain, 
 To the halls where my love lay dying !" 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 jiF that the world and love were 
 
 young, 
 
 ^^ And truth in every shepherd's tongue, 
 ^^l These pretty pleasures might me move 
 mh To live with thee and be thy love. 
 
 Ig But time drives flocks from field to fold, 
 When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold ; 
 And Philomel becometh dumb. 
 And all complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall. 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. 
 Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, — 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — 
 All these in me no means can move 
 To come to thee, and be thy love. 
 
 But could youth last, and love still breed. 
 Had joys no date, nor age no need, 
 Then those delights my mind might move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 
 
 WILL. M, CARLETON. 
 
 |ipKRAW Tip the papers, lawyer, and ] So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has 
 U^^ make 'em good and stout, 
 
 * f^f For things at home are cross-ways, 
 ^m and Betsy and I are out, — 
 
 * We who have worked together so 
 
 I long as man and wife 
 
 I Must pull in single harness the rest 
 
 » of our nat'ral life. 
 
 "What is the matter," says you? I swan 
 
 it's hard to tell ! 
 Most of the years behind us we've passed by 
 
 very well ; 
 I have no other woman — she has no other 
 
 man; 
 Only we've lived together as long as ever we j And Betsy, like all good women, had a 
 
 can. I temper of her own. 
 
 talked with me ; 
 And we've agreed together that we can never 
 
 agree ; 
 Not that we've catched each other in any 
 
 terrible crime ; 
 We've been a gatherin' this for year.?, a little 
 
 at a time. 
 
 There was a stock of temper we both had 
 
 for a start ; 
 Although we ne'er suspected 'twould take us 
 
 two apart ; 
 I had my various failings, bred in the flesh 
 
 and bone. 
 
382 
 
 BETSY AND I ARE OUT. 
 
 The first thing, I remember, whereon we 
 
 Was somethiu' concerning heaven — a differ- 
 ence in our creed ; 
 
 We arg'ed the thing at breakfast — we arg'ed 
 the thing at tea — 
 
 And the more we arg'ed the question, the 
 more we couldn't agree. 
 
 And the next that I remember was when we 
 
 lost a cow ; 
 She had kicked the bucket, for certain — the 
 
 question was only — How 7 
 I held my opinion, and Betsy another had ; 
 And when we were done a talkin', we both 
 
 of us was mad. 
 
 And the next that I remember, it started in 
 
 a j oke ; 
 But for full a week it lasted and neither of 
 
 us spoke. 
 And the next was when I fretted because 
 
 she broke a bowl ; 
 And she said I was mean and stingy, and 
 
 hadn't any soul. 
 
 And so the thing kept workin', and all the 
 
 self-same way ; 
 Always somethin' to ar'ge and something 
 
 sharp to say, — 
 And down on us came- the neighbors, a 
 
 couple o' dozen strong, 
 And lent their kindest sarvice to help the 
 
 thing along. 
 
 And there have been days together — and 
 
 many a weary week — 
 When both of us were cross and spunky, 
 
 and both too proud to speak ; 
 And I have been thinkin' and thinkin', the 
 
 whole of the summer and fall, 
 U I can't live kind with a woman, why, then 
 
 I won't at all. 
 
 And so I've talked with Betsy, and Betsy 
 
 has talked with rao ; 
 And we have agreed together that we can 
 
 never agree ; 
 And what is hers shall bo hor.?, and what is 
 
 mine shall be mine ; 
 And ni put it in the agreement and take it 
 
 to her to sign. 
 
 Write on the paper, lawyer — the very first 
 
 paragraph — 
 Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have 
 
 her half; 
 For she has helped to earn it through many 
 
 a weary day. 
 And it's nothin' more than justice that 
 
 Betsy has her pay, 
 
 Give her the house and homestead ; a man 
 
 can thrive and roam. 
 But women are wretched critters, unless 
 
 they have a home. 
 And I have always determined, and never 
 
 failed to say, 
 That Betsy never should want a home, if I 
 
 was taken away. 
 
 There's a little hard money besides, that's 
 
 drawin' tol'rable pay, 
 A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a 
 
 rainy day, — 
 Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to 
 
 get at ; 
 Put in another clause there, and give her all 
 
 of that. 
 
 I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin' 
 
 her so much ; 
 Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock 
 
 in such ; 
 True and fair I married her, when she was 
 
 blythe and young, 
 And Betsy was always good to me exceptin' 
 
 with her tongue. 
 
 When I was young as you, sir, and not so 
 
 smart, perhaps. 
 For me she mittened a lawyer, and several 
 
 other chaps ; 
 And all of 'em was flustered, and fairly taken 
 
 down, 
 And for a time I was counted the luckiest 
 
 man in town. 
 
 Once when I had a fever — I won't forget it 
 
 soon — 
 I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a 
 
 loon — 
 Never an hour went by me when she was 
 
 out cf sight ; 
 
BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 
 
 383 
 
 She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to 
 
 And one thing put in the paper, that first to 
 
 me day and night. 
 
 me didn't occur ; 
 
 And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a 
 
 That when I am dead at last she will bring 
 
 kitchen clean. 
 
 me back to her. 
 
 Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I 
 
 And lay me under the maple we planted 
 
 ever seen, 
 
 years ago, 
 
 And I don't complain of Betsy or any of her 
 
 When she and I was happy, before we quar- 
 
 acts. 
 
 relled so, 
 
 Exceptin' when we've quarreled, and told 
 
 
 each other facts. 
 
 
 
 And when she dies, I wish that she would 
 
 So draw up the paper, lawyer ; and I'll go 
 
 be laid by me ; 
 
 home to-night, 
 And read the agreement to her, and see if it's 
 
 And lyin' together in silence, perhaps we'll 
 
 all right ; 
 
 then agree ; 
 
 And then in the morning I'll sell to a tradin' 
 
 And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn't 
 
 man I know — 
 
 think it queer 
 
 And kiss the child that was left to us, and 
 
 If we loved each other the better because 
 
 out in the world I'll go. 
 
 we've quarrelled here. 
 
 BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 
 
 f'VE brought back the paper, lawyer, 
 and fetched the parson here. 
 To see that things are regular, and 
 "^if settled up fair and clear ; 
 1 For I've been talking with Caleb, and 
 ¥ Caleb has with me, 
 
 1 And the 'mount of it is we're minded 
 to try once more to agree. 
 
 So I came here on the business, — only a word 
 
 to say 
 (Caleb is staking pea-vines, and couldn't 
 
 come to-day.) 
 Just to tell you and parson how that we've 
 
 changed our mind ; 
 So I'll tear up the paper, lawyer, you see it 
 
 wasn't signed. 
 
 And now if parson is ready, I'll walk with 
 
 him toward home ; 
 I want to thank him for something, 'twas 
 
 kind of him to come ; 
 He's showed a Christian spirit, stood by us 
 
 firm and true ; 
 We mightn't have changed our mind, squire, 
 
 if he'd been a lawyer too. 
 26 
 
 There ! — how good the sun feels, and the 
 
 grass, and blowin' trees. 
 Something about them lawyers makes me 
 
 feel fit to freeze ; 
 I wasn't bound to state particular to that 
 
 man. 
 But it's right you should know, parson, 
 
 about our change of plan. 
 
 We'd been some days a waverin' a little, 
 
 Caleb and me, 
 And wished the hateful paper at the bottom 
 
 of the sea ; 
 But I guess 'twas the prayer last evening, 
 
 and the few words you said. 
 That thawed the ice between us, and brought- 
 
 things to a head. 
 
 You see, when we came to division, there 
 
 was things that wouldn't divide ; 
 There was our twelve-year-old baby, she 
 
 couldn't be satisfied 
 To go with one or the other, but just kept 
 
 whimperin' low, 
 " I'll stay with papa and mamma, and where 
 
 they go I'll go." 
 
384 
 
 BETSY DESTROYS THE PAPER. 
 
 Then there was grandsire's Bible — he died 
 
 on our wedding day ; 
 We couldn't halve the old Bible, and should 
 
 it go or stay ? 
 The sheets that was Caleb's mother's, her 
 
 sampler on the wall, 
 With the sweet old names worked in— Try- 
 
 phena, and Eunice, and Paul. 
 
 It began to be hard then, parson, but it grew 
 
 harder still, 
 Talkin' of Caleb established down at 
 
 McHenry'sville ; 
 Three dollars a week 'twould cost him ; no 
 
 mendin' nor sort of care. 
 And board at the Widow Meacham's, a 
 
 woman that wears false hair. 
 
 Still we went on a talkin' ; I agreed to knit 
 some socks. 
 
 And make a dozen striped shirts, and a pair 
 of wa'mus frocks ; 
 
 And he was to cut a doorway from the kit- 
 chen to the shed : 
 
 " Save you climbing steps much in frosty 
 weather," he said. 
 
 He brought me the pen at last; I felt a 
 
 sinkin' and he 
 Looked as he did with the agur, in the spring 
 
 of sixty-three. 
 'Twas then you dropped in, parson, 'twasn't 
 
 much that was said, 
 " Little children, love one another," but the 
 
 thing was killed stone dead. 
 
 I should like to make confession ; not that 
 
 I'm going to say 
 The fault was all on my side, that never was 
 
 my way. 
 But it may be true that women — tho' how 
 
 'tis I can't see — 
 Are a trifle more aggravatin' than men know 
 
 how to be. 
 
 Then, parson, the neighbors' meddlin' — it 
 
 wasn't pourin.oil; 
 And the church a laborin' with us, 'twas 
 
 worse than wasted toil ; 
 
 And I've thought and so has Caleb, though 
 
 maybe we are wrong, 
 If they'd kept to their own busine.ss, we 
 
 should have got along. 
 
 There was Deacon Amos Purdy, a good man 
 
 as we know. 
 But hadn't a gift of laborin' except with the 
 
 scythe and hoe ; 
 Then a load came over in peach time from 
 
 the Wilbur neighborhood, 
 " Season of prayer," they called it; didn't do 
 
 an atom of good. 
 
 Then there are pints of doctrine, and views 
 
 of a future state 
 I'm willing to stop discussin' ; we can both 
 
 afford to wait; 
 'Twon't bring the millenium sooner, disputin' 
 
 about when it's due, 
 Although I feel an assurance that's mines 
 
 the Scriptural view. 
 
 But the blessedest truths of the Bible, I've 
 
 learned to think don't lie 
 In the texts we hunt with a candle to prove 
 
 our doctrines by. 
 But them that come to us in sorrow, and 
 
 when we're on our knees ; 
 So if Caleb won't argue on free-will, I'll 
 
 leave alone the decrees. 
 
 But there's the request he made ; you know 
 
 it, parson, about 
 Bein' laid under the maples that his own 
 
 hand set out. 
 And me to be laid beside him when my turn 
 
 comes to go ; 
 As if — as if — don't mind me ; but 'twas that 
 
 unstrung me so. 
 
 And now, that some scales, as we think, have 
 
 fallen from our eyes. 
 And things brought so to a crisis have made 
 
 us both more wise, 
 Why Caleb says ami so I say, till the Lord 
 
 parts him and me. 
 We'll love each other better, and try our 
 I best to agree. 
 
CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 
 
 385 
 
 ANNIE LA UEIE. 
 
 VXWELTON braes are bonnie 
 ; Where early fa's the dew, 
 ^ And it's there that Annie Laurie 
 Gie'd me her promise true, — 
 Gie'd me her promise true, 
 Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me doune and dee. 
 
 Her brow is like the snaw-drift; 
 Her throat is like the swan ; 
 Her face it is the fairest 
 That e'er the sun shone on, — 
 
 That e'er the sun shone on ; 
 And dark blue is her e'e ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me doune and dee. 
 
 Like dew on the gowan lying 
 Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 
 And like the winds in summer si 
 Her voice is low and sweet, — 
 Her voice is low and sweet ; 
 And she's a' the world to me ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me doune and dee. 
 
 ghing, 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 ?HE relation of the Desert to its modern inhabitants is still illustra- 
 tive of its ancient history. The general name by which the 
 Hebrews called " the wilderness," including always that of Sinai, 
 was " the pasture." Bare as the surface of the Desert is, yet the 
 thin clothing of vegetation, which is seldom entirely withdrawn, 
 especially the aromatic shrubs on the high hillsides, furnish suffi- 
 cient sustenance for the herds of the six thousand Bedouins who constitute 
 the present population of the peninsula. 
 
 ''Along the mountain ledges green, 
 The scatter'd sheep at will may glean 
 The Desert's spicy stores." 
 
 So were they seen following the daughters or the shepherd-slaves of 
 Jethro. So may they be seen climbing the rocks, or gathered round the 
 pools and springs of the valleys, under the charge of the black-veiled 
 Bedouin women of the present day. And in the Tiyaha, Toward, or Alouin 
 tribes, with their chiefs and followers, their dress, and manners, and habi- 
 tations, we probably see the likeness of the Midianites, the Amalekites, 
 and the Israelites themselves in this their earliest stage of existence. The 
 long strait lines of black tents which cluster round the Desert springs, 
 
386 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE DESERT. 
 
 present to us, on a small scale, the image of the vast encampment gatlicred 
 round the one sacred tent which, with its coverings of dyed skins, stood 
 conspicuous in the midst, and which recalled the period of their nomadic 
 life lono- after their settlement in Palestine. The deserted villages, marked by 
 rude enclosures of stone, are doubtless such as those to which the Hebrew 
 wanderers gave the name of " Hazeroth," and which afterwards furnished 
 
 MIEAGE IN THE DESEET. 
 
 the type of the primitive sanctuary at Shiloh. The rude burial-grounds, 
 with the many nameless head-stones, far away from hum.an habitation, are 
 such as the host of Israel must have left behind them at the different stages 
 of their progress— at Massah, at Sinai, at Kibroth-hattaavah, "the graves 
 of desire." The salutations of the chiefs, in their bright scarlet robes, the 
 one " going out to meet the other," the " obeisance," the " kiss " on each 
 side of the head, the silent entrance into the tent for consultations, are all 
 graphically described in the encounter between Moses and Jethro. The 
 
ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 
 
 387 
 
 constitution of the tribes, with the subordinate degrees of sheiks, recom- 
 mended by Jethro to Moses, is the very same which still exists amongst 
 those who are possibly his lineal descendants — the gentle race of the 
 Towara. 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE. 
 
 "^ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky. 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light ; 
 The year is dying in the night ; 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let hirn die. 
 
 Ring out the old, ring in the new ; 
 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; 
 The year is going, let him go ; 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
 For those that here we see no more ; 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause. 
 And ancient forms of party strife ; 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 I Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
 The civic slander and the spite ; 
 Ring in the love of truth and right, 
 
 Ring in the common love of good. 
 
 Ring out old shapes of foul di 
 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man and free, 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
 Ring out the darkness of the land ; 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 
 
 W. C. BRYANT. 
 
 ^|yj??S^ERRILY swinging on brier and 
 " ■' '^ weed, 
 
 Near to the nest of his little dame. 
 Over the mountain-side or mead, 
 Robert of Lincoln is telling his 
 
 name: 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 and safe is that nest of ours. 
 Hidden among the summer flowers, 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed. 
 Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; 
 
 "Uliite are his shoulders and white his crest, 
 Hear him call in his merry note ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Look what a nice new coat is mine, 
 Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 
 
 Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
 Passing at home a patient life, 
 
 Broods in the grass while her husband sings, 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 
388 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
 Thieves and robbers, while I am here. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Modest and shy as a nun is she, 
 
 One weak chirp is her only note. 
 Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
 Pouring boasts from his little throat ; 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Never was I afraid of man ; 
 Catch me, cowardly knaves if you can. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Six white eggs on a bed of hay. 
 
 Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
 There as the mother sits all day, 
 
 Robert is singing with all his might : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Nice good wife, that never goes out. 
 Keeping house while I frolic about. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Soon as the little ones chip the shell 
 Six wide moutha are open for food ; 
 
 Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
 Gathering seed for the hungry brood. 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 This new life is likely to be 
 Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Robert of Lincoln at length is made 
 
 Sober with work and silent with care ; 
 Off is his holiday garment laid, 
 Half-forgotten that merry air, 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 Nobody knows but my mate and I 
 Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 
 
 Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
 Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 
 Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : 
 Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
 Spink, spank, spink ; 
 When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
 Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
 Chee, chee, chee. 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 "One name is Elizabeth."— Ben Jonsos, 
 
 -^ 
 ^j^ WILL paint her as I see her, 
 ^^ Ten times have the lilies blown 
 W#? Since she looked upon the sun. 
 
 ^ And her face is lily-clear, 
 
 J. Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty 
 
 J To the law of its own beauty. 
 
 Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
 Which a trail of golden hair 
 Keeps from fading off to air ; 
 
 And a forehead fair and saintly, 
 Which two blue eyes undershine, 
 Like meek prayers before a shrine. 
 
 Face and figure of a child, — 
 
 Though too calm, you think, and tender. 
 For the childhood you would lend her. 
 
 Yet child-simple, undefiled, 
 Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
 On the turnings of your will. 
 
 Moving light, as all your things, 
 As young birds, or early wheat, 
 When the wind blows over it. 
 
 Only, free from flutterings 
 
 Of loud mirth that scorneth measure,- 
 Taking love for her chief pleasure. 
 
THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 
 
 389 
 
 Choosing pleasures, for the rest, 
 Which come softly, — ^just as she, 
 When she nestles at your knee. 
 
 Quiet talk she liketh best. 
 In a bower of gentle looks, — 
 Watering flowers, or reading books. 
 
 And her voice, it murmurs lowly. 
 As a silver stream may run. 
 Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 
 
 And her smile, it seems half holy, 
 As if drawn from thoughts more far 
 Than our common jestings are. 
 
 And if any poet knew her, 
 He would sing of her with falls 
 Used in lovely madrigals. 
 
 And if any painter drew her, 
 He would paint her unaware 
 With a halo round the hair. 
 
 And if reader read the poem, 
 
 He would whisper, " You have done 
 Consecrated little Una." 
 
 And a dreamer (did you show him 
 That same picture) would exclaim, 
 " 'T is my angel wiih 
 
 And a stranger, when he sees her 
 In the street even, smileth stilly, 
 Just as you would at a lily. 
 
 And all voices that address her 
 Soften, sleeken every word. 
 As if speaking to a bird. 
 
 And all fancies yearn to cover 
 
 The hard earth whereon she passes. 
 With the thymy -scented grasses. 
 
 And all hearts do pray, " God love her ! 
 Ay, and always, in good sooth. 
 We may all be sure He doth. 
 
 TEE LA UNCEING OF TEE SEIP. 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ^^H^LL is finished, and at length 
 ^^|fe Has come the bridal day 
 ^^^^ Of beauty and of strength. 
 ^ To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
 •£ With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched ! 
 J And o'er the bay. 
 
 Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
 The great sun rises to behold the sight. 
 
 The ocean old, 
 
 Centuries old. 
 
 Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 
 
 Paces restless to and fro. 
 
 Up and down the sands of gold. 
 
 His beating heart is not at rest, 
 
 And far and wide 
 
 With ceaseless flow 
 
 His beard of snow 
 
 Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 
 
 He waits impatient for his bride. 
 
 There she stands, 
 
 With her foot upon the sands, 
 
 Decked with flags and streamers gay. 
 
 In honor of her marriage-day. 
 
 Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 
 
 Round her like a veil descending, 
 
 Pveady to be 
 
 The bride of the gray old sea. 
 
 Then the Master, 
 
 With a gesture of command, 
 
 Waved his hand ; 
 
 And at the word. 
 
 Loud and sudden there was heard, 
 
 All around them and below. 
 
 The sound of hammers, blow on blow. 
 
 Knocking away the shores and spur.'*. 
 
 And see ! she stirs ! 
 
390 
 
 TACITUS. 
 
 She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 
 
 The thrill of life along her keel, 
 
 And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
 
 With one exulting, joyous bound, 
 
 She leaps into the ocean's ^.rms. 
 
 And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
 
 There rose a shout, prolonged and loud, 
 
 That to the ocean seemed to say, 
 
 "Take her, 0, bridegroom, old and gray ; 
 
 Take her to thy protecting arms. 
 
 With all her youth and all her charms." 
 
 How beautiful she is ! how fair 
 
 She lies within those arms, that press 
 
 Her form with many a soft caress 
 
 Of tenderness and watchful care ! 
 
 Sail forth into the sea, 0, ship ! 
 
 Through wind and wave, right onward steer. 
 
 The moistened eye, the trembling lip. 
 
 Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 
 
 Sail forth into the sea of life. 
 Oh gentle, loving, trusting wife. 
 And safe from all adversity. 
 Upon the bosom of that sea 
 Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
 For gentleness, and love, and trust, 
 
 Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
 And in the wreck of noble lives 
 Something immortal still survives ! 
 
 Thou, too, sail on, ship of State ! 
 Sail on, Union, strong and great ! 
 Humanity, with all its fears, 
 With all its hopes of future years. 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 We know what Master laid thy keel 
 What workman wrought thy ribs of steel, 
 Who made each mast, and sail and rope, 
 What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
 In what a forge, in what a heat. 
 Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 
 
 Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 
 
 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock; 
 
 'Tis but the flapping of the sail. 
 
 And not a rent made by the gale. 
 
 In spite of rock and tempest roar, 
 
 In spite of false lights on the shore, 
 
 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea. 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 
 
 Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 
 
 Are all with thee — are all with thee. 
 
 TACITUS. 
 
 T. BABINGTON MACAULAY. 
 -^ 
 
 ^N the delineation of character, Tacitus is unrivalled among historians, 
 and has very few superiors among dramatists and novelists. By 
 the delineation of character we do not mean the practice of drawing 
 up epigrammatic catalogues of good and bad qualities, and append 
 ing them to the names of eminent men. No writer indeed has done 
 this more skillfully than Tacitus ; but this is not his peculiar glory. 
 All the persons who occupy a large space in hia works have an individual- 
 ity of character which seems to pervade all their words and actions. We 
 know them as if we had lived with them. Claudius, Nero, Otho, both the 
 Agrippinas, are masterpieces. But Tiberius is a still higher miracle of 
 art. The historian undertook to make us intimately acquainted with a 
 man singularly dark and inscrutable — whose real disposition long remain- 
 
CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 
 
 391 
 
 ed swathed up in intricate folds of factitious virtues, and over whose 
 actions the hypocrisy of his youth and the seclusion of his old age threw a 
 singular mystery. He was to exhibit the specious qualities of the tyrant 
 in a light which might render them transparent, and enable us at once to 
 perceive the covering and the vices which it concealed. He was to trace 
 the gradations by which the first magistrate of a republic, a senator mingling 
 freely in debate, a noble associating with his brother nobles, was trans- 
 formed into an Asiatic sultan ; he \7as to exhibit a character distinguished 
 by courage, self-command, and profound policy, yet defiled by all 
 
 " th' extravagancy 
 And crazy ribaldry of fancy." 
 
 He was to mark the gradual efiect of advancing age and approaching death 
 on this strange compound of strength and weakness ; to exhibit the old 
 sovereign of the world sinking into a dotage which, though it rendered his 
 appetites eccentric and his temper savage, never impaired the powers of 
 his stern and penetrating mind, conscious of failing strength, raging with 
 oapricious sensuality, yet to the last the keenest of observers, the most 
 artful of dissemblers, and the most terrible of masters. The task was one 
 of extreme difficulty. The execution is almost perfect. 
 
 CATO ON IMMORTALITY. 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 P|1T must be so. — Plato, thou reasonest well ! 
 ^i^ Else whence this pleasing hope, this 
 gg fond desire, 
 
 t|t This longing after immortality? 
 
 1 Or whence this secret dread, and in- 
 
 i ward horror, 
 
 «l Of falling into naught ? "^Tiy shrinks 
 the soul 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 Tis the divinity that stirs within us ; 
 'Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter, 
 And intimates eternity to man 
 
 Eternity ! — thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! < 
 Through what variety of untried being. 
 Through what new scenes and changes must 
 we pass ! 
 
 The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before 
 
 me; 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon 
 
 it. 
 He-e 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 Caesar. 
 I'm weary of conjectures, — this must end 
 
 them. 
 
 [Laying his hand on his sword.] 
 
392 
 
 THE SANDS O' DEE. 
 
 Thus am I doubly armed. My death and lif 
 My bane and antidote, are both before me, 
 This in a moment brings me to my end ; 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 The soul, secure 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 amid the war of elements. 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 
 THE SANDS 0' DEE. 
 
 CHARLES EINGSLEY. 
 
 MARY, go and call the cattle home, 
 f^M, ^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ cattle home, 
 
 — - And call the cattle home, 
 
 Across the sands o'Dee ! 
 The western wind was wild and dark 
 v/i' foam. 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The creeping tide came 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 blinding mist came down and hid the 
 land, 
 And never home came she. 
 
 " is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, 
 
 A tress o' golden hair, 
 
 0' 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 o' Dee. 
 
NELL. 
 
 393 
 
 NELL. 
 
 eafe* 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN, 
 
 t;w'<? 
 
 YOU'RE a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind 
 and true ! 
 God -will be good to faithful folk 
 
 flike you ! 
 You knew my Ned ! 
 L A better, kinder lad never drew breath. 
 We loved each other true, and we were wed 
 In church, like some who took him to his 
 
 death ; 
 A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost 
 His senses when he took a drop too much. 
 
 Drink did it all — drink made him mad when 
 
 crossed — 
 He was a poor man, and they're hard on 
 
 such. 
 Nan ! that night! that night! 
 When I was sitting in this very chair, 
 Watching and waiting in the candle-light. 
 And heard his foot come creaking up the 
 
 stair. 
 And turned, and saw him standing yonder, 
 
 white 
 And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled 
 
 hair ! 
 And when I caught his arm and called, in 
 
 fright. 
 He pushed me, swore, and to the door he 
 
 passed 
 To lock and bar it fast. 
 
 Then down he drops just like a lump of lead, 
 Holding his brow, shaking, and growing 
 
 whiter, 
 And— Nan ! — ^just then the light seemed grow- 
 ing brighter. 
 And I could see the hands that held his head, 
 All red ! all bloody red ! 
 What could I do but scream ? He groaned 
 
 to hear. 
 Tumped to his feet, and gripped me by the 
 
 wrist ; 
 *' Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell !" he hissed. 
 And I was still, for fear. 
 " They're after me — I've knifed a man !" he 
 
 said. 
 
 " Be still !— the drink — drink did it ! — he is 
 dead !" 
 
 Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't 
 
 weep; 
 All I could do was cling to Ned and hark. 
 And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, 
 But breathing hard and deep. 
 The candle flickered out — the room grew 
 
 dark — 
 And — Nan! — although my heart was true 
 
 and tried — 
 When all grew cold and dim, 
 I shuddered — not for fear of them outside. 
 But just afraid to be alone with him. 
 "Ned! Ned!" I whispered — and bemoaned 
 
 and shook. 
 But did not heed or look ! 
 " Ned ! Ned ! speak, lad ! tell me it is not 
 
 true !" 
 At that he raised his head and looked so 
 
 wild; 
 Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he 
 
 threw 
 His arms around me, crying like a child, 
 And held me close— and not a word was 
 
 spoken. 
 While I clung tighter to his heart, and 
 
 pressed him. 
 And did not fear him, though my heart was 
 
 broken. 
 But kissed his poor stained hands, and cried, 
 
 and blessed him. 
 
 Then, 
 
 the dreadful daylight, coming 
 falling rain — 
 
 Nan, 
 
 cold 
 With sound o' 
 
 When I could see his face, and it looked old, 
 Like the pinched face of one that dies in 
 
 pain; 
 Well, though we heard folk stirring in the 
 
 sun. 
 We never thought to hide away or run. 
 Until we heard those voices in the street, 
 That hurrying of feet, 
 
394 
 
 THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. 
 
 And Ned leaped up, and knew that they had 
 come. 
 
 " Run, Ned !" I cried, but he was deaf and 
 dumb !" 
 
 " Hide, Ned !" I screamed, and held him ; 
 " hide thee, man !" 
 
 He stared with bloodshot eyes, and heark- 
 ened. Nan ! 
 
 And all the rest is like a dream — the sound 
 
 Of knocking at the door — 
 
 A rush of men — a struggle on the ground — 
 
 A mist — a tramp — a roar ; 
 
 For when I got my senses back again, 
 
 The room was empty — and my head went 
 round ! 
 
 God help him ! God will help him ! Ay, no 
 
 fear ! 
 It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no 
 
 wrong ; 
 So kind ! so good ! — and I am useless here, 
 Now he is lost that loved me true and long. 
 . . . That night before he died 
 I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried ; 
 But when the clocks went " one," I took my 
 
 shawl 
 To cover up my face, and stole away. 
 And walked along the silent streets, where 
 
 all 
 Looked cold and still and gray. 
 And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square, 
 But just as "three" was sounded close at hand 
 I started and turned east, before I knew, 
 Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the 
 
 Strand, 
 
 And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. 
 
 Some men and lads went by. 
 
 And turning round, I gazed, and watched 
 
 'em go, 
 Then felt that they were going to see. him 
 
 die. 
 And drew my shawl more tight, and followed 
 
 slow. 
 More people passed me, a country cart with 
 
 hay 
 Stopped close beside me, and two or three 
 Talked about it! I moaned and crept away ! 
 
 Next came a hollow sound I knew full well. 
 For something gripped me round the heart ! 
 
 — and then 
 There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! 
 
 God ! God ! how could I sit close by. 
 And neither scream nor cry ? 
 
 As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, 
 
 1 listened, listened, listened, still and dumb, 
 While the folk murmured, and the death-bell 
 
 tolled. 
 And the day brightened, and his time had 
 
 come . . 
 . . . Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, but 
 
 the knell 
 Of the slow bell ! 
 
 And I could only wait, and wait, and wait. 
 And what I waited for I couldn't tell — 
 At last there came a groaning deep and 
 
 great — 
 Saint Paul's struck " eight " — 
 I screamed, and seemed to turn to fire, and 
 
 fell! 
 
 THE DIVINITY OF POETRY. 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 
 
 lOETRY is the record of tlie best and happiest moments of the 
 happiest and best minds. "We are aware of evanescent visitations 
 of thought and feehng, sometimes associated with place or person, 
 sometimes regarding our own mind alone, and always arising 
 unforeseen and departing unbidden, but elevating and delightful 
 beyond all expression ; so that, even in the desire and the regret 
 
ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 
 
 395 
 
 they leave, there cannot but be pleasure, participating as it does in the 
 nature of its object. It is, as it were, the interpenetration of a diviner 
 nature through our own ; but its footsteps are like those of a wind over 
 the sea, which the morning calm erases, and whose traces remain only, as 
 on the wrinkled sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions 
 of being are experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility 
 and the most enlarged imagination ; and the state of mind produced by them 
 is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, love, patriot- 
 ism, and friendship, is essentially linked with such emotions; and whilst 
 they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to a universe. Poets are 
 not only subject to these experiences as spirits of the most refined 
 organization, but they can colour all that they combine with the evanes- 
 cent hues of this ethereal world; a word, a trait in the representation of 
 a scene or passion, will touch the enchanted chord, and reanimate, in 
 those who have ever experienced those emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the 
 buried image of the past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best 
 and most beautiful in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions 
 which haunt the interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language 
 or in form, sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of 
 kindred joy to those with whom their sisters abide — abide, because there 
 is no portal of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they 
 inhabit into the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the 
 visitations of the divinity in man. 
 
 ANNIE AND WILLIE'S ERA YEE. 
 
 SOPHIA r. SNOW. 
 
 3WAS the eve before Christmas, " Good- 
 night " had been said ; 
 And Annie and Willie had crept 
 ^]^ into bed ; 
 
 r There were tears on their pillows, 
 «l and tears in their eyes, 
 
 And each little bosom was heaving with sighs. 
 For to-night their stern father's command 
 
 had been given 
 That they should retire precisely 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 Claus " ever had 
 been, 
 
 And he hoped, after this, he should never- 
 more hear 
 
 How he scrambled' down chimneys with pre- 
 sents 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. 
 
396 
 
 ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 
 
 Not a word had beea spoken by either till 
 
 then, 
 When Willie's sad face from the blanket did 
 
 peep, 
 As he whispered, " Dear Annie, is 'ou fast 
 
 aseep?" 
 " 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 Glaus.' 
 Now we know there is, and it can't be denied. 
 For he came every year before 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 
 
 Glaus here 
 With the sack full of presents he brought 
 
 every year." 
 
 " Well, why tan't we pray dest 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 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 
 
 You must wait just as still till I say the 
 
 ' Amen,' 
 And by that you will know that your turn 
 
 has come then." 
 
 " Dear Jesus, look down on ray brother and 
 
 me. 
 And grant us the favor we are 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 Glaus 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 turn down to- 
 night. 
 And bing us some presents before it is ight ; 
 I want he should div' me a nice 'ittle sed, 
 With bright shinin' unners, and all painted 
 
 red ; 
 A box full of tandy, a book and a toy. 
 Amen, and then 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 peace- 
 ful and deep. 
 And with fairies in Dreamland were roaming 
 in sleep. 
 
 Eight, nine, and the little French clock had 
 
 struck ten. 
 Ere the father had thought of his children 
 
 again, 
 lie seems now to hear Annie's half 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 ten 
 
 per cent. 
 But of course they've forgotten their troubles 
 
 ere this. 
 
ANNIE AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 
 
 397 
 
 And that I denied them their thrice-asked-for 
 
 kiss ; 
 But just to make sure, I'll steal up to their 
 
 door, 
 For I never spoke harsh to my darlings 
 
 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 tho 
 
 big tears. 
 And Willie's grave promise fell sweet on hin 
 
 ears 
 'Strange — strange — I'd forgotten," said he, 
 
 with a sigh, 
 " How I longed when a child to have Christ- 
 mas draw nigh. " 
 ' I'll atone for my harshness," he inwardly 
 
 said; 
 " By answering their prayers ere I sleep in 
 
 my bed." 
 Then 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 — 
 A millionaire facing the cold driving sleet ! 
 Nor stopped he until he had bought every- 
 thing. 
 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 homeward 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 see. 
 
 And birds of all colors were perched in the 
 
 tree ; 
 While Santa Glaus, laughing, stood up in the 
 
 top. 
 As if getting ready more presents to drop. 
 
 And as the fond father the picture surveyed, 
 He thought for his trouble he had amply 
 
 been paid ; 
 And he said to himself, as he bru.shed 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 falls ten per cent. 
 
 more ! 
 Hereafter, I'll make it a rule, I believe. 
 To have Santa Glaus visit us each Ghristmas 
 
 ev^." 
 So thinking, he gently extinguished the light. 
 And, tripping down stairs,- retired for the 
 
 night. 
 As soon as the beams of the bright morning 
 
 sun 
 Put the darkness to flight, and the stars 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. 
 They laughed and they cried in their inno- 
 cent glee. 
 And shouted for papa to come quick and 
 
 see 
 What presents old Santa Glaus 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 Glaus,' pf\pa, 
 
 I know ;" 
 While dear little Willie climbed up on his 
 
 knee. 
 Determined no secret between them should 
 
398 
 
 BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. 
 
 And told in soft whispers how Annie had 
 said 
 
 And knew just what presents my children 
 would please. 
 
 That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago 
 
 dead, 
 Used to kneel down and pray by the side of 
 
 her chair. 
 And that God up in heaven had answered 
 
 (Well, well let him think so, the dear little 
 
 elf, 
 'Twould be cruel to tell him I did it my- 
 self!" 
 Blind father ! who caused your stern heart to 
 
 her prayer. 
 " Den we dot up and prayed dust as well as 
 
 relent. 
 And the hasty words spoken, so soon to 
 
 we tould, 
 And Dod answered our nrayers ; now wasn't 
 
 repent ? 
 'Twas the Being who bade you steal softly 
 
 He dood ?" 
 " I should say that He was, if He sent you 
 all these. 
 
 up stairs, 
 And make you His agent to answer their 
 prayers. 
 
 BLIND MEN AND THE ELEPHANT. 
 
 J. G. SAXE. 
 
 ?T was six men of Indostan 
 To learning much inclined, 
 Who went to see the Elephant 
 
 (Though all of them were blind,) 
 That each by observation 
 Might satisfy his mind. 
 
 The First approached the Elephant, 
 And, happening to fall 
 
 Against his broad and sturdy side, 
 
 At once began to bawl : 
 " God bless me ! but the Elephant 
 
 Is very like a wall !" 
 
 The Second, feeling of the tusk. 
 Cried : " Ho ! what have we here 
 
 So very round and smooth and sharp ? 
 To me 'tis mighty clear 
 
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. 
 
 399 
 
 This wonder of an Elephant 
 
 The Sixth no sooner had begun 
 
 Is very like a spear !" 
 
 About the beast to grope, 
 
 
 Than, seizing on the swinging tail 
 
 The Third approached the animal, 
 
 That fell within his scope. 
 
 And, happening to take 
 
 "I see," quoth he, "the Elephant 
 
 The squirming trunk within his hands, 
 
 Is very like a rope !" 
 
 Thus boldly up and spake : 
 
 
 " I see," quoth he, " the Elephant 
 Is very like a snake !" 
 
 And so these men of Indostan 
 
 Disputed loud and long, 
 
 The Fourth reached out his eager hand, 
 
 Each in his own opinion 
 
 And felt about the knee : 
 
 Exceeding stiff and strong, 
 
 " "What most this wondrous beast is like 
 
 Though each was partly in the right, 
 
 Is mighty plain," quoth he ; 
 
 And all were in the wrong ! 
 
 "'Tis clear enough the Elephant 
 
 
 Is very like a tree! " 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 The Fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, 
 
 So, oft in theologic wars 
 
 Said : " E'en the blindest man 
 
 The disputants, I ween. 
 
 Can tell what this resembles most ; 
 
 Rail on in utter ignorance 
 
 Deny the fact who can. 
 
 Of what each other mean, 
 
 This marvel of an Elephant 
 
 And prate about an Elephant 
 
 Is very like a fan !" 
 
 Not one of than has seen ! 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ffHE news tliat the fugitive had been caught and brought back ran 
 like wiklfire through the hungry community, and expectation 
 t''^ ' ^ was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it remained until the 
 ^ afternoon, when Squeers, having refreshed himself with his dinner 
 
 1 and an extra libation or so, made his appearance (accompanied 
 
 J by his amiable partner), with a fearful instrument of flagellation, 
 
 strong, supple, wax-ended, and new. 
 
 '■ Is every boy here ?" 
 
 Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak ; so Squeers 
 glared along the lines to assure himself. 
 
 " Each ooy keep his place. Nickleby ! you go to your desk, sir !" 
 
 There vas a curious expression in the usher's face ; but he took his 
 seat, withou J opening his lips in reply. Squeers left the room, and shortly 
 afterwards returned, dragging Smike by the collar — or rather by that 
 fragment o^ his jacket which was nearest the place where his collar ought 
 to have been. 
 27 
 
400 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY LEAVES DOTHEBOYS' HALL. 
 
 " Now, what have you got to ,say for yourself? (Stand a little out of 
 the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got room enough.) " 
 
 " Spare me, sir!" 
 
 " Oh, that's all you've got to say, is it ? Yes, I'll flog you within an 
 inch of your life, and spare you that." 
 
 One cruel blow had fallen on him, when Nicholas Nickleby cried, 
 "Stop!" 
 
 " Who cried stop ?" 
 
 "I did. This must not go on." 
 
 " Must not go on !" 
 
 " No ! Must not ! Shall not ! I will prevent it ! You have dis- 
 regarded all my quiet interference in this miserable lad's behalf; you have 
 returned no answer to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, 
 and offered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. Don't 
 blame me for this public interference. You have brought it upon your- 
 self, not I." 
 
 "Sit down, beggar !" 
 
 " Wretch, touch him again at your peril ! I will not stand by, and 
 see it done. My blood is up, and I have the strength of ten such men as 
 you. By Heaven ! I will not spare you, if you drive me on ! I have a 
 series of personal insults to avenge, and my indignation is aggravated by 
 the cruelties practiced in this foul den. Have a care ; for if you raise the 
 devil in me, the consequences will fall heavily upon your head !" 
 
 Squeers, in a violent outbreak, spat at him, and struck him a blow 
 across the face. Nicholas instantly sprang upon him, wrested his weapon 
 from his hand, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian till he 
 roared for merc3^ 
 
 fie flung him away with all the force he could muster, and the vio- 
 lence of his fall precipitated Mrs. Squeers over an adjacent form ; Squeers, 
 striking his head against the same form in his descent, lay at his full length 
 on the ground, stunned and motionless. 
 
 Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and having ascer- 
 tained, to his satisfaction, that Squeers was only stunned, and not dead 
 (upon which point he had some unpleasant doubts at first), Nicholas packed 
 up a few clothes in a small valise, and, finding that noboly offered to 
 oppose his progress, marched boldly out by the front door, ani struck into 
 the road. Then such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys' Hall had 
 never echoed before, and would never respond to again. AVhen the sound 
 had died away, the school was empty ; and of the crowd of 1 oys not one 
 remained. 
 
CLERICAL WIT. 
 
 401 
 
 A KISS AT THE DOOR. 
 
 Vj were standing in the door■waJ^ 
 My little wife and I ; 
 ^'eJ? The golden sun upon her hair 
 Fell down so silently ; 
 A small white hand upon my arm - 
 
 What could I ask for more 
 Than the kindly glance of loving ey 
 As she kissed me at the door? 
 
 I know she loves with all her heart 
 
 The one who stands beside, 
 And the years have been so joyous, 
 
 Since first I called her bride ; 
 We've had so much of happiness 
 
 Since we met in years before, 
 But the happiest time of all was when 
 
 She kissed me at the door. 
 
 Who cares for wealth of land or gold, 
 For fame or matchless power ? 
 
 It does not give the happiness 
 Of just one little hour 
 
 With one who loves me as her life — 
 She says she loves me more — 
 
 And I thought she did this morning, 
 When she kissed me at the door. 
 
 At times it seems that all the world, 
 
 With all its wealth of gold, 
 Is very small and poor indeed, 
 
 Compared with what I hold ; 
 And when the clouds hang grim and dark, 
 
 I only think the more 
 Of one who waits the coming step 
 
 To kiss me at the door. 
 
 If she lives till age shall scatter 
 
 Its frosts upon her head, 
 I know she'll love me just the same 
 
 As the morning we were wed ; 
 But if the angels call her, 
 
 And she goes to heaven before, 
 I shall know her when I meet her, — 
 
 For she'll kiss me at the door. 
 
 CLERICAL WIT, 
 
 missionary had 
 
 And hardships and privations oft 
 
 had seen. 
 While wandering far on lone and 
 
 desert strands. 
 Aweary traveler in benighted lands, 
 Would often picture to his little flock 
 The terrors of the gibbet and the block ; 
 IIow martyrs suffer'd in the ancient times, 
 And what men suffer now in other climes ; 
 And though his words were eloquent and 
 
 deep. 
 His hearers oft indulged themselves in sleep. 
 He marked with sorrow each unconscious nod. 
 Within the portals of the house of God, 
 And once this new expedient thought he'd 
 
 take 
 In his discourse, to keep the rogues awake — 
 
 Said he, " While traveling in a distant state, 
 I witness'd scenes which I will here relate : 
 'Twas in a deep, uncultivated wild. 
 Where noontide glory scarcely ever smiled ; 
 Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness 
 
 howl'd — 
 Where bears frequented, and where panthers 
 
 prowl'd ; 
 And, on my word, mosquitoes there were 
 
 found. 
 Many of which, I think, would weigh a 
 
 pound ! 
 More fierce and ravenous than the hungry 
 
 shark — 
 They oft were known to climb the trees and 
 
 hark ! " 
 The audience seem'd taken by surprise — 
 All started up and rubbed their wondering 
 
i02 
 
 THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 
 
 At such a tale they all were much amazed, 
 Each drooping lid was in an instant raised, 
 And we must say, in keeping heads erect, 
 It had its destined and desired efioct. 
 
 But tales like this credulity appall'd ; 
 
 Next day, the deacons on the pastor call'd, 
 
 And begg'd to know how he could ever tell 
 
 The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell. 
 
 ' Why, sir," said one, " think what a mons- 
 trous weight ! 
 
 Were they as large as you wore pleased to 
 state ? 
 
 You said they'd weigh a pound! It can't be 
 true ; 
 
 We'll not believe it, though 'tis told by you ! '' 
 " Ah, but it is ! " the parson quick replied ; 
 "In what I stated you may well confide; 
 Many, I said, sir — and the story's good — 
 Indeed I think that many of them would ! " 
 The deacon saw at once that he was 'laught, 
 Yet deem'd himself relieved, on second 
 
 thought. 
 " But then the harking — think of that, good 
 
 man ; 
 Such monstrous lies! Explain it if you can !" 
 " Why, that, my friend, I can explain with 
 
 ease — 
 They climbed the bark, sir, when they diinhcd 
 
 the trees!" 
 
 THE POETS REWARD. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 l^j^HANKS untraced to lips unknown 
 ^M| Shall greet me like the odors blown 
 ?^^^ From unseen meadows newly mown, 
 "*^^^ Or lilies floating in some pond. 
 Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond ; 
 
 The traveler owns the grateful sense 
 Of sweetness near, he knows not 
 
 whence. 
 And, pausing, takes with forehead bare 
 The benediction of the air. 
 
 THE MURDERED TRAVELER. 
 
 WILLIAM C. BRYANT. 
 
 ^pIIEN spring, to woods and wastes 
 around, 
 Brought bloom and joy again ; 
 The murdered traveler's bones were 
 found, 
 Far down a narrow glen. 
 
 The fragrant birch, above him, hung 
 Her tassels in the sky ; 
 And many a vernal blossom sprung, 
 And nodded careless by. 
 
 The red bird warbled, as ho wrought 
 His hanging nest o'erhcad ; 
 
 And fearless, near the fatal spot. 
 Her young the partridge led. 
 
 But there was weeping far away, 
 
 And gentle eyes, for him, 
 With watching many an anxious day. 
 
 Were sorrowful and dim. 
 
 They little knew, who loved him so, 
 
 The fearful death he met, 
 When shouting o'er the desert snow, 
 
 Unarmed and hard beset; 
 
THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 403 
 
 Nor how, when round the frosty pole, 
 The northern dawn was red, 
 
 The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole 
 To banquet on the dead; 
 
 But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 
 
 Within his distant home ; 
 And dreamed, and started as they slept. 
 
 For joy that he was come. 
 
 Nor how, when strangers found his bones. 
 
 They dressed the hasty bier. 
 And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
 
 Unmoistened by a tear. 
 
 Long, long they looked— but never spied 
 
 His welcome step again. 
 Nor knew the fearful death he died 
 
 Far down that narrow glen. 
 
 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 ^pOOD morning, Doctor; how do you do? I haint quite so well as I 
 1^ have been ; but I think I'm some better than I was. I don't think 
 "^^^ that last medicine you gin me did me much good. I had a terrible 
 
404 THE HYPOCHONDRIAC. 
 
 time with the ear-ache last night ; my wife got up and drapt a few drapa 
 of walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some; but I didn't get a wink 
 of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a week, Doctor, I've had the worst 
 kind of a narvous headache; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought 
 my head would bust open. Oh, dear! I sometimes think that I'm the 
 most afflictedest human that ever lived. 
 
 Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, that I have 
 had every winter for the last fifteen year, has began to pester me agin. 
 [Coughs) Doctor, do you think you can give me anything that will relieve 
 this desprit pain I have in my side ? 
 
 Then I have a crick at times, in the back of my neck, so that I can't 
 turn my head without turning the hull of my body. {Coughs.) 
 
 Oh, dear ! what shall I do ! I have consulted almost every doctor in 
 the country, but they don't any of them seem to understand my case. I 
 have tried everything that I could think of; but I can't find anything that 
 does me the leastest good. [Coughs) 
 
 Oh this cough— it will be the death of me yet! You know I had my 
 right hip put out last fall at the rising of Deacon Jones' saw mill; it's 
 getting to be very troublesome just before we have a change of weather. 
 Then I've got the sciatica in my right knee, and sometimes I'm so crippled 
 up that I can hardly crawl round in any fashion. 
 
 What do you think that old white mare of ours did while I was out 
 plowing last week? Why, the weacked old critter, she kept a backing and 
 backing, on till she back'd me right up agin the colter, and knock'd a 
 piece of skin off my shin nearly so big. [Coughs.) 
 
 But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, Doctor. You 
 see it was washing-day — and my wife wanted me to go out and bring in a 
 little stove-wood — you know we lost our help lately, and ray wife has to 
 wash and tend to everything about the house herself. 
 
 I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out — as it was a raining at 
 the time — but I thought I'd risk it anyhow. So I went out, pick'd up a few 
 chunks of stove-wood, and was a coming up the steps into the house, when 
 my feet slipp'd from under me, and I fell down as sudden as if I'd been shot. 
 Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke down the bridge of my nose, 
 cut my upper lip, and knock'd out three of my front teeth. I suffered 
 dreadfully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face aint well 
 enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially by the women folks. 
 [Coughs.) Oh, dear! but that ain't all, Doctor, I've got fifteen corns 
 on my toes — and I'm afeard I'm a going to have the "yallar jandars." 
 [Coughs) 
 
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 
 
 405 
 
 THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 _^^ - 
 
 " ^^^H, lady fair, these silks of mine 
 Srajl Are beautiful and rare, 
 ^=^^ The richest web of the Indian loom, 
 "^Y Which beauty's queen might wear, 
 
 •r And these pearls are pure and mild 
 J to behold. 
 
 And with radiant light they vie ; 
 I have brought them with me a weary way, 
 Will my gentle lady buy ? " 
 
 And the lady smiled on the worn old man. 
 
 Through the dark and clustering curls, 
 Which veiled her brow as she bent to view 
 
 His silks and glittering pearls ; 
 And she placed their price in the old man's 
 hand, 
 
 And lightly turned awaj' ; 
 But she paused at the wanderer's earnest 
 call, 
 
 " My gentle lady, stay ! " 
 
 " Oh, lady fair, I have yet a gem 
 
 Which a purer lustre flings 
 Than the diamond flash of the jeweled 
 crown 
 
 On the lofty brow of kings ; 
 A wonderful pearl of exceeding price. 
 
 Whose virtue shall not decay ; 
 Whose light shall be as a spell to thee, 
 
 And a blessing on thy way ! " 
 
 The lady glanced at the mirroring steel 
 Where her form of grace was seen. 
 
 Where her eyes shone clear and her dark locks 
 waved 
 
 Their clasping pearls between. 
 " Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, 
 
 Thou traveler gray and old ; 
 And name the price of thy precious gem. 
 
 And my pages shall count thy gold." 
 
 The cloud went ofi' from the pilgrim's brow. 
 
 As a small and meagre book, 
 Unchased with gold or gem of cost, 
 
 From his folding robe he took. 
 " Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price; 
 
 May it prove as such to thee ! 
 Nay, keep thy gold ; I ask it not ; 
 
 For the Word of God is free." 
 
 The hoary traveler went his way ; 
 
 But the gift he left behind 
 Hath had its pure and perfect work 
 
 On that high-born maiden's mind ; 
 And she hath turned from the pride of sin 
 
 To the lowliness of truth, 
 And given her human heart to God, 
 
 In its beautiful hour of youth. 
 
 And she hath left the gray old halls 
 
 Where an evil faith had power ; 
 The courtly knights of her father's train. 
 
 And the maidens of her bower; 
 And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales, 
 
 By lordly feet untrod, 
 Where the poor and needy of earth are ricli 
 
 In the perfect love of God. 
 
 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ?EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, 
 And used to war's alarms ; 
 But a cannon-ball took off his l 
 So he laiil down his arms. 
 
 Now as they bore him off the field. 
 Said he, " Let others shoot ; 
 
 For here I have my second leg, 
 And the Forty-second Foot." 
 
406 
 
 JOHN MAYNARD. 
 
 Tlie army-surgeons made him limbs; 
 
 And now you cannot wear your shoes 
 
 Said he, " They're only pegs ; 
 
 Upon your feats of arms !" 
 
 But there's as wooden members quite, 
 
 
 As represent my legs." 
 
 " false and fickle Nellie Gray ! 
 
 
 I know why you refuse ; 
 
 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,— 
 
 Though I've no feet, some other man 
 
 Her name was Nelly Gray ; 
 
 Is standing in my shoes. 
 
 So he went to pay her his devours, 
 
 
 When he devoured his pay. 
 
 " I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; 
 
 
 But, now, a long farewell ! 
 
 But when he called on Nelly Gray ; 
 
 For you will be my death ; — alas ! 
 
 She made him quite a scoff ; 
 
 You will not be my Nell !" 
 
 And when she saw his wooden legs, 
 
 
 Began to take them off. 
 
 Now when he went from Nelly Gray 
 
 His heart so heavy got. 
 
 *• Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 
 
 A nd life was such a burden grown, 
 
 Is this your love so warm ? 
 
 It made him take a knot. 
 
 The love that loves a scarlet coat 
 
 
 Should be more uniform." 
 
 So round his melancholy neck 
 
 
 A rope he did intwine, 
 
 Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
 
 And, for his second time in life, 
 
 For he was blithe and brave ; 
 
 Enlisted in the line. 
 
 But I will never have a man 
 
 
 With both legs in the grave. 
 
 One end he tied around a beam. 
 
 
 And then removed his pegs ; 
 
 " Before you had those timber toes 
 
 And, as his legs were off, — of course 
 
 Your love I did allow ; 
 
 He soon was off his legs. 
 
 But then, you know, you stand upon 
 
 
 Another footing now." 
 
 And there he hung till he was dead 
 
 
 As any nail in town ; 
 
 " Nelly Gray ! Nelly Gray ! 
 
 For, though distress had cut him up. 
 
 For all your jeering speeches, 
 
 It could not cut him down. 
 
 At duty's call I left my legs 
 
 
 In Badajos's breaches." 
 
 A dozen men sat on his corpse, 
 
 
 To find out why he died,— 
 
 " Why, then," said she, " you've lost the feet 
 
 And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 
 
 Of legs in war's alarms. 
 
 With a stake in his inside. 
 
 JOHN MA YNARD. 
 
 .^1^ 
 
 H. ALGER. JR. 
 
 |r"^ 
 
 WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse. 
 
 One bright midsummer day. 
 The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 
 
 Swept proudly on her way. 
 Bright faces clustered on the deck. 
 
 Or leaning o'er the side. 
 Watched carelessly the feathery foam. 
 
 That flecked the rippling t'de. 
 
 Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, 
 
 That smiling bends serene. 
 Could dream that danger, awful, vast, 
 
 Impended o'er the scene — 
 Could dream that ere an hour had sped. 
 
 That frame of sturdy oak 
 Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, 
 
 Blackened with fire and smoke? 
 
JOHN MAYNARD 
 
 407 
 
 A seaman sought the captain s side, 
 
 A moment whispered low , 
 The captain's swarthy face grew pale, 
 
 He hurried down below 
 Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp 
 
 And clear his orders came, 
 No human eflfort could avail 
 
 To quench the insidious flame- 
 
 The bad news quickly reached the deck, 
 
 It sped from lip to lip, 
 And ghastly faces everywhere 
 
 Looked from the doomed ship. 
 " Is there no hope — no chance of life ?" 
 
 A hundred lips implore : 
 " But one,'' the captain made reply, 
 
 " To run the ship on shore." 
 
 No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, 
 
 Or clouds his dauntless eye. 
 As in a sailor's measured tone 
 
 His voice responds, " Ay, Ay !' 
 Three hundred souls. — the steamer's freight 
 
 Crowd forward wild with fear. 
 While at the stern the dreadful flames 
 
 Above the deck appear. 
 
 John Maynard watched the nearing 
 
 But still with steady hand 
 He grasped the wheel and steadfastly 
 He steered the ship to land. 
 j "John Maynard," with an anxious voice 
 I The captain cries once more, 
 I " Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, 
 And we will reach the shore.'' 
 
 A sailor, whose heroic soul 
 
 That hour should yet reveal — 
 By name John Maynard, eastern born. 
 
 Stood calmly at the wheel. 
 ■' Head her southeast'' the captain shouts, 
 
 Above the smothered roar 
 " Head her southeast without delay ! 
 
 Make for the nearest shore !'' 
 
 Through flames and smoke that dauntless 
 heart 
 
 Responded firmly, still 
 Unawed, though face to face with death, 
 
 " With God's good help I will!" 
 
 The flames approach with giant strides, 
 They scorch his hands and brow ; 
 
408 
 
 WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS. 
 
 One arm disabled seeks his side, 
 Ah, he*8 conquered now ! 
 
 But no, his teeth are firmly set. 
 He crushes down the pain, — 
 
 His knee upon the staunchion pr( 
 He guides the ship again. 
 
 One moment yet ! one moment yet ! 
 
 Brave heart thy task is o'er ! 
 The pebbles grate beneath the keel. 
 
 The steamer touches shore. 
 
 Three hundred gratefiiv voices rise. 
 
 In praise to God that He 
 Ilath saved them from the fearful fire, 
 
 And from the engulfing sea. 
 
 But where is he, that helmsman bold ? 
 
 The captain saw him reel — 
 His nerveless hands released their task, 
 
 He sunk beside the wheel. 
 The waves received his lifeless corpse, 
 
 Blackened with smoke and fire. 
 God rest him i Hero never had 
 
 A nobler funeral pyre ! 
 
 WASHINGTON'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS. 
 
 BEFORE THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND, 1776. 
 
 IpIifHE time is now near at hand, which must probably determine whether 
 ^1^ Americans are to be freemen or slaves; whether they are to have 
 "^^W^ any property they can call their own ; whether their houses and 
 ■r farms are to be pillaged and destroyed, and themselves consigned 
 J to a state of wretchedness, from which no human efforts will deliver 
 them. The fate of unborn millions will now depend, under God, on the 
 courage and conduct of this army. Our cruel and unrelenting enemy 
 leaves us only the choice of a brave resistance, or the most abject sub- 
 mission. We have, therefore, to resolve to conquer or to die. 
 
 Our own, our country's honour, calls upon us for a vigorous and 
 manly exertion ; and if we now shamefully fail, we shall become infamous 
 to the whole world. Let us, then, rely on the goodness of our cause, and 
 the aid of the Supreme Being, in whose hands victory is, to animate and 
 encourage us to great and noble actions. The eyes of all our countrymen 
 are now upon us, and we shall have their blessings and praises, if happily 
 we are the instruments of saving them from the tyranny m.editated against 
 them. Lot us therefore animate and encourage each other, and show the 
 whole world, that a freeman contending for liberty on his own ground, is 
 superior to any slavish mercenary on earth. 
 
 Liberty, property, life, and hoDour are all at stake ; upon your cou- 
 rage and conduct rest the hopes of our bleeding and insulted country ; our 
 wives, children, and parents expect safety from us only ; and they have 
 every reason to believe that Heaven will crown with success so just a 
 cause. 
 
A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 409 
 
 The enemy will endeavor to intimidate by show and appearance ; 
 but remember they have been repulsed on various occasions by a few brave 
 Americans. Their cause is bad — their men are conscious of it ; and, ii 
 opposed with firmness and coolness on their first onset, with our advantage 
 of works and knowledge of the ground, the victory is most assuredly ours. 
 Every good soldier will be silent and attentive — wait for orders — and re- 
 serve his fire until he is sure of doino; execution. 
 
 A SNOW-STOBM. 
 
 CHAELES G. EASTMAN. 
 
 |1^ IS a fearful night in the winter time, 
 As cold as it ever can be ; 
 The roar of the blast is heard, like 
 the chime 
 Of the waves on an angry sea ; 
 The moon is full, but her silver light 
 The storm dashes out with its wings 
 to-night ; 
 And over the sky from south to north 
 
 Not a star is seen, as the wind esmes forth 
 In the strength of a mighty glee. 
 
 II. 
 
 All day had the snow come down — all day, 
 As it never came down before ; 
 
 And over the hills, at sunset, lay 
 Some two or three feet, or more ; 
 
 The fence was lost, and the wall of stone. 
 
410 
 
 A SNOW-STORM. 
 
 The windows blocked, and the well-curbs 
 
 gone; 
 The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, 
 And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift. 
 As it lay by the farmer's door. 
 
 The night sets in on a world of snow. 
 While the air grows sharp and chill, 
 
 And the warning roar of a fearful blow 
 Is heard on the distant hill ; 
 
 And the Norther ! See — on the mountain peak, 
 
 In his breath how the old trees writhe and 
 shriek. 
 
 He shouts on the plain. Ho, ho ! Ho, ho ! 
 
 He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow. 
 And growls with a savage will. 
 
 Ilis nose is pressed on his quivering feet ; 
 Pray, what does the dog do there ? 
 
 A farmer came from the village plain, 
 
 But he lost the traveled way ; 
 And for hours he trod, with might and main, 
 
 A path for his horse and sleigh ; 
 But colder still the cold wind blew, 
 And deeper still the deep drifts grew, 
 And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown. 
 At last in her struggles floundered down. 
 
 Where a log in a hollow lay. 
 
 In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, 
 
 She plunged in the drifting snow. 
 While her master urged, till his breath grew 
 short, 
 
 -A. \ 
 
 III. 
 
 Such a night as this to be found abroad. 
 In the drifts and the freezing air, 
 
 Sits a shivering dog in the field by the road, 
 With the snow in his shaggy hair ! 
 
 He shuts his eyes to the wind, and growls ; 
 
 lie lifts his head, and moans and howls ; 
 
 Then crouching low from the cutting sleet, 
 
 With a word and a gentle blow ; 
 But the snow was deep, and the tugs were 
 
 tight. 
 His hands were numb, and had lost their 
 
 might ; 
 So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh. 
 And strove to shelter himself till day. 
 With his coat and the buffalo. 
 
WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 
 
 411 
 
 IV. 
 
 He has given the last faint jerk of the rein 
 
 To rouse up his dying steed, 
 And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, 
 
 For help in his master's need ; 
 For a while he strives, with a wistful cry, 
 To catch a glance from his drowsy eye. 
 And wags his tail if the rude winds flap 
 The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. 
 
 And whines when he takes no heed. 
 
 V. 
 
 The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er ; 
 
 'Tis the hour of midnight past ; 
 The old trees writhe and bend no more 
 
 In the whirl of the rushing blast ; 
 
 The silent moon, with her peaceful light, 
 Looks down on the hills, with snow all white; 
 And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, 
 The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, 
 Afar on the plain are cast. 
 
 But cold and dead, by the hidden log, 
 Are they who came from the town : 
 The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, 
 
 And his beautiful Morgan brown — 
 In the wide snow-desert, far and grand. 
 With his cap on his head, and the reins in 
 
 his hand. 
 The dog with his nose on his master's feet. 
 And the mare half seen through the crusted 
 sleet. 
 Where she lay when she floundered down. 
 
 WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? 
 
 WILLIAM KNOX. 
 
 President Lincoln's Favorite Poem. 
 
 why should the spirit of mortal be 
 proud ? 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast- 
 flying cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of 
 
 the wave, 
 Man passeth from life to his rest in 
 the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
 Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
 And the voung and the old, the low and the 
 
 high 
 Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. 
 
 The infant a mother attended and loved ; 
 The mother that infant's affection who proved ; 
 The hu?;band that mother and infant who 
 
 blessed, — 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in 
 
 whose eye. 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs 
 
 are by ; 
 
 And the memory of those who loved her and 
 
 praised 
 Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 
 
 The hand of the king that the sceptre hath 
 
 borne ; 
 The brow of the priest that the mitre hath 
 
 worn ; 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. 
 Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. 
 
 The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; 
 The herdsman who climbed with his goats up 
 
 the steep ; 
 The beggar who wandered in search of his 
 
 bread. 
 Have faded awaj^ like the grass that we tread. 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the communion of 
 
 heaven ; 
 The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven; 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the 
 
 dust. 
 
412 
 
 CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 
 
 So the nmltitude goes, like the flowers or the 
 weed 
 
 That withers away to let othSrs succeed ; 
 
 So the multitude comes, even those we be- 
 hold, 
 
 To repeat every tale that has often been 
 told. 
 
 For we are the same our fathers have been ; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have 
 
 seen ; 
 We drink the same stream, and view the 
 
 same sun. 
 And run the same course our fathers have 
 
 run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers 
 
 would think ; 
 From the death we are shrinking our fathers 
 
 would shrink ; 
 To the life we are clinging they also would 
 
 cling ; 
 But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the 
 
 wing. 
 
 They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; 
 They scorned, but the heart of the haughty 
 is cold ; 
 
 They grieved, but no wail from their slum- 
 bers will come ; 
 
 They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness 
 is dumb. 
 
 They died, aye ! they died ; and we things 
 that are now. 
 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. 
 
 Who make in their dwelling a transient 
 abode, 
 
 Meet the things that they met on their pil- 
 grimage road. 
 
 Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and 
 
 pain. 
 We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; 
 And the smiles and the tears, the song and 
 
 the dirge. 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 
 
 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a 
 
 breath. 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness 
 
 of death. 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier and the 
 
 shroud, — 
 Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be 
 
 proud ? 
 
 CA UGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 
 
 CHARLES A. WILEY. 
 
 |j|j^N the Arctic ocean near the coast of Norway is situated the famous 
 W^ Maelstrom or whirlpool Many are the goodly ships that have been 
 
 & caught in its circling power, and plunged into the depths below. On 
 t a fine spring morning, near the shore opposite, are gathered a com- 
 J pany of peasants. The winter and the long night have passed away ; 
 and, in accordance with their ancient custom, tliey are holding a greeting 
 to the return of the sunlight, and the verdure of spring. Under a green 
 shade are spread, in abundance, all the luxuries their pleasant homes could 
 afford. In the grove at one side are heard the strains of music, and the 
 light step of the dance. 
 
 At the shore lies a beautiful boat, and a party near are preparing for 
 a ride. Soon all things are in readiness, and, amid the cheers of their 
 
CAUGHT IN THE MAELSTROM. 413 
 
 companions on shore, they push gayly away. The day is beautiful, and 
 they row on, and on. Weary, at length, they drop their oars to rest; but 
 they perceive their boat to be still moving. Somewhat surprised, — soon 
 it occurs to them that they are under the influence of the whirlpool. 
 
 Moving slowly and without an effort — presently faster, at length the 
 boat glides along with a movement far more delightful than with oars. 
 Their friends from the shore perceive the boat moving, and see no working 
 of the oars ; it flashes upon their minds that they are evidently within the 
 circles of the maelstrom. When the boat comes near they call to them, 
 " Beware of the whirlpool ! " But they laugh at fear, — they are too happy 
 to think of returning : " When we see there is danger then we will return." 
 Oh) that some good angel would come with warning unto them, " Unless ye 
 noio turn back ye cannot be saved." Like as the voice of God comes to the 
 soul of the impenitent, " Unless ye mend your ways ye cannot be saved." 
 
 The boat is now going at a fearful rate ; but, deceived by the moving 
 waters, they are unconscious of its rapidity. They hear the hollow 
 rumbling at the whirlpool's centre. The voices from the shore are no 
 longer audible, but every effort is being used to warn them of their danger. 
 They now, for the first time, become conscious of their situation, and head 
 the boat towards shore. But, like a leaf in the autumn gale, she quivers 
 under the power of the whirlpool. Fear drives them to frenzy ! Two of 
 the strongest seize the oars, and ply them with all their strength, and the 
 boat moves towards the shore. With joy they cherish hope ! and some, for 
 the first time in all their lives, now give thanks to God, — that they are saved. 
 But suddenly, crash, goes an oar ! and such a shriek goes up from that 
 ill-fated band, as can only be heard when a spirit lost, drops into perdition ! 
 
 The boat whirls again into its death-marked channel, and skips on 
 with the speed of the wind. The roar at the centre grinds on their ears, 
 like the grating of prison doors on the ears of the doomed. Clearer, and 
 more deafening is that dreadful roar, as nearer and still nearer the 
 vessel approaches the centre ; then whirling for a moment on that awful 
 brink, she plunges with her freight of human souls into that dreadful 
 yawning hollow, where their bodies shall lie in their watery graves till the 
 sea gives up its dead ! 
 
 And so, every year, ay, every month, thousands, passing along in 
 the boat of life, enter almost unaware the fatal circles of the wine-cup. 
 And, notwithstanding the earnest voices of anxious friends, "Beware of 
 the gutter ! of the grave ! of hell ! " they continue their course until the 
 ■''force of habit" overpowers them ; and, cursing and shrieking, they whirl 
 for a time on the crater of the maelstrom, and are plunged beiow. 
 
414 
 
 THE FIRST PARTY. 
 
 WIIW AND RAIN. 
 
 RICHARD H. STODDARD. 
 
 \TTLE the window, Winds ! 
 Rain, drip on the panes ! 
 "^^3^ There are tears and siglis in our 
 hearts and eyes, 
 And a weary weight on our brains. 
 
 The gray sea heaves and heaves, 
 On the dreary flats of sand ; 
 
 And the blasted limb of the churchyard yew, 
 It shakes like a ghostly hand ! 
 
 The dead are engulfed beneath it, 
 
 Sunk in the grassy waves; 
 But we have more dead in our hearts to-day 
 
 Than the Earth in all her graves! 
 
 THE FIRST PARTY. 
 
 JOSEPHINE POLLARD. 
 
 jISS Annabel McCarty 
 Was invited to a party, 
 " Your company from four to ten," 
 the invitation said ; 
 And the maiden was delighted 
 To think she was invited 
 To sit up till the hour when the big 
 folks went to bed. 
 
 The crazy little midget 
 Ran and told the news to Bridget, 
 Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to 
 Annabel's delight, i 
 
 And said, with accents hearty, i 
 
 " 'Twill be the swatest party 
 If ye're there yerself, me darlint ! I wish it 
 was to-night!" 
 
 The great display of frilling 
 Was positively killing ; 
 And, oh, the little booties ! and the lovely 
 sash so wide ! 
 And the gloves so very cunning ■. 
 She was altogether " stunning," 
 And the whole McCarty family regarded her 
 with pride. 
 
 They gave minute directions, 
 With copious interjections 
 Of " sit up straight !" and " don't do this or 
 that — 'twould be absurd !" 
 
 But, what with their caressing, 
 And the agony of dressing. 
 Miss Annabel McCarty didn't hear a single 
 word. 
 
 There was music, there was dancing. 
 And the sight was most entrancing, 
 As if fairyland and floral band were holding 
 jubilee; 
 There was laughing, there was pouting ; 
 There was singing, there was shouting ; 
 And old and young together made a carnival 
 of glee. 
 
 Miss Annabel McCarty 
 Was the youngest at the party. 
 And every one remarked that she was beau- 
 tifully dressed ; 
 Like a doll she sat demurely 
 On the sofa, thinking surely 
 It would never do for her to run and frolic 
 with the rest. 
 
 The noise kept growing louder ; 
 The naughty boys would crowd her ; 
 " I think you're very rude indeed !" the little 
 lady said ; 
 And then, without a warning, 
 Her home instructions scorning, 
 She screamed : " 1 want my supper — and 1 
 want to go to bed I" 
 
THE SEA-SHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 415 
 
 Now big folks who are older, 
 Need not laugh at her, nor scold hor, 
 For doubtless, if the truth were known, we've 
 often felt inclined 
 
 To leave the ball or party, 
 As did Annabel McCarty, 
 Bnt we hadn't half the courage and we 
 couldn't speak our mind ! 
 
 THE SEA-SHORE AND THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 ^ HAVE lived by the sea-shore and by the mountains. No, I am not 
 1^ going to say which is best. The one where your place is, is the best 
 A for you. But this difference is : you can domesticate mountains, 
 t but the sea is fercB naturcc. You may have a hut, or know the owner 
 1 of one, on the mountain-side ; you see a light half-way up its ascent 
 in the evening, and you know there is a home, and you might share 
 it, You have noted certain trees, perhaps ; you know the particular zone 
 where the hemlocks look so black in October, when the maples and beeches 
 have faded. All its reliefs and intaglios have electro typed themselves in 
 the medallions that hang round the walls of your memory's chamber. The 
 sea remembers nothing. It is feline. It licks your feet, — its huge flanks 
 purr very pleasantly for you ; but it will crack your bones and eat you, 
 for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam from its jaws as if nothing had 
 happened. The mountains give their lost children berries and water ; the 
 sea mocks their thirst and lets them die. The mountains have a grand, 
 stupid, lovable tranquillity ; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous intelli- 
 gence. The mountains lie about like huge ruminants, their broad backs 
 awful to look upon, but safe to handle. The sea smooths its silver scales 
 
 28 
 
416 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY. 
 
 until you cannot see their joints, — but their shining is that of a snake's 
 belly, after all. In deeper suggestiveness I find as great a difference. The 
 mountains dwarf mankind and foreshorten the procession of its long gene- 
 rations. The sea drowns out humanity and time ; it has no sympathy with 
 either ; for it belongs to eternity, and of that it sings its monotonous song 
 for ever and ever. 
 
 Yet I should love to have a little box by the sea-shore. I should 
 love to gaze out on the wild feline element from a front window of my own, 
 just as. I should love to look on a caged panther, and see it stretch its 
 shining length, and then curl over and lap its smooth sides, and by-and-by 
 begin to lash itself into rage, and show its white teeth, and spring at its 
 bars, and howl the cry of its mad, but, to me, harmless fury. 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 U^LESSINGS on thee, little man, 
 ^ra| Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 
 
 rWith thy turned up pantaloons. 
 And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
 With thy red lip, redder still 
 6 Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
 •k- With the sunshine on thy face. 
 
 Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace! 
 
 From my heart I give thee joy ; 
 
 I was once a barefoot boy. 
 
 Prince thou art — the grown-up man, 
 
 Only is republican. 
 
 Let the million-doUared ride! 
 
 Barefoot, trudging at his side. 
 
 Thou hast more than he can buy, 
 
 In the reach of ear and eye : 
 
 Outward sunshine, inward joy, 
 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy. 
 
 ! for boyhood's painless play. 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules. 
 Knowledge never learned of schools : 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
 Of the wild flower's time and place, 
 Flight of fowl, and habitude 
 Of the tenants of the wood ; 
 
 How the tortoise bears his shell. 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell. 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 How the robin feeds her young, 
 How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
 Where the whitest lilies blow. 
 Where the freshest berries grow, 
 Where the ground-nut trails its vine. 
 Where the wood-grape's clusters shine \ 
 Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
 Mason of his walls of clay. 
 And the architectural plans 
 Of gray hornet artisans ! 
 For, eschewing books and tasks, 
 Nature answers all he asks ; 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 Part and parcel of her joy, 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy. 
 
 for boyhood's time of June, 
 Crowding years in one brief moon, 
 When all things I heard or saw. 
 Me, their master, waited for I 
 
 1 was rich in flowers and trees, 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 
 For my sport the squirrel played, 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
 
Blessings on thee, little man." 
 
LINES ON A SKELETON. 
 
 417 
 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
 Langhed the brook for my delight, 
 Through the day, and through the night : 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 
 Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 
 Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
 Apples of Hesperides ! 
 Still, as my horizon grew. 
 Larger grew my riches too. 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 
 
 0, for festal dainties spread. 
 Like my bowl of milk and bread, 
 Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
 On the door-stone, gray and rude ! 
 O'er me like a regal tent. 
 Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent. 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
 While for music came the play 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 
 
 And, to light the noisy choir, 
 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
 I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
 Waited on the barefoot boy ! 
 
 Cheerily, then, my little man ! 
 Live and laugh as boyhood can ; 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
 Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison cells of pride. 
 Lose the freedom of the sod, 
 Like a colt's for work be shod, 
 Made to tread the mills of toil. 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil, 
 Happy if their track be found 
 Never on forbidden ground ; 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy ' 
 
 LINES ON A SKELETON. 
 
 !EH0LD this ruin ! 'tis a skull. 
 Once of ethereal spirit full! 
 This narrow cell was life's retreat, 
 This space was thought's mysterious 
 
 seat. 
 What beauteous pictures filled this 
 epot — 
 
 What dreams of pleasure, long forgot 1 
 Nor grief, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear. 
 Has left one trace of record there. 
 
 Beneath this mouldering canopy 
 
 Once shone the bright and busy eye : 
 
 Yet start not at that dismal void ; 
 
 If social love thaj- eye employed. 
 
 If with no lawless fire it gleamed. 
 
 But through the dew of kindness beamed, 
 
 That eye shall be forever bright 
 
 When stars and sun have lost their light. 
 
 Here, in this silent cavern, hung 
 The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; 
 If falsehood's honey it disdained. 
 And, when it could not praise, wa 
 
 chained : 
 If bold in virtue's cause it spoke. 
 Yet gentle concord never broke, 
 j That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee 
 When death unveils eternity. 
 
 Say, did these fingers delve the mine. 
 Or with its envied rubies shine ? 
 To hew the rock or wear the gem. 
 Can nothing now avail to them : 
 But if the page of truth they sought. 
 And comfort to the mourner brought, 
 These hands a richer meed shall claim 
 Than all that waits on wealth or fame! 
 
418 
 
 YAWCOB STRAUSS. 
 
 Avails it wliether bare or shod 
 Those feet the path of duty trod ? 
 If from the bower of joy they sped 
 To soothe affliction's humble bed ; 
 
 If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, 
 And home to virtue's lap returned, 
 Those feet with angel wings shall vie, 
 And tread the palace of the sky ! 
 
 THE EBB-TIDE. 
 
 R. SOUTHEY. 
 
 I^LOWLY thy flowing tide 
 jj^l Came in, old Avon ! Scarcely did mine 
 eyes, 
 As watchfully I roamed thy green- 
 wood side. 
 Perceive its gentle rise. 
 
 With many a stroke and strong 
 The laboring boatmen upward plied their 
 
 oars ; 
 Yet little way they made, tho' laboring long 
 Between thy winding shores. 
 
 Now down thine ebbing tide 
 The unlabored boat falls rapidly along ; 
 The solitary helmsman sits to guide, 
 
 And sings an idle song. 
 
 Now o'er the rocks that lay 
 So silent late the shallow current roars ; 
 
 Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way, 
 Through wider-spreading shores. 
 
 Avon, I gaze and know 
 The lesson emblemed m thy varying way ; 
 It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, 
 
 So rapidly decay. 
 
 Kingdoms which long have stood 
 And slow to strength and power attained at 
 
 last, 
 Thus from the summit of high Fortune's 
 flood. 
 They ebb to ruin fast. 
 
 Thus like thy flow appears 
 Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage. 
 Alas ! how burryingly the ebbing years 
 
 Then hasten to old age ! 
 
 YAWCOB STRAUSS. 
 
 CHARLES F. ADAMS. 
 
 HAF von funny leedle poy, 
 
 Vot gomes schust to mine knee ; 
 Der queerest schap, der Greatest rogue, 
 
 As efer you dit see. 
 He runs, und schumps, und schmashes 
 
 dings 
 In all barts ofi" der house : 
 vot oS" dot? he vas mine son, 
 [ine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 lie get der measles und der mumbs 
 
 Und eferyding dot's oudt; 
 He sbills mine glass off lager bier, 
 
 Boots schnuff indo mine kraut. 
 He fills mine pipe mit Limburg Ghee?e,- 
 
 Dot vas der roughest chouse : 
 I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy 
 
 But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
YAWCOB STRAUSS. 
 
 419 
 
 He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, 
 Und cuts mine cane in dwo, 
 
 To make der schticks to beat it mit, — 
 Mine cracious dot vas drue ! 
 
 Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
 
 Vene'er der glim I douse. 
 How gan I all dose dings epgsblam 
 
 To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? 
 
 ^^^v^:s^- 
 
 I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, 
 
 He kicks oup sooch a touse : 
 But nefer mind ; der poys vas few 
 
 Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He asks me questions sooch as dese : 
 Who baints mine nose so red ? 
 
 Who vas it cut dot schmoodth blace oudt 
 Vrom der hair ubon mine hed ? 
 
 I somedimes dink I schall go vild 
 
 Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
 Und vish vonce more I gould haf reet, 
 
 Und beaceful dimes enshoy ; 
 But ven he vas ashleep in ped, 
 
 So guiet as a mouse, 
 I prays der Lord, " Dake anyding, 
 
 But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 
 
420 ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. 
 
 ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS. 
 
 CHARLES F. BROWN. 
 
 Jl^R. SHAKER," sed I, "you see before you a Babe in the Woods, 
 so to speak, and he axes a shelter of you." 
 
 "Yay," said the Shaker, and he led the way into the 
 house, another bein sent to put my horse and wagon under 
 kiver. 
 
 A solum female, lookin somewhat like a last year's bean-pole 
 stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I 
 hunger ? To which I asserted, " A few." She went orf, and I endeavored 
 to open a conversation with the old man. 
 
 " Elder, I spect," sed I. 
 
 " Yay," he said. 
 
 "Health's good, I reckon?" 
 
 "Yay." 
 
 "What's the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness — or 
 do you devote your sarvices gratooitous ?" 
 
 "Yay." 
 
 " Storm nigh, sir ?" 
 
 "Yay." 
 
 " If the storm continues there'll be a mess underfoot, hay ?" 
 
 "Yay." 
 
 " If I may be so bold, kind sir, what's the price of that pecooler kind 
 of wesket you wear, includin trimmins ?" 
 
 "Yay." 
 
 I pawsed a minit, and, thinkin I'd be faseshus with him and see how 
 that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and 
 told him that as a yayer he had no living ekel. 
 
 He jumped up as if bilin water had been squirted into his ears, 
 groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed : 
 
 "You're a man of sin!" 
 
 He then walked out of the room. 
 
 Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and slick 
 lookin galls as I ever met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the 
 old one I'd met previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by 
 long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but their eyes spar- 
 kled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin enuff 
 
THE LAND 0" THE LEAL. 
 
 421 
 
 to make a man throw stuns at his grandmother, if they axed him to. They 
 commenst clearing away the dishes, casting shy glances at me all the time. 
 I got excited. I forgot Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I, 
 
 " My pretty dears, how air you ?" 
 
 " We air well," they solumly sed. 
 
 "Where is the old man?" said I, in a soft voice. 
 
 "Of whom dost thou speak — Brother Uriah?" 
 
 "I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. 
 Shouldn't wonder if his name wasn't Uriah." 
 
 "He has retired." 
 
 "Wall, my pretty dears," sez I, "let's have some fun. Let's play puss 
 in the corner. What say ?" 
 
 "Air you a Shaker, sir?" they asked. 
 
 "Wall, my pretty dears, I haven't arrayed my proud form in a long 
 weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I'd jine 'em. As it is, I 
 am willing to be Shaker protemporary." 
 
 They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little 
 skeery. I tawt 'em puss in the corner, "and sich like plase, and we had a 
 nice time, keepin quiet of course, so that the old man shouldn't hear. 
 When we broke up, sez I : 
 
 "My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections have you? to a 
 innersent kiss at partin ?" 
 
 " Yay," they said, and I — yayed. 
 
 THE LAND 0' THE LEAL. 
 
 LADY NAIRNE. 
 
 'M wear in' awa', Jean, 
 Like snow in a thaw, Jean ; — 
 I'm wearin' awa 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 There's nae sorrow there, Jean ; 
 I There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 1 The day is ever fair 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 You've been leal and true, Jean ; 
 Your task's ended now, Jean ! 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean ! 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean ; 
 And angels wait on me 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, Joan, 
 She was baith gude and fair, Jean ; 
 And we grudged her sair 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal ! 
 But sorrow's sel' wears past, Jean, 
 And joy's a-comin' fast, Jean : 
 The joy that's aye to last. 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal 
 
422 
 
 THE OWL. 
 
 A' our friends are gane, Jean ; 
 We've lang been left alane, Jean ; 
 We'll a' meet again 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 Now, fare ye weel, my ain Jean 
 This world's care is vain, Jean ; 
 We'll meet, an' ay' be fain, 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 AS SHIPS BECALMED. 
 
 ARTHUR H. CLOUGH. 
 
 ships becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side. 
 
 Two towers of sail, at dawn of day 
 Are scarce long leagues apart des- 
 cried. 
 
 Y When fell the night, up sprang the 
 
 !e breeze. 
 
 And all the darkling hours they plied ; 
 Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 
 
 Brief absence joined anew, to feel, 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered; 
 
 Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed 
 Or wist what first with dawn appeared. 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
 Brave barks ! — in light, in darkness too ! 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass 
 guides : 
 To that and your own selves be true. 
 
 But blithe breeze ! and great seas ! 
 
 Though ne'er that earliest parting past, 
 On your wide plain they join again, 
 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought, — 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare ; 
 
 bounding breeze, rushing seas, 
 At last, at last, unite them there. 
 
 THE OWL. 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 jN the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, 
 The spectral owl doth dwell ; 
 Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine 
 hour, 
 But at dusk he's abroad and well ! 
 i- Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with 
 J him; 
 
 All mock him outright by day ; 
 But at night, when the woods grow still and 
 dim, 
 
 The boldest will shrink away I 
 
 0, when the night falls, and roosts the 
 
 fowl. 
 Then, then, is the reign of the horned owl ! 
 
 And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and 
 bold. 
 And loveth the wood's deep gloom ; 
 
 And, with eyes like the shine of the moon- 
 stone cold. 
 
THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 423 
 
 She awaiteth her ghastly groom ; 
 Not a feather she moves, not a carol she 
 
 We know not alway 
 Who are kings by day, 
 
 
 sings, 
 
 
 
 
 As she waits in her tree so still ; 
 
 
 
 
 But when her heart heareth his flapping 
 
 
 
 
 wings. 
 She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 
 
 
 
 
 ! when the moon shines, and dogs do 
 
 
 
 
 howl, 
 
 
 
 
 Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl! 
 
 
 ^^9^^9|H 
 
 
 Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy 
 
 
 
 
 plight! 
 The owl hath his share of good : 
 
 
 
 
 If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, 
 He is lord in the dark greenwood ! 
 
 Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate, 
 They are each unto each a pride ; 
 
 
 
 
 Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark 
 fate 
 
 
 
 
 Hath rent them from all beside ! 
 
 
 
 
 So, when the night falls, and dogs do 
 howl, 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Sing, ho! for the reign of the horned 
 owl! 
 
 But the king of the night is 
 brown owl ' 
 
 the bold 
 
 THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 ^jipHE Notch of the White Mountains is a phrase appropriated to a 
 Wl^ very narrow defile, extending two miles in length, between two 
 '''^^ huge cliffs apparently rent asunder by some vast convulsion of 
 
 i nature. This convulsion was, in my own view, that of the deluge. 
 There are here, and throughout New England, no eminent proofs of 
 volcanic violence, nor any strong exhibitions of the power of earthquakes. 
 Nor has history recorded any earthquake or volcano in other countries of 
 sufficient efficacy to produce the phenomena of this place. The objects 
 rent asunder are too great, the ruin is too vast and too complete, to have 
 been accomplished by these agents. The change seems to have been 
 effected when the surface of the earth extensively subsided ; when countries 
 and continents assumed a new face ; and a general commotion of the 
 elements produced a disruption of some mountains, and merged others 
 beneath the common level of desolation. Nothino; less than this will 
 
424 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 
 
 account for the sundering of a long range of great rocks, or rather of vast 
 mountains ; or for the existing evidences of the immense force by which 
 the rupture was effected. 
 
 The entrance of the chasm is formed by two rocks, standing perpen- 
 dicularly, at the distance of twenty-two feet from each other ; one about 
 twenty feet in height, the other about twelve. Half of the space is 
 occupied by the brook mentioned as the head-stream of the Saco; the other 
 half by the road. The stream is lost and invisible beneath a mass of frag- 
 ments, partly blown out of the road, and partly thrown down by some 
 great convulsion. 
 
 When we entered the Notch, we were struck with the wild and 
 solemn appearance of every thing before us. The scale on which all the 
 objects in view were formed was the scale of grandeur only. The rocks, 
 rude and ragged in a manner rarely paralleled, were fashioned and piled by 
 a hand operating only in the boldest and most irregular manner. As we 
 advanced, these appearances increased rapidly. Huge masses of granite, 
 of every abrupt form, and hoary with a moss which seemed the product of 
 ages, recalling to the mind the saxum vetustum of Virgil, speedily rose to 
 a mountainous height. Before us the view widened fast to the southeast. 
 Behind us it closed almost instantaneously, and presented nothing to the 
 eye but an impassable barrier of mountains. 
 
 About half a mile from the entrance of the chasm, we saw, in full 
 view, the most beautiful cascade, perhaps, in the world. It issued from a 
 mountain on the right, about eight hundred feet above the subjacent valley, 
 and at the distance from us of about two miles. The stream ran over a 
 series of rocks almost perpendicular, with a course so little broken as to 
 preserve the appearance of a uniform current ; and yet so far disturbed as 
 to be perfectly white. The sun shone with the clearest splendor, from a 
 station in the heavens the most advantageous to our prospect ; and the 
 cascade glittered down the vast steep like a stream of burnished silver. 
 
 THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 tTlliif^HIS is the Arsenal. From floor to 
 
 Like a huge organ, rise the burn- 
 ished arms ; 
 But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing 
 Startles the villages with strange alarms. 
 
 Ah ! what a sound will rise — how wild and 
 dreary — 
 When the death-angel touches those swift 
 keys! 
 Wliat loud lament and dismal Miserere 
 Will mingle with their awful symphonies. 
 
THE CHARCOAL MAN. 
 
 425 
 
 I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — 
 The cries of agony, the endless groan, 
 
 Which, through the ages that have gone be- 
 fore us, 
 In long reverberations reach our own. 
 
 On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer , 
 Through Cimbric forest roars the Norse- 
 man's song; 
 
 And loud, amid the universal clamor. 
 
 O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. 
 
 I hear the Florentine, who from his palace 
 Wheels out his battle bell with fearful 
 din; 
 
 And Aztec priests upon their teocallis 
 
 Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' 
 
 The tumult of each sacked and burning vil- 
 lage; 
 The shout that every prayer for mercy 
 drowns ; 
 The soldiers' revel in the midst of pillage ; 
 The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; 
 
 Is it, man, with such discordant noises, 
 With such accursed instruments as these, 
 
 Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly 
 voices. 
 And jarrest the celestial harmonies? 
 
 Were half the power that fills the world with 
 
 terror. 
 
 Were half the wealth bestowed on camps 
 
 and courts, 
 
 Given to redeem the human mind from error. 
 
 There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; 
 
 The warrior's name would be a name ab- 
 horred ; 
 
 And every nation that should lift again 
 Its hand against a brother, on its forehead 
 
 Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain. 
 
 Down the dark future, through long genera- 
 tions, 
 The echoing sounds grow fainter and then 
 cease : 
 And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, 
 I hear once more the voice of Christ say, 
 " Peace! " 
 
 The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched 
 asunder, 
 
 The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — 
 And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, 
 
 The diapason of the cannonade. 
 
 Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals 
 The blast of war's great organ shakes the 
 skies; 
 
 But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, 
 The holy melodies of love arise. 
 
 THE CHARCOAL MAN. 
 
 J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 plj|i|RHOUGII rudely blows the wintry blast, 
 yjimmi And sifting snows fall white and fast, 
 4|^^^ Mark Haley drives along the street, 
 *| Perched high upon his wagon seat ; 
 
 •r His sombre face the storm defies, 
 J And thus from morn till eve he cries, — 
 
 " Charco' ! charco' !" 
 While echo faint and far replies, — 
 
 " Hark, ! Hark, !" 
 " Charco' !" — " Hark, !"-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' ! charco' !" 
 And manj' a roguish lad replies, — 
 
 " Ark, ho! ark, ho !" 
 " Charco' !"-" Ark, ho !"-Such various sounds 
 Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. 
 
426 
 
 DOW'S FLAT— 1856. 
 
 Thus all the cold and wintry day 
 He labors much for little pay ; 
 Yet feels no less of happiness 
 Than many a richer man, I guess, 
 When through the shades of eve he spies 
 The light of his own home, and cries,— 
 
 " Charco' ! charco' !" 
 And Martha from the door replies,— 
 
 " Mark, ho ! Mark, ho !" 
 " Charco' !"-" Mark, ho!"-Such joy abounds 
 "When he has closed his daily rounds. 
 
 The hearth is warm, the fire is bright. 
 And while his hand, washed clean and white, 
 Holds Martha's tender hand once more, 
 His glowing face bends fondly o'er 
 The crib wherein his darling lies, 
 
 And in a coaxing tone he cries, 
 
 "Charco' ! charco' !" 
 And baby with a laugh replies, — 
 
 " Ah, go! ah, go !" 
 "Charco' !"-"Ah, go;" — while at the sounds 
 The mother's heart with gladness bounds. 
 
 Then honored be the charcoal man ! 
 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, — 
 
 " ChaiW ! charco' !" 
 While mocking echo still replies, — 
 
 " Hark, ! hark, !" 
 " Charco' ! Hark, !" Long may these sounds 
 Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! 
 
 DOW'S FLAT— 185Q. 
 
 F. BRET HARTE. 
 
 jOW'S Flat. That's its name. 
 And I reckon that you 
 Are a stranger ? The same ? 
 
 Well, I thought it was true. 
 For thar isn't a man on the river as 
 C4,a't spot the place at first view. 
 
 It was called after Dow,— 
 
 Which the same was an ass, — 
 And as to the how 
 
 That the thing came to pass, — 
 Just tie up your boss to that buckeye, and 
 sit ye down here in the grass : 
 
 You see this yer Dow 
 
 Hed the worst kind of luck ; 
 He slipped up somehow 
 
 On each thing that he struck. 
 Why, ef he'd ha' straddled that fence-rail, 
 the derned thing 'ed get up and buck. 
 
 He mined on the bar 
 
 Till he couldn't pay rates ; 
 He was smashed by a car 
 
 When he tunnelled with Bates ; 
 And right on the top of his trouble kom his 
 wife and five kids from the States. 
 
 It was rough — mighty rough ; 
 
 But the boys they stood by. 
 
 And they brought him the stuff 
 
 For a house on the sly ; 
 
 And the old woman — well, she did washing, 
 
 and took on when no one was nigh. 
 
 But this yer luck o' Dow's 
 
 Was so powerful moan 
 That the spring near his house 
 Dried right up on the green ; 
 And he sunk forty feet down for water, but 
 nary a drop to be seen. 
 
 Then the bar petered out. 
 
 And the boys wouldn't stay -. 
 And the chills got about. 
 And his wife fell away ; 
 But Dow in his well, kept a peggin' in his 
 usual ridikilous way. 
 
 One day, — it was June, 
 
 And a year ago, jest, — 
 This Dow kem at noon 
 To his work, like the rest, 
 j With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and 
 j a Derringer hid in his breast. 
 
MOUNTAINS. 
 
 427 
 
 He goes to the well, 
 
 For 
 
 you see the dern cuss bed struck— 
 
 And he stands on the brink, 
 
 
 "Water?"— beg your parding, young 
 
 And stops for a spell. 
 
 
 man, there you lied. 
 
 Just to listen and think ; 
 
 
 
 For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir,) 
 
 
 It was gold, in the quartz, 
 
 you see, kinder made the cuss blink. 
 
 
 And it ran all alike ; 
 
 His two ragged gals 
 
 
 I reckon five oughts 
 
 Was the worth of that strike ; 
 
 In the gulch were at play, 
 
 And 
 
 that house with the coopilow's his'n— 
 which the same isn't bad for a Pike. 
 
 And a gownd that was Sal's 
 
 
 Kinder flapped on a bay ; 
 
 
 
 Not much for a man to be leavin', but his 
 
 
 
 all, — as I've heerd the folks say. 
 
 
 Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; 
 And the thing of it is 
 
 And,— that's a pert boss 
 
 
 That he kinder got that 
 
 Thet you've got, ain't it now ? 
 
 
 Through sheer contrariness ; 
 
 What might be her cost? 
 
 For 
 
 'twas water the derned cuss was seekin'; 
 
 Eh ? !— Well, then, Dow,— 
 
 
 and his luck made him certain to miss. 
 
 Let's see,— well, that forty-foot grave wasn't 
 
 
 
 his, sir, that day, anyhow. 
 
 
 Thet's so. Thar's your way 
 To the left of yon tree ; 
 
 For a blow of his pick 
 
 
 But — a — look h'yur, say ! 
 
 Sorter caved in the side, 
 
 
 Won't you come up to tea ? 
 
 And he looked and turned sick. 
 
 No? 
 
 Well, then, the next time you're passin' ; 
 
 Then he trembled and cried. 
 
 
 and ask after Dow, — and thet's me. 
 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 MES. MARY HOWITT. 
 
 |ijjPj|HEE,E is a charm connected with mountains, so powerful that the 
 'W&^ merest mention of them, the merest sketch of their magnificent 
 '^'^^ features, kindles the imagination, and carries the spirit at once into 
 
 J the bosom of their enchanted regions. How the mind is filled 
 with their vast solitude ! how the inward eye is fixed on their silent, 
 their sublime, their everlasting peaks ! How our heart 'bounds to the 
 music of their solitary cries, to the tinkle of the gushing rills, to the sound 
 of their cataracts ! How inspiriting are the odors that breathe fi'om the 
 upland turf, from the rock-hung flower, from the hoary and solemn pine ! 
 how beautiful are those lights and shadows thrown abroad, and that fine, 
 transparent haze which is diffused over the valleys and lower slopes, as 
 over a vast, inimitable picture ! 
 
 At the autumnal season, the ascents of our own mountains are most 
 practicable. The heat of summer has dried up the moisture with which 
 
428 
 
 MOUNTAINS. 
 
 winter rains saturate the spongy turf of the hollows ; and the atmosphere, 
 clear and settled, admits of the most extensive prospects. Whoever 
 
 has not ascended our 
 ^^^^ mountains knows 
 
 little of the beauties 
 of this beautiful is- 
 land. Whoever has 
 not climbed their 
 long and heathy as- 
 cents, and seen the 
 trembling mountain 
 flowers, the glowing 
 moss, the richly 
 tinted lichens at his 
 feet ; and scented 
 the fresh aroma of 
 the uncultivated sod, 
 and of the spicy 
 shrubs ; and heard 
 the bleat of the flock 
 across their solitary 
 expanses, and the 
 wild cry of the moun- 
 tain plover, the ra- 
 ven, or the eagle; 
 and seen the rich 
 and russet hues of 
 distant slopes and 
 eminences, the livid 
 gashes of ravines and precipices, the white glittering line of falling waters, 
 and the cloud tumultuously whirling round the lofty summit; and then 
 stood panting oh that summit, and beheld the clouds alternately gather and 
 break over a thousand giant peaks and ridges of every varied hue, but all 
 silent as images of eternity ; and cast his gaze over lakes and forests, and 
 smoking towns, and wide lands to the very ocean, in all their gleaming 
 and reposing beauty, knows nothing of the treasures of pictorial wealth 
 which his own country possesses. 
 
 But when we let loose the imagination from even these splendid 
 scenes, and give it free charter to range through the far more glorious 
 ridges of continental mountains, through Alps, Apennines, or Andes, how 
 
OLD TIMES AND NEW. 
 
 429 
 
 is it possessed and absorbed by all the awful magnificence of their scener^r 
 and character ! 
 
 OLD TIMES AND NEW. 
 
 A. C. SPOONER. 
 
 IMWAS in my easy chair at home, 
 ^^ About a week ago, 
 
 I sat and puffed my light cigar. 
 As usual, you must know. 
 
 I mused upon the Pilgrim flock, 
 Whose luck it was to land 
 
 Upon almost the only Rock 
 Among the Plymouth sand. 
 
 In my mind's eye, I saw them leave 
 
 Their weather beaten bark — 
 Before them spread the wintry wilds. 
 
 Behind, rolled Ocean dark. 
 
 Alone that noble handful stood 
 While savage foes lurked nigh — 
 
 Their creed and watchword, " Trust in God, 
 And keep your powder dry." 
 
 Imagination's pencil then 
 
 That first stern winter painted, 
 When more than half their number died 
 
 And stoutest spirits fainted. 
 
 A tear unbidden filled one eye, 
 
 My smoke had filled the other. 
 One sees strange sights at such a time. 
 
 Which quite the senses bother. 
 
 I knew I was alone — but lo ! 
 
 (Let him who dares, deride me ;) 
 I looked, and drawing up a chair, 
 
 Down sat a man beside me. 
 
 His dress was ancient, and his air 
 Was somewhat strange and foreign ; 
 
 He civilly returned my stare, 
 And said, " I'm Richard Warren. 
 
 " You'll find my name among the list 
 
 Of hero, sage and martyr. 
 Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed 
 
 The first New England charter. 
 
 " I could some curious facta impart — 
 Perhaps, some wise suggestions — 
 
 But then I'm bent on seeing sights, 
 And running o'er with questions." 
 
 " Ask on," said I ; " I'll do my best 
 
 To give you information. 
 Whether of private men you ask. 
 
 Or our renowned nation." 
 
 Says he, " First tell me what is that 
 In your compartment narrow. 
 
 Which seems to dry my eye-balls up, 
 And scorch my very marrow." 
 
 His finger pointed to the grate. 
 
 Said I, " That's Lehigh coal. 
 Dug from the earth," — he shook his head- 
 
 " It is, upon my soul !" 
 
 I then took up a bit of stick, 
 
 One end as black as night. 
 And rubbed it quick across the hearth. 
 
 When, lo ! a sudden light ! 
 
 My guest drew back, uproUed his eyes, 
 And strove his breath to catch ; 
 
 "What necromancy's that?" he cried. 
 Quoth I, "A friction match." 
 
 Upon a pipe just overhead 
 
 I turned a little screw, 
 When forth, with instantaneous flash, 
 
 Three streams of lightning flew. 
 
 Uprose my guest: "Now Heaven me sav 
 
 Aloud he shouted ; then, 
 " Is that hell-fire ?" " 'Tis gas," said I, 
 
 " We call it hydrogen." 
 
 Then forth into the fields we strolled ; 
 
 A train came thundering by. 
 Drawn by the snorting iron steed 
 
 Swifter than eagles fly. 
 
430 
 
 BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 
 
 Rumbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked, 
 Far streamed the smoky cloud ; 
 
 Echoed the hills, the valleys shook, 
 The flying forest bowed. 
 
 Down on his knees, with hand upraised 
 
 In worship, Warren fell; 
 " Great is the Lord our God," cried he; 
 
 " He doeth all things well. 
 
 Fve seen his chariots of fire, 
 
 The horsemen, too, thereof; 
 Oh may I ne'er forget his ire, 
 
 Nor at his threatenings scoff." 
 
 " Rise up, my friend, rise up," said I, 
 
 " Your terrors all are vain. 
 That was no chariot of the sky, 
 
 'Twas the New York mail train." 
 
 We stood within a chamber small — 
 
 Men came the news to know 
 From Worcester, Springfield and New York, 
 
 Texas and Mexico. 
 
 It came — it went — silent and sure — 
 He stared, smiled, burst out laughing ; 
 
 "What witchcraft's that?" "It's what we 
 call 
 Magnetic telegraphing." 
 
 Once more we stepped into the street ; 
 
 Said Warren, " What is that 
 Which moves along across the way 
 
 As smoothly as a cat ? 
 
 " I mean the thing upon two lega. 
 
 With feathers on its head — 
 A monstrous hump below its waiat 
 
 Large as a feather-bed. 
 
 " It has the gift of speech, I hear; 
 
 But sure it can't be human !" 
 " My amiable friend," said I, 
 
 " That's what we call a woman !" 
 
 " A woman ! no — it cannot be," 
 Sighed he, with voice that faltered : 
 
 " I loved the women in my day, 
 But oh ! they're strangely altered." 
 
 I showed him then a new machine 
 For turning eggs to chickens — 
 
 A labor-saving hennery, 
 
 That beats the very dickens ! 
 
 Thereat he strongly grasped my hand, 
 
 And said, " 'Tis plain to see 
 This world is so transmogrified 
 
 'Twill never do for me. 
 
 " Your telegraphs, your railroad-trains. 
 Your gas-lights, friction matches, 
 
 Your hump-backed women, rocks for coal 
 Your thing which chickens hatches, 
 
 " Have turned the earth so upside down, 
 
 No peace is left within it ;" 
 Then whirling round upon his heel, 
 
 He vanished in a minute. 
 
 BATTLE SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 
 
 MICHAEL ALTENBUEG. 
 
 jEAR not, little flock ! the foe 
 Who madly seeks your overthrow. 
 
 Dread not his rage and power ; 
 What though your courage some- 
 times faints ? 
 His seeming triumph o'er God's 
 sainta 
 Lasta but a little hour. 
 
 Be of good cheer ; your cause belongs 
 To Him who can avenge your wrongs, 
 
 Leave it to Him, our Lord. 
 Though hidden now from all our eyes, 
 He sees the Gideon who shall rise 
 
 To save us, and His word. 
 
 As true as God's own word is true, 
 
OLD. 
 
 431 
 
 Not earth or hell with all their crew 
 
 Amen, Lord Jesus ; grant our praver ! 
 
 Against us shall prevail. 
 
 Great Captain, now thine arm make bare ; 
 
 
 Fight for us once again ! 
 
 A jest and by-word are they grown ; 
 
 So shall the saints and martyrs raise 
 
 God is with us, we are his own, 
 
 A mighty chorus to thy praise, 
 
 Our victory cannot fail. 
 
 World without end ! Amen. 
 
 OLD. 
 
 RALPH HOYT. 
 
 |Y the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
 Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing ; 
 Oft I marked him sitting there 
 alone. 
 All the landscape like a page pe- 
 rusing : 
 
 Poor, unknown, 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed 
 hat, 
 Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding ; 
 Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat. 
 Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding ; 
 There he sat ! 
 Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed 
 hat. 
 
432 
 
 ULD. 
 
 Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, 
 No one sympathizing, no one heeding, 
 
 None to love him for his thin, gray hair, 
 And the furrows all so mutely pleading 
 Age and care : 
 
 Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. 
 
 It was Summer, and we went to school. 
 Dapper country lads, and little maidens, 
 
 Taught the motto of the "dunce's stool," 
 Its grave import still my fancy ladens : 
 " Here's a fool ! " 
 
 It was Summer and we went to school. 
 
 When the stranger seemed to mark our play 
 Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted. 
 
 I remember well, too well, that day ! 
 Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, 
 "Would not stay, 
 
 "When the stranger seemed to mark our play. 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spell : 
 Ah ! to me her name was always Heaven ! 
 
 She besought him all his grief to tell : 
 (I was then thirteen and she eleven), 
 Isabel ! 
 
 One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. 
 
 " Angel," said he sadly, " I am old ; 
 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
 Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." 
 
 Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow ; 
 Down it rolled ! 
 " Angel," said he sadly, " I am old." 
 
 " I have tottered here to look once more 
 On the pleasant scene where I delighted 
 
 In the careless, happy days of yore. 
 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core : 
 
 I have tottered here once more. 
 
 " All the picture now to me how dear ; 
 
 E'en this grave old rock, where I am seated. 
 Is a jewel worth my journey here ; 
 
 Ah, that such a scene must be completed 
 With a tear ! 
 All the picture now to me how dear ! 
 
 " Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same : 
 There's the very step I so oft mounted ; 
 
 There's the window creaking in its frame. 
 And the notches that I cut and counted 
 For the game : 
 Old stone school-house ! — it is still the same. 
 
 " In the cottage, yonder, I was born ; 
 
 Long my happy home that humble dwelling 
 There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, 
 There the spring, with limpid nectar swell- 
 ing : 
 
 Ah, forlorn ! 
 In the cottage, yonder, I was born. 
 
 " Those two gateway sycamores you see 
 Then were planted just so far asunder. 
 
 That long well-pole from the path to free. 
 And the wagon to pass safely under : 
 Ninety-three ! 
 
 Those two gateway sycamores you see. 
 
 " There's the orchard where we used to climb 
 When my mates and I were boys together, 
 Thinking nothing of the flight of time, 
 Fearing naught but work and rainy 
 weather : 
 
 Past its prime ! 
 There's the orchard where we used to climb. 
 
 " There's the rude, three-cornered chestnut 
 rails. 
 Round the pasture where the flocks were 
 grazing. 
 Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails — 
 In the crops of buckwheat we were raising : 
 Traps and trails ! 
 There's the rude three-cornered chestnut rails. 
 
 "There's the mill that ground our yellow 
 grain : 
 Pond, and river still serenely flowing ; 
 Cot, there resting in the shaded lane. 
 
 Where the lily of my heart was blowing: 
 Mary Jane ! 
 There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. 
 
 " There's the gate on which I used to swing, 
 Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red 
 stable. 
 But alas ! no more the morn shall bring 
 That dear group around my father's table. 
 Taken wing ! 
 There's the gate on which I used to swing. 
 
THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 
 
 433 
 
 "I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 
 Yon green meadow was our place for play- 
 ing- 
 That old tree can tell of sweet things said 
 When around it Jane and I were straying; 
 She is dead ! 
 I am fleeing — all I loved have fled. 
 
 " Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, 
 Tracing silently life's changeful story, 
 
 So familiar to my dim old eye, 
 
 Points to seven that are now in glory 
 There on high : 
 
 Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky ! 
 
 " Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 
 Guided thither by an angel mother ; 
 
 Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; 
 Sire and sisters, and my little brother, 
 Gone to God ! 
 
 Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. 
 
 " There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways : 
 Bless the holy lesson ! — but ah, never 
 
 Shall I hear again those songs of praise — 
 Those sweet voices — silent now forever ; 
 Peaceful days ! 
 
 There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. 
 
 " There my Mary blessed me with her hand 
 When our souls drank in the nuptial 
 blessing. 
 Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, 
 
 Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ; 
 Broken band ! 
 There my Mary blessed me with her hand. 
 
 " I have come to see that grave once more, 
 And the sacred place where we delighted, 
 
 Where we worshipped, in the days of yore. 
 Ere the garden of my heart was blighted 
 To the core ; 
 
 I have come to see that grave once more. 
 
 " Angel," said he sadly, "I am old ; 
 
 Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow ; 
 Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." 
 
 In his eye another pearl of sorrow: 
 Down it rolled, 
 "Angel," said he sadly, " I am old." 
 
 By the wayside, on a mossy stone, 
 
 Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ; 
 Still I marked him sitting there alone. 
 All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; 
 Poor, unknown ! 
 I By the wayside, on a mossy stone. 
 
 THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 
 
 EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 ^^pHE usual approach to Arnheim was by the river. The visitor left 
 
 ^^ the city early in the morning. During the forenoon he passed 
 
 "^^'^ between shores of a tranquil and domestic beauty, on which grazed 
 
 k innumerable sheep, their white fleeces spotting the vivid green of 
 
 J rolling meadows. By degrees the idea of cultivation subsided into 
 
 that of merely pastoral care. This slowly became merged in a 
 
 sense of retirement — this again in a consciousness of solitude. As the 
 
 evening approached, the channel grew more narrow ; the banks more and 
 
 more precipitous ; and these latter were clothed in richness, more profuse, 
 
 and more sombre foliage. The water increased in transparency. The 
 
 stream took a thousand turns, so that at no moment could its gleaming 
 
 surface be seen for a greater distance than a furlong. At every instant the 
 
434 
 
 THE DOMAIN OF ARNIIEIM. 
 
 vessel seemed imprisoned within an enchanted circle, having insuperable 
 and impenetrable walls of foliage, a roof of ultra-marine satin, and no floor 
 
 APPKOACH TO AKNHEIM. 
 
 — the keel balancing itself with admirable nicety on that of a phantom 
 bark which, by some accident having been turned upside down, floated in 
 constant company with the substantial one, for the purpose of sustaining it. 
 
THE DOMAIN OF ARNHEIM. 435 
 
 The channel now became a gorge — although the term is somewhat in- 
 applicable, and I employ it merely because the language has no word which 
 better represents the most striking — not the most distinctive — feature of 
 the scene. The character of gorge was maintained only in the height 
 and parallelism of the shores ; it was altogether lost in their other traits. 
 The walls of the ravine through which the water still tranquilly flowed, 
 arose to such an elevation, and were so precipitous as in a great measure, to 
 shut out the light of day ; while the long plume-like moss which depended 
 densely from the intertwining shrubberies overhead, gave the whole chasm 
 an air of funereal gloom. The windings became more frequent and more 
 intricate, and seemed often as if returning in upon themselves, so that 
 the voyager had long lost all idea of direction. 
 
 Having threaded the mazes of this channel for some hours, the gloom 
 deepening every moment, a sharp and unexpected turn of the vessel brought 
 it suddenly, as if dropped from heaven, into a circular basin of very con- 
 siderable extent when compared with the width of the gorge .... The 
 visitor, shooting suddenly into this bay from out of the gloom of the ravine, 
 is delighted, but astounded by the full orb of the declining sun, which he 
 had supposed to be already far below the horizon, but which now confronts 
 him, and forms the sole termination of an otherwise limitless vista seen 
 through another chasm-like rift in the hills. 
 
 But here the voyager quits the vessel which has borne him so far, 
 and descends into a light canoe of ivory, stained with arabesque devices 
 in vivid scarlet, both within and without. The poop and beak of this boat 
 arise high above the water, with sharp points, so that the general form is 
 that of an irregular crescent. It lies on the surface of the bay with the 
 proud grace of the swan. On its ermined floor reposes a single feathery 
 paddle of satin-wood ; but no oarsman or attendant is to be seen. The 
 guest is bidden to be of good cheer — that the Fates will take care of him. 
 The larger vessel disappears, and he is left alone in the canoe, which lies 
 apparently motionless in the middle of the lake. While he considers what 
 course to pursue, however, he becomes aware of a gentle movement in the 
 fairy bark. It slowly surges itself around until its prow points toward 
 the sun. It advances with a gentle but gradually accelerated velocity, 
 while the slight ripples it creates break about the ivory sides in divinest 
 melody, and seem to offer the only possible explanation of the soothing 
 yet melancholy music for whose unseen origin the bewildered voyager 
 looks around him in vain. 
 
 The canoe steadily proceeds, and the rocky gate of the vista is ap- 
 proached, so that its depths can be more distinctly seen .... On drawing 
 
436 THE BUGLE. 
 
 nearer to this, however, its chasm-like appearance vanishes; a new outlet 
 from the bay is discovered to the left — in which direction the wall is also 
 seen to sweep, still following the general course of the stream. Down this 
 new opening the eye cannot penetrate very far; for the stream, accompanied 
 by the wall, still bends to the left, until both are swallowed up. 
 
 Floating gently onward, but with a velocity slightly augmented, the 
 voyager, after many short turns, finds his progress apparently barred by a 
 gigantic gate or rather door of burnished gold, elaborately covered and fret- 
 ted, and reflecting the direct rays of the now fast-sinking sun with an ef- 
 fulgence that seems to wreathe the whole surrounding forest in flames. This 
 gate is inserted in the lofty wall ; which here appears to cross the river at 
 right angles. In a few moments, however, it is seen that the main body of 
 the water still sweeps in a gentle and extensive curve to the left, the wall fol- 
 lowing it as before, while a stream of considerable volume, diverging from 
 the principal one, makes its way, with a slight ripple, under the door, and 
 is thus hidden from sight. The canoe falls into the lesser channel and 
 approaches the gate. Its ponderous wings are slowly and musically 
 expanded. The boat glides between them, and commences a rapid descent 
 into a vast amphitheatre, entirely begirt with purple mountains ; whose 
 bases are laved by a gleaming river throughout the whole extent of their 
 circuit. Meantime the whole Paradise of Arnheim bursts upon the view. 
 There is a gush of entrancing melody ; there is an oppressive sense of 
 strange sweet odor ; — there is a dream-like intermingling to the eye of tall 
 slender Eastern trees — bosky shubberies — flocks of golden and crimson 
 birds — lily-fringed lakes — meadows of violets, tulips, poppies, hyacinths 
 and tuberoses — long intertangled lines of silver streamlets — and, upspring- 
 ing confusedly from amid all, a mass of semi-Gothic, semi-Saracenic archi- 
 tecture, sustaining itself as if by miracle in mid air ; glittering in the red 
 sunlight with a hundred orioles, minarets, and pinnacles ; and seeming 
 the phantom handiwork, conjointly, of the Sylphs, of the Fairies, of the 
 Genii, and of the Gnomes. 
 
 THE BUGLE. 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 pHE splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy summits old in story : 
 
 The long light shakes across the lakes, 
 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly- 
 ing. 
 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
 dying. 
 
THE CLOUD. 
 
 437 
 
 hark ! hear ! how thin and clear, 
 
 love, they die in yon rich sky, 
 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river: 
 
 sweet and far, from cliff and scar. 
 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying : 
 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, 
 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, 
 
 dying. 
 
 dying. 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 BRING fresh showers for the thirsty 
 flowers. 
 From the seas and the streams ; 
 I bear light shade for the leaves when 
 
 J laid 
 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews 
 that waken 
 The sweet buds every one, 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 
 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain. 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below. 
 
 And their great pines groan aghast ; 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow white. 
 
 While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
 While on the towers of my skiey bowers. 
 
 Lightning, my pilot, sits ; 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder ; 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits. 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 
 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In the depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 
 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain and 
 stream, 
 
 The Spirit he loves remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's blue 
 smile. 
 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
 The sanguine surprise, with his meteor 
 eyes, 
 
 And his burning plumes outspread. 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack. 
 
 When the morning star shines dead. 
 As, on the jag of a mountain crag. 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and swings. 
 An eagle, alit, one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset may breathe, from the lit 
 sea beneath. 
 
 Its ardors of rest and love. 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall, 
 
 From the depths of heaven above. 
 With wings folded I rest on mine airy 
 nest. 
 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orb^d maiden with white fire laden, 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon. 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 
 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 
 
 Which only the angels hear. 
 May have broken the woof of my tent's thin 
 roof. 
 
 The stars peep behind her and peer : 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees. 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
 tent, 
 
 Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me on 
 high. 
 
 Are each paved with the moon and these 
 
438 
 
 I'M GROWING OLD. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, 
 
 And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and 
 swim. 
 
 When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. 
 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. 
 
 The mountains its columns be, 
 The triumphal arch, through which I march, 
 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
 When the powers of the air are chained to 
 my chair. 
 
 Is the million colored bow ; 
 The sphere-fire above, its soft colors move, 
 
 Whilst the moist earth was laughing below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water, 
 
 And the nurshng of the sky ; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean and 
 
 I change, but I cannot die. 
 But after a rain, when, with never a stain, 
 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams, with theii 
 convex gleams. 
 
 Build up the blue dome of air — 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain. 
 Like a child from the womb, like a ghost 
 from the tomb, 
 
 I arise and build it aaiain. 
 
 FM GEO WING OLD. 
 
 JOHN G 
 
 hM4 — 
 
 ■'.Y days pass pleasantly away. 
 
 My nights are blest with sweet- 
 
 i^M^ I feel no symptoms of decay, 
 
 y I have no cause to mourn or weep ; 
 
 =f My foes are impotent and shy, 
 
 J My friends are neither false nor cold ; 
 
 And yet of late, I often sigh : 
 
 " I'm growing old." 
 
 My growing talk of olden times. 
 My growing thirst for early news, 
 
 My growing apathy to rhymes, 
 My growing love of easy shoes. 
 
 My growing hate of crowds and noise. 
 My growing fear of taking cold ; 
 
 All whisper in the plainest voice, 
 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 Tm growing fonder of my staff, 
 I'm growing dimmer in the eyes, 
 
 I'm growing fainter in my laugh, 
 I'm growing deeper in my sighs, 
 
 I'm growing careless of my dress, 
 I'm growing frugal of my gold, 
 
 I'm growing wise, I'm growing — yes, 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 SAXE. 
 
 I see it in my changing taste, 
 I see it in my changing hair, 
 
 I see it in my growing waist, 
 I see it in my growing heir ; 
 
 A thousand signs proclaim the truth. 
 As plain as ever truth was told. 
 
 That even in my vaunted youth, 
 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 Ah me ! my very laurels breathe 
 The tale in my reluctant ears. 
 
 And every boon the hours bequeathe 
 But makes me debtor to the Years. 
 
 E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare 
 The secret she would fain withhold, 
 
 And tell me, in " How young you are," 
 I'm growing old. 
 
 Thanks for the years whose rapid flight 
 My sombre muse too sadly sings ! 
 
 Thanks for the gleams of golden light 
 That tint the darkness of their wings. 
 
 The light that beams from out the sky. 
 Those heavenly mansions to unfold 
 
 Where all are blest, and none may sigh 
 " I'm growing old." 
 
" My days pass pleasantly away 
 My nights are blessed with sweetest 
 I feel no symptoms of decay, 
 I have no cause to mourn or weep; 
 
 My foes are impotent and shy, 
 
 My friends are neither false nor cold; 
 
 And yet, of late, I often sigh : 
 
 • I'm growing old.' 
 
THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 439 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 BAREY CORNWALL. 
 
 
 thousand miles from land are ■we, 
 Tossing about on the stormy sea, 
 'f^^f' From billow to bounding billow 
 cast, 
 Like fleecy snow on the stormy 
 
 blast. 
 The sails are scattered abroad like 
 weeds ; 
 The strong masts shake like quivering reeds; 
 The mighty cables and iron chains, 
 The hull, which all earthly strength dis- 
 dains, 
 They strain and they crack ; and hearts like 
 
 stone 
 Their natural, hard, proud strength disown. 
 
 Up and down ' 
 From the basi 
 
 up and down ! 
 
 of the wave to the billow's 
 
 crown. 
 And amidst the flashing and feathery foam 
 The stormy petrel finds a home, 
 
 A home, if such a place may be 
 
 For her who lives on the wide, wide sea. 
 
 On the craggy ice, in the frozen air. 
 
 And only seeketh her rocky lair 
 
 To warm her young and to teach them to 
 
 spring 
 At once o'er the waves on their stormv 
 
 O'er the deep ! o'er the deep ! 
 
 Where the whale and the shark and tho 
 
 sword-fish sleep 
 Outflying the blast and the driving rain. 
 The petrel telleth her tale— in vain ; 
 For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
 Who bringeth him news of the storm un- 
 heard ! 
 Ah ! thus does the prophet of good or ill 
 Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still; 
 Yet he ne'er falters, — so, petrel, spring 
 Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing. 
 
440 
 
 IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. 
 
 SONG OF THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 Etel^he lark sings for joy in her own loved 
 
 -^£^^ In the furrowed field, by the breezes 
 fanned ; 
 
 And so revel we 
 
 In the furrowed sea, 
 As joyous and glad as the lark can be 
 
 On the placid breast of the inland lake, 
 The wild duck delights her pastime to take ; 
 
 But the petrel braves 
 
 The wild ocean waves, 
 His wing in the foaming billow he laves. 
 
 The halcyon loves in the noontide beam 
 To follow his sj)ort on the tranquil stream. 
 
 He fishes at ease 
 
 In the summer breeze, 
 But we go angling in stormiest seas. 
 
 No song note have we but a piping cry, 
 That blends with the storm when the wind is 
 high. 
 
 When the land birds wail 
 
 We sport in the gale. 
 And merrily over the ocean we sail. 
 
 IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. 
 
 GEOEGE W. CUETIS. 
 
 ippHE leaders of our Eevolution were men of whom the simple truth is 
 ' the highest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly 
 
 "^^^ sagacious, sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the 
 I truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first 
 f colonial Congress: "The Congress is the most honorable assembly 
 1 of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the 
 most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither 
 dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too earnest to be rhetori- 
 cians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a 
 temper that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick 
 Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and 
 studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so 
 familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the 
 past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech; and 
 they were profoundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the 
 adroitest mere politicians never perceive, — that ideas are the life of a 
 people; that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation; 
 and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by 
 teaching that there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no 
 moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and 
 rotted the crops in the ground. 
 
LITTLE AND GREAT. 
 
 441 
 
 The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also. 
 Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl 
 of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King, or Parliament, or the 
 English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament : 
 ''Let the Americans talk about their natural and divine rights; their 
 rights as men and citizens ; their rights from God and nature ! I am for 
 enforcing these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired 
 the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet 
 soldiers swarming over the sea, but more steadily they saw+that national 
 progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had 
 conformed to natural justice. They knew the coming wreck of property 
 and trade, but they knew more surely that Rome was never so rich as when 
 she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful 
 as when they were poorest. Farther away they read the names of Assyria, 
 Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splendor. Corn enough grew in 
 the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They 
 were merchant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivaled by their sails 
 upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world. 
 
 "Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with excess of 
 luxury and life. Yes: but you remember the king who had built his 
 grandest palace, and was to occupy it upon the morrow; but when the 
 morrow came the palace was a pile of ruins. " Woe is me !" cried the 
 King, "who is guilty of this crime?" "There is no crime," replied the 
 sage at his side ; " but the mortar was made of sand and water only, and 
 the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old empires, because the 
 governors forgot to put justice into their governments. 
 
 LITTLE AND GREAT. 
 
 CHARLES MACKAY. 
 
 ^1^ TRAVELER through a dusty 
 road, 
 Strewed acorns on the lea ; 
 And one took root and sprouted up, 
 eT And grew into a tree. 
 
 § Love sought its shade at evening 
 
 T time, 
 
 To breathe his early vows ; 
 And age was pleased, in heats of noon. 
 To bask beneath its boughs. 
 
 The dormouse loved its dangling twigs. 
 The birds sweet music bore ; 
 
 It stood a glory in its place, 
 A blessing evermore. 
 
 A little spring had lost its way 
 
 Amid the grass and fern ; 
 A passing stranger scooped a well, 
 
 Where weary men might turn. 
 
442 
 
 LITTLE AND GREAT. 
 
 He walked in it, and hung with care 
 
 A ladle at the brink ; 
 He thought not of the deed he did, 
 
 But judged that Toil might drink. 
 
 It shone upon a genial mind. 
 And lo ! its light became 
 
 A lamp of life, a beacon ray, 
 A monitory flame 
 
 He passed again — and lo ! the well. 
 
 By summers never dried, 
 Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues. 
 
 And saved a life ' 
 
 A dreamer dropped a random thought ; 
 
 'Twas old — and yet 'twas new, 
 A simple fancy of the brain. 
 
 But strong in being true. 
 
 The thought was small— its issue great. 
 
 A watch-fire on the hill. 
 It sheds its radiance far adown. 
 
 And cheers the valley still. 
 
 A nameless man, amid a crowd 
 That thronged the daily mart, 
 
 Let fall a word of hope and lovo, 
 Unstudied, from the heart. 
 
BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 443 
 
 A whisper on the tumult thrown, 
 
 germ ! fount ! word of love ! 
 
 A transitory breath, 
 
 thought at random cast ! 
 
 It raised a brother from the dust, 
 
 Ye were but little at the first, 
 
 It saved a soul from death. 
 
 But mighty at the last ! 
 
 BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 
 JAMES W. WATSON. 
 
 i''? 
 
 THE snow, the beautiful snow, 
 Filling the sky and the earth below ! 
 Over the house-tops, 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 a frolicsome freak. 
 Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, 
 Pure as an angel and fickle as love ! 
 
 the snow, the beautiful snow ! 
 How the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! 
 Whirring about in its maddening fun. 
 It plays in its glee with every one. 
 Chasing, 
 
 Laughing, 
 
 Hurrying by, 
 It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; 
 And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, 
 Snap at the crystals that eddy around. 
 The town is alive, and its heart in a glow 
 To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 
 
 How the wild crowd goes swaying along, 
 Hailing each other with humor and song ! 
 How the gay sledges like meteors flash by, — 
 Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye. 
 Ringing, 
 
 Swinging, 
 
 Dashing they go 
 Over the crest of the beautiful snow: 
 Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, 
 To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing 
 by; 
 
 30 
 
 To be trampled and tracked by the thou- 
 sands of feet 
 
 Till it blends with the horrible filth in the 
 street. 
 
 Once I was pure as the snow, — but I fell : 
 Fell, like the snowflakes, from heaven— to 
 
 hell; 
 Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street : 
 Fell, to be scofi"ed, to be spit on, and beat. 
 Pleading, 
 Cursing, 
 
 Dreading to die, 
 Selling my soul to whoever would buy, 
 Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, 
 Hating the living and fearing the dead. 
 Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? 
 And yet I was once like this beautiful snow ! 
 
 Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
 With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its 
 
 glow; 
 Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — 
 Flattered and sought for the charm of my 
 
 face. 
 Father, 
 
 Mother, 
 
 Sisters all, 
 God, and myself I have lost by my fall. 
 The veriest wretch that goes shivering by 
 Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too 
 
 nigh ; 
 For of all that is on or about me, I know 
 There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful 
 
 How strange it should be that this beautiful 
 snow 
 
444 
 
 THE BIRTHDAY OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! 
 
 Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my 
 
 How strange it would be, when the night 
 
 moan 
 
 comes again, 
 
 To be heard in the crash of the crazy town. 
 
 If the snow and the ice struck my desperate 
 
 Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming 
 
 brain ! 
 
 down; 
 
 Fainting, 
 
 To lie and to die in my terrible woe, 
 
 Freezing, 
 
 With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful 
 
 Dying alone, 
 
 snow! 
 
 TEE BIRTEBAY OF WASEINGTON. 
 
 RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 iijPpHE birlhday of the " Father of his Country !" May it ever be 
 ^M^ freshly remembered by American hearts ! May it ever re-awaken 
 in them a fihal veneration for his memory; ever re-kindle the fires 
 of patriotic regard for the country which he loved so well, to which 
 f he gave his youthful vigor and his youthful energy, during the 
 
 "^ perilous period of the early Indian warfare ; to which he devoted 
 
 his life in the maturity of his powers, in the field ; to which again he 
 offered the counsels of his wisdom and his experience, as president of the 
 convention that framed our Constitution; which he guided and directed 
 while in the chair of state, and for which the last prayer of his earthly 
 supplication was ofiered up, when it came the moment for him so well, and 
 so grandly, and so calmly, to die. He was the first man of the time in 
 which he grew. His memory is first and most sacred in our love, and 
 ever hereafter, till the last drop of blood shall freeze in the last American 
 heart, his name shall be a spell of power and of might. 
 
 Yes, gentlemen, there is one personal, one vast felicity, which no man 
 can share with him. It was the daily beauty, and towering and matchless 
 glory of his life which enabled him to create his country, and at the same 
 time, secure an undying love and regard from the whole American people. 
 " The first in the hearts of his countrymen !" Yes, first ! He has our first 
 and most fervent love. Undoubtedly there were brave and wise and good 
 men, before his day, in every colony. But the American nation, as a nation, 
 I do not reckon to have begun before 1774. And the first love of that 
 Young America was Washington. The first word she lisped was his name. 
 Her earliest breath spoke it. It still is her proud ejaculation ; and it will 
 be the last gasp of her expiring life ! Yes ; others of our great men have 
 been appreciated — many admired by all ; — but him we love ; him we all 
 
The beautiful snow, Filling the sky and the earth below!' 
 
A TAILOR'S POEM ON EVENING. 
 
 445 
 
 love. About and around him we call up no dissentient and discordant 
 and dissatisfied elements — no sectional prejudice nor bias —no party, no 
 creed, no dogma of politics. None of these shall assail him. Yes ; when 
 the storm of battle blows darkest and rages highest, the memory of Wash- 
 ington shall nerve every American arm, and cheer every American heart. 
 It shall relume that Promethean fire, that sublime flame of patriotism, that 
 devoted love of country which his words have commended, which his 
 example has consecrated : 
 
 " Where may the wearied eye repose, 
 
 When gazing on the great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 Yes — one — the first, the last, the best. 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeathed the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one.'' 
 
 A TAILOR'S POEM ON EVENING, 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 F^AY hath put on his jacket, and 
 around 
 His burning bosom buttoned it with 
 ru' stars. 
 
 Here will I lay mo on the velvet grass, 
 That is like padding to earth's meagre 
 ribs. 
 And hold communion with the things about 
 
 me. 
 Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid 
 That binds the skirt of night's descending 
 
 robe! 
 The thin leaves, quivering on their silken 
 
 threads. 
 Do make a music like to rustling satin, 
 As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. 
 
 Ha ! what is this that rises to my touch, 
 So like a cushion ? Can it be a cabbage ? 
 It is, it is that deeply injured flower. 
 Which boys do flout us with ; — but yet I love 
 thee. 
 
 Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. 
 Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright 
 As these, thy puny brethren ; and thy breath 
 Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air ; 
 But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, 
 Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences. 
 And growing portly in his sober garments. 
 
 Is that a swan that rides upon the water? 
 
 no, it is that other gentle bird. 
 Which is the patron of our noble calling. 
 
 1 well remember, in my early years. 
 When these young hands first closed upon a 
 
 goose ; 
 I have a scar upon my thimble finger, 
 Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. 
 My father was a tailor, and his father, 
 And my sire's grandsire, all of them were 
 
 tailors ; 
 They had an ancient goose, — it was an heir- 
 loom 
 From some remoter tailor of our race. 
 
446 
 
 THE PELICAN. 
 
 It hapjiencd I did seo it on a time 
 
 Whon none was near, and I did deal with it, 
 
 And it did burn me, — 0, most fearfully ! 
 
 It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs. 
 And leap elastic from the level counter. 
 Leaving the petty grievances of earth. 
 The breaking thread, the din of clashing 
 
 shears, 
 And all the needles that do wound the spirit. 
 For such a pensive hour of soothing silence, 
 Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, 
 
 Lays bare her shady bosom ;— I can fetil 
 With all around me ; — I can hail the flowers 
 That spring earth's mantle, — and yon quiet 
 
 bird. 
 That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. 
 The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, 
 Where Nature stows away her loveliness. 
 But this unnatural posture of the legs 
 Cramps my extended calves, and I must go 
 Where I can coil them in their wonted 
 
 fashion. 
 
 THE PELICAN. 
 
 .^>. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 ^^MS^It early dawn I marked them m the 
 
 lil^l sky- 
 
 ^l^^?',' Catching the morning colors on their 
 
 ii u plumes ; 
 
 <^ Not in voluptuous pastime reveling 
 
 «!• there, 
 
 J Among the rosy clouds, while orient 
 
 heaven 
 Flamed like the opening gates of Paradise, 
 Whence issued forth the angel of the sun. 
 And gladdened nature with returning day : 
 — Eager for food, their searching eyes they 
 
 fixed 
 On ocean's unrolled volume, from a height 
 That brought immensity within their scope ; 
 Yet with such power of vision looked they 
 
 down, 
 As though they watched the shcll-fish slowly 
 
 gliding 
 O'er sunken rocks, or climbing trees of coral. 
 On indefatigable wing upheld, 
 Breath, pulse, existence, seemed suspended 
 
 in them : 
 They were as pictures painted on the sky ; 
 Till suddenly, aslant, away they shot. 
 Like meteors changed from stars to gleams of 
 
 lightning, 
 And struck upon the deep, where, in wild 
 
 play, 
 Their quarry floundered, unsuspecting harm; 
 
 With terrible voracity, they plunged 
 
 Their heads among the afl'righted shoals, and 
 
 beat 
 A tempest on the surges with their wings. 
 Till flashing clouds of foam and spray con- 
 cealed them. 
 Nimbly they seized and secreted their prey. 
 Alive and wriggling in the elastic net ; 
 Which Nature hung beneath their grasping 
 
 beaks, 
 Till, swollen with captures, the unwieldy 
 
 burden 
 Clogged their slow flight, as heavily to land 
 These mighty hunters of the deep returned. 
 There on the cragged cliffs they perched at 
 
 ease. 
 Gorging their helpless victims one by one ; 
 Then, full and weary, side by side they slept. 
 Till evening roused them to the chase again. 
 
 Love found that lonely couple on their isle, 
 And soon surrounded them with blithe com- 
 panions. 
 The noble birds, with skill spontaneous, 
 
 framed 
 A nest of reeds among the giant-grass. 
 That waved in lights and shadows o'er the 
 
 soil. 
 There, in sweet thraldom, yet unweeninp 
 why, 
 
THE PELICAN. 
 
 447 
 
 The patient dam, who ne'er till now had 
 
 known 
 Parental instinct, brooded o'er her eggs, 
 Long ere she found the curious secret out, 
 That life was hatching in their brittle shells. 
 Then, from a wild rapacious bird of prey. 
 Tamed by the kindly process, she became 
 That gentlest of all living things, — a mother; 
 Gentlest while yearning o'er her naked 
 
 young ; 
 Fiercest when stirred by anger to defend 
 
 them. 
 
 While the plump nestlings throbbed against 
 
 his heart. 
 The tenderness that makes the vulture mild; 
 Yea, half unwillingly his post resigned, 
 When, home-sick with the absence of an 
 
 hour, 
 She hurried back, and drove him from her 
 
 seat 
 With pecking bill and cry of fond distress, 
 Answered by him with murmurs of delight, 
 Whose gutturals harsh, to her were love's 
 
 own music. 
 
 Her mate himself the softenins 
 
 power con- 
 
 Forgot his sloth, restrained his appetite, 
 And ranged the sky and fished the stream 
 
 for her. 
 Or, when o'erwearied Nature forced her off 
 To shake her torpid feathers in the breeze, 
 And bathe her bosom in the cooling flood, 
 He took her place, and felt through every 
 
 nerve. 
 
 Then, settling down, like foam upon the wave, 
 White, flickering, effervescent, soon subsiding, 
 Her ruffled pinions smoothly she composed ; 
 And, while beneath the comfort of her wings, 
 Her crowded progeny quite filled the nest. 
 The halcyon sleeps not sounder, when thp 
 
 wind 
 Is breathless, and the sea without a curl, 
 — Nor dreams the halcyon of serener days. 
 Or nights more beautiful with silent stars. 
 
448 
 
 A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 
 
 Than, in that hour, the mother pelican, 
 When the warm tumults of affection sunk 
 Into calm sleep, and dreams of what they 
 
 were, 
 Dreams more delicious than reality. 
 — He sentinel beside her stood, and watched 
 With jealous eye the raven in the clouds. 
 And the rank sea-mews wheeling round the 
 
 cliffs. 
 Woe to the reptile then that ventured nigh ! 
 
 The snap of his tremendous bill was like 
 Death's scythe, down-cutting everything it 
 
 struck. 
 The heedless lizard, in his gambols, peeped 
 Upon the guarded nest, from out the flowers, 
 But paid the instant forfeit of his life ; 
 Nor could the serpent's subtlety elude 
 Capture, when gliding by, nor in defence 
 Might his malignant fangs and venom save 
 
 him. 
 
 A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 W^'^ the course of a voyage from England, I once fell in with a convoy of 
 liH merchant ships, bound for the West Indies. The weather was 
 
 f uncommonly bland; and the ships vied with each other in spreading 
 sail to catch a light, favorable breeze, until their hulls were almost 
 I hidden beneath a cloud of canvass. The breeze went down with the 
 1 sun, and his last yellow rays shone upon a thousand sails, idly flap- 
 ping against the masts. 
 
 I exulted in the beauty of the scene, and augured a prosperous voyage; 
 but the veteran master of the ship shook his head, and pronounced this 
 halcyon calm a "weather-breeder." And so it proved. A storm burst 
 forth in the night; the sea roared" and raged; and when the day broke, I 
 beheld the gallant convoy scattered in every direction ; some dismasted, 
 others scudding under bare poles, and many firing signals of distress. 
 
 I have since been occasionally reminded of this scene by those calm, 
 sunny seasons in the commercial world, which are known by the name of 
 "times of unexampled prosperity." They are the sure weather-breeders of 
 traffic. Every now and then the world is visited by one of these delusive 
 seasons, when the "credit system," as it is called, expands to full luxu- 
 riance: everybody trusts everybody; a bad debt is a thing unheard of ; the 
 broad way to certain and sudden wealth lies plain and open ; and men are 
 tempted to dash forward boldly, from the facility of borrowing. 
 
 Promissory notes, interchanged between scheming individuals, are 
 liberally discounted at the banks, which become so many mints to coin 
 words into cash; and as the supply of words is inexhaustible, it may 
 readily be supposed what a vast amount of promissory capital is soon in 
 circulation. Everyone now talks in thousands; nothing is heard but 
 
A TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY. 4^l 
 
 gigantic operations in trade; great purchases and sales of real property, and 
 immense sums made at every transfer. All, to be sure, as yet exists in 
 promise; but the believer in promises calculates the aggregate as solid 
 capital, and falls back in amazement at the amount of public wealth, the 
 "unexampled state of public prosperity !" 
 
 Now is the time for speculative and dreaming or designing men. They 
 relate their dreams and projects to the ignorant and credulous, dazzle them 
 with golden visions, and set them maddening after shadows. The example 
 of one stimulates another ; speculation rises on speculation ; bubble rises 
 on bubble ; everyone helps with his breath to swell the windy superstruc- 
 ture, and admires and wonders at the magnitude of the inflation he has 
 contributed to produce. 
 
 Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts contempt upon all its 
 sober realities. It renders the stock-jobber a magician, and the exchange 
 a region of enchantment. It elevates the merchant into a kind of knight- 
 errant, or rather a commercial Quixote. The slow but sure gains of snug 
 percentage become despicable in his eyes: no "operation" is thought 
 worthy of attention that does not double or treble the investment. JSTo 
 business is worth following that does not promise an immense fortune. x\s 
 he sits musing over his ledger, with pen behind his ear, he is like La 
 Mancha's hero, in his study, dreaming over his books of chivalry. His 
 dusty counting-house fades before his eyes, or changes into a Spanish mine ; 
 he gropes after diamonds, or dives after pearls. The subterranean garden 
 of Aladdin is nothing to the realms of wealth that break upon his imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 Could this delusion always last, the life of a merchant would indeed 
 be a golden dream; but it is as short as it is brilliant. Let but a doubt 
 enter, and the "season of unexampled prosperity" is at an end The 
 coinage of words is suddenly curtailed; the promissory capital begins to 
 vanish into smoke; a panic succeeds, and the whole superstructure, built 
 upon credit, and reared by speculation, crumbles to the ground, leaving 
 scarce a wreck behind. 
 
 "It is such stuff as dreams are made of." When a man of business, 
 therefore, hears on every side rumors of fortunes suddenly acquired; when 
 he finds banks liberal, and brokers busy; when he sees adventurers flush of 
 paper capital, and full of scheme and enterprise ; when he perceives a 
 greater disposition to buy than to sell ; when trade overflows its accustomed 
 channels, and deluges the country; when he hears of new regions of com- 
 mercial adventure; of distant marts and distant mines swallowing merchan- 
 dise, and disgorging gold; when he finds joint stock companies of all kinds 
 
450 
 
 WHEN. 
 
 forming; railroads, canals, and locomotive-engines springing up on every 
 side; when idlers suddenly become men of business, and dash into the game 
 of commerce as the gambler would into the hazards of the faro-table ; when 
 he beholds the streets glittering with new equipages, palaces conjured up 
 by the magic of speculation ; tradesmen flushed with sudden success, and 
 vying with each other in ostentatious expense ; in a word, when he hears 
 the v/hole community joining in the theme of "unexampled prosperity," let 
 him look upon the whole as a "weather-breeder," and prepare for the 
 impending storm. 
 
 THE PATIENT STORK. 
 
 LORD THURLOW. 
 
 MELANCHOLY bird, the long, long 
 day 
 5^ Thou standest by the margin of 
 the pool, 
 And, taught by God, dost thy 
 whole being school. 
 To patience, which all evil can allay. 
 God has appointed thee the fish thy 
 prey, 
 And given thyself a lesson to the fool, 
 
 Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule. 
 And his unthinking course by thee to weigh, 
 
 There need not schools nor the professor's 
 chair. 
 Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : 
 
 He who has not enough for these to spare, 
 Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, 
 
 And teach his soul by brooks and rivera 
 fair, — 
 Nature is always wise in every part. 
 
 WHEN. 
 
 SUSAN COOLIDGE. 
 
 y^;P I were told that I must die to-morrow, 
 J^ That the next sun 
 
 \^l Which sinks should bear me past all 
 'fl'f' fear and sorrow 
 
 t For any one, 
 
 ¥ All the fight fought, all the short jour- 
 
 1 noy through. 
 
 What should I do ? 
 
 T do not think that I should shrink or falter. 
 
 But just go on. 
 Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter 
 
 Aught that is gone ; 
 
 But rise and move and love and smile and 
 pray 
 
 For one more day. 
 
 And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, 
 
 Say in that ear 
 Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within Thy 
 keeping 
 
 How phould I fear? 
 And when to-morrow brings Thee nearei 
 still 
 
 Do Thou Thy will." 
 
PATIENCE. 
 
THERE IS NO DEATH. 
 
 451 
 
 I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, 
 tender, 
 
 My soul would lie 
 All the night long ; and when the morning 
 splendor 
 
 Flushed o'er the sky, 
 I think that I could smile — could calmly say, 
 "It is His day." 
 
 But if a wondrous hand from the blue yonder 
 
 Held out a scroll. 
 On which my life was writ, and I with wonder 
 
 Beheld unroll 
 To a long century's end its mystic clue, 
 
 "What should I do ? 
 
 What could I do, oh ! blessed Guide and 
 Master, 
 
 Other than this ; 
 Still to go on as now, not slower, faster, 
 
 Nor fear to miss 
 The road, although so very long it be, 
 
 While led by Thee ? 
 
 Step after step, feeling Thee close beside me, 
 
 Although unseen. 
 Through thorns, through flowers, whether the 
 tempest hide Thee 
 
 Or heavens serene. 
 Assured Thy faithfulness cannot betray, 
 
 Thy love decay. 
 
 I may not know ; my God, no hand re- 
 vealeth 
 
 Thy counsels wise ; 
 Along the path a deepening shadow stealeth, 
 
 No voice replies 
 To all my questioning thought, the time to 
 tell. 
 
 And it is well. 
 
 Let me keep on, abiding and unfearing 
 
 Thy will always. 
 Through a long century's ripening fruition 
 
 Or a short day's. 
 Thou canst not come too soon ; and I can 
 wait 
 
 If Thou come late. 
 
 THERE IS NO DEA TH. 
 
 LORD LYTTON. 
 
 iHERE is no death ! The stars go down 
 To rise upon some fairer shore : 
 J^fS^i] And bright in Heaven's jewelled 
 1 crown 
 
 i They shine forevermore. 
 
 There is no death ! The dust we tread 
 Shall change beneath the summer showers 
 
 To golden grain or mellowed fruit. 
 Or rainbow-tinted flowers, 
 
 The granite rocks disorganize, 
 
 And feed the hungry moss they bear ; 
 
 The forest leaves drink daily life. 
 From out the viewless air. 
 
 There is no death ! The leaves may fall, 
 And flowers may fade and pass away ; 
 
 They only wait through wintry hours. 
 The coming of the May. 
 
 There is no death ! An angel form 
 
 Walks o'er the earth with silent tread ; 
 
 He bears our best loved things away ; 
 And then we call them "dead." 
 
 He leaves our hearts all desolate. 
 
 He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers ; 
 
 Transplanted into bliss, they now 
 Adorn immortal bowers. 
 
 The bird-like voice, whose joyous tones. 
 Made glad these scenes of sin and strife. 
 
 Sings now an everlasting song, 
 Around the tree of life. 
 
452 
 
 PAYING HER WAY 
 
 Where'er he sees a smile too bright, 
 Or heart too pure for taint and vice, 
 
 He bears it to that world of light, 
 To dwell in Paradise. 
 
 Born unto that undying life, 
 
 They leave us but to come again ; 
 
 With joy we welcome them the sarae.- 
 Except their sin and pain. 
 
 And ever near us, though unseen, 
 The dear immortal spirits tread; 
 
 For all the boundless universe 
 Is life — tJierc arc no dead. 
 
 PA YING HER WA Y, 
 
 HAT has my darling been doing 
 to-day, 
 To pay for her washing and mend- 
 ing ? 
 ■A. How can she manage to keep out of 
 
 debt 
 For so much caressing and tend- 
 ing ? 
 How can I wait till the years shall have flown 
 And the hands have grown larger and 
 stronger ? 
 
 Who will be able the interest to pay. 
 If the debt runs many years longer? 
 
 Dear little feet ! How they fly to my side 
 
 White arms my neck are caressing; 
 Sweetest of kisses are laid on my cheek ; 
 
 Fair head my shoulder is pressing. 
 Nothing at all from my darling is due — 
 
 From evil may angels defend her — 
 The debt is discharged as fast as 'tis made, 
 
 For love is a legal tender. 
 
THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. 453 
 
 THE PROGRESS OF HUMANITY. 
 
 CHARLES SUMNER. 
 
 II^ET us, then, be of good cheer. From the great law of progress we 
 
 ^^ may derive at once our duties and our encouragements. Humanity 
 
 "''^^ has ever advanced, urged by the instincts and necessities implanted 
 
 f by God, — thwarted sometimes by obstacles which have caused it for 
 
 ^ a time — a moment only, in the immensity of ages — to deviate from 
 
 its true line, or to seem to retreat, — but still ever onward. 
 
 Amidst the disappointments which may attend individual exertions, 
 amidst the universal agitations which now surround us, let us recognize 
 this law, confident that whatever is just, whatever is humane, whatever is 
 good, whatever is true, according to an immutable ordinance of Provi- 
 dence, in the golden light of the future, must prevail. With this faith, let 
 us place our hands, as those of little children, in the great hand of God. 
 He will ever guide and sustain us — through pains and perils, it may be — 
 in the path of progress. 
 
 In the recognition of this law, there are motives to beneficent activity, 
 which shall endure to the last syllable of life. Let the young embrace it : 
 they shall find in it an everliving spring. Let the old cherish it still : 
 they shall derive from it fresh encouragement. It shall give to all, both 
 old and young, a new appreciation of their existence, a new sentiment of 
 their force, a new revelation of their destiny. 
 
 Be it, then, our duty and our encouragement to live and to labor, 
 ever mindful of the future. But let us not forget the past. All ages 
 have lived and labored for us. From one has come art, from another 
 jurisprudence, from another the compass, from another the printing-press; 
 from all have proceeded priceless lessons of truth and virtue. The earliest 
 and most distant times are not without a present influence on our daily 
 lives. The mighty stream of progress, though fed by many tributary 
 waters and hidden springs, derives something of its force from the earliest 
 currents which leap and sparkle in the distant mountain recesses, over pre- 
 cipices, among rapids, and beneath the shade of the primeval forest. 
 
 Nor should we be too impatient to witness the fulfilment of our aspi- 
 rations. The daily increasing rapidity of discovery and improvement, and 
 the daily multiplying eflforts of beneficence, in later years outstripping the 
 imaginations of the most sanguine, furnish well-grounded assurance that 
 the advance of man will be with a constantly accelerating speed. The 
 extending intercourse among the nations of the earth, and amouar all the 
 
454 
 
 HIDE AND SEEK. 
 
 children of the human family, gives new promise of the complete diffusion 
 of truth, penetrating the most distant places, chasing away the darkness of 
 night, and exposing the hideous forms of slavery, of war, of wrong, which 
 must be hated as soon as they are clearly seen. 
 
 Cultivate, then, a just moderation. Learn to reconcile order with 
 change, stability with progress. This is a v^ise conservatism ; this is a 
 wise reform. Rightly understanding these terms, who would not be a 
 conservative? who would not be a reformer? — a conservative of all that 
 is good, a reformer of all that is evil ; a conservative of knowledge, a 
 reformer of ignorance ; a conservative of truths and principles whose seat 
 is the bosom of God, a reformer of laws and institutions which are but the 
 wicked or imperfect work of man ; a conservative of that divine order 
 which is found only in movement, a reformer of those early wrongs and 
 abuses which spring from a violation of the great law of human progress. 
 Blending these two characters in one, let us seek to be, at the same time, 
 EeforminsT Conservatives, and Conservative Reformers. 
 
 HIDE AND SEEK. 
 
 JULIA GODDAED. 
 
 ^^jpIDE and seek ! Two children at play 
 1^1^ On a Bunshiny holiday — 
 
 " Where is the treasure hidden, I 
 pray? 
 Say — am I near it or far away ? 
 Hot or cold?" asks little Nell, 
 With her flaxen hair all tangled and 
 wild, 
 And her voice as clear as a fairy bell 
 That the fairies ring at eventide — 
 Scrambling under table and chair, 
 Peeping into the cupboards wide. 
 Till a joyous voice rings through the air — 
 "0 ho ! a very good place to hide !" 
 And little Nell, creeping along the ground, 
 Murmurs in triumph, " I've found, I've 
 found !" 
 
 Hide and seek ! Not children now — 
 Life's noontide sun hath kissed each brow, 
 Nell's turn to hide the treasure to-day ; 
 So safely she thinks it hidden away. 
 
 That she fears her lover cannot find it. 
 Say, shall she help him ? Her eyes, so shy, 
 Half tell the secret, and half deny ; 
 And the green leaves rustle with laughter 
 
 sweet. 
 And the little birds twitter, " Oh, foolish 
 
 lover, 
 Has love bewitched and blinded thine eyes — 
 So that the truth thou canst not discover ?" 
 Then the sun gleams out, all golden and 
 
 bright, 
 And sends through the wood-path a clearer 
 
 light; 
 See the lover raises his eyes from the ground, 
 And reads in Nell's face that the treasure 
 
 is found. 
 
 What are the angels seeking for 
 Through the world in the darksome night? 
 A treasure that earth has stolen away, 
 And hidden 'midst flowers for many a day, 
 
THE LION'S RIDE. 
 
 455 
 
 Hidden through sunshine, tlirough storm, 
 
 through blight, 
 Till it wasted and grew to a form so slight 
 And worn, that scarce in the features white 
 Conld one trace likeness to gladsome Nell. 
 But the angels knew her as there she lay. 
 All quietly sleeping, and bore her away, 
 Up to the city, jasper-walled — 
 Up to the city with golden street — 
 
 Up to the city, like crystal clear, 
 
 Where the pure and the sinless meet 
 And through costly pearl-gates that 
 
 wide, 
 They bore the treasure earth tried to hi 
 And weeping mortals listened with awe 
 To the silver echo that smote the skies, 
 As "Found?" rang forth from Paradise. 
 
 THE LIOWS RIDE. 
 
 FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. 
 
 jHE lion is the desert's king ; through 
 his domain so wide 
 "I'^C^ Right swiftly and right royally this 
 4* L night he means to ride. 
 
 el By the sedgy brink, where the wild 
 
 M herds drink, close couches the grim 
 
 I chief; 
 
 The trembling sycamore above whis- 
 pers with every leaf. 
 
 At evening, on the Table Mount, when ye 
 
 can see no more 
 The changeful play of signals gay ; when the 
 
 gloom is speckled o'er 
 With kraal fires ; when the Caffre wends 
 
 home through the lone karroo ; 
 When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and 
 
 by the stream the gnu ; 
 
 Then bend your gaze across the waste — What 
 
 see ye ? The giraffe, 
 Majestic, stalks toward the lagoon, the turbid 
 
 lymph to quaff; 
 With outstretched neck and tongue adust, 
 
 he kneels him down to cool 
 His hot thirst with a welcome draught from 
 
 the foul and brackish pool. 
 
 A rustling sound — a roar — a bound — the 
 
 lion sits astride 
 Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever 
 
 king so ride? 
 Had ever a steed so rare, caparisons of 
 
 state 
 
 31 
 
 To match the dappled skin whereon that 
 rider sits elate ? 
 
 In the muscles of the neck his teeth are 
 
 plunged with ravenous greed ; 
 His tawny mane is tossing round the withers 
 
 of the steed. 
 Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish 
 
 and surprise. 
 Away, away, in wild dismay, the camel 
 
 leopard flies. 
 
 His feet have wings ; see how he springs 
 
 across the moonlit plain ! 
 As from their sockets they would burst, his 
 
 glaring eyeballs strain ; 
 In thick black streams of purling blood, full 
 
 fast his life is fleeting ; 
 The stillness of the desert hears his heart's 
 
 tumultuous beating. 
 
 Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, 
 the path of Israel traced — 
 
 Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit 
 of the waste — 
 
 From the sandy sea uprising, as the water- 
 spout from the ocean, 
 
 A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with th« 
 courser's fiery motion. 
 
 Croaking companion of their flight, the vul- 
 ture whirs on high ; 
 
456 
 
 DIES IR^. 
 
 Below the terror of the fold, the panther 
 
 fierce and sly, 
 And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, 
 
 join in the horrid race ; 
 By the foot-prints wet with gore and sweat, 
 
 their monarch's course they trace. 
 
 They see him on his living throne, and quake 
 
 with fear, the while 
 With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his 
 
 cushion's painted pile. 
 On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life 
 
 and strength remain ! 
 
 The stoed by such a rider backed, may madly 
 plunge in vain. 
 
 Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and 
 
 breathes his last ; 
 The courser, strained with dust and foam, is 
 
 the rider's fell repast. 
 O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flut-h 
 
 is descried : 
 Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the 
 
 king of beasts doth ride. 
 
 DIES IR^. 
 
 THOMAS OF CELANO, A. D., 1208. 
 
 Translated by Dr. Abraham Coles. 
 
 HiAY of wrath ! that day of burning, 
 ^^K Seer and sibyl speak concerning, 
 *^p All the world to ashes turning ! 
 
 |; Oh, what fear shall it engender, 
 
 ^ When the Judge shall come m splen- 
 
 ■'[• dor. 
 
 Strict to mark and just to render ! 
 
 Trumpet, scattering sounds of wonder, 
 Rending sepulchres asunder. 
 Shall resistless summons thunder. 
 
 All aghast then Death shall shiver, 
 And great Nature's frame shall quiver, 
 When the graves their dead deliver. 
 
 Book, where actions are recorded. 
 
 All the ages have afforded. 
 
 Shall be brought and dooms awarded. 
 
 When shall sit the Judge unerring. 
 He'll unfold all here occurring, 
 No just vengeance then deferring. 
 
 What shall J say, that time pending? 
 Ask what advocate's befriending. 
 When the just man needs defen-ding ? 
 
 Think, Jesus, for what reason 
 
 Thou didst bear earth's spite and treason. 
 
 Nor me lose in that dread season ! 
 
 Seeking me Thy worn feet hasted ; 
 On the cross Thy soul death tasted, — 
 Let such travail not be wasted ! 
 
 Righteous Judge of retribution ! 
 Make me gift of absolution 
 Ere that day of execution ! 
 
 Culprit-like, I plead, heart-broken. 
 On my cheek shame's crimson token : 
 Let the pardoning word be spoken ! 
 
 Thou, who Mary gav'st remission, 
 Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
 Cheer'st with hope my lost condition. 
 
 Though my prayers be void of merit, 
 What is needful. Thou confer it, 
 Lest I endless fire inherit ! 
 
 Be then, Lord, my place decided 
 With Thy sheep, from goats divided, 
 Kindly to Thy right hand guided! 
 
MANIFEST DESTINY. 
 
 457 
 
 When the accursed away are driven, 
 
 To eternal burnings given, 
 
 Call me with the blest to heaven ! 
 
 I beseech Thee, prostrate lying, 
 Heart as ashes, contrite, sighing, 
 
 Care for me when I am dying ! 
 
 Day of tears and late repentance ! 
 Man shall rise to hear his sentence : 
 Him, the child of guilt and error, 
 Spare, Lord, in that hour of terror ! 
 
 MANIFEST DESTINY. 
 
 JOSH BILLINGS. 
 
 S-VNIFEST destiny iz the science ov going tew bust, or enny other 
 '^ place before yu git thare. I may be rong in this centiraent, but 
 f^' * that iz the way it strikes me ; and i am so put together that when 
 enny thing strikes n\Q i immejiately strike back. Manifest 
 destiny mite perhaps be blocked out agin as the condishun that man 
 and things find themselfs in with a ring in their nozes and sumboddy 
 hold ov the ring. I may be rong agin, but if i am, awl i have got tew sa 
 iz, i don't kno it, and what a man don't kno ain't no damage tew enny boddy 
 else. The tru way that manifess destiny had better be sot down iz, the 
 exact distance that a frog kan jump down hill with a striped snake after him ; 
 i don't kno but i may be rong oust more, but if the frog don't git ketched 
 the destiny iz jist what he iz a looking for. 
 
 When a man falls into the bottom ov a well and makes up hiz minde 
 tew stay thare, that ain't manifess destiny enny more than having yure 
 hair cut short iz ; but if he almoste gits out and then falls down in agin 
 16 foot deeper and brakes off hiz neck twice in the same plase and dies and 
 iz buried thare at low water, that iz manifess destiny on the square. 
 Standing behind a cow in fly time and gitting kicked twice at one time, 
 must feel a good deal like manifess destiny. Being about 10 seckunds tow 
 late tew git an express train, and then chasing the train with yure wife, 
 and an umbreller in yure hands, in a hot day, and not getting az near tew 
 the train az you waz when started, looks a leetle like manifess destiny 
 on a rale rode trak. Going into a tempranse house and calling for a little 
 old Bourbon on ice, and being told in a mild way that " the Bourbon iz jist 
 out, but they hav got sum gin that cost 72 cents a gallon in Paris," 
 sounds tew me like the manifess destiny ov moste tempranse houses. 
 
 Mi dear reader, don't beleave in manifess destiny until yu see it. 
 Thare is such a thing az manifess destiny, but when it occurs it iz like the 
 number ov rings on the rakoon's tale, ov no great consequense onla for 
 
458 
 
 BILL AND JOE. 
 
 ornament. Man wan't made for a machine, if he waz, it was a locomotiff 
 machine, and manifess destiny must git oph from the trak when the bell 
 rings or git knocked higher than the price ov gold. Manifess destiny iz a 
 disseaze, but it iz eazy tew heal ; i have seen it in its wust stages cured bi 
 sawing a cord ov dri hickory wood, i thought i had it onse, it broke out 
 in the shape ov poetry ; i sent a speciment ov the disseaze tew a magazine, 
 the magazine man wrote mo next day az follers, 
 
 " Dear Sur: Yu may be a phule, but you are no poeck. Yures, in 
 haste." 
 
 BILL AND JOE. 
 
 ^d^ 
 
 0. W. HOLMES. 
 
 ^OME, dear old comrade, you and I 
 Will steal an hour from days gone 
 
 by- 
 The shining days when life was new, 
 And all was bright as morning dew. 
 The lusty days of long ago, 
 When you were Bill and I was Joe. 
 
 Your name may flaunt a titled trail, 
 Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail ; 
 And mine as brief appendix wear 
 As Tarn O'Shanter's luckless mare ; 
 To-day, old friend, remember still 
 That I am Joe and you are Bill. 
 
 You've won the great world's envied prize, 
 
 And grand you look in people's eyes. 
 
 With HON. and LL.D., 
 
 In big brave letters, fair to see — 
 
 Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — 
 
 How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe? 
 
 You've worn the judge's ermine robe ; 
 You've taught your name to half the globe 
 You've sung mankind a deathless strain ; 
 You've made the dead past live again ; 
 The world may call you what it will. 
 But you and I are Joe and Bill. 
 
 The chafSng young folks stare and say, 
 " See those old buffers, bent and gray ; 
 
 They talk like fellows in their teens ! 
 Mad, poor old boys ! That's what 
 
 means " — 
 And shake their heads ; they little know 
 The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe — 
 
 How Bill forgets his hour of pride, 
 While Joe sits smiling at his side ; 
 How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, 
 Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes — 
 Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill 
 As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. 
 
 Ah, pensive scholar! what is fame? 
 
 A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; 
 
 A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, 
 
 That lifts a pinch of mortal dust : 
 
 A few swift years, and who can show 
 
 Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe ? 
 
 The weary idol takes his stand, 
 
 Holds out his bruised and aching hand, 
 
 While gaping thousands come and go — 
 
 How vain it seems, this empty show ! — 
 
 Till all at once his pulses thrill: 
 
 'Tis poor old Joe's " God bless you. Bill ! " 
 
 And shall we breathe in happier spheres 
 The names that pleased our mortal ears, — 
 In some sweet lull of harp and song. 
 For earth-born spirits none too long, — 
 Just whispering of the world below, 
 Where this was Bill, and that was Joe? 
 
MAUD MULLER. 
 
 459 
 
 No matter ; while our home is here 
 No sounding name is half so dear ; 
 When fades at length our lingering day, 
 
 Who cares what pompous tombstones say ? 
 Read on ihe hearts that love us still, 
 Hicjacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill. 
 
 MA UD MULLER. 
 
 J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 jAUD MuUer, 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 mer- 
 ry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far off town, 
 Wliite 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 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
 Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 
 
4G0 
 
 MAUD MULLER. 
 
 He drew his bridlo in the shade 
 
 Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, 
 
 And ask a draught from the spring that 
 
 flowed 
 Through the meadow across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
 And filled for him her small 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 
 
 whather 
 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 ej^es. 
 
 At last, like one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 
 Maud Muller 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 broadcloth coat; 
 My brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 " I'd dress my mother bo grand and gay. 
 And the baby should have anew 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 Muller 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, 
 Nor weary lawyer.s with endless tongues, 
 
 " But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
 And health, and quiet, and loving words." 
 
 But 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 Muller'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 unlearned and poor. 
 And many children played round her door. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and chiLl-ljirth pain, 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
KATE KETCHEM. 
 
 461 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
 On the new mown hay in the meadow lot, 
 
 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
 Over the roadside, through the wall. 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein. 
 
 And gazing down with timid grace. 
 She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
 Stretched away into stately halls ; 
 
 The weary 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 was law. 
 
 Then he took up her burden of life again, 
 Saying only, " It might have been." 
 
 Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 
 
 For rich repiner and household drudge ! 
 
 God pity them both ! and pity us all. 
 Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 
 
 The saddest are these : " It might have been !' 
 
 Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
 Deeply buried from human eyes ; 
 
 And, in tie hereafter, angels may 
 Roll the stone from its grave away ! 
 
 KATE KETCHEM. 
 
 PHCEBE GARY. 
 
 ^ATE Ketchem, on a winter's night, 
 1^ Went to a party, dressed in white. 
 
 Her chignon in a net of gold 
 
 Was about as large as they ever sold. 
 
 Gayly she went because her " pap " 
 Was supposed to be a rich old chap. 
 
 But when by chance her glances fell 
 On a friend who had lately married well, 
 
 Her spirits sunk, and a vague unrest 
 And a nameless longing filled her breast — 
 
 A wish she wouldn't have had made known. 
 To have an establishment of her own. 
 
 Tom Fudge came slowly through the throng. 
 With chestnut hair, worn pretty long. 
 
 He saw Kate Ketchem in the crowd. 
 And, knowing her slightly, stopped and 
 bowed. 
 
 Then asked her to give him a single flower. 
 Saying he'd think it a priceless dower. 
 
 Out from those with which she was decked 
 She took the poorest she could select. 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 To call attention to her gown. 
 
 " Thanks," said Fudge, and he thought how 
 
 dear 
 Flowers must be at this time of year. 
 
 Then several charming remarks he made. 
 Asked if she sang, or danced, or played ; 
 
 And being exhausted, inquired whether 
 She thought it was going to be pleasant 
 weather. 
 
 And Kate displayed her jewelry. 
 And dropped her lashes becomingly ; 
 
 And listened with no attempt to disguise 
 The admiration in her eyes. 
 
 At last, like one who has nothing to say, 
 He turned around and walked awav. 
 
4:62 
 
 KATE KETCHEM. 
 
 Kate Ketchem smiled, and said " You bet 
 I'll catch that Fudge and his money yet. 
 
 " He's rich enough to keep mo in clothes, 
 And I think I could manage him if I chose. 
 
 " He could aid my father as well as not. 
 And buy my brother a splendid yacht. 
 
 " My mother for money should never fret, 
 And all that it cried for the baby should get ; 
 
 " And after that, with what he could spare, 
 I'd make a show at a charity fair." 
 
 Tom Fudge looked back as he crossed the sill, 
 And saw Kate Ketchem standing still. 
 
 " A girl more suited to my mind 
 It isn't an easy thing to find ; 
 
 " And every thing that she has to wear 
 proves her as rich as she is fair. 
 
 "Would she were mine, and that I to-day 
 Had the old man's cash my debts to pay ; 
 
 " No creditors with a long account. 
 
 No tradesmen waiting 'that little amount;' 
 
 " But all my scores paid up when due 
 By a father as rich as any Jew !" 
 
 But he thought of her brother, not worth a 
 
 straw, 
 And her mother, that would be his, in law ; 
 
 So, undecided, he walked along. 
 
 And Kate was left alone in the throng. 
 
 But a lawyer smiled, whom he sought by 
 
 stealth. 
 To ascertain old Ketchem's wealth ; 
 
 And as for Kate, she schemed and planned 
 Till one of the dancers claimed her hand. 
 
 He married her for her father's cash — 
 She married him to cut a dash. 
 
 Bui as to paying his debts, do you know 
 The father couldn't see it so ; 
 
 And at hints for help Kate's hazel eyes 
 Looked out in their innocent surprise 
 
 And when Tom thought of the way he had 
 
 wed. 
 He longed for a single life instead, 
 
 And closed his eyes in a sulky mood. 
 Regretting the days of his bachelorhood ; 
 
 And said in a sort of reckless vein, 
 " I'd like to see her catch me again, 
 
 " If I were free as on that night 
 
 I saw Kate Ketchem dressed in white !" 
 
 She wedded him to be rich and gay ; 
 But husband and children didn't pay. 
 
 He wasn't the prize she hoped to draw. 
 And wouldn't live with his mother-in-law. 
 
 And oft when she had to coax and pout 
 In order to get him to take her out. 
 
 She thought how very attentive and bright 
 He seemed at the party that winter's night. 
 
 Of his laugh, as soft as a breeze of the south, 
 ('Twas now on the other side of his mouth:) 
 
 How he praised her dress and gems in hia 
 
 talk. 
 As he took a careful account of stock. 
 
 Sometimes she hated the very walls — 
 Hated her friends, her dinners, and calls : 
 
 Till her weak affections, to hatred turned. 
 Like a dying tallow candle burned. 
 
 And for him who sat there, her peace to mar, 
 Smoking his everlasting segar — 
 
 He wasn't the man she thought she saw, 
 And grief was duty, and hate was law. 
 
 So she took up her burden with a groan, 
 Saying only, "I might have known!" 
 
 Ala-? tor Kate ! and alas for Fudge ! 
 Though I do not owe them any grudge • 
 
THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 
 
 463 
 
 And alas for any that find to their shame 
 That two can play at their little game ! 
 
 For of all hard things to bear and grin, 
 The hardest is knowing you're taken in. 
 
 Ah well ! as a general thing we fret 
 About the one we didn't get ; 
 
 But I think we needn't make a fuss 
 If the one we don't want didn't get i 
 
 THE MERR Y LARK. 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 ™iM|HE merry, merry lark was up and 
 PH singing, 
 
 rAnd the hare was out and feeding 
 on the lea. 
 And the merry, merry bells below 
 were ringing. 
 When my child's laugh rang through me. 
 
 Now the hare is snared and dead beside the 
 snow-yard, 
 And the lark beside the dreary winter 
 sea, 
 And my baby in his cradle in the church- 
 yard 
 Waiteth there until the bells bring me. 
 
 THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 jlliiHINK of the country for which the Indians fought ! Who can 
 '■^J^ blame them? As Philip looked down from his seat on Mount 
 Hope, that glorious eminence, that 
 
4G4 THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 
 
 " throne of royal 8tate, which far 
 
 Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind, 
 Or where the gorgeous East, with richest hand, 
 Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold," — 
 
 as he looked down, and beheld the lovely scene which spread beneath, at a 
 summer sunset, the distant hill-tops glittering as with fire, the slanting 
 beams streaming across the waters, the broad plains, the island groups, 
 the majestic forest, — could he be blamed, if his heart burned within him, 
 as he beheld it all passing, by no tardy process from beneath his control, 
 into the hands of the stranger ? 
 
 As the river chieftains — the lords of the waterfalls and the mountains 
 — ranged this lovely valley, can it be wondered at if they beheld with 
 bitterness the forest disappearing beneath the settler's axe — the fishing- 
 place disturbed by his saw-mills ? Can we not fancy the feelings with 
 which some strong-minded savage, the chief of the Pocomtuck Indians, 
 who should have ascended the summit of the Sugar-loaf Mountain (rising 
 as it does before us, at this moment, in all its loveliness and grandeur,) — 
 in company with a friendly settler — contemplating the progress already 
 made by the white man, and marking the gigantic strides with which he 
 was advancing into the wilderness, should fold his arms and say, " White 
 man, there is eternal war between me and thee ! I quit not the land of 
 my fathers, but with my life. In those woods, where I bent my youthful 
 bow, I will still hunt the deer; over yonder waters I will still glide unre- 
 strained, in my bark canoe. By those dashing waterfalls I will still lay 
 up my winter's store of food; on these fertile meadows I will still plant 
 my corn. 
 
 " Stranger, the land is mine ! I understand not these paper- 
 rights. I gave not my consent, when, as thou say est, these broad regions 
 were purchased, for a few baubles, of my fathers. They could sell what 
 was theirs; they could sell no more. How could my father sell that which 
 the Great Spirit sent me into the world to live upon ? They knew not 
 what they did. 
 
 " The stranger came, a timid suppliant, — few and feeble, and asked to 
 lie down on the red man's bear-skin, and warm himself at the red man's 
 fire, and have a little piece of land to raise corn for his women and child- 
 ren; and now he is become strong, and mighty, and bold, and spreads out 
 his parchments over the whole, and says, ' It is mine.' 
 
 " Stranger 1 there is not room for us both. The Great Spirit has not 
 made us to live together. There is poison in the white man's cup; the 
 white man's dog barks at the red man's heels. If I should leave the land 
 
THE INDIAN TO THE SETTLER. 
 
 465 
 
 of my fathers, whither shall I fly? Shall I go to the south, and dwell 
 among the graves of the Pequots? Shall I wander to the west, the fierce 
 Mohawk — the man-eater, — is my foe. Shall I fly to the east, the great 
 water is before me. No, stranger; hero I have lived, and here will I die; 
 and if here thou abidest, there is eternal war between me and thee. 
 
 INNOVATIONS OF THE WHITE MAN. 
 
 "Thou hast taught me thy arts of destruction; for that alone I thank 
 thee. And now take heed to thy steps ; the red man is thy foe. "When 
 thou goest forth by day, my bullet shall whistle past thee; when thou liest 
 down by night, my knife is at thy throat. The noonday sun shall not dis- 
 cover thine enemy, and the darkness of midnight shall not protect thy rest. 
 Thou shalt plant in terror, and I will reap in blood; thou shalt sow the 
 earth with corn, and I will strew it with ashes; thou shalt go forth with 
 the sickle, and I will follow after with the scalping-knife; thou shalt build, 
 
456 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 and I will burn, — till the white man or the Indian perish from the land. 
 Go thy way for this time in safety, — but remember, stranger, there is 
 eternal war between me and thee." 
 
 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 
 
 ROBERT 
 
 ""g OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, 
 ^ When we were first acquent 
 Your locks were like the raven, 
 Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
 But now your brow is held, John, 
 
 Your locks are like the snaw ; 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 John Anderson, my jo, John 
 
 We clamb the hill thegither ; 
 And mony a canty day, John, 
 
 We've had wi' ane anither. 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 
 But hand-in-hand we'll go : 
 And sleep thegither at the foot, 
 
 John Anderson, my jo. 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 
 
 ^H! say, can you see, by the dawn's 
 early light. 
 What so proudly we hailed at tb"^ 
 twilight's last gleaming ? 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars 
 
 i through the perilous fight. 
 
 O'er the rampart, we watched were 
 so gallantly streaming : 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs burst- 
 ing in air. 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag 
 was still there ; 
 Oh ! say, does that star-spangled banner 
 
 yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 the brave? 
 
 On the shore, dimly seen through the mjsts 
 of the deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread 
 silence reposes. 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the tow- 
 ering steep. 
 As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half 
 discloses ? 
 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's 
 
 first beam. 
 In full glory reflected now shines on the 
 stream ; 
 'Tis the star-spangled banner ! oh, long 
 
 may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 the brave ! 
 
 And where is that band, who so vauntingly 
 swore 
 That the havoc of war and th« battle's 
 confusion 
 A home and a country should leave us no 
 more? 
 Their blood has washed out their foul 
 footsteps' pollution. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and 
 
 slave. 
 From the terror of death and the gloom of 
 the grave ; 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
 
 shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 ih^: brave ! 
 
THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 467 
 
 Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall 
 stand 
 Between their loved homes and the war's 
 desolation ; 
 
 Then conquer we must, for our cause it is 
 
 just, 
 And this be our motto, "In God is out 
 
 trust." 
 
 Blest with victory aaJ peace, may the heav- 
 en-rescued land 
 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph 
 shall wave 
 
 Praise the power that has made and pre- 
 served us a nation. 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of 
 the brave ! 
 
 TEE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 JOSEPH EODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 ^HEN Freedom, from her mountain 
 height. 
 Unfurled her standard to the air. 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 
 And set the stars of glory there ! 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 And striped its pure celestial white 
 With streakings of the morning light, 
 Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
 She called her eagle bearer down, 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land ! 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud ! 
 
 "Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. 
 To hear the tempest-trumpings loud. 
 And see the lightning lances driven. 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
 Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free, 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To ward away the battle stroke, 
 
 And bid its blendings fhine afar. 
 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 The harbingers of victory ! 
 
 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly. 
 The sign of hope and triumph high ! 
 When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
 
 Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn, 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn. 
 And as his springing steps advance. 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud. 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall. 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow. 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
 When death, careering on the gale. 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home. 
 
 By angel hands to valor given. 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven .' 
 Forever float that standard sheet. 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before 
 us. 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er 
 us! 
 
468 
 
 THE DJINNS. 
 
 THE DJINNS. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 IpOWN, towor. 
 l!|K Shore, deep, 
 li2s Where lower 
 Clouds steep ; 
 Waves gray 
 Where play 
 Winds gay- 
 All asleep. 
 Hark a sound, 
 Far and slight. 
 Breathes around 
 On the night — 
 High and higher. 
 Nigh and nigher, 
 Like a fire 
 Roaring bright. 
 New on it is sweeping 
 With rattling beat 
 Like dwarf imp leaping 
 In gallop fleet; 
 He flies, he prances, 
 In frolic fancies — 
 On wave crest dances 
 With pattering feet. 
 Hark, the rising swell. 
 With each nearer burst I 
 Like the toll of bell 
 Of a convent cursed ; 
 Like the billowy roar 
 On a storm-lashed shore- 
 Now hushed, now once more 
 Maddening to its worst, 
 Oh God ! the deadly sound 
 Of the djinns' fearful cry ! 
 Quick, 'neath the spiral round 
 Of the deep staircase, fly ! 
 See, our lamplight fade ! 
 And of the balustrade 
 Mounts, mounts the circling shade 
 Up to the ceiling high ! 
 •Tis the djinua' wild streaming swarm 
 Whistling in their tempest flight ; 
 Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm. 
 Like a pine-flame crackling bright ; 
 Swift and heavy, low, their crowd 
 Through the heavens rushing loud !— 
 Like a lurid thunder cloud 
 With its hold of fiery night! 
 Ha ! they are on us, close without ! 
 Shut tight the shelter where we lie ! 
 With hideous din the monster rout, 
 Dragon and vampire, fill the sky ! 
 The loosened rafter overhead 
 Trembles and bends like quivering re«d ; 
 Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 
 As from its ru^ty hinge 'twould fly ! 
 Wild cries of hell ! voices that howl and shriek ! 
 The horrid swarm before the tempest tossed 
 heaven !— descends my lonely roof to seek ; 
 Bends the strong wall beneath the furious hoat;- 
 
 Totters the houfle, as though, like dry leaf pborn 
 From autumn bough and on mad blast borne! 
 Up from its deep foundations it were torn 
 To join the stormy whirl. Ah ! all is lost ! 
 Oh prophet ! if tliy hand but now 
 Save from these foul and hellish things, 
 A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow, 
 Laden with pious ofterings. 
 Bid their hot breath its tiery rain 
 Stream on my faithful door in vain, 
 Vainly upon my blackened pane 
 Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings ! 
 T.hey have passed ! — and their wild legion 
 Cease to thunder at my door ; 
 Fleeting through night's rayless region. 
 Hither they return no more. 
 (. lanking chains and sounds of woe 
 Fill the forests as they go ; 
 And the tall oaks cower low. 
 Bent their flaming fliglit before. 
 On ! on ! the storm of wings 
 Beai 8 far the fiery fear. 
 Till scarce the breeze now brings 
 Dim murmurings to the ear ; 
 Like locusts humming hail, 
 Or thrash of tiny flail 
 Flied by the pattering hail 
 On some old roof-tree near. 
 Fainter now are borne 
 Fitful murmurings still 
 As, when Arab horn 
 Swells its magic peal. 
 Shoreward o'er the deep 
 Fairy voices sweep, 
 And the infant's sleep 
 Golden visions till. 
 
 Each deadly djinn. 
 Dark child of friglit, 
 Of death and sin, 
 Speeds the wild flight. 
 Hark, the dull nwau I 
 Like the deep tone 
 Of Ocean's groan. 
 Afar by night 1 
 
 More and more 
 Fades it now, 
 As on shore 
 Eipples flow — 
 As the plaint. 
 Far and faint, 
 Of a saint. 
 Murmured low. 
 Hark ! hist I 
 Around 
 I list ! 
 The bound* 
 Of space 
 All trace 
 Efface 
 Of sound. 
 
^Yf/' >v ">/ 'ym'' jj 
 
 THE CHEMIST. 
 
THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 469 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 ^I^HEN, marshalled on the nightly 
 plain, 
 t^®p^ The glittering host bestud the 
 
 y One star alone of all the train 
 
 •f Can fix the sinner's wandering 
 
 J eye. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks 
 
 From every host, from every gem ; 
 But one alone a Saviour speaks, 
 It is the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode, 
 
 The storm was loud, the night was dark. 
 
 HENRY KIEKE WHITE. 
 
 The ocean yawned — and rudely blowed 
 The wind that tossed my foundering bark. 
 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze. 
 Death-struck — I ceased the tide to stem ; 
 
 When suddenly a star arose, 
 It was the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all ; 
 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
 And through the storm and danger's thrall, 
 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 Now safely moored — my perils o'er, 
 
 I'll sing, first in night's .diadem. 
 Forever and for evermore. 
 
 The Star !— the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. 
 
 LOVE thee, Mary, and thou lovest me,- 
 Our mutual flame is like the affinity 
 . .„ . That doth exist between two simple 
 4|f bodies : 
 
 J I am Potassium to thine Oxygen. 
 T 'T is little that the holy marriage vow 
 J Shall shortly make us one. That unity 
 Is, after all, but metaphysical. 
 0, would that I, my Mary, were an acid, 
 A living acid ; thou an alkali 
 32 
 
 Endowed with human sense, that brought 
 
 together. 
 We might both coalesce into one salt. 
 One homogeneous crystal. that thou 
 Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen ! 
 We would unite to form olefiant gas. 
 Or common coal, or naphtha. Would to Hea 
 
 ven 
 That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert 
 
 Lime, 
 
470 
 
 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 
 
 And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret ! 
 I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid, 
 So that thou might be Soda ; in that case 
 We should be Glauber's salt. Wert thou 
 
 Magnesia 
 Instead, we'd form the salt that's named from 
 
 Epsom. 
 Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aquafortis, 
 Our happy union should that compound 
 
 form. 
 Nitrate of Potash, — otherwise Saltpetre. 
 
 And thus our several natures sweetly blent, 
 We'd live and love together, until death 
 Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid, 
 Leaving our souls to all eternity 
 Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs 
 And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should 
 
 not we 
 Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? 
 We will. The day, the happy day is nigh, 
 When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs 
 
 combine. 
 
 SIGHTS FROM A STEEPLE. 
 
 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 |0W various are the situations of the people covered by the roofs 
 beneath me, and how diversified are the events at this moment 
 befalling them! The new-born, the aged, the dying, the strong in 
 life, and the recent dead, are in the chambers of these many man- 
 sions. The full of hope, the happy, the miserable, and the desper- 
 ate, dwell together within the circle of my glance. In some of the 
 houses over which my eyes roam so coldly, guilt is entering into hearts 
 that are still tenanted by a debased and trodden virtue — guilt is on the 
 very edge of commission, and the impending deed might be averted; guilt 
 is done, and the criminal wonders if it be irrevocable. There are broad 
 thoughts struggling in my mind, and, were I able to give them distinct- 
 ness, they would make their way in eloquence. Lo! the rain-drops are 
 descending. 
 
 The clouds, within a little time, have gathered over all the sky, hang- 
 ing heavily, as if about to drop in one unbroken mass upon the earth. At 
 intervals the lightning flashes from their brooding hearts, quivers, dis- 
 appears, and then comes the thunder, travelling slowly after its twin-born 
 flame. A strong wind has sprung up, howls through the darkened streets, 
 and raises the dust in dense bodies, to rebel against the approaching 
 storm. All people hurry homeward — all that have a home; while a few 
 lounge by the corners, or trudge on desperately, at their leisure. 
 
 And now the storm lets loose its fury. In every dwelling I perceive 
 the faces of the chambermaids as they shut down the windows, excluding 
 the impetuous shower, and shrinking away from the quick, fiery glare. The 
 large drops descend with force upon the slated roofs, and rise again in 
 
WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. 
 
 471 
 
 smoke. There is a rush and roar, as of a river through the air, and muddy 
 streams bubble majestically along the pavement, whirl their dusky foam 
 into the kennel, and disappear beneath iron grates. Thus did Arethusa 
 sink. I love not my station here aloft, in the midst of the tumult which I 
 am powerless to direct or quell, with the blue lightning wrinkling on my 
 brow, and the thunder muttering its first awful syllables in my ear. I will 
 descend. Yet let me give another glance to the sea, where the foam breaks 
 in long white lines upon a broad expanse of blackness, or boils up in far 
 distant points, like snowy -mountain-tops in the eddies of a flood; and let 
 me look once more at the green plain, and little hills of the country, over 
 which the giant of the storm is riding in robes of mist, and at the town, 
 whose obscured and desolate streets might beseem a city of the dead ; and 
 turning a single moment to the sky, now gloomy as an author's prospects, 
 I prepare to resume my station on lower earth. But sta}^ ! A little speck 
 of azure has widened in the western heavens ; the sunbeams find a passage, 
 and go rejoicing through the tempest; and on yonder darkest cloud, born, 
 like hallowed hopes, of the glory of another world, and the trouble and 
 tears of this, brightens forth the Rainbow ! 
 
 WHEN SPARROV:S BUILD. 
 
 JEAN INCtELOW. 
 
 pl^HEN sparrows build, and the leaves 
 .Jmm break forth, 
 
 ^^^C|^ My old sorrow wakes and cries. 
 
 J For I know there is dawn in the far, 
 
 T far north, 
 
 J And a scarlet sun doth rise ; 
 
 Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads, 
 
 And the icy fount runs free ; 
 And the bergs begin to bow their heads, 
 
 And plunge and sail in the sea. 
 
 0, my lost love, and my own, own love, 
 
 And mj- love that loved me so ! 
 Is there never a chink in the world above 
 
 Where they listen for words from below ? 
 Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore ; 
 
 I remembered all that I said ; 
 And now thou wilt hear me no more — no more 
 
 Till the sea gives up her dead. 
 
 Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail 
 To the ice-fields and the snow ; i 
 
 Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, 
 
 And the end I could not know. 
 
472 
 
 KIT CARSON'S RILE. 
 
 How could I tell I should love thee to-day, 
 Whom that day I held not dear ? 
 
 How could I tell I should love thee away 
 When I did not love thee anear ? 
 
 We shall walk no more through the sodden 
 plain, 
 With the faded bents o'erspread ; 
 
 We shall stand no more by the seething 
 main 
 While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; 
 We shall part no more in the wind and rain 
 
 Where thy last farewell was said ; 
 But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee 
 again 
 When the sea gives up her dead. 
 
 KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 
 UN ? Now you bet you ; I rather 
 IP guess so. 
 
 But he's blind as a badger. "Whoa, 
 
 Pache, boy, whoa. 
 No, you wouldn't think so to look 
 I at his eyes, 
 
 But he is badger bliml, and it happened 
 this wise ; — 
 
 We lay low in the grass on the broad plain 
 
 levels. 
 Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride. 
 " Forty full miles if a foot to ride. 
 Forty full miles if a foot, and the devils 
 Of red Camanches are hot on the track 
 When once they strike it. Let the sun go 
 
 down 
 Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels 
 As he peered at the sun, lying low on his 
 
 back. 
 Holding fast to his lasso ; then he jerked at 
 
 his steed, 
 And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly 
 
 around. 
 And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to 
 
 the ground, — 
 Then again to his feet and to mo, to my bride. 
 While his eyes were like fire, his face like a 
 
 shroud. 
 His form like a king, and his beard like a 
 
 cloud. 
 And his voice loud and shrill, as if blowji 
 
 from a reed, — '■ 
 
 " Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed. 
 And speed, if ever for life you would speed ; 
 
 And ride for your lives, for your lives you 
 
 must ride, 
 For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire. 
 And feet of wild horses, hard flying before 
 I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore ; 
 While the bufi'alo come like the surge of the 
 
 sea, 
 Lriven far by the flame, driving fast on us 
 
 three 
 As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his 
 
 ire." 
 
 We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein. 
 Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched 
 
 them over again, 
 And again drew the girth, cast aside the 
 
 macheer. 
 Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its 
 
 fold. 
 Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with 
 
 gold. 
 And gold-mounted Colt's, true companions 
 
 for years. 
 Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath 
 And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to 
 
 the horse. 
 
 Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall. 
 Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low 
 
 call 
 Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the 
 
 plain 
 So steady and still, leaning low to the mane. 
 With the heel to the flank and the hand to 
 
 the rein. 
 
i>N;i|S;ii;r«iiii 
 
KIT CARSON'S RIDE. 
 
 473 
 
 Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray 
 
 nose and nose, I 
 
 Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced 
 
 wind blows, j 
 
 Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not , 
 
 a prayer, i 
 
 There was work to be done, there was death 
 
 in the air, 
 And the chance was as one to a thousand for 
 
 all. 
 
 Gray nose to gray nose and each steady 
 
 mustang 
 Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the 
 
 hollow earth rang 
 And the foam from the flank and the croup 
 
 and the neck 
 Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven 
 
 deck. 
 Twenty miles ! thirty miles ! — a dim distant 
 
 speck — 
 Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in 
 
 sight. 
 And I rose in my seat with a shout of de- 
 light. 
 I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, 
 But Revels was gone ; I glanced by my 
 
 shoulder 
 And saw his horse stagger ; I saw his head 
 
 drooping 
 Hard on his breast, and his naked breast 
 
 stooping 
 Low down to the mane as so swifter and 
 
 bolder 
 Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. 
 To right and to left the black buffalo came, 
 In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair, 
 With their beards to the dust and black tails 
 
 in the air. 
 
 As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame 
 Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reach- 
 ing higher, 
 And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, 
 The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane 
 
 full 
 Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire 
 Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud 
 And unearthly and up through its lowering 
 cloud 
 
 Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden 
 
 fire, 
 While his keen crooked horns through the 
 
 storm of his mane 
 Like black lances lifted and lifted again ; 
 And I looked but this once, for the fire licked 
 
 through. 
 And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and 
 
 two. 
 
 I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and 
 
 shoulder 
 Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my 
 
 thighs ; 
 And up through the black blowing veil of 
 
 her hair 
 Did beam full in mine her two marvelous 
 
 eyes 
 With a longing and love, yet look of despair. 
 And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold 
 
 her. 
 And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. 
 Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell 
 To and fro and unsteady, au'I all the neck's 
 
 swell 
 Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as 
 
 dead. 
 Then she saw that my own steed still lorded 
 
 his head 
 With a look of delight, for this Pach^, you see, 
 Was her father's, and once at the South 
 
 Santafee 
 Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything 
 
 down 
 In a race where the world came to run for 
 
 the crown ; 
 And so when I won the true heart of my 
 
 bride, — 
 Ikly neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, 
 And child of the kingly war-chief of his 
 
 tribe, — 
 Sh3 brought me this steed to the border the 
 
 night 
 She met Revels and me in her perilous flight. 
 From the lodge of the chief to the north 
 
 Brazos side ; 
 And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled. 
 As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride 
 The fleet-footed Pach^, so if kin should pursue 
 I should surely escape without other ado 
 
474 
 
 THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Than to ride, without blood, to the north 
 
 Brazos side, 
 And await her, — and wait till the next hollow 
 
 moon 
 Hung her horn m the palms, when surely 
 
 and soon 
 And swift she would join me, and all would 
 
 be well 
 Without bloodshed or word. And now as 
 
 she fell 
 From the front, and went down in the ocean 
 
 of fire, 
 The last that I saw was a look of delight 
 That I should escape, — a love, — a desire, — 
 Yet never a word, not a look of appeal, — 
 Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand 
 
 or stay heel 
 One instant for her in my terrible flight. 
 
 Then the rushing of fire rose around me and 
 under. 
 
 And the howling of beasts like the sound of 
 
 thunder, — 
 Beasts burning and blind and forced onward 
 
 and over, 
 As the passionate flame reached around them 
 
 and wove her 
 Hands in their hair, and ki.ssed hot till they 
 
 died, — 
 Till they died with a wild and a desolate 
 
 moan. 
 As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown 
 
 stone. 
 And into the Brazos I rode all alone — 
 All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, 
 And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. 
 Then just as the terrible sea came in 
 And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, 
 Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream 
 
 brimmed 
 In eddies, we struck on the opposite side. 
 
 THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 HE sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could 
 only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating 
 c^l-^'^'l' the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these 
 '^ paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion 
 
 and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a 
 deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
 No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard. 
 For nothing is, but all oblivion. 
 Dust, and an endless darkness. 
 
 Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, 
 falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge 
 billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord with 
 this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell through its vast 
 vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and 
 make the silent sepulchre vocal ! And now they rise in triumph and 
 acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling 
 
THE ORGAN OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 475 
 
 INTERIOR OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of the choir 
 break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along 
 
476 
 
 QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 
 
 the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of 
 heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compress- 
 ing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn 
 cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more 
 dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — 
 the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding 
 up in full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul 
 seems rapt away and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! 
 
 I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music 
 is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thick- 
 ening round me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; 
 and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. 
 
 UARREL OF BR UTUS AND CASSIUS. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 Julius CcEsar. — Act IV. Scene III. 
 lASSl US. — 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. 
 Brutus. — You wronged yourself to write 
 
 in such a case. 
 Cassius. — In such a time as this, it is not 
 meet 
 That every nice offence should bear its com- 
 ment. 
 Brutus. — Let me tell you, Cassius, you 
 yourself 
 Are much condemned to have an itching 
 
 palm. 
 To sell and mart your offices for gold 
 To undeservers. 
 
 Cassius. — I an itching palm? 
 You know that you are Brutus that speak 
 
 this, 
 Or, by the gods, this speech were else your 
 last. 
 
 Brutus. — The name of Cassius honors this 
 corruption. 
 And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 
 
 Cassius. — Chastisement ! 
 
 Brutus. — Remember 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 forsmost man of all this 
 
 world 
 But for supporting robbers ; shall we now 
 Contaminate our fingers with base bribes. 
 And sell the mighty space of our large 
 
 honors. 
 For so much trash as may be grasped thus? 
 I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon. 
 Than such a Roman. 
 
 Cassius. — Brutus, bay not me. 
 I'll not endure it : you forget yourself. 
 To hedge me in ; I am a soldier, I, 
 Older in practice, abler than yourself 
 To make conditions. 
 
 Brutus. — Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 
 
 Cassius. — I am. 
 
 Brutus. — I say you are not. 
 
QUARREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 
 
 477 
 
 Cassius. — Urge me no more, I shall forget 
 myself; 
 Have mind upon your health, tempt me no 
 further. 
 Brutus. — Away, slight man ! 
 Cassius. — Is't possible ? 
 Brutus. — Hear me for I will speak. 
 Must I give way and room to your rash 
 
 choler? 
 Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 
 Cassius. — ye gods ! ye gods ! must I en- 
 dure all this ? 
 Brutus. — All this ? Aye, 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 humor ? 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 laugh- 
 ter. 
 When you are waspish. 
 
 Cassius. — Is it come to this ? 
 Brutus. — 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. 
 
 Cassius. — You wrong me every way ; you 
 wrong me, Brutus ; 
 I said an elder soldier, not a better ? 
 Did I say "better"? 
 Brutus. — If you did, I care not. 
 Cassius. — When Cassar liv'd, he durst not 
 
 thus have mov'd me. 
 Brutus. — Peace, peace! you durst not 
 
 thus have tempted him. 
 Cassius. — I durst not ? 
 Brutus. — No. 
 
 Cassias. — What? Durst not tempt him ? 
 Brutus— ^FoT your life you durst not. 
 Cassius. — Do not presume too much upon 
 my love ; 
 I may do that I shall be sorry for. 
 
 Brutus. — 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 send to you 
 For certain sums of gold, which you denied 
 
 me; 
 For I can raise no money by vile means ; 
 By heaven, I had rather coin my heart. 
 And drop my blood for drachmas, than to 
 
 wring 
 From the hard hands of peasants their vile 
 
 trash 
 By any indirection. I did send 
 To you for gold to pay my legions. 
 Which you denied me. Was that done like 
 
 Cassius ? 
 Should I have answered Caius Cassius so? 
 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
 To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
 Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts ; 
 Dash him to pieces ! 
 
 Cassius. — I denied you not. 
 Brutus. — You did. 
 
 Cassius. — 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. 
 Brutus. — I do not, till you practice them 
 
 on me. 
 Cassius. — You love me not. 
 Brutus. — I do not like your faults. 
 Cassius. — A friendly ej^e could never see 
 
 such faults. 
 Brutus. — A flatterer's would not, though 
 
 they do appear 
 As huge as high Olympus. 
 
 Cassius. — Come, Antony, and young Octa- 
 
 vius, come ! 
 Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, 
 For Cassius is aweary of the world : 
 Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
 Checked like a bondman ; all his faults ob- 
 served, 
 Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by 
 
 rote. 
 To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
 My spirit from mine eyes! There is my 
 
 dagger, 
 
478 
 
 MRS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. 
 
 And liere 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 Csesar ; for, I know. 
 When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov- 
 
 edst him better 
 Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 
 
 Brutus. — Sheathe your dagger : 
 Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; 
 Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
 Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb 
 That carries anger as the flint bears fire : 
 Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark. 
 And straight is cold again. 
 
 Cassius. — Hath Cassius lived 
 To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
 When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth 
 
 him? 
 
 Brutus. — When I spoke that I was ill- 
 tempered, too. 
 Cassius. — Do you confess so much? Give 
 
 me your hand. 
 Brutus. — And my heart too. [Uinhracing.] 
 Cassius. — Brutus ! 
 Brutus. — What's the matter ? 
 Casius. — Have you not love enough to bear 
 with me. 
 When that rash humor which my mother 
 
 gave me 
 Makes me forgetful ? 
 
 Brutus. — Yes, Cassius ; and, from hence- 
 forth, 
 When you are over-earnest with your Bru- 
 tus, 
 He'll think your mother chides, and leave 
 you so. 
 
 MBS. CA UDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. 
 
 DOUGLAS JERROLD, 
 
 W^ there's anything in the world I hate — and you know it — it is, asking 
 P^ you for money. I am sure for myself, I'd rather go without a thing 
 f^ a thousand times, and I do, the more shame for you to let me. 
 •I Wliat do I loant now? As if you didn't know! I'm sure, if I'd 
 
 any money of my own, I'd never ask you for a farthing — never! It's 
 painful to me, gracious knows ! What do you say ? If it's painful, why 
 so often do it ? I suppose you call that a joke — one of your club-jokes I 
 As I say, I only wish I'd any money of my own. If there is anything that 
 humbles a poor woman, it is coming to a man's pocket for every farthing. 
 It's dreadful ! 
 
 Now, Caudle, you shall hear me, for it isn't often I speak. Pray, do 
 you know what month it is ? And did you see how the children looked at 
 church to-day — like nobody else's children ? What loas the matter loith 
 them? Oh! Caudle how can you ask ! Weren't they all in their thick 
 merinoes and beaver bonnets? What do you say ? What of it ? What I 
 You'll tell me that you didn't see how the Briggs girls, in their new chips, 
 turned their noses up at 'em ! And you didn't see how the Browns 
 looked at the Smiths, and then at our poor girls, as much as to say, 
 
MKS. CAUDLE NEEDS SPRING CLOTHING. 479 
 
 " Poor creatures! what figures for the first of May?" You didnt see it! 
 The more shame for you ! I'm sure, those Briggs girls — the little minxes ! 
 — put me into such a pucker, I could have pulled their ears for 'em over 
 the pew. What do you say ! / ought to be ashamed to own it f Now, 
 Caudle, it's no use talking ; those children shall not cross over the threshold 
 next Sunday if they haven't things for the summer. Now mind — they 
 shan't; and there's an end of it ! 
 
 Tm always wanting money for clothes ? How can you say that ? 
 I'm sure there are no children in the world that cost their father so little ; 
 but that's it — 'the less a poor woman does upon, the less she may. Now, 
 Caudle, dear ! What a man you are ! I know you'll give me the money, 
 because, after all, I think you love your children, and like to see 'em well 
 dressed. It's only natural that a father should. How much money do I 
 want ? Let me see, love. There's Caroline, and Jane, and Susan, and 
 
 Mary Ann, and What do you say ? I needn't count 'em ? You know 
 
 how many there are! That's just the way you take me up ! Well, hoio 
 much money will it take ? Let me see — I'll tell you in a minute. You 
 always love to see the dear things like new pins. I know that. Caudle ; 
 and though I say it, bless their little hearts ■! they do credit to you, Caudle. 
 
 How muehf Now, don't be in a hurry! Well, I think, with good 
 pinching — and you know, Caudle, there's never a wife who can pinch 
 closer than I can — I think, with pinching, I can do with twenty pounds. 
 What did you say ? Twenty fiddlesticks ? What! You won't give half 
 the money ? Very well, Mr. Caudle ; I don't care ; let the children go in 
 rags; let them stop from church, and grow up like heathens and cannibals; 
 and then you'll save your money, and, I suppose, be satisfied. What do 
 you say? Ten pounds enough? Yes, just like you men; you think 
 things cost nothing for women ; but you don't care how much you lay out 
 upon yourselves. TJoey only want frocks and bonnets ? How do you 
 know what they want ? How should a man know anything at all about 
 it ? And you won't give more than ten pounds ? Very well. Then you 
 may go shopping with it yourself, and see what you'll make of it ! I'll 
 have none of your ten pounds, I can tell you — no sir ! 
 
 No ; you've no cause to say that. I don't want to dress the children 
 up like countesses ! You often throw that in my teeth, you do ; but you 
 know it's false, Caudle ; you know it ! I only wish to give 'em proper 
 notions of themselves ; and what, indeed, can the poor things think, when 
 they see the Briggses, the Browns, and the Smiths,— and their fathers 
 don't make the money you do. Caudle — when they see them as fine as 
 tulips? Why, they must think themselves nobody. However, the twenty 
 
480 
 
 THE DAY-DREAM. 
 
 pounds I will have, if I've any; or not a farthing ! No, sir; no, — I don't 
 want to dress up the children Hke peacocks and parrots ! I only want to 
 make 'em respectable. What do you say? You'll give me fifteen pounds ? 
 No, Caudle, no, not a penny will I take under twenty. If I did, it would 
 seem as if I wanted to waste your money; and I am sure, when I come 
 to think of it twenty pounds will hardly do ! 
 
 THE DA Y-DREAM. 
 
 A. TENNYSON. 
 
 THE SLEEPING PALACE. 
 
 JHE varying year with blade and 
 1^ sheaf 
 
 Clothes and re-clothes the happy 
 plains ; 
 Here rests the sap within the leaf; 
 Here stays the blood along the 
 veins. 
 
 Faint shadows, vapors lightly curled, 
 Faint murmurs from the meadows come, 
 
 I Here droops the banner on the tower. 
 On the hall, — hearths the festal fires, 
 The peacock in his laurel bower, 
 The parrot in his gilded wires. 
 
 Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs 
 In these, in those the life is stayed, 
 
 The mantels from the golden pegs 
 Droop sleepily. No sound is made — 
 
 Not even of a gnat that sings. 
 
 THE TEKRACE LAWN. 
 
 Like hints and echoes of the world 
 To spirits folded in the womb. 
 
 Soft lustre bathes the range of urns 
 On every slanting terrace-lawn. 
 
 The fountain to his place returns, 
 Deep in the garden lake withdrawn. 
 
 More like a picture seemeth all, 
 Than those old portraits of old kings, 
 That watch the sleepers from the wall. 
 
 Here sits the butler with a flask 
 
 Between his knees, half drained ; and there 
 The wrinkled steward at his task ; 
 
THE DAY-DREAM. 
 
 481 
 
 The maid of honor blooming fair, 
 The page has caught her hand in his, 
 
 Her lips are severed as to speak ; 
 His own are pouted to a kiss ; 
 
 The blush is fixed upon her cheek. 
 
 Till all the hundred summers pass, 
 
 The beams that, through the oriel shine. 
 Make prisms in every carven glass. 
 
 And beaker brimmed with noble wine. 
 Each baron at the banquet sleeps ; 
 
 Grave faces gathered in a ring. 
 His state the king reposing keeps : 
 
 He must have been a jolly kmg. 
 
 All round a hedge upshoots, and shows 
 
 At distance like a little wood ; 
 Thorns, ivies, woodbine, mistletoes. 
 
 And grapes with bunches red as blood ; 
 All creeping plants, a wall of green. 
 
 Close-matted, burr and brake and briar, 
 And glimpsing over these, just seen. 
 
 High up, the topmost palace spire. 
 
 When will the hundred summers die, 
 
 And thought and time be born again, 
 And newer knowledge drawing nigh. 
 
 Bring truth that sways the soul of men? 
 Here all things in their place remain, 
 
 As all were ordered, ages since. 
 Come care and pleasure, hope and pain, 
 
 And bring the fated fairy prince ! 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 Year after year unto her feet. 
 
 She lying on her couch alone. 
 Across the purple coverlet. 
 
 The maiden's jet-black hair has grown ; 
 On eityher side her tranced form 
 
 Forth streaming from a braid of pearl ; 
 The slumb'rous light is rich and warm. 
 
 And moves not on the rounded curl. 
 
 The silk star-broidered coverlid 
 
 Unto her limbs itself doth mould, 
 Languidly ever ; and, amid 
 
 Her full black ringlets, downward rolled. 
 Glows forth each softly shadowed arm, 
 
 With bracelets of the diamond bright. 
 Her constant beauty doth inform 
 
 Stillness with love, and day with light. 
 
 She sleeps ; her breathings are not heard 
 
 In palace chambers far apart. 
 The fragrant tresses are not stirred 
 
 That lie upon her charmed heart. 
 She sleeps ; on either hand upswells 
 
 The gold fringed pillow lightly prest ; 
 She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 
 
 A perfect form in perfect rest. 
 
 THE ARRIVAL. 
 
 All precious things, discovered late. 
 
 To those who seek them issue forth, 
 For love in sequel works with fate. 
 
 And draws the veil from hidden worth- 
 He travels far from other skies — 
 
 His mantle glitters on the rocks — 
 A fairy prince, with joyful eyes. 
 
 And lighter-footed than the fox. 
 
 The bodies and the bones of those 
 
 That strove in other days tc pass. 
 Are withered in the thorny close. 
 
 Or scattered blanching in the grass. 
 He gazes on the silent dead : 
 
 " They perished in their daring deeds," 
 This proverb flashes through his head : 
 
 " The many fail ; the one succeeds." 
 
 He comes, scarce knowing what he seeks, 
 
 He breaks the hedge ; he enters there ; 
 The color flies into his cheeks ; 
 
 He trusts to light on something fair ; 
 For all his life the charm did talk 
 
 About his path and hover near 
 With words of promise in his walk, 
 
 And whispered voices in his ear. 
 
 More close and close his footsteps wind ; 
 
 The magic music in his heart 
 Beats quick and quicker, till he find 
 
 The quiet chamber far apart. 
 His spirit flutters like a lark, 
 
 He stoops — to kiss her — on his knee : 
 " Love, if thy tresses be so dark. 
 
 How dark those hidden eyes must be !'' 
 
 THE REVIVAL. 
 
 A touch, a kiss ! the charm was snapt, 
 There rose a noise of striking clocks ; 
 
 And feet that ran, and doors that clapt, 
 And barking dogs, and crowing cocks ; 
 
482 
 
 THE LITTLE RID HIN. 
 
 A fuller light illumined all ; 
 
 A breeze through all the garden swept ; 
 A sudden hubbub shook the hall ; 
 
 And sixty feet the fountain leapt. 
 
 The hedge broke in, the banner blew, 
 
 The butler drank, the steward crawled. 
 The fire shot up, the martin flew, 
 
 The parrot screamed, the peacock squalled ; 
 The maid and page renewed their strife ; 
 
 The palace banged and buzzed and clackt ; 
 And all the long-pent stream of life 
 
 Dashed downward in a cataract. 
 
 And last of all the king awoke, 
 
 And in his chair himself upreared, 
 And yawned, and rubbed his face and spoke ; 
 
 " By holy rood, a royal beard! 
 How say you ? we have slept, my lords ; 
 
 My beard has grown into my lap." 
 The barons swore, with many words, 
 
 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap. 
 
 " Pardy !" returned the king, " but still 
 
 My joints are something stiff or so. 
 My lord, and shall we pass the bill 
 
 I mentioned half an hour ago?" 
 The chancellor, sedate and vain, 
 
 In courteous words returned reply ; 
 But dallied with his golden chain, 
 
 And, smiling, put the question by. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE. 
 
 And on her lover's arm she leant, 
 And round her waist she felt it fold ; 
 
 And far across the hills they went 
 In that new world which is the old. 
 
 Across the hills, and far away 
 Beyond their utmost purple rim. 
 
 And deep into the dying day. 
 The happy princess followed him. 
 
 " I'd sleep another hundred years, 
 
 love, for such another kiss !" 
 " Oh wake for ever, love," she hears, 
 
 " love, 'twas such as this and this." 
 And o'er them many a sliding star, 
 
 And many a merry wind was borne. 
 And streamed through many a golden bar. 
 
 The twilight melted into morn. 
 
 " eyes long laid in happy sleep !" 
 
 " happy sleep that lightly fled !" 
 " happy kiss that woke thy sleep !" 
 
 " love, thy kiss would wake the dead.' 
 And o'er them many a flowering range, 
 
 Of vapor buoyed the crescent bark; 
 And, rapt through many a rosy change, 
 
 The twdight died into the dark. 
 
 " A hundred summers ! can it be ? 
 
 And whither goest thou, tell me where ?" 
 " seek my father's court with me, 
 
 For there are greater wonders there." 
 And o'er the hills, and far away 
 
 Beyond their utmost purple rim, 
 Beyond the night, across the day, 
 
 Through all the world she followed him. 
 
 THE LITTLE RID HIN. 
 
 MRS. WHITNEY. 
 
 ^ELL, thin, there was once't upon a time, away off in the ould coun- 
 try, livin' all her lane in the woods, in a wee bit iv a house be 
 herself, a little rid hin. Nice an' quiet she was, and niver did no 
 kind o' harrum in her life. An' there lived out over the hill, in a 
 din o' the rocks, a crafty ould felly iv a fox. An' this same ould 
 villain iv a fox, he laid awake o' nights, and he prowled round 
 
33 
 
 ' A crafty ould fellv iv a fox." 
 
THE LITTLE RID HIN. 483 
 
 slyly IV a day-time, thinkin' always so busy how he'd git the little rid 
 hin, an' carry her home an' bile her up for his shupper. But the wise little 
 rid hin niver went intil her bit iv a house, but she locked the door afther 
 her, and pit the kay in her pocket. So the ould rashkill iv a fox, he 
 watched, an' he prowled, an' he laid awake nights, till he came all to skin 
 an' bone, an' sorra a ha'porth o' the little rid hin could he git at. But at 
 lasht there came a shcame intil his wicked ould head, and he tuk a big 
 bag one mornin', over his shouldher, an' he says till his mother, says he, 
 "Mother, have the pot all bilin' agin' I come home, for I'll bring the little 
 rid hin to-night for our shupper." An' away he wint, over the hill, an' 
 came crapin' shly an' soft through the woods to where the little rid hin 
 lived in her shnug bit iv a house. An' shure, jist at the very minute that 
 he got along, out comes the little rid hin out iv the door, to pick up 
 shticks to bile her tay-kettle. " Begorra, now, but I'll have yees," says 
 the shly ould fox, an' in he shlips, unbeknownst, intil the house, an' hides 
 behind the door. An' in comes the little rid hin, a minute afther, with her 
 apron full of shticks, an' shuts to the door an' locks it, an' pits the kay in 
 her pocket. An' thin she turns round, — an' there shtands the baste iv a 
 fox in the corner. "Well, thin, what did she do, but jist dhrop down her 
 shticks, and fly up in a great fright and flutter to the big bame acrass 
 inside o' the roof, where the fox couldn't git at her ! 
 
 " Ah, ha ! " says the ould fox, " I'll soon bring yees down out o' that!" 
 An' he began to whirrul round, an' round, an' round, fashter, an' fashter, 
 an' fashter, on the floor, afther his big, bushy tail, till the little rid hin got 
 so dizzy wid lookin', that she jist tumbled down aff the bame, and the fox 
 whipped her up and popped her intill his bag, an' shtarted ofi" home in 
 a minute. An' he wint up the wood, an' down the wood, half the day 
 long, with the little rid hin shut up shmotherin' in the bag. Sorra a know 
 she knowd where she was at all, at all. She thought she was all biled an' ate 
 up, an' finished shure ! But, by an' by, she remimbered herself, an' pit her 
 hand in her pocket, an' tuk out her little bright scissors, and shnipped 
 a big hole in the bag behind, an' out she leapt, an' picked up a big shtone 
 an' popped it intil the bag, an' rin aff home, an' locked the door. 
 
 An' the fox he tugged away up over the hill, with the big shtone at 
 his back thumpin' his shouldhers, thinkin' to himself how heavy the little 
 rid hin was, an' what a fine shupper he'd have. An' whin he came in 
 sight iv his din in the rocks, and shpied his ould mother a watchin' for him 
 at the door, he says, " Mother ! have ye the pot bilin' ? " An' the ould 
 mother says, " Sure an' it is ; an' have ye the little rid hin ? " " Yes, jist 
 here in me bag. Open the lid o' the pot till I pit her in," says he. 
 
484 
 
 BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. 
 
 An' tho ould mother fox she lifted the hd o' the pot, an' the rashliiil 
 untied the bag, an' hild it over the pot o' bilin' wather, an' shuk in the 
 big, heavy shtono. An' the bilin' water shplashed up all over the rogue 
 iv a fox, an' his mother, and shcaldcd them both to death. An' the little 
 rid hin lived safe in her house foriver aftlier. 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 
 
 THOMAS MOOEE. 
 
 |iR]lfflpHERE is not in the wide world a | 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
 
 ^y^ valley so sweet, \ Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite 
 
 'ffS'%' ^^ ^^^* ^^^® ^'^ whose bosom the still. 
 
 ii i» bright waters meet ; 
 
 Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life 
 must depart, 
 
 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom 
 
 were near, 
 
 4 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade ^yj^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^ ^j^^^. ^^^^^ ^f enchantment 
 from my heart. ^^^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 And who felt how the best charms of Nature 
 Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the j improve, 
 
 scene I When we see them reflected from looks that 
 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; I we love. 
 
 BYROWS LATEST VERSES 
 
 ^IS time this heart should be unmoved. 
 Since others it has ceased to move ; 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love. 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf, 
 Tho flowersandfruitsoflove are gone, 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
 Are mine alone. 
 
DREAMS AND REALITIES. 
 
 485 
 
 The fire that in my bosom preys 
 Is like to some volcanic isle, 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze, 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I cannot share. 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 't is not here, — it is not here. 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now 
 Where glory seals the hero's bier. 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field. 
 Glory and Greece about us see ; 
 The Spartan borne upon the shield 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake ! not Greece, — she is 
 Awake, my spirit ! think through whom 
 My life-blood tastes its parent lake. 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down. 
 Unworthy manhood ! unto thee. 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live? 
 The land of honorable death 
 Is here, — up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
 Then look around and choose thy ground, 
 And take thy rest ! 
 
 DREAMS AND REALITIES. 
 
 PHCEBE CARYS LAST POEM. 
 
 ROSAMOND, thou fair and good, 
 And perfect flower of womanhood, 
 
 Thou royal rose of June ! 
 Why did'st thou droop before thy 
 
 time? 
 Why wither in the first sweet prime ? 
 
 Why did'st thou die so soon ? 
 
 For, looking backward through my tears 
 On thee, and on my wasted years, 
 
 I cannot choose but say. 
 If thou had'st lived to be my guide. 
 Or thou had'st lived and I had died, 
 
 'Twere better far to-day. 
 
 child of light, Golden head '— 
 Bright sunbeam for one moment shed 
 
 Upon life's lonely way — 
 Why did'st thou vanish from our sight ? 
 Could they not spare my little light 
 
 From Heaven's unclouded day ? 
 
 O Friend so true, Friend so good ! — 
 Thou one dream of my maidenhood. 
 
 That gave youth all its charms — 
 What had I done, or what hadst thou. 
 That, through this lonesome world till now 
 
 We walk with empty arms ? 
 
 And yet had this poor soul been fed 
 With all it loved and coveted, — 
 
 Had life been always fair — 
 Would these dear dreams that ne'er depart. 
 That thrill with bliss my inmost heart, 
 
 Forever tremble there ? 
 
 If still they kept their earthly place. 
 The friends I held in my embrace, 
 
 And gave to death, alas ! 
 Could I have learned that clear, cairn faith 
 That looks beyond the bonds of death, 
 
 And almost long, to pass ? 
 
 Sometimes, I think, the things we see 
 Are shadows of the things to be ; 
 
 That what we plan we build ; 
 That every hope that hath been crossed. 
 And e%'ery dream we thought was lost, 
 
 In heaven shall be fulfilled. 
 
486 
 
 DAVID, KING OF ISRAEL. 
 
 That even the children of the brain 
 Have not been born and died in vain, 
 
 Though here unclothed and dumb ; 
 But on some brighter, better shore 
 They live, embodied evermore, 
 
 And wait for us to come. 
 
 And when on that last day we rise, 
 Caught up between the earth and skies. 
 
 Then shall we hear our Lord 
 Say, Thou hast done with doubt and deatii. 
 Henceforth, according to thy faith, 
 
 Shall be thy faith's reward. 
 
 DA VID, XING OF ISRAEL. 
 
 EDWAED IRVING. 
 
 JlpHEEE never was a specimen of manhood so rich and ennobled as 
 ' David, the son of Jesse, whom other saints haply may have equalled 
 in single features of his character; but such a combination of man- 
 ly, heroic qualities, such a flush of generous, godlike excellencies, 
 hath never yet been seen embodied in a single man. His Psalms, 
 to speak as a man, do place him in the highest rank of lyric poets, as they 
 set him above all the inspired writers of the Old Testament, — equalling in 
 sublimity the flights of Isaiah himself, and revealing the cloudy mystery 
 of Ezekiel; but in love of country, and glorying in its heavenly patronage, 
 surpassing them all. And where are there such expressions of the varied 
 conditions into which human nature is cast by the accidents of Providence, 
 such delineations of deep affliction and inconsolable anguish, and anon such 
 joy, such rapture, such revelry of emotion in the worship of the living God ! 
 such invocations to all nature, animate and inanimate, such summonings of 
 the hidden powers of harmony and of the breathing instruments of melody! 
 Single hymns of this poet would have conferred immortality upon any 
 mortal, and borne down his name as one of the most favored of the sons 
 of men. 
 
 The force of his character was vast, and the scope of his life was im- 
 mense. His harp was full-stringed, and every angel of joy and of sorrow 
 swept over the chords as he passed; but the melody always breathed of 
 heaven. And such oceans of aff'ection lay within his brea^st as could not 
 always slumber in their calmness; for the hearts of a hundred men strove 
 and struggled together within the narrow continent of his single heart. 
 And will the scornful men have no sympathy for one so conditioned, but 
 scorn him because he ruled not with constant quietness the unruly host of 
 natures which dwelt within his single soul? Of self-command surely he will 
 not be held deficient who endured Saul's javelin to be so often launched at 
 him, while the people without were willing to hail him king; who endured 
 
THE GENIUS OF MILTON. 487 
 
 all bodily hardships and taunts of his enemies when revenge was in his 
 hand, and ruled his desperate band like a company of saints, and restrained 
 them from their country's injury. But that he should not be able to enact 
 all characters without a fault, the simple shepherd, the conquering hero, and 
 the romantic lover; the perfect friend, the innocent outlaw, and the royal 
 monarch; the poet, the prophet, and the regenerator of the church; and 
 withal the man, the man of vast soul, who played not those parts by turns, 
 but was the original of them all, and wholly present in them all, — oh! that 
 he should have fulfilled this high-priesthood of humanity, this universal 
 ministry of manhood, without an error, were more than human ! With 
 the defence of his backsliding, which he hath himself more keenly scruti- 
 nized, more clearly discerned against, and more bitterly lamented than any 
 of his censors, we do not charge ourselves; but if, when of these acts he 
 became convinced, he be found less true to God, and to righteousness; 
 indisposed to repentance and sorrow and anguish ; exculpatory of himself; 
 stout-hearted in his courses ; a formalist in his penitence, or in any way 
 less worthy of a spiritual man in those than in the rest of his infinite moods, 
 then, verily, strike him from the canon, and let his Psalms become monkish 
 legends, or what you please. But if these penitential Psalms discover the 
 soul's deepest hell of agony, and lay bare the iron ribs of misery, whereon 
 the very heart dissolveth; and if they, expressing the same in words, shall 
 melt the soul that conceiveth and bow the head that uttereth them, — then, 
 we say, let us keep these records of the Psalmist's grief and despondency 
 as the most precious of his utterances, and sure to be needed in the case of 
 every man who essay eth to hve a spiritual life. 
 
 THE GENIUS OF MILTON. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 oi:[lo , 
 
 Is the needle turns away from the rising sun, from the meridian, from 
 
 the occidental, from regions of fragrancy and gold and gems, and 
 
 ^f^ * moves with unerring impulse to the frosts and deserts of the 
 
 north, so Milton and some few others, in politics, philosophy, and 
 
 (religion, walk through the busy multitude, wave aside the importunate 
 trader, and, after a momentary oscillation from external agency, are 
 found in the twilight and in the storm, pointing, with certain index, to the 
 pole-star of immutable truth. 
 
 I have often been amused at thinking in what estimation the greatest 
 
488 
 
 MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 of mankind were liolden by their contemporaries. Not even the most 
 sagacious and prudent one could discover much of them, or could prognos- 
 ticate their future course in the infinity of space ! Men like ourselves are 
 permitted to stand near, and indeed in the very presence of Milton : what 
 do they see? dark clothes, gray hair and sightless eyes ! Other men have 
 better things ; other men, therefore, are nobler ! The stars themselves are 
 only bright by distance; go close, and all is earthy. But vapors illuminate 
 these; from the breath and from the countenance of God comes light on 
 worlds higher than they; worlds to which He has given the forms and 
 names of Shakspeare and Milton. 
 
 MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 JOHN Ot. WHTTTTER. 
 PART I. 
 
 THE RIVER VALLEY. 
 
 Across the level tableland, 
 A grassy, rarely trodden way, 
 With thinnest skirt of birchen spray 
 
 And stunted growth of cedar, leads 
 To where you see the dull plain fall 
 Sheer off steep-slanted, ploughed by 
 all 
 
 The season's rainfalls. On its brink 
 The over-leaning harebells swing, 
 With roots half bare the pine trees cling; 
 
 And through the shadow looking west. 
 You see the wavering river flow, 
 Along a vale, that far below 
 
 Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills. 
 And glimmering water-line between, 
 Broad fields of corn and meadows green. 
 
 And fruit-bent orchards grouped around 
 The low brown roofs and painted eaves. 
 And chimney tops half hid in leaves. 
 
 No warmer valley hides behind 
 
 Yon wind scourged sand-dunes, cold and 
 
 bleak ; 
 No fairer river comes to seek 
 
 The wave-sung welcome of the sea. 
 Or mark the northmost border line 
 Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 489 
 
 Here, ground-fast in their native fields, 
 Untempted by the city's gain. 
 The quiet farmer folk remain 
 
 Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, 
 And keep their fathers' gentle ways 
 And simple speech of Bible days ; 
 
 In whose neat homesteads woman holds 
 With modest ease her equal place, 
 And wears upon her tranquil face 
 
 The look of one who, merging not 
 Her self-hood in another's will, 
 Is love's and duty's handmaid still. 
 
 Pass with me down the path that winds 
 Through birches to the open land, 
 Where, close upon the river strand 
 
 You mark a cellar, vine o'errun. 
 
 Above whose wall of loosened stones 
 The sumach lifts its reddening cones. 
 
 And the black nightshade's berries shine, 
 And broad unsightly burdocks fola 
 The household ruin, century-old. 
 
 Here, in the dim colonial time. 
 
 Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, 
 A woman lived, tradition saith, 
 
 Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy. 
 And witched and plagued the country-side 
 Till at the hangman's hand she died. 
 
 Sit with me while the westering day 
 Falls slantwise down the quiet vale, 
 And, haply, ere yon loitering sail. 
 
 That rounds the upper headland, falls 
 Below Deer Island's pines, or sees 
 Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees 
 
 Rise black against the sinking sun, 
 My idyl of its days of old. 
 The valley's legend shall be told. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 THE HUSKING. 
 
 It was the pleasant harvest-time, 
 When cellar-bins are closely stowed, 
 And garrets bend beneath their load, 
 
 And the old swallow-haunted barns, — 
 Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams 
 Through which the moted sunlight streams 
 
490 
 
 MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 And winds blow freshly in, to shake 
 The red plumes of the roosted cocks, 
 And the loose haymow's scented locks,- 
 
 Are filled with summer's ripened 
 
 Its odorous grass and barley sheaves. 
 From their low scaffolds to their eaves. 
 
 On Esek Harden's oaken floor. 
 
 With many an autumn threshing worn, 
 Lay the heaped ears of unhusked corn. 
 
 And thither canio 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. 
 
 How pleasantly the rising moon. 
 Between the shadows of the mows. 
 Looked on them through the great elm- 
 boughs ! 
 
 On sturdy boyhood, suuembrowned, 
 On girlhood with its solid curves 
 Of healthful strength and painless nerves ! 
 
 And jests went round, and laughs, that made 
 The house-dog answer with his howl. 
 And kept astir the barn-yard fowl ; 
 
 And quaint old songs their fathers sang 
 In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, 
 Ere Norman William trod their shores ; 
 
 And tales, whose merry license shook 
 The fat sides of the Saxon thane. 
 Forgetful of the hovering Dane, — 
 
 Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, 
 The charms and riddles that beguiled 
 On Oxus' banks the young world's child,— 
 
 That primal picture-speech wherein 
 Have youth and maid the story told, 
 So new in each, so dateless old, 
 
 Recalling pastoral Ruth in her 
 
 Who waited, blushing and demure, 
 The red ear's kiss of forfeiture. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 THE WITCH S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Jut still the sweetest voice was mute, 
 That river-valley ever heard 
 
 From lip of maid or throat of bird ; 
 For Mabel Martin sat apart. 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 491 
 
 And let the hay-mow's shadow fall 
 Upon the loveliest face of all. 
 
 She sat apart, as one forbid, 
 
 "Who knew that none would condescend 
 To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. 
 
 The seasons scarce had gone their round. 
 Since curious thousands thronged to see 
 Her mother at the gallows-tree ; 
 
 And mocked the prison-palsied limbs 
 That faltered on the fatal stairs, 
 And wan lip trembling with its prayers ! 
 
 For the all-perfect love thou art. 
 Some grim creation of his heart. 
 
 Cast down our idols, overturn 
 Our bloody altars ; let us see 
 Thyself in Thy humanity ! 
 
 Young Mabel from her mother's grave 
 Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, 
 And wrestled with her fate alone ; 
 
 With love, and anger, and despair. 
 The phantoms of disordered sense, 
 The awful doubts of Providence 1 
 
 0, dreary broke the winter days, 
 
 ' And still o'er many a neighboring door 
 She saw the horseshoe's curved charm." 
 
 Few que.stioned of the sorrowing child, 
 Or, when they saw the mother die, 
 Dreamed of the daughter's agony. 
 
 They went up to their homes that day, 
 As men and Christians justified ; 
 God willed it, and the wretch had died ! 
 
 Dear God and Father of us all, 
 Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — 
 Forgive the blindness that denies ! 
 
 Forgive thy creature when he takes, 
 
 And dreary fell the winter nights 
 When, one by one, the neighboring lights 
 
 Went out, and human sounds grew still. 
 And all the phantom-peopled dark 
 Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark 
 
 And summer days were sad and long, 
 And sad the uncompanioned eves, 
 And sadder sunset-tinted leaves, 
 
 And Indian Summer's airs of balm ; 
 She scarcely felt the soft caress. 
 The beauty died of loneliness ! 
 
492 
 
 MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 The school-boys jeered her as they passed, 
 And, when she sought the house of prayer, 
 Her mother's curse pursued her there. 
 
 And still o'er many a neighboring door 
 She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, 
 To guard against her mother's harm : 
 
 That mother, poor and sick and lame, 
 Who daily, by the old arm-chair. 
 Folded her withered hands in prayer ; 
 
 Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail. 
 Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, 
 When her dim eyes could read no more ! 
 
 Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
 Her faith, and trusted that her way. 
 So dark, would somewhere meet the day. 
 
 And still her weary wheel went round 
 
 Day after day, with no relief: 
 Small leisure have the poor for grief. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 THE CHAMPIOI 
 
 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 her 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. 
 
MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 493 
 
 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 neighbors 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 1. 
 
 " 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 in all the town. 
 The skill to guide, the power to awe. 
 Were Harden's, and Lis word was law. 
 
 None dared withstand him to his face, 
 But one sly maiden spake aside : 
 " The little witch is evil-eyed ! 
 
 " Her mother only killed a cow. 
 Or witched a churn or dairy-pan ; 
 But she, forsooth, must charm a man !" 
 
 PART V. 
 
 IN THE SHADO\ 
 
 Poor Mabel, homeward turning 
 The nameless terrors of the wood. 
 And saw, as if a ghost pursued. 
 
 Her shadow gliding in the moon ; 
 
 The soft breath of the west wind gave 
 A chill as from her mother's grave. 
 
 How dreary seemed the silent house ! 
 Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare 
 Its windows had a dead man's staro ! 
 
 And, like a gaunt and spectral hand. 
 The tremulous shadow of a birch 
 Reached out and touched the door's low 
 porch. 
 
 As if to lift its latch : hard by, 
 A sudden warning call she heard, 
 The night-cry of a boding bird. 
 
 She leaned against the door ; her face, 
 So fair, so young, so full of pain. 
 White in the moonlight's silver rain. 
 
 The river, on its pebbled rim. 
 Made music such as childhood knew ; 
 The door-yard tree was whispered through 
 
 By voices such as childhood's ear 
 Had heard in moonlights long ago ; 
 And through the willow-boughs below. 
 
494 
 
 MABEL MARTIN. 
 
 She saw the rippled waters shine ; 
 Beyond, in waves of shade and light, 
 The hills rolled off into the night. 
 
 She saw and heard, but over all 
 
 A sense of some transforming spell, 
 The shadow of her sick heart fell. 
 
 And still across the wooded space 
 The harvest lights of Harden shone, 
 And song and jest and laugh went on, 
 
 And he, so gentle, true and strong, 
 Of men the bravest and the best, 
 Had he, too, scorned her with the rest ? 
 
 She strove to drown her sense of wrong, 
 And, in her old and simple way. 
 To teach her better heart to pray. 
 
 Poor child! the prayer, begun in faith. 
 Grew to a low, despairing cry 
 Of utter misery ; " Let me die ! 
 
 Oh ! 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, hardens into stone. 
 
 ' God ! have mercy on Thy child, 
 Whose faith in Thee 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. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 Had God then 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 scofi at me. 
 
 " You know rough Esek Harden well ; 
 And if he seems no suitor gay, 
 And if his hair is touched with gray, 
 
 " The maiden grown shall never find 
 
 His heart less warm than when she smiled 
 Upon his knees, a little child." 
 
A MARINER'S DESCRIPTION OF A PIANO. 
 
 495 
 
 Her tears of grief were tears of joy, 
 As, folded in his strong embrace. 
 She looked in Esek Harden's face. 
 
 " 0, truest friend of all !" she said, 
 
 " God bless you for your kindly thought. 
 And make me worthy of my lot!" 
 
 He led her forth, and blent in one. 
 Beside their happy pathway ran 
 The shadows of the maid and man. 
 
 He led her through his dewy fields, 
 To where the swinging lanterns glowed. 
 And through the doors the buskers showed. 
 
 " Good friends and neighbors !" Esek said, 
 " I'm weary of this lonely life ; 
 In Mabel see my chosen wife! 
 
 " She greets you kindly, one and all; 
 The past is past, and all offence 
 Falls harmless from her innocence. 
 
 " Henceforth she stands no more alone ; 
 You know what Esek Harden is ; — 
 He brooks no wrong to him or his. 
 
 " Now let the merriest tales be told. 
 And let the sweetest songs be sung 
 That ever made the old heart young. 
 
 " For now the lost has found a home ; 
 And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, 
 As all the household joys return !" 
 
 0, pleasantly the harvest-moon, 
 Between the shadows of the mows. 
 Looked on them through the great elm 
 boughs ! 
 
 On Mabel's curls of golden hair. 
 On Esek's shaggy strength it fell ; 
 And the wind whispered, " It is well !" 
 
 A MARINER'S DESCRIPTION OF A PIANO. 
 
 SEA captain, who was asked by liis wife to look at some pianos 
 while he was in the city, with a view of buying her one, wrote home 
 to her : " I saw one that I thought would suit you, black walnut 
 hull, strong bulk-heads, strengthened fore and aft with iron frame, 
 ceiled with white wood and maple. Rigging, steel wire — double 
 on the rat lines, and whipped wire on the lower stays, and heavier 
 cordage. Belaying pins of steel and well driven home. Length of taffrail 
 over all, six feet two inches. Breadth of beam thirty-eight inches ; depth 
 of hold fourteen inches. This light draft makes the craft equally servicea- 
 ble in high seas or low flats. It has two martingales, one for the light 
 airs and zephyr winds, and one for strong gusts and sudden squalls. Both 
 are worked with foot rests, near the kelson, handy for the quartermaster, 
 and out o' sight of the passengers. The running gear from the hand rail 
 to the cordage is made of white-wood and holly ; works free and clear ; 
 strong enough for the requirements of a musical tornado, and gentle enough 
 for the requiem of a departing class. Hatches, black walnut ; can be bat- 
 tened down proof against ten-year-old boys and commercial drummers, or 
 
496 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 can be clewed up, on occasion, and sheeted home for a first-class instrumen- 
 tal cyclone. I sailed the craft a little, and thought she had a list to star- 
 board. Anyhow, I liked the starboard side better than the port, but the 
 ship-keeper told me the owners had other craft of like tonnage awaiting 
 sale or charter, which were on just even keel." 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 COMPOSED OF LINES SELECTED FROM THIRTY-EIGHT AUTHORS. 
 
 |t^3|^HY all this toil for triumphs of an 
 iillilllM hour ? ( Young. 
 
 '~^M0)M= Life's a short summer — man is but 
 
 a flower ; 
 
 {Johr 
 
 j^ By turns we catch the fatal breath 
 
 I and die — {Pope. 
 
 \ The cradle and the torab, alas ! so 
 
 nigh. {Prior. 
 
 To be is better far than not to be, {Sewell. 
 
 Though all man's life may seem a tragedy ; 
 
 {Spenser. 
 
 But light cares speak when mighty griefs are 
 
 dumb — {Paniel. 
 
 The bottom is but shallow whence they 
 
 come. {Raleigh. 
 
 Your fate is but the common fate of all ; 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 Unmingled joys can here no man befall ; 
 
 {Southwell. 
 Nature to each allots his proper sphere. 
 
 {Congreve. 
 Fortune makes folly her peculiar care ; 
 
 {Churchill. 
 Custom does often reason overrule, 
 
 {Rochester. 
 And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. 
 
 {Armstrong. 
 Live well — how long or short permit to 
 heaven, {Milton. 
 
 They who forgive most, shall be most for- 
 given. {Bailey. 
 Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its 
 face — {French. 
 Vile intercourse where virtue has no place. 
 
 {Somerville. 
 
 Then keep each passion down, however dear, 
 
 ( Thompson. 
 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear ; 
 
 {Byron. 
 Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure lay, 
 {Smollett. 
 With craft and skill to ruin and betray. 
 
 {Crabbe. 
 Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise ; 
 
 {Massing er. 
 We masters grow of all that we despise. 
 
 {Crowley. 
 
 Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem ; 
 
 {Beattie. 
 
 Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 
 
 {Cowper. 
 
 Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave — 
 
 {Davenant. 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. ( Gray. 
 
 What is ambition? 'Tis a glorious cheat, 
 
 ( milis. 
 Only destructive to the brave and great. 
 
 {Addison. 
 What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 
 
 Dryden. 
 The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 
 
 ( Quarles. 
 How long we live, not years but actions tell ; 
 ( Watkins. 
 The man lives twice who lives the first life 
 well. {Herrick. 
 
 Make, then, whde yet we may, your God 
 your friend, {Mason. 
 
 Whom Christians worship, yet not compre- 
 hend. {Hill. 
 The trust that's given, guard, and to your- 
 self be just ; {Dana. 
 For live we how we may, yet die we must. 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 
 
 497 
 
 THE D YING ALCHEMIST. 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 ™|fsr/3 Li Ji] night-wind with a desolate moan 
 ^12 swept by, 
 
 And the old shutters of the turret 
 
 swung 
 Creaking upon their hinges ; and the 
 
 moon, 
 As the torn edges of the clouds flew 
 past, 
 Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
 So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
 Scarcely was conscious when it went and 
 
 came, 
 The fire beneath his crucible was low, 
 Yet still it burned : and ever, as his thoughts 
 Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
 Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
 With difficult energy ; and when the rod 
 Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
 Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back 
 Upon his pallet, and, with unclosed lips, 
 Muttered a curse on death ! 
 
 The silent room. 
 From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
 His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
 Had the distinctness of a knell ; and when 
 Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
 He drew a phial from beneath his head. 
 And drank. And instantly his lips com- 
 pressed. 
 And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
 He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
 Upright, and communed with himself: 
 
 " I did not think to die 
 Till I had finished what I had to do ; 
 I thouglit to pierce th' eternal secret through 
 
 "With this my mortal eye; 
 I felt, — Oh, God ! it seemeth even now — 
 This cannot be the death-dew on my brow ; 
 
 Grant me another year, 
 God of my spirit !-— but a day,— to win 
 Something to satisfy this thirst within ! 
 
 I would hnow something here ! 
 Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! 
 Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 
 34 
 
 " Vain, — vain, — my brain is turning 
 With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows 
 
 sick. 
 And these hot temple-throbs come fast and 
 
 thick, 
 And I am freezing, — burning, — 
 Dying! Oh, God! if I might only live! 
 My phial Ha ! it thrills me, — I revive. 
 
 " Aye, — were not man to die. 
 He were too mighty for this narrow sphere! 
 Had he but time to brood on knowledge 
 here, — 
 Could he but train iiis eye, — 
 Might he but wait the mystic word and 
 
 hour, — 
 Only his Maker would transcend his power ! 
 
 " This were indeed to feel 
 The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream,— 
 To live, Oh, God! that life is but a dream! 
 
 And death Aha ! I reel, — 
 
 Dim, — dim, — I faint, darkness comes o'er my 
 eye, — 
 
 Cover me! save me! God of heaven! 
 
 I die ! " 
 
 'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
 No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 
 Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore 
 Of his death struggle. His long silvery hair 
 Lay on his hollow temples, thin and wild. 
 His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
 And haggard as with want, and in his palm 
 His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
 Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 
 
 The storm was raging still. The shutte? 
 
 swung. 
 Creaking as harshly in the fitful wind. 
 And all without went on, — as aye it will, 
 Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 
 Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 
 
 The fire beneath the crucible was out ; 
 The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 
 Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
 
498 
 
 GOD'S ACRE. 
 
 That fashioned them, and the small rod, 
 Familiar to his touch for threescore years, 
 Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still 
 Might vex the elements at its master's will. 
 
 And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
 A soul of fire, — a sun-bent eagle stricken. 
 From his high soaring, down,— an instru- 
 ment 
 
 Broken with its own compass. Oh, how 
 
 poor 
 Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
 Like the adventurous bird that hath out- 
 flown 
 His strength upon the sea, ambition- 
 wrecked, — 
 A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
 Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest. 
 
 GOD'S ACRE. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which : Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 
 
 Mip calls 
 
 ^m The burial-ground God's acre! It 
 
 fis just ; 
 It consecrates each grave within its 
 I walls, 
 
 I And breathes a benison o'er the 
 
 sleeping dust. 
 
 God's- Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
 Comfort to those who in the grave have 
 
 sown 
 The seed that they had garnered in their 
 
 hearts, 
 Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. i 
 
 In the sure faith that we shall rise again 
 At the great harvest, when the archangel's 
 
 blast 
 Shall winnow, like a fan the chaff and 
 
 grain. 
 
 Then shall the good stand in immortal 
 bloom, 
 In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 
 And each bright blossom mingle its per- 
 fume 
 With that of flowers which never bloomed 
 on earth. 
 
 i 
 
MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS. 499 
 
 With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up 
 the sod. 
 And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 
 
 This is the field and Acre of our God ! 
 This is the place where human harvesta 
 grow! 
 
 MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT BUTTONS 
 
 DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 
 llllpHERE Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper than you 
 ^1^ were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people 
 ■^'^^ don't come to bed to whistle. But it's just like you; I can't speak, 
 •f that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the 
 J best creature hving: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest ? 
 No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you 
 shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long : it's very hard if I can't speak 
 a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows! 
 
 Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must 
 almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear ? Ha, Mr. Caudle ! 
 you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in 
 a passion, wern't you ? Well, then I don't know what a passion is ; and I 
 think I ought to by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Cau- 
 dle, to know that. 
 
 It's a pity you hav'nt something worse to complain of than a button 
 off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm 
 never without a needle-and-thread in my hand ; what with you and the 
 children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks ? Why, if 
 once in your life a button's off your shirt — what do you say " a/i " at ? I 
 say once, Mr. Caudle ; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, 
 no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only 
 wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married ! I should 
 like to know where were your buttons then ? 
 
 Yes, it is worth talking of ! But that's how you always try to put 
 me down. You fly into a rage, and then, if I only try to speak, you won't 
 hear me. That's how you men always will have all the talk to yourselves : 
 a poor woman isn't allowed to get a word in. A nice notion you have of a 
 wife, to suppose she's nothing to think of but her husband's buttons. A 
 pretty notion, indeed, you have of marriage. Ha ! if poor women only 
 knew what they had to go through ! What with buttons, and one thing 
 and another ! They'd never tie themselves to the best man in the world, 
 
500 
 
 NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 
 
 I'm sure. What would they do, Mr. Caudle? — Why, do much better 
 without you, I'm certain. 
 
 And it's my belief, after all, that the button wasn't off the shirt ; it's 
 my belief that you pulled it off, that you might have something to talk 
 about. Oh, you're aggravating enough, when you like, for anything ! All 
 I know is, it's very odd the button should be off the shirt ; for I'm sure no 
 woman's a greater slave to her husband's buttons than I am. I only say 
 it's very odd. 
 
 However, there's one comfort ; it can't last long. I'm worn to death 
 with your temper, and shan't trouble you a great while. Ha, you may 
 laugh ! And I dare say you would laugh ! I've no doubt of it ! That's 
 your love; that's your feeling ! I know that I'm sinking every day, though 
 I say nothing about it. And when I'm gone, we shall see how your second 
 wife will look after your buttons ! You'll find out the difference, then. 
 Yes, Caudle, you'll think of me, then ; for then, I hope, you'll never have a 
 blessed button to your back. 
 
 iVO SECTS IN HE A VEK 
 
 IJlRALKING of sects till late one eve, 
 H^ Of various doctrines the saints believe, 
 
 P''''^^f That night I stood, in a troubled 
 ' dream, 
 
 By the side of a darkly flowing 
 stream. 
 
 And a " Churchman " down to the river 
 
 came : 
 
 When I heard a strange voice call his name, 
 
 " Good father, stop ; when you cross the tide. 
 
 You must leave your robes on the other side." 
 
 But the aged father did not mind ; 
 And his long gown floated out behind, 
 As down to the stream his way he took. 
 His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 
 
 " I'm bound for heaven ; and when I'm 
 
 there. 
 Shall want my Book of Common Prayer ; 
 And, though I put on a starry crown, 
 I should feel quite lost without my gown." 
 
 Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track. 
 But his gown was heavy and held him back, 
 
 And the poor old father tried in vain 
 A single step in the flood to gain. 
 
 I saw him again on the other side, 
 But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 
 And no one asked in that blissful spot. 
 Whether he belonged to the "Church" or 
 not. 
 
 Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; 
 His dress of a sober hue was made : 
 ' My coat and hat must all be gray — 
 I cannot go any other way." 
 
 Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his 
 
 chin, 
 And staidly, solemnly waded in 
 And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down 
 
 tight, 
 Over his forehead so cold and white. 
 
 But a strong wind carried away his hat ; 
 A moment he silently sighed over tliat ; 
 And then, as he gazed to the further shore. 
 The coat slipped off, and was seen no more. 
 
NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 
 
 501 
 
 As he entered heaven his suit of gray- 
 Went quietly, sailing, away, away ; 
 And none of the angels questioned him 
 About the width of his beaver's brim. 
 
 Next came Dr. Watts, with a butfdle of 
 
 psalms 
 Tied nicely up in his aged arms. 
 And hymns as many, a very wise thing. 
 That the people in heaven, " all round," 
 
 might sing. 
 
 But I thought that he heaved an anxious 
 
 sigh, 
 And he saw that the river ran broad and 
 
 high. 
 And looked rather surprised, as one by one 
 The psalms and hymns in the wave went 
 
 down. 
 
 And after him, with his MSS., 
 Came Wesley, the pattern of goodliness ; 
 But he cried, " Dear me ! what shall I do ? 
 The water has soaked them through and 
 through." 
 
 And there on the river far and wide. 
 Away they went down the swollen tide ; 
 And the saint, astonished, passed through 
 
 alone. 
 Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. 
 
 Then, gravely walking, two saints by name 
 Down to the stream together came ; 
 But, as they stopped at the river's brink, 
 I saw one saint from the other shrink. 
 
 " Sprinkled or plunged ? may I ask you, 
 
 friend. 
 How you attained to life's great end ?" 
 " Thus, with a few drops on my brow." 
 " But / have been dipped, as you'll see me 
 
 now, 
 
 " And I really think it will hardly do. 
 
 As I'm ' close comnninion,' to cross with 
 
 you. 
 You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, 
 But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 
 
 Then straightway plunging with all his 
 might, 
 
 Away to the left — his friend to the right, 
 Apart they went from this world of sin, 
 But at last together they entered in. 
 
 And now, when the river was rolling on, 
 
 A Presbyterian Church went down ; 
 
 Of women there seemed an innumerable 
 
 throng. 
 But the men I could count as they passed 
 
 along. 
 
 And concerning the road, they could never 
 
 agree 
 The old or the new way, which it could be, 
 Nor ever a moment paused to think 
 That both would lead to the river's brink. 
 
 And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, 
 Came ever up from the moving crowd ; 
 "You're in the old way, and I'm in the new ; 
 That is the false, and this is the true" — 
 Or, " I'm in the old way, and you're in the 
 
 new; 
 That is the false, and this is the true." 
 
 But the brethren only seemed to speak : 
 Modest the sisters walked and meek. 
 And if ever one of them chanced to say 
 What troubles she met with on the way, 
 How she longed to pass to the other side, 
 Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 
 
 A voice arose from the brethren then, 
 " Let no one speak but the ' holy men ; ' 
 For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 
 ' Oh, let the women keep silence all ?' " 
 
 I watched them long in my curious dream. 
 Till they stood by the borders of the stream; 
 Then, just as I thought, the two ways met ; 
 But all the brethren were talking yet, 
 And would talk on till the heaving tide 
 Carried them over side by side — 
 Side by side, for the way was one; 
 The toilsome journey of life was done; 
 And all who in Christ the Saviour died, 
 Came out alike on the other side. 
 
 No forms of crosses or books had they ; 
 No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; 
 No creeds to guide them, or MSS. ; 
 For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 
 
502 
 
 JEWISH HYMN IN JERUSALEM. 
 
 EVENING BRING 8 US HOME. 
 
 =PON the bills the wind is sharp and 
 cold, 
 ^ The sweet young grasses wither on 
 the wold, 
 And we, Lord ! have wandered 
 from thy fold ; 
 But evening brings us home. 
 
 Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks 
 Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox 
 Watches the straggler from the scattered 
 flocks ; 
 But evening brings us home. 
 
 The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender 
 
 feet 
 Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat 
 Their pitiful complaints ; — Oh, rest is sweet 
 When evening brings us home ! 
 
 We have been wounded by the hunter's darts ; 
 Our eyes are heavy, and our hearts 
 Search for Thy coming ; — when the light de- 
 parts 
 At evening, bring us home ! 
 
 The darkness gathers. Through the gloom 
 
 no star 
 Rises to guide us ; we have wandered far ; — 
 Without Thy lamp we know not where we 
 
 are; 
 At evening, bring us home ! 
 
 The clouds are round us, and the snow-drifts 
 
 thicken. 
 0, thou dear Shepherd ! leave us not to sicken 
 In the waste night ; our tardy footsteps 
 
 quicken ; 
 At evening, bring us home. 
 
 JEWISH HYMN IN JERUSALEM. 
 
 HENRY HART MILMAN. 
 
 ^OD of the thunder ! from whose cloudy 
 tP| seat 
 
 f-i|'| The fiery winds of desolation flow ; 
 Father of vengeance ! that with pur- 
 ple feet 
 Like a full wine-press tread'st the 
 world below; 
 The embattled armies with thy sign 
 to slay. 
 Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey. 
 Nor withering Famine walks his blasted 
 way. 
 Till thou hast marked the guilty land for 
 woe. 
 
 God of the rainbow ! at whose gracious sign 
 The billows of the proud their rage sup- 
 press ; 
 
 Father of mercies ! at one word of thine 
 An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness. 
 
 And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, 
 And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, 
 And marble cities crown the laughing lands, 
 And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. 
 
 O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke, 
 Lord ! 
 The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate. 
 Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's 
 sword. 
 Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; 
 And heaps her ivory palaces became, 
 Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, 
 Iler temples sank amid the smouldering flame. 
 For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of 
 fate. 
 
 O'er Judah's land thy rainbow. Lord, shall 
 beam, 
 And the sad City lift her crownless head, 
 
IMPROVING ON NATURE. 
 
 503 
 
 And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps 
 gleam 
 In streets where broods the silence of the 
 dead. 
 The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, 
 On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers 
 To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers, 
 And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. 
 
 Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand, 
 And Abraham's children were led forth for 
 
 With fettered steps we left our pleasant land, 
 Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. 
 The strangers' bread with bitter tears we steep, 
 And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 
 In the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, 
 
 Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' 
 
 The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; 
 Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children 
 home ; 
 He that went forth a tender prattling boy 
 Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall 
 come; 
 And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall 
 
 bear. 
 And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores pre- 
 pare. 
 And we shall kneel again in thankful 
 prayer, 
 Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blaz- 
 ed the irradiate throne. 
 
 IMPROVING ON NATURE. 
 
 JOHN EUSKIN. 
 
 |||T was a maxim of RafFaelle's that the artist's object was to make things 
 i^ not as Nature makes them, but as she would make them ; as she ever 
 ^K tries to make them, but never succeeds, though her aim may be de- 
 % duced from a comparison of her effects ; just as if a number of archers 
 f had aimed unsuccessfully at a mark upon a wall, and this mark were 
 1 then removed, we could by an examination of tlieir arrow-marks point 
 out the probable position of the spot aimed at, with a certainty of being 
 nearer to it than any of their spots. 
 
 We have most of us heard of original sin, and may perhaps, in our 
 modest moments, conjecture that we are not quite what God, or Nature, 
 would have us to be. Raffaelle had something to mend in humanity : I 
 should like to have seen him mending a daisy, or a pease-blossom, or a moth, 
 or a mustard-seed, or any other of God's slightest work ! If he had accom- 
 plished that, one might have found for him more xespectable employment, 
 to set the stars in better order, perhaps (they seem grievously scattered as 
 they are, and to be of all manner of shapes and sizes, except the ideal shape, 
 and the proper size) ; or, to give us a corrected view of the ocean, that at 
 least seems a very irregular and improvable thing: the very fishermen do 
 not know this day how far it will reach, driven up before the west wind. 
 Perhaps some one else does, but that is not our business. Let us go down 
 
504 
 
 STABAT MATER. 
 
 and stand on the beach by the sea — the great irregular sea, and count 
 whether the thunder of it is not out of time— one, — two: — here comes a 
 well-formed wave at last, trembling a little at the top, but on the whole, 
 orderly. So ! Crash among the shingle, and up as far as this gray pebble ! 
 Now, stand by and watch. Another; — Ah, careless wave! why couldn't 
 you have kept your crest on ? It is all gone away into spray, striking up 
 against the cliffs there — I thought as much — missed the mark by a couple 
 of feet! Another: — How now, impatient one ! couldn't you have waited 
 till your friend's reflux was done with, instead of rolling yourself up with 
 it in that unseemly manner ? You go for nothing. A fourth, and a goodly 
 one at last ! What think we of yonder slow rise, and crystalline hollow, 
 without a flaw ? Steady, good wave ! not so fast ! not so fast ! AVhere 
 are you coming to ? This is too bad; two yards over the mark, and ever so 
 much of you in our face besides ; and a wave we had so much hope of, behind 
 there, broken all to pieces out at sea, and laying a great white tablecloth 
 of foam all the way to the shore, as if the marine gods were to dine off it ! 
 Alas, for these unhappy " arrow-shots " of Nature ! She will never hit her 
 mark with those unruly waves of her's, nor get one of them into the ideal 
 if we wait for a thousand years. 
 
 STABAT MATER. 
 
 fe. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF DR. ABRAHAM COLES. 
 
 |TOOD th' afilicted Mother weeping, 
 Near the cross her station keeping, 
 
 Whereon hung her Son and Lord ; 
 Through whose spirit sympathizing, 
 Sorrowing and agonizing, 
 
 Also passed the cruel sword. 
 
 how mournful and distressed 
 Was that favored and most blessed 
 
 Mother of the Only Son ! 
 Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving, 
 While perceiving, scarce believing. 
 
 Pains of that Illustrious One. 
 
 Who the man, who, called a brother. 
 Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother 
 
 In such deep distress and wild ? 
 Who could not sad tribute render 
 Witnessing that mother tpnd(;r 
 
 Agonizing with her Child ? 
 
 For His people's sin atoning 
 
 Him she saw in torments groaning, 
 
 Given to the scourge's rod ; 
 Saw her darling offspring, dying 
 Desolate, forsaken, crying. 
 
 Yield His spirit up to God. 
 
 Make me feel thy sorrow's power. 
 That with thee I tears may shower. 
 
 Tender Mother, fount of love ! 
 Make my heart with love unceasing 
 Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing 
 
 I may be to Him above. 
 
 Holy Mother, this be granted. 
 
 That the Slain One's wounds be planted 
 
 Firmly in my heart to bide. 
 Of Him wounded, all astounded, — 
 Depths unbounded for me sounded, — 
 
 All the pangs with me divide. 
 
EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 505 
 
 Make me weep with thee in union ; 
 
 Wound for wound be there created ; 
 
 With the Crucified, communion, 
 
 With the Cross intoxicated 
 
 In His grief and suffering give ; 
 
 For thy Son's dear sake, I pray — 
 
 Near the cross with tears unfailing 
 
 May I, fired with pure affection. 
 
 I would join thee in thy wailing 
 
 Virgin, have through thee protection 
 
 Here as long as I shall live. 
 
 In the solemn Judgment Day. 
 
 Maid of maidens, all excelling, 
 
 Let me by the Cross be warded, 
 
 Be not bitter, me repelling. 
 
 By the death of Christ be guarded ; 
 
 Make thou me a mourner, too ; 
 
 Nourished by divine supplies. 
 
 Make me bear about Christ's dying. 
 
 When the body death hath riven. 
 
 Share His passion, shame defying. 
 
 Grant that to the soul be given, 
 
 All His wounds in me renew : 
 
 Glories bright of Paradise. 
 
 EVANGELINE ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 gM-| Tipping its summit with silvc 
 
 ■ir ^Q moon. *^" ^^" ri^7or 
 
 |EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind 
 ^JII^K the black wall of the forest, 
 
 "' ' ■ " ■ ■ ■' ,Q^^ arose 
 
 On the river 
 Fell here and there through the 
 branches a tremulous gleam of 
 the moonlight, 
 Like the sweet thoughts of love on a dark- 
 ened and devious spirit. 
 
 Nearer and round about her, the manifold 
 
 flowers of the garden 
 Poured out their souls in odors, that were 
 
 their prayers and confessions 
 Unto the night, as it went its waj', like a 
 
 silent Carthusian. 
 Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy 
 
 with shadows and night dews, 
 Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm 
 
 and the magical moonlight 
 Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable 
 
 longings, 
 As, through the garden gate, and beneath 
 
 the shade of the oak-trees, 
 Passed .«he along the path to the edge of the 
 
 measureless prairie. 
 
 Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and 
 fire-flies 
 
 Gleaming and floating away in mingled and 
 
 infinite numbers. 
 Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God 
 
 in the heavens. 
 Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased 
 
 to marvel and worship. 
 Save when a blazing comet was seen on the 
 
 walls of that temple. 
 
 As if a hand had appeared and written upon 
 them, " Upharsin." 
 
 And the soul of the maiden, between the 
 
 stars and the fire flies. 
 Wandered alone, and she cried, " Gabriel \ 
 
 my beloved ! 
 
506 
 
 POLITICAL AGITATION. 
 
 Art thou 80 near unto me, and yet I cannot 
 
 behold thee? 
 Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice 
 
 does not reach me ? 
 Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path 
 
 to the prairie ! 
 Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the 
 
 woodlands around me ! 
 Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning 
 
 from labor. 
 Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of 
 
 me in thy slumbers. 
 
 When shall these eyes behold, these arms be 
 folded about thee ? " 
 
 Loud and sudden and near the note of a 
 whippoorwill sounded 
 
 Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, through 
 the neighboring thickets. 
 
 Farther and farther away it floated and 
 dropped into silence. 
 
 " Patience ! " whispered the oaks from oracu- 
 lar caverns of darkness ; 
 
 And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh re- 
 sponded, " To-morrow ! " 
 
 NO. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 sO sun — no moon ! 
 
 No -morn — no noon — 
 No dawn — no dust — no proper time 
 of day — 
 No sky — no earthly view — 
 No distance looking blue — 
 No road — no sireet — no " t'other side the 
 way"— 
 No end to any Row — 
 No indication where the Crescents 
 
 go- 
 No top to any steeple — 
 No recognitions of familiar people — 
 
 No courtesies for showing 'em- 
 
 No knowing 'em — 
 No traveling at all — no locomotion. 
 No inkling of the way — no notion — 
 
 " No go " — by land or ocean — 
 No mail — no post — 
 No news from any foreign coast — 
 No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — 
 
 No company — no nobility — 
 No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful 
 ease. 
 No comfortable feel in any member — 
 No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. 
 No fruit, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
 November ! 
 
 POLITICAL AGITATION. 
 
 WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 jM!!t^{iA^ Lail, Public Opinion ! To be sure, it is a dangerous thing under 
 which to live. It rules to-day in the desire to obey all kinds of 
 laws, and takes your life. It rules again in the love of liberty, 
 and rescues Shadrach from Boston Court House. It rules to-mor- 
 row in the manhood of him who loads the musket to shoot down 
 — God be praised ! — the man-hunter Gorsuch. It rules in Syracuse, and 
 the slave escapes to Canada. It is our interest to educate this people in 
 
THE RANGER. 
 
 507 
 
 humanity, and in deep reverence for the rights of the lowest and humblest 
 individual that makes up our numbers. Each man here, in fact, holds his 
 property and his life dependent on the constant presence of an agitation 
 like this of anti-slavery. Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty : power 
 is ever stealing from the many to the few. The manna of popular liberty 
 must be gathered each day, or it is rotten. The living sap of to-day out- 
 grows the dead rind of yesterday. The hand intrusted with power, be- 
 comes either from human depravity or esprit de corps, the necessary 
 enemy of the people. Only by continual oversight can the democrat in 
 office be prevented from hardening into a despot; only by unintermitted 
 agitation can a people be kept sufficiently awake to principle not to let 
 liberty be smothered in material prosperity. 
 
 All clouds, it is said, have sunshine behind them, and all evils have 
 some good result; so slavery, by the necessity of its abolition, has saved 
 the freedom of the white race from being melted in the luxury or buried 
 beneath the gold of its own success. Never look, therefore, for an age 
 when the people can be quiet and safe. At such times Despotism, like a 
 shrouding mist, steals over the mirror of Freedom. The Dutch, a thou- 
 sand years ago, built against the ocean their bulwarks of willow and mud. 
 Do they trust to that ? No. Each year the patient, industrious peasant 
 gives so much time from the cultivation of his soil and the care of his chil- 
 dren to stop the breaks and replace the willow which insects have eaten, 
 that he may keep the land his fathers rescued from the water, and bid 
 defiance to the waves that roar above his head, as if demanding back the 
 broad fields man has stolen from their realm. 
 
 ■fife- 
 
 ^^^OBERT Rawlin !— Frosts were falling 
 pl^j^ When the ranger's horn was calling, 
 
 flFf Through the wooda to Canada. 
 
 Y^ Gone the winter's sleet and snowing, 
 
 f* Gone the spring-time's bud and blow- 
 ing. 
 Gone the summer's harvest mowing, 
 And again the fields are gray. 
 Yet away, he's away ! 
 Faint and fainter hope is growing 
 In the hearts that mourn his stay. 
 
 THE RANGER. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIEB.. 
 
 Where the lion crouching high on 
 Abraham's rock with teeth of iron, 
 
 Glares o'er wood and wave away, 
 Faintly thence, as pines far sighing. 
 Or as thunder spent and dying, 
 Come the challenge and replying, 
 
 Come the sounds of flight and fray. 
 
 Well-a-day ! Hope and pray ! 
 Some are living, some are lying 
 
 In their red graves far away. 
 
608 
 
 THE RANGER. 
 
 Straggling rangers, worn with dangers, 
 Homeward iaring, weary strangers 
 
 Pass the farm-gate on their way ; 
 Tidings of the dead and living, 
 Forest march and ambush, giving, 
 
 On the grain-lands of the mainlands 
 Stands a serried corn like train-bands, 
 Plume and pennon rustling gay ; 
 Out at sea, the islands wooded. 
 Silver birches, golden hooded, 
 
 Till the maidens leave their weaving. 
 And the lads forget their play. 
 " Still away, still away ! " 
 
 Sighs a sad one, sick with grieving, 
 " Why does Robert still delay?" 
 
 Nowhere fairer, sweeter, rarer, 
 Does the golden-locked fruit-bearer 
 
 Through his painted woodlands stray, 
 Than where hillside oaks and beeches 
 Overlook the long, blue reaches. 
 Silent coves and pebbled beaches. 
 
 And green isles of Casco Bay ; 
 
 Nowhere day, for delay, 
 With a tenderer look beseeches, 
 
 " Let me with my charmed earth stay. 
 
 Set with maples, crimson-blooded, 
 
 White sea-foam and sand-hills gray, 
 Stretch away, far away, 
 
 Dim and dreamy, over-brooded 
 By the hazy autumn day. 
 
 Gayly chattering to the clattering 
 
 Of the brown nuts downward pattering. 
 
 Leap the squirrels, red and gray. 
 On the grass-land, on the fallow. 
 Drop the apples, red and yellow. 
 Drop the russet pears and mellow. 
 
 Drop the red leaves all the day. 
 
 And away, swift away. 
 Sun and cloud, o'er hill and hollow 
 
 Chasing, weave their web of play. 
 
THE RANGER. 
 
 509 
 
 " Martha Mason, Martha Mason, 
 Prithee tell us of the reason. 
 
 Why you mope at home to-day : 
 Surely smiling is not sinning ; 
 Leave your quilling, leave your spinning ; 
 What is all your store of linen, 
 
 If your heart is never gay ? 
 
 Come away, come away ! 
 Never yet did sad beginning 
 
 Make the task of life a play." 
 
 Over-bending, till she's blending 
 With the flaxen skein she's tending. 
 
 Pale brown tresses smoothed away 
 From her face of patient sorrow. 
 Sits she, seeking but to borrow, 
 From the trembling hope of morrow, 
 
 Solace for the weary day. 
 
 " Go your way, laugh and play ; 
 Unto him who heeds the sparrow 
 
 And the lily, let me pray." 
 
 " With our rally rings the valley, — . 
 Join us ! " cried the blue-eyed Nelly ; 
 
 " Join us ! " cried the laughing May : 
 " To the beach we all are going. 
 And, to save the task of rowing. 
 West by north the wind is blowing. 
 
 Blowing briskly down the bay ! 
 
 Come away, come away ! 
 Time and tide are swiftly flowing, 
 
 Let us take them while we may ! 
 
 " Never tell us that you'll fail us, 
 Where the purple beach-plum mellowa 
 
 On the bluffs so wild and gray. 
 Hasten, for the oars are falling ; 
 Hark, our merry mates are calling : 
 Tim3 it is that we were all in, 
 
 Singing tideward down the bay! " 
 
 " Nay, nay, let me stay ; 
 
 iore and sad for Robert Rawlin 
 
 Is my heart," she said, " to-day." 
 
 " Vain your calling for Rob Rawlin! 
 Some red squaw his moose-meat's broiling, 
 
 Or some French lass, singing gay ; 
 Just forget as he's forgetting ; 
 What avails a life of fretting ? 
 If some stars must needs be setting, 
 
 Others rise as good as they." 
 
 " Cease, I pray ; go your way ! " 
 Martha cries, her eyelids wetting ; 
 
 " Foul and false the words you say I' 
 
 " Martha Mason, hear to reason ! 
 Prithee, put a kinder face on ! " 
 
 " Cease to vex me," did she say ; 
 " Better at his side be lying. 
 With the mournful pine-trees sighing, 
 And the wild-birds o'er us crying, 
 
 Than to doubt like mine a prey, 
 
 While away, far away, 
 Turns my heart, forever trying 
 
 Some new hope for each new day. 
 
 " When the shadows veil the meadows 
 And the sunset's golden ladders. 
 
 Sink from twilight's walls of gray, 
 From the window of my dreaming 
 I can see his sickle gleaming. 
 Cheery-voiced, can hear him teaming. 
 
 Down the locust shaded way ; 
 
 But away, swift away. 
 Fades the fond, delusive seeming, 
 
 And I kneel again to pray. 
 
 "When the growing dawn is showing. 
 And the barn-yard cock is crowing, 
 
 And the horned moon pales 
 From a dream of him awaking. 
 Every sound my heart is making, 
 Seems a footstep of his taking ; 
 
510 
 
 JIM SMILEY'S FROG. 
 
 Then I hush the thought, and say, 
 
 When such lovers meet each other, 
 
 Nay, nay, he's away ! 
 
 Why should prying idlers stay ? 
 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart is breaking 
 
 
 For the dear one far away." 
 
 Quench the timbers fallen embers, 
 
 
 Quench the red leaves in December's 
 
 Look up, Martha ! worn and swarthy, 
 
 Hoary rime and chilly spray. 
 
 Glows a face of manhood worthy ; 
 
 But the hearth shall kindle clearer, 
 
 "Robert!" "Martha!" all they say. 
 
 Household welcomes sound sincerer, 
 
 O'er went wheel and reel together, 
 Little cared the owner whither ; 
 Heart of lead, is heart of feather, 
 
 Noon of night is noon of day ! 
 
 Come away, come away ! 
 
 Heart to loving heart draw nearer. 
 When the bridal bells shall saj 
 " Hope and pray, trust alway ; 
 
 Life is sweeter, love is dearer. 
 For the trial and delay 1 " 
 
 JIM SMILEY'S FEOG. 
 
 SAMUEL C. CLEMENS. 
 
 ^^^^ELL, this yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken-cocks, and all 
 
 them kind of thinp-s, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch 
 ^^^ nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you. He ketched a frog 
 t' one day, and took him home, and said he cal'klated to edercate 
 
JIM SMILEY'S FROG. ^n 
 
 him; and so he never done nothing for tliree months but set in his 
 back yard and learn that frog to jump. And you bet he did learn 
 him, too. He'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute 
 you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut, — see him turn one 
 summerset, or maybe a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat- 
 footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so in the matter of catching 
 flies, and kept him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time 
 as far as he could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was education, 
 and he could do most anything; and I believe him. Why, I've seen him 
 set Dan'l Webster down here on this floor, — Dan'l Webster was the name 
 of the frog,— and sing out, "Flies, Dan'l, flies," and quicker'n you could 
 wink he'd spring straight up, and snake a fly off 'n the counter there, and 
 flop down on the floor again, as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching 
 the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea 
 he'd been doing any more'n any frog might do. You never see a frog so 
 modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted. And when 
 it came to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more 
 ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see. Jump- 
 ing on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come 
 to that, Smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. 
 Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers 
 that had travelled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog 
 that ever they see. 
 
 Well, Smiley kept the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch 
 him down town sometimes, and lay for a bet. One day a feller, — a stran- 
 ger in the camp, he was, — came across him with his box, and says : 
 
 " What might it be that you've got in the box ?" 
 
 And Smiley says, sorter indifferent like, " It might be a parrot, or it 
 might be a canary, may be, but it ain't, — it's only just a frog." 
 
 And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it 
 round this way and that, and says, '' H'm ! so 'tis. Well, what's he good 
 for?" 
 
 " Well," Smiley says, easy and careless, " he's good enough for one 
 thing, I should judge, — he can outjump any frog in Calaveras county." 
 
 The feller took the box again, and took another long particular look, 
 and gave it back to Smiley, and says, very deliberate, " Well, I don't see 
 no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog." 
 
 " May be you don't," Smiley says. " May be you understand frogs, 
 and may be you don't understand 'em; may be you've had experience, and 
 may be you an't only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I've got my 
 
512 
 
 JIM SMILEY'S FROG. 
 
 opinion, and I'll risk forty dollars that he can outjump ary frog in Cala- 
 veras county. 
 
 And the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, "Well, 
 I'm only a stranger here, and I ain't got no frog ; but if I had a frog, I'd 
 bet you." 
 
 And then Smiley says, " That's all right, — that's all right ; if you'll 
 hold my box a minute, I'll go and get you a frog." And so the feller took 
 the box, and put up his forty dollars along with Smiley 's and set down to 
 wait. So he set there a good while, thinking and thinking to hisself, and 
 then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open, and took a teaspoon 
 and filled him full of quail shot, — filled him pretty near up to his chin, — 
 and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the swamp, and slopped 
 around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and 
 fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says : 
 
 " Now, if you're ready, set him alongside of Dan'l, with his fore-paws 
 just even with Dan'l, and I'll give the word." Then he says, ''One — two 
 — three — ;jump ;" and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, 
 and the new frog hopped ofi", but Dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his 
 shoulders, — so, — like a Frenchman, but it wan't no use, — he couldn't budge ; 
 he was planted as solid as an anvil, and he 
 couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored 
 out. Smiley was a good deal surprised, and 
 he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no 
 idea what the matter was, of course. 
 
 The feller took the money and started 
 away ; and when he was going out at the door, 
 he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulders, 
 — this way, — at Dan'l, and says again, very 
 deliberate, " Well I don't see no p'ints about 
 that frog that's any better 'n any other frog." 
 Smiley he stood scratching his head and 
 looking down at Dan'l a long time, and at last he says, " I do wonder 
 what in the nation that frog throwed ofi" for; I wonder if there an't 
 something the matter with him, he 'pears to look mighty baggy, some- 
 how." And he ketched Dan'l by the nap of the neck, and lifted him 
 up, and says, "Why, blame my cats, if he don't weigh five pound!" 
 and turned him upside down, and he belched out a double handful of 
 shot. And then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man. He 
 set the frog dov/n, and took out after that feller, but he never ketched 
 him. 
 
THE MOTHER IN THE SNOW STORM. 
 
 513 
 
 THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 fHE scene was more beautiful far to 
 tlie eye, 
 Than if day in its pride had ar- 
 rayed it : 
 ^ The land-breeze blew mild, and the 
 ej* azure-arched sky 
 
 T Looked pure as the spirit that 
 
 made it: 
 The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 
 On the shadowy waves' playful motion. 
 From the dim distant hill, till the light- 
 house fire blazed 
 Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 
 
 No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast 
 
 Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; 
 The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled 
 nest, 
 
 The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : 
 One moment I looked from the hill's gentle 
 slope. 
 All hushed was the billows' commotion, 
 And o'er them the light-house looked lovely 
 as hope, — 
 That star of life's tremulous ocean. 
 
 The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 
 
 Yet when my head rests on its pillow. 
 Will memory sometimes rekindle the"star 
 
 That blazed on the breast of the billow : 
 In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul 
 flies. 
 
 And death stills the heart's last emotion ; 
 Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise, 
 
 Like a star on eternity's ocean ! 
 
 THE MOTHER IN TQE SHOWSTORM 
 
 SEBA SMITH. 
 
 jHE cold wind swept the mountain's 
 height. 
 And pathless was the dreary wild ; 
 And 'mid the cheerless hours of night 
 t A mother wander'd with her child. 
 I As through the drifting snow she 
 I pressed. 
 
 The babe was sleeping on her breast. 
 30 
 
 And colder still the winds did blow. 
 And darker hours of night came on. 
 
 And deeper grew the drifts of snow ; 
 Her limbs were chill'd, her strength 
 gone. 
 
 " God ! " she cried, in accents wild, 
 
 " If I must perish, save my child I " 
 
514 
 
 JOE. 
 
 She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, 
 And bared her bosom to the storm, 
 
 And round the child she wrapp'd the vest, 
 And smiled to think her babe was warm. 
 
 With one cold kiss one tear she shed, 
 
 And sunk upon a snowy bed. 
 
 At dawn a traveller passed by, 
 And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; 
 
 The frost of death was in her eye. 
 
 Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale,- 
 
 He moved the robe from off the child. 
 
 The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled. 
 
 JOE. 
 
 ALICE ROBBINS. 
 
 E don't take vagrants in, sir. 
 
 And I am alone to-day. 
 Leastwise, I could call the good man — 
 
 He's not so far away. 
 
 ={• You are welcome to a breakfast — 
 
 [ I'll bring you some bread and tea; 
 
 You might sit on the old stone yonder, 
 Under the chestnut tree. 
 
 You're traveling, stranger ? Mebbe ' 
 You've got some notions to sell ? 
 
 We hev a sight of peddlers, 
 But we allers treat them well. 
 
 For they, poor souls, are trying 
 
 Like the rest of us to live : 
 And it's not like tramping the country 
 
 And calling on folks to give. 
 
 Not that I meant a word, sir — 
 
 No offence in the world to you : 
 I think, now I look at it closer. 
 
 Your coat is an army blue. 
 
 Don't say ? Under Sherman, were you ? 
 
 That was — how many years ago? 
 I had a boy at Shiloh, 
 
 Kearney — a sergeant — Joe ! 
 
 Joe Kearney, you might a' met him ? 
 
 But in course you were miles apart, 
 He was a tall, straight boy, sir, 
 
 The pride of his mother's heart. 
 
 We were off to Kittory, then, sir, 
 Small farmers in dear old Maine; 
 
 It's a long stretch from there to Kansas, 
 But I couldn't go back again. 
 
 He was all we had, was Joseph ; 
 
 He and my old man and me 
 Had sort o' growed together. 
 
 And were happy as we could be. 
 
 I wasn't a lookin' for trouble 
 When the terrible war begun. 
 
 And I wrestled for grace to be able 
 To give up our only son. 
 
 Well, well, 'taint no use o' talking. 
 
 My old man said, said he; 
 " The Lord loves a willing giver ;" 
 
 And that's what I tried to be. 
 
 Well the heart and the flesh are rebels, 
 And hev to be fought with grace ; 
 
 But I'd give my life — yes, willin' — 
 To look on my dead boy's face. 
 
 Take care, you are spillin' your tea, sir, 
 Poor soul ! don't cry : I'm sure 
 
 You've had a good mother sometime — 
 Your wounds, were they hard to cure ? 
 
 Andersonville ! God help 5^ou! 
 
 Hunted by dogs, did you say ! 
 Hospital ! crazy, seven years, sir ? 
 
 I wonder your'e living to-day. 
 
 I'm thankful my Joe was .shot, sir, 
 " How do you know that he died ?" 
 'Twas certified, sir, by the surgeon . 
 
 Here's the letter, and — " mebbe he lied !' 
 
 Well, I never ! you shake like the ager. 
 My Joe ! there's his name and the date ; 
 
 " Joe Kearney, 7th Maine, sir, a sergeant- 
 Lies here in a critical state — 
 
THE FAIRIES. 
 
 515 
 
 Just died — will be buried to-morrow — 
 Can't wait for his parents to come." 
 
 Well, I thought God had left us that hour, 
 As for John, my poor man, he was dumb. 
 
 Didn't speak for a month to the neighbors. 
 Scarce spoke in a week, sir, to me; 
 
 Never been the same man since that Monday 
 They brought us this letter you see. 
 
 And you were from Maine ! from old Kittery ? 
 What time in the year did you go ? 
 
 I just disremember the fellows 
 
 That marched out of town with our Joe. 
 
 Lord love ye ! come into the house, sir ; 
 
 It's gettin' too warm out o' door. 
 If I'd known you'd been gone for a sojer, 
 
 I'd taken you in here afore. 
 
 Now make yourself easy. We're humbler, 
 We Kansas folks don't go for show, — 
 
 Set here — it's Joe's chair — take your hat off: 
 " Call father !" My God ! you are Joe ! 
 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 ^P the airy mountain, 
 Down the rushy glen, 
 We dare n't go a hunting 
 
 For fear of little men ; 
 Wee folk, good folk, 
 
 Trooping all together ; 
 Green jacket, red cap. 
 
 And white owl's feather ! 
 
 Down along the rocky shore 
 
 Some make their home, — 
 They live on crispy pancakes 
 
 Of yellow tide-foam ; 
 Some in the reeds 
 
 Of the black mountain -lake. 
 With frogs for their watch-doga, 
 
 All night awake. 
 
 High on the hill-top 
 
 The old king sits ; 
 He is now so old and gray 
 
 He's nigh lost his wits. 
 With a bridge of white mist 
 
 Columbkill he crosses. 
 On his stately journeys 
 
 From Slieveleague to Rojses ; 
 Or going up with music 
 
 On cold starry nights, 
 To sup with the queen 
 
 Of the gay Northern Lights 
 
 They stole little Bridget 
 
 For seven years long ; 
 When she came down again 
 
 Her friends were all gone. 
 They took her lightly back. 
 
 Between the night and morrow 
 They thought that she was fast 
 
 But she was dead with sorrow, 
 They have kept her ever since 
 
 Deep within the lakes, 
 On a bed of flag-leaves. 
 
 Watching till she wakes. 
 
 By the craggy hill-side. 
 
 Through the mosses bare, 
 They have planted thorn-trees 
 
 For pleasure here and there. 
 Is any man so daring 
 
 To dig one up in spite. 
 He shall find the thornies set 
 
 In his bed at night. 
 
 Up the airy mountain, 
 
 Down the rushy glen. 
 We dare n't go a hunting 
 
 For fear of little men ; 
 Wee folk, good folk. 
 
 Trooping all together ; 
 Green jacket, red cap. 
 
 And white owl's feather! 
 
516 WORSE THAN CIVIL WAR. 
 
 WOBSU THAW CIVIL WAB. 
 
 From Senator Baker's Speech at Union Square, New York, April 20th, 1861. 
 
 ET no man underrate the dangers of this controversy. Civil war, for 
 the best of reasons on the one side, and the worst upon the other, is 
 always dangerous to liberty, always fearful, always bloody ; but, fel- 
 low-citizens, there are yet worse things than fear, than doubt and 
 dread, and danger and blood. Dishonor is worse. Perpetual 
 anarchy is worse. States forever commingling and forever sever- 
 ing are worse. Traitors and secessionists are worse. To have star after 
 star blotted out— to have stripe after stripe obscured — to have glory after 
 glory dimmed, to have our women weep and our men blush for shame through- 
 out generations to come — that and these are infinitely worse than blood. 
 
 When we march, let us not march for revenge. As yet we have noth- 
 ing to revenge. It is not much that where that tattered flag waved 
 guarded by seventy men against ten thousand; it is not much that starva- 
 tion effected what an enemy could not compel. We have as yet something to 
 punish; but nothing or very little to revenge. The President himself, a 
 hero without knowing it — and I speak from knowledge, having known him 
 from boyhood — 'the President says : " There are wrongs to be redressed 
 already long enough endured." And we march to battle and to victory 
 because we do not choose to endure this wrong any longer. They are 
 wrongs not merely against us — not against you, Mr. rresident — not 
 against me — but against our sons and against our grandsons that surround 
 us. They are wrongs against our Union; they are wrongs against our 
 Constitution ; they are wrongs against human hope and human freedom ; 
 and thus, if it be avenged, still, as Burke says, " It is a wild justice at 
 last." 
 
 Only thus we will revenge them. The national banners, leaning from 
 ten thousand windows in your city to-day, proclaim your affection and 
 reverence for the Union. You will gather in battalions 
 
 " Patient of toil, serene amidst alarms. 
 Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms ;" 
 
 and as you gather, every omen of present concord and ultimate peace will 
 surround you. The ministers of religion, the priests of literature, the his- 
 torians of the past, the illustrators of the present, capital, science, art, 
 invention, discoveries, the works of genius — all these will attend us in our 
 march, and we will conquer. And if from the far Pacific a voice feebler 
 
BY THE SHORE OF THE RIVER. 
 
 517 
 
 than the feeblest murmur upon its shore may be heard to give you courage 
 and hope in the contest, that voice is yours to-day ; and if a man whose 
 hair is gray, who i« well-nigh worn out in the battle and toil of life, may 
 pledge himself on such an occasion and in such an audience, let me say, as 
 my last word, that when, amid sheeted fire and flame, I saw and led the 
 hosts of New York as ihey charged in contest upon a foreign soil for the 
 honor of your flag, so again, if Providence shall will it, this feeble hand 
 shall draw a sword, never yet dishonored — not to fight for distant honor in 
 a foreign land, but to fight for country, %for home, for law, for Government, 
 for Constitution, for right, for freedom, for humanity ; and in the hope that 
 the banner of my country may advance, and wheresoever that banner 
 waves, there glory may pursue and freedom be established. 
 
 £ Y THE SHORE OF THE RIVER. 
 
 C. p. CRANCH. 
 
 l!f|^HROUGH the gray willows the bleak 
 ^|P§ winds are raving 
 
 tf^G^ Here on the shore with its driftwood 
 ^^ and sands ; 
 
 el Over the river the lilies are waving, 
 
 Bathed in the sunshine of Orient 
 lands ; 
 
 Over the river, the wide dark river, 
 Spring-time and summer are blooming 
 forever. 
 
 Here, all alone on the rocks I am sitting, 
 Sitting and waiting — my comrades all 
 gone — 
 
 Shadows of mystery drearily flitting 
 Over the surf with its sorrowful moan, 
 Over the river, the strange cold river, 
 Ah ! must I wait for the Boatman forever ? 
 
 Wife and children and friends were around 
 me ; 
 Labor and rest were as wings to my soul ; 
 Honor and love were the laurels that 
 crowned me ; 
 Little I recked how the dark waters roll. 
 But the deep river, the gray, misty river, 
 All that I lived for has taken forever ! 
 
 Silently came a black boat o'er the billows ; 
 
 Stealthily grated the keel on the sand ; 
 Rustling footsteps were heard through the 
 willows. 
 There the dark Boatman stood, waving 
 
 his hand, 
 Whisp'ring, " I come, o'er the shadowy 
 
 river ; 
 She who is dearest must leave thee forever." 
 
 Suns that were brightest and skies that were 
 
 bluest. 
 
 Darkened and paled in the message he bore. 
 
 Year after year went the fondest, the truest. 
 
 Following that beckoning hand to the 
 
 shore, 
 Down to the river, the cold grim nver. 
 Over whose waters they vanished forever. 
 
 Yet not in visions of grief have I wandered ; 
 
 Still have I toiled, though my ardors have 
 
 flown. 
 
 Labor is manhood, and life is but squandered 
 
 Dreaming vague dreams of the future 
 
 alone. 
 Yet from the tides of the mystical river 
 Voices of spirits are whispering ever. 
 
518 
 
 BILL MASON'S BRIDE. 
 
 Lonely and old in the dusk I am waiting, 
 Till the dark Boatman, with soft, muffled 
 
 oar, 
 Glides o'er the waves, and I hear the keel 
 
 grating. 
 
 See the dim, beckoning hand on the 
 
 shore, 
 Wooing me over the welcoming river 
 To gardens and hSmes that are shining for- 
 ever ! 
 
 INDIAN DEATH SONG. 
 
 PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 KjraiU^HE sun sets at night, and the stars 
 jaJSM^ shun the day ; 
 
 But glory remains when their lights 
 
 fade away. 
 Begin, you tormentors ! your threats 
 
 are in vain, 
 
 For the son of Alknomook will 
 
 never complain. 
 
 Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ; 
 
 Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low ! 
 
 Why 60 slow ? do you wait till I shrink from 
 
 the pain ? 
 No ! the son of Alknomook shall never com- 
 plain, 
 
 Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, 
 
 And the scalps which we bore from your 
 nation away. 
 
 Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my 
 pain ; 
 
 But the son of Alknomook can never com- 
 plain. 
 
 I go to the land where my father is gone ; 
 
 His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his 
 son. 
 
 Death comes like a friend to relieve me from 
 pain ; 
 
 And thy son, Alknomook ! has scorned to 
 complain. 
 
 BILL MASONS BRIDE. 
 
 F. BRET HARTE. 
 
 ^^pALF an hour till train time, sir, 
 W^^^ An' a fearful dark time, too ; 
 
 Take a look at the switch lights. 
 Fetch in a stick when you're 
 through. 
 " On time?" well, yes, I guess so — 
 
 Left the last station all right — 
 
 She'll come round the curve a fly in' ; 
 
 Bill Mason comes up to-night. 
 
 You know Bill ? No ! He's engineer, 
 
 Been on the road all his life — 
 I'll never forget the morning 
 
 He married his chuck of a wife. 
 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck- 
 
 Just off work, every one ; 
 They kicked up a row in the village 
 
 And killed old Donevan's son. 
 
A HUSBAND'S EXPERIENCE IN COOKING. 
 
 519 
 
 Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, 
 
 Up comes the message from Kress, 
 Orderin' Bill to go up there, 
 
 And bring down the night express. 
 He left his gal in a hurry. 
 
 And went up on number one, 
 Thinking of nothing but Mary, 
 
 And the train he had to run. 
 
 And Mary sat down by the window 
 To wait for the night express ; 
 
 And, sir, if she hadn't a' done so. 
 She'd been a widow, I guess. 
 
 For it must a' been nigh midnight 
 
 When the mill hands left the Ridge — 
 They come down — the drunken devils! 
 
 Tore up a rail from the bridge. 
 But Mary heard 'em a workin' 
 
 And guessed therewas something wrong 
 And in less than fifteen minutes, 
 
 Bill's train it would be along ? 
 
 She couldn't come here to tell us, 
 
 A mile — it wouldn't a' done — 
 So she jest grabbed up a lantern, 
 
 And made for the bridge alone. 
 Then down came the night express, sir. 
 
 And Bill was makin' her climb ! 
 But Mary held the lantern, 
 
 A-swingin' it all the time. 
 
 Well ! by Jove ! Bill saw the signal, 
 And he stopped the night express, 
 
 And he found his Mary cryin', 
 On the track, in her weddin' dress ; 
 
 Cryin' and laughin' for joy, sir, 
 An' holdin' on to the light — 
 
 Hello ! here's the train — good-bye, sir, 
 Bill Mason's on time to-night. 
 
 A HUSBANUS EXPERIENCE IN COOKING. 
 
 FOUND fault, some time ago, with Maria Ann's custard pie, and tried 
 to tell her how my mother made custard pie. Maria made the pie 
 after my receipt. It lasted longer than any other pie we ever had. 
 Maria set it on the table every day for dinner, and you see I could 
 not eat it, because I forgot to tell her to put in any eggs or shortening. It 
 was economical, but in a fit of generosity I stole it from the pantry, and 
 gave it to a poor little boy in the neighborhood. The boy's funeral was 
 largely attended by his former playmates. I did not go myself. 
 
 Then there were the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria Ann any fool 
 could beat her making those cakes, and she said I had better try it. So I 
 did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening, and set the 
 
520 
 
 MEASURING THE BABY. 
 
 cakes myself. I got the flour, and the salt, and water, and warned by the 
 past, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened with 
 tallow from roast beef, because I could not find any lard. The batter did 
 not look right, and I lit my pipe and pondered: "Yeast! yeast, to be 
 sure !" I had forgotten the yeast. I went and woke up the baker, and got 
 six cents' worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting-room stove, 
 and went to bed. In the morning I got up early, and prepared to enjoy 
 my triumph; but I didn't. That yeast was strong enough to raise the 
 dead, and the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and 
 put it into another dish. Then got a fire in the kitchen, and put on the 
 griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The second dittoed, 
 only more. Maria came down and asked what was burning. Slie advised 
 me ta grease the griddle. I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, 
 and I dropped the thing on my tenderest corn, while trying to turn it 
 around. Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and Maria got the 
 other things ready. We sat down. My cakes did not have exactly the 
 
 right flavor. I 
 took one mouth- 
 ful and it satisfied 
 me; I lost my 
 appetite at once. 
 Maria would not 
 let me put one on 
 her plate, and I 
 think those cakes 
 may be reckoned 
 a dead loss. The 
 
 cat would not eat them. The dog ran off and staid away three days after 
 one was offered him. The hens won't go within ten feet of them. I threw 
 them into the back yard, and there has not been a pig on the premises 
 since. I eat what is put before me now, and do not allude to my mother's 
 system of cooking. 
 
 MEASURING THE BABY. 
 
 EMMA ALICE BROWN. 
 
 K^l^E measured the riotous baby 
 
 J^Jy Against the cottage wall — 
 
 "c^)-;-^ A lily grew on the threshold, 
 
 And the boy was just as tall; 
 
 ^ 
 
 A royal tiger-lily, 
 
 With spots of purple and gold, 
 And a heart like a jewelled ehalice, 
 
 The fragrant dew to hold. 
 
DIAMOND DUST. 
 
 521 
 
 Without, the bluebirds whistled 
 
 And the little bare feet, that were dimpled 
 
 High up in the old roof-trees, 
 
 And sweet as a budding rose, 
 
 And to and fro at the window 
 The red rose rocked her bees ; ■ 
 
 Lay side by side together. 
 In a hush of a long repose ! 
 
 And the wee pink fists of the baby 
 Were never a moment still, 
 
 Snatching at shine and shadow 
 That danced on the lattice-sill. 
 
 Up from the dainty pillow. 
 
 White as the risen dawn. 
 The fair little face lay smiling. 
 
 With the light of heaven thereon ; 
 
 His eyes were wide as bluebells — 
 
 And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 
 
 His mouth like a flower unblown — 
 
 Dropped from a rose, lay still. 
 
 Two little bare feet like funny white mice. 
 
 Never to snatch at the sunshine 
 
 Peeped out from his snowy gown ; 
 And we thought, with a thrill of rapture 
 
 That yet had a touch of pain. 
 When June rolls around with her roses, 
 
 We'll measure the boy again. 
 
 That crept to the shrouded sill! 
 
 We measured the sleeping baby 
 With ribbons white as snow, 
 
 For the shining rosewood casket 
 That waited him below ; 
 
 Ah me ! in a darkened chamber. 
 
 And out of the darkened chamber 
 
 With the sunshine shut away 
 
 We went with a childless moan — 
 
 Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, 
 
 To the height of the sinless angels 
 
 We measured the boy to-day ; 
 
 Our little one had grown. 
 
 DIAMOND DUST. 
 
 ^YiiiJiHE world is what we make it. For- 
 ward then, forward, in the power 
 of faith, fo.rward in the power of 
 truth, forward in the power of 
 friendship, forward in the power 
 W of freedom, forward in the power 
 
 I of hope, forward in the power 
 
 of God. {Henry Vincent. 
 
 To honor God, to benefit mankind, 
 To serve with lofty gifts the lowly needs 
 Of the poor race for which the God-man died. 
 And do it all for love — oh, this is great ! 
 And he who does this will achieve a name 
 Not only great but good. {Holland. 
 
 He that has never known adversity is but 
 half acquainted with others or with him- 
 self. Constant success shows us but one 
 side of the world, for, as it surrounds us 
 with friends who will tell us only our 
 merits, so it silences those enemies from 
 whom alone we can learn our defects. 
 
 {CoUon. 
 
 We hear much now about circumstances 
 making us what we are and destroying 
 our responsibility ; but however much 
 the external circumstances in which we 
 are placed, the temptations to which we 
 are exposed, the desires of our own na- 
 tures, may work upon us, all these in- 
 fluences have a limit, which they do not 
 pass, and that is the limit laid upon them 
 by the freedom of the will, which is 
 essential to human nature, — to our per- 
 sonality. {Luthardt. 
 
 The vast cathedral of nature is full of holy 
 scriptures and shapes of deep mysterious 
 meaning, but all is solitary and silent 
 there ; no bending knee, no uplifted eye, 
 no lip adoring, praying. Into this vast 
 cathedral comes the human soul seeking 
 its Creator, and the universal silence is 
 changed to sound, and the sound is har- 
 monious and has a meaning and is com- 
 prehended and felt. {Longfellow. 
 
522 
 
 DIAMOND DUST. 
 
 The shaping our own life is our own work. 
 It is a thing of beauty, it is a thing of 
 shame, as we ourselves make it. We 
 lay the corner and add joint to joint, we 
 give the proportion, we set the finish. 
 It may be a thing of beauty and of joy 
 forever. God forgive us if we pervert 
 our life from putting on its appointed 
 glory. ( Ware. 
 
 They who live most by themselves reflect 
 most upon others, and he who lives sur- 
 rounded by the million never thinks of 
 any but the one individual — himself. 
 We are so linked to our fellow-beings 
 that were we not chained to them by 
 action, we are carried to and connected 
 with them by thought. {Bulwcr. 
 
 Censure and criticism never hurt anybody. 
 If false, they can't hurt you unless you 
 are wanting in manly character ; and if 
 true, they show a man his weak points, 
 and forewarn him against failure and 
 trouble. [Gladstone. 
 
 The humble man, though surrounded with 
 the scorn and reproach of the worla, is 
 still in peace, for the stability of his 
 peace resteth not upon the world, but 
 upon God. (Kemins. 
 
 Leave consequences to God, but do right. Be 
 genuine, real, sincere, true, upright, God- 
 like. The world's maxim is, trim your 
 sails and yield to circumstances. But if 
 you would do any good in your genera- 
 tion, you must be made of sterner stuff, 
 and help make your times rather than be 
 made by them. You must not yield to 
 customs, but, like the anvil, endure all 
 blows, until the hammers break them- 
 selves. When misrepresented, use no 
 crooked means to clear yourself. Clouds 
 do not last long. If in the course of 
 duty you are tried by the distrust of 
 friends, gird up your loins and say in 
 your heart, " I was not driven to virtue 
 by the encouragement of friends, nor 
 will I be repelled from it by their cold- 
 ness." Finally, " be just and fear not ;" 
 " Corruption wins not more than 
 honesty;" truth lives and reigns when 
 falsehood dies and rots. {Spurgeon. 
 
 Some clocks do not strike. You must look at 
 them if you would know the time. 
 Some men do not talk their Christianity ; 
 you must look at their lives if you would 
 know what the gospel can do for human 
 nature. But a clock need not be incor- 
 rect because it strikes ; a man need not 
 be inconsistent because he speaks as 
 well as acts. (Joscjjh Parker. 
 
 I love all men. I know that at bottom they 
 cannot be otherwise ; and under all the 
 false and overloaded and glittering mas- 
 querade, there is in every man a noble 
 nature beneath, only they cannot bring 
 it out ; and whatever they do that is 
 false and cunning and evil, there still 
 remains the sentence of our Great Ex- 
 ample, " Forgive them for they know 
 not what they do." {Auerbach. 
 
 If on a cold, dark night you see a man 
 picking his way up a rickety pair of 
 stairs where one of God's poor children 
 lives, with a heavy basket on his arm, 
 you need not stop him to ask if he loves 
 the Lord. Whether he is an Orthodox, 
 a Catholic, or a heathen, he is laying up 
 treasures in heaven. {Golden Rule. 
 
 There is a beautiful Indian apologue, which 
 says: A man once said to a lump of 
 clay, " What art thou ?" The reply 
 was, " I am but a lump of clay, but I 
 was placed beside a rose and I caught 
 its fragrance." — So our prayers are 
 placed beside the smoke of the incense 
 ascending before God ; thus they are 
 made fragrant and a promise of suc- 
 cess is given. In the old dispensation, 
 a cloud hovered above the altar, and if 
 by some mysterious means that cloud was 
 borne down, it was a token that the offer- 
 ing was rejected ; but if the smoke rose 
 up, then the offering was accepted, and 
 sinners might rejoice. Our prayers are 
 always ascending to God in the cloud of 
 incense out of the angel's hand. There 
 is, then, an assurance of blessedness. It 
 is taken out of our hands altogether — he 
 makes our prayers his own, they are 
 his own prayers ascending up to God's 
 throne. [Punshon. 
 
DIAMOND DUST. 
 
 523 
 
 The greatest thing a human soul ever does 
 ia this world is to see something, and 
 tell what it saw in a plain way. Hun- 
 dreds of people can talk for one who can 
 think, but thousands can think for one 
 who can see. To see clearly, is poetry, 
 prophecy, and religion, all in one. 
 
 (Huskin. 
 
 There can be no real conflict between Science 
 and the Bible — between nature and the 
 Scriptures — the two Books of the Great 
 Author. Both are revelations made by 
 him to man ; the earlier telling of God- 
 made harmonies coming up from the 
 deep past, and rising to their height 
 when man appeared ; the later teaching 
 man's relations to his Maker, and speak- 
 ing of loftier harmonies in the eternal 
 future. {Dana. 
 
 Modern discoveries, instead of detracting 
 from, increase the significance of, the 
 Bible symbolism. Every new revela- 
 tion of the beautiful or useful properties 
 of light adds something significant to the 
 meaning of our Lord's declaration, 
 " I am the Light of the world." 
 
 {R. B. Howard. 
 
 The flowers of rhetoric are only acceptable 
 when backed by the evergreens of truth 
 and sense. The granite statue, rough 
 hewn, though it be, is far more imposing 
 in its simple and stern though rude pro- 
 portions, than the plaster-cast, however 
 elaborately wrought and gilded. 
 
 [Macaulay. 
 
 There is a broad distinction between charac- 
 ter and reputation, for one may be de- 
 stroyed by slander, while the other can 
 never be harmed save by its possessor. 
 Reputation is in no man's keeping. You 
 and I cannot determine what other men 
 shall think and say about us. We can 
 only determine what they ought io think 
 of us, and say about us, and we can 
 only do this by acting squarely on our 
 convictions. {Holland. 
 
 We hold religion too cheaply, and speak of 
 the ease with which it may be had, 
 overlooking the stubborn depravity of 
 the heart and the power of Satan. Some 
 would like to ride to heaven in a close 
 carriage, that would never be jolted, or 
 enjoy sunshine all the way to the gates 
 of glory. {Theo. L. Cuyler. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 
 
 .^^ 
 
 GEO. P. MORmS. 
 
 ?HIS book is all that's left me now, — 
 
 Tears will unbidden start, — 
 With faltering lip and throbbing brow 
 
 I press it to my heart. 
 For many generations past 
 
 Here is our family tree ; 
 My mother's hands this Bible clasped, 
 
 She, dying, gave it me. 
 
 Ah ! well do I remember those 
 
 Whose names these records bear ; 
 Who round the hearthstone used to close, 
 
 After the evening prayer, 
 And speak of what these pages said 
 
 In tones my heart would thrill ! 
 Though they are with the silent dead, 
 
 Here are they living still ! 
 
 My father read this holy book 
 
 To brothers, sisters, dear ; 
 How calm was my poor mother's look. 
 
 Who loved God's word to hear ! 
 Her angel face, — I see it yet: 
 
 What thronging memories come ! 
 Again that little group is met 
 
 Within the halls of home ! 
 
 Thou truest friend man ever knew, 
 
 Thy constancy I've tried ; 
 When all were false, I found thee true, 
 
 My counsellor and guide. 
 The mines of earth no treasures give 
 
 That could this volume buy ; 
 In teaching me the way to live, 
 
 It taught me how to die ! 
 
524 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 PLYMOUTH ROC 
 
 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 %Ms 
 
 JgjgETHTNKS I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the 
 Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a 
 future state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it 
 J pursuing, with a thousand misgivings, the uncert-ain, the tedious 
 L voyage. Suns rise and set, and weeks and months pass, and winter 
 surprises them on the deep, but brings them not the sight of the wished-for 
 shore. I see them now, scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost 
 to suffocation in their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a cir- 
 
BORRIOBOOLA GHA. 525 
 
 cuitous route ; and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the 
 high and giddy wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the 
 rigging ; the laboring masts seem straining from their base ; the dismal 
 sound of the pumps is heard ; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow 
 to billow; the ocean breaks, and settles with ingulfing floods over the float- 
 ing deck, and beats, with deadening, shivering weight, against the 
 staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their all 
 but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months passage, 
 on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth, — weak and weary from the voyage, 
 poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without means, sur- 
 rounded by hostile tribes. 
 
 Shut now, the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of 
 human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers ? 
 Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept 
 off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New 
 England ? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on 
 which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the 
 distant coast ? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, 
 the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and 
 find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the 
 houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare 
 meals ? was it disease ? was it the tomahawk ? was it the deep malady of 
 a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its last 
 moments, at the recollection of the loved auvd left, beyond the sea? — was it 
 some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken company to their 
 melancholy fate ? And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not 
 all combined, were able to blast this bud of hope ? Is it possible that from 
 a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of 
 pity there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an 
 expansion so ample, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so 
 glorious ? 
 
 BORRIOBOOLA GHA. 
 
 ORRIX GOODRICH. 
 
 Stranger preached last Sunday, 
 And crowds of people came 
 To hear a two hours sermon 
 * On a theme I scarce can name ; 
 
 'Twas all about some heathen, 
 Thousand of miles afar. 
 
 \\Tio live in a land of darkness 
 Called Borrioboola Gha. 
 
626 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 
 
 So well their wants he pictured. 
 
 For the mournful sight before me, 
 
 That when the box was passed, 
 
 So sad and sickening, — oh. 
 
 Each listener felt his pocket, 
 
 I had never, never pictured 
 
 And goodly sums were cast ; 
 
 A scene so full of woe! 
 
 For all must lend a shoulder 
 
 The famished and the naked. 
 
 To puph the rolling car 
 
 The babe that pined for bread, 
 
 That carries light and comfort 
 
 The squalid group that huddled 
 
 To Borrioboola Gha. 
 
 Around that dying-bed; 
 
 That night their wants and sorrows 
 
 All this distress and sorrow 
 
 Lay heavy on my soul, 
 
 Should be in lands afar ! 
 
 And deep in meditation. 
 
 Was I suddenly transported 
 
 I took my morning stroll, 
 
 To Borrioboola Gha ? 
 
 When something caught my mantle 
 
 Ah, no ! the poor and wretched 
 
 With eager grasp and wild. 
 
 Were close beside my door. 
 
 And, looking down in wonder. 
 
 And I had passed them heedless 
 
 I saw a little child : 
 
 A thousand times before. 
 
 A pale and puny creature. 
 
 Alas, for the cold and hungry 
 
 In rags and dirt forlorn : 
 
 That met me every day, 
 
 "What do you want?" I asked her, 
 
 While all my tears were given 
 
 Impatient to be gone ; • 
 
 To the suffering far away 1 
 
 With trembling voice she answered, 
 
 There's work enough for Christians 
 In distant lands, we know, 
 
 " We live just down the street, 
 
 And mamma, she's a-dying. 
 
 Our Lord commands his servants 
 
 And we've nothing left to eat." 
 
 Through all the world to go, 
 
 Down in a dark, damp cellar. 
 
 Not only to the heathen ; 
 
 With mould o'er all the walls, 
 
 This was his command to them. 
 
 Through whose half-buried windows 
 
 " Go, preach the word, beginning 
 
 God's sunlight never falls ; 
 
 Here, at Jerusalem." 
 
 Where cold and want and hunger 
 
 Christian ! God has promised. 
 Whoe'er to such has given 
 
 A cup of pure, cold water, 
 Shall find reward in Heaven. 
 
 Crouched near her as she lay, 
 I found that poor child's mother, 
 Gasping her life away. 
 
 A chair, a broken table. 
 
 Would you secure this blessing ? 
 
 A bed of mouldy straw. 
 
 You need not seek it far ;— 
 
 A hearth all dark and fireless. — 
 
 Go find in yonder hovel 
 
 But these I scarcely saw. 
 
 A Borrioboola Gha ! 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 
 
 W. C. BRYANT. 
 
 sHITHER, midst falling dew. 
 
 While glow the heavens with the 
 last steps of day. 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost 
 thou pursue 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 
 wrong, 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky. 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
THE VOICES AT THE THRONE. 
 
 527 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side ? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, 
 The desert and illimitable air, 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere 
 
 Yet stood not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end ; 
 Soon shalt tbou find a summer home, and 
 rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall 
 bend, 
 Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; on my heart 
 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He who, from zoije to zone. 
 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy 
 certain flight. 
 In the long way that I must tread alone, 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 THE VOICES AT THE THRONE. 
 
 T. WESTWOOD. 
 
 LITTLE child, 
 
 A little meek-faced, quiet village 
 
 child. 
 Sat singing by her cottage door at 
 eve 
 I A low, sweet Sabbath song. No human ear 
 j Caught the faint melody, — no human eye 
 Beheld the upturned aspect, or the smile 
 That wreathed her innocent lips while they 
 
 breathed 
 The oft-repeated burden of the hymn, 
 "Praise God! Praise God!" 
 
 A seraph by the throne 
 In full glory stood. With eager hand 
 He smote the golden harp-string, till a flood 
 Of harmony on the celestial air 
 Welled forth unceasing. There, with a great 
 
 voice 
 He sang the " Holy, holy evermore. 
 Lord God Almighty !" and the eternal courts 
 
 Thrilled with the rapture, and the hierarchies, 
 Angel, and rapt archangel, throbbed and 
 
 burned 
 With vehement adoration. 
 
 Higher yet 
 Higher, with rich magnificence of sound. 
 Rose the majestic anthem, without pause. 
 To its full strength ; and still the infinite 
 
 heavens 
 Rang with the " Holy, holy evermore !" 
 Till, trembling with excessive awe and love, 
 Each sceptered spirit sank before the throne 
 With a mute hallelujah. 
 
 But even then 
 While the ecstatic song was at its height, 
 Stole in an alien voice — a voice that seomed 
 To float, float upward from some world afar — 
 A meek and childlike voice, faint, but how 
 
 sweet ! 
 That blended with the spirit's rushing strain 
 
528 
 
 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 Even as a fountain's music with the roll 
 Of the reverberate thunder. 
 
 Loving smiles 
 Lit up the beauty of each angel's face 
 At that new utterance, smiles of joy that 
 
 grew 
 More joyous yet as ever and anon 
 Was heard the simple burden of the hymn, 
 " Praise God ! Praise God !" 
 
 And when the seraph's song 
 Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre 
 Silence hung brooding, — when the eternal 
 
 courts 
 Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime. 
 Still through the abysmal space that wander- 
 ing voice 
 Came floating upward from its world afar, 
 Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, 
 "Praise God! Praise God! 
 
 THE THREE SONS. 
 
 JOHN MOULTRIE. 
 
 HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just '] 
 five years old, 
 With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, 
 
 and mind of gentle mould ; 
 They tell me that unusual grace in all 
 
 Shis ways appears. 
 That my child is grave and wise of 
 heart beyond his childish years. 
 
 I cannot say how this may be ; I know his 
 face is fair. 
 
 And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet 
 and serious air. 
 
 I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know 
 he loveth me. 
 
 But loveth yet his mother more, with grate- 
 ful fervency. 
 
 But that which others most admire is the 
 thought which fills his mind ; 
 
 The food for grave, inquiring speech he every- 
 where doth find: 
 
 Strange questions doth he ask of me when 
 we together walk ; 
 
 He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks 
 as children talk ; 
 
 Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes 
 not on bat or ball. 
 
 But looks on manhood's ways and works, 
 and aptly mimics all. 
 
 His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes 
 
 perplexed 
 With thoughts about this world of ours, and 
 thoughts about the next ; 
 
 He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she 
 
 teaches him to pray. 
 And strange and sweet and solemn then are 
 
 the words which he will say. 
 Oh ! should my gentle child be spared to 
 
 manhood's years like me, 
 A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will 
 
 be: 
 And when I look into his eyes and stroke 
 
 his thoughtful brow, 
 I dare not think what I should feel, were I 
 
 to lose him now. 
 
 I have a son, a second son, a simple child of 
 
 three ; 
 I'll not declare how bright and fair his little 
 
 features be ; 
 How silver sweet those tones of his when he 
 
 prattles on my knee. 
 I do not think his light blue eye is like his 
 
 brother's keen, 
 Nor his brow so full of childish thought as 
 
 his hath ever been ; 
 But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind 
 
 and tender feeling, 
 And his every look's a gleam of light, rich 
 
 depths of love revealing. 
 When he walks with me the country folk 
 
 who pass us in the street. 
 Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, he 
 
 looks so mild and sweet. 
 
THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. 
 
 629 
 
 A playfellow he is to all, and yet, with 
 
 cheerful tone. 
 Will sing his little song of love, when left to 
 
 sport alone. 
 His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden 
 
 home and hearth. 
 To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten 
 
 all our mirth. 
 Should he grow up to riper years, God grant 
 
 his heart may prove 
 As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now 
 
 for earthly love ! 
 And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching 
 
 eyes must dim, 
 God comfort us for all the love which we shall 
 
 lose in him. 
 
 I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I 
 
 cannot tell, 
 For they reckon not by years or months 
 
 where he has gone to dwell. 
 To us for fourteen anxious months, his infant 
 
 smiles were given. 
 And then he bade farewell to earth, and 
 
 went to live in heaven. 
 I cannot tell what form is his, what looks 
 
 he weareth now. 
 Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his 
 
 shining seraph brow. 
 The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the 
 
 bliss which he doth feel. 
 Are numbered with the secret things which 
 
 God will not reveal. 
 
 But I know, (for God hath told me this) that 
 
 he is now at rest. 
 Where other blessed infants are — on their 
 
 Saviour's loving breast. 
 I know his spirit feels no more this wearv 
 
 load of flesh, 
 But his sleep is blest with endless dreams of 
 
 joy forever fresh. 
 I know the angels fold him close beneath 
 
 their glittering wings, 
 And soothe him with a song that breathes of 
 
 heaven's divinest things. 
 I know that we shall meet our babe, (his 
 
 mother dear and I), 
 Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears 
 
 from every eye. 
 
 Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss 
 
 can never cease ; 
 Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his 
 
 is certain peace. 
 It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls 
 
 from bliss may sever. 
 But if our own poor faith fail not, he must 
 
 be ours forever. 
 When we think of what our darling is, and 
 
 what we still must be ; 
 When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, 
 
 and this world's misery : 
 When we groan beneath this load of sin, 
 
 and feel this grief and pain ; 
 Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than 
 
 have him here again. 
 
 THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. 
 
 pEK name was Sunbeam. She had lovely, waving, golden hair, and 
 M beautiful deep blue eyes, and such a cunning little mouth ; and she 
 ""^W^ was three inches tall. Perhaps you think that fairies have no les- 
 
 isons to learn, but in this country they had to learn the language 
 of the birds and animals, so that they could talk with them. 
 Sunbeam lived in the hollow trunk of an old tree. It was papered with 
 the lightest green leaves that could be found. The rooms were separated 
 by birch bark. Every morning when Sunbeam arose from her bed ol 
 36 
 
530 THE LIFE OF A CHILD FAIRY. 
 
 apple blossoms, she had to learn a lesson in the bird language ; but it was 
 not hard, for her mother went with her and told her what they said. 
 When her lesson was done she sprang away to meet her playmates — and 
 oh ! what fun they had ! They made a swing out of a vine, and almost 
 flew ihrough the air. They sometimes jumped on a robin's back and had 
 a ride. They played hide and seek in the birds' nests, and in the spring 
 picked open the buds, and when they were tired, sat on the dandelions, or 
 on a horse chestnut leaf, or in a full blown apple blossom. But if any one 
 came into the woods they scampered away as fast as they could, for little 
 fairies are very shy. 
 
 The afternoon was much like the forenoon, but the evening was the 
 pleasantest time of all. Every pleasant night just before dark, Sunbeam's 
 mother dressed her in her apple-blossom dress, with two little lily-of-the- 
 valley bells fastened like tassels to her green sash of grass blades. Her 
 slippers were made from blue violets and her hair was tied with the threads 
 of blue forget-me-nots woven together. Her mother and her father were 
 dressed in light green. A little after dark they started for their fairy 
 haunt with fire-flies for lanterns. The haunt was in the thickest part of 
 the forest ; it was covered with moss, and a brook flowed through the 
 centre of the enclosure. One hundred gentlemen fairies with their wives 
 and children were waiting here. Each had a fire-fly lantern. Very soon, 
 from the brush wood, out sprang two white mice, harnessed to a carriage 
 made of dandelions with the stems so woven together that the flowers 
 formed the outside. The inside was lined with white violets. In this 
 chariot sat the queen of the Forget-me-not fairies (for there are different 
 families of fairies). The queen was dressed in a robe made of a deep red 
 tulip, and she had a sash of lilies of the valley. Her black hair was fas- 
 tened with what looked like a pearl, but really was a tiny drop of water 
 crystalized. Beside her rode her maids of honor with dresses of blue 
 violets. The queen took her place upon the throne, and around her stood 
 her maids of honor. The queen then began to sing, and the fairies danced 
 to the music. This lasted till midnight, and then the fairies went home. 
 
 You can easily imagine Sunbeam's life through the summer and 
 autumn ; but if you think she hid in her house all winter, you are mis- 
 taken. In the autumn the fathers of the fairies had gathered the bright 
 colored leaves, and the mothers had made them into warm winter dresses 
 and cloaks. Sunbeam had a muff" of swan's down. The great sport in 
 winter was the queen's ball, to which all the fairies came. I wish I had 
 time to tell you all about it, for it was Sunbeam's last appearance as a child 
 fairy, as the next spring she was tall enough to be a full-grown fairy. 
 
NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 531 
 
 NOT ON THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 NO, no, — let me lie 
 Not on a field of battle, when I die. 
 
 Let not the iron tread 
 Of the mad war-horse crush my 
 helmed head ; 
 Nor let the reeking knife, 
 That I have drawn against a brother's 
 life. 
 Be in my hand wheiv death 
 Thunders along, and tramples me beneath 
 
 His heavy squadron's heels. 
 Or gory felloes of his cannon's wheels. 
 
 From such a dying bed, 
 Though o'er it float the stripes of white and 
 red, 
 And the bald eagle brings 
 The clustered stars upon his wide-spread 
 wings, 
 To sparkle in my sight, 
 0, never let my spirit take her flight ! 
 
 I know that beauty's eye 
 Is all the brighter where gay pennants fly. 
 
 And t)razen helmets dance. 
 And sunshine flashes on the lifted lance ; 
 
 I know that bards have sung. 
 And people shouted till the welkin rung, 
 
 In honor of the brave 
 Who on the battle-field have found 
 grave. 
 
 That issue from the gulf of Salami 
 And thine too have I seen,- 
 Thy mound of earth, Patroclu.-', 
 green. 
 
 robed 
 
 1 know that o'er their bones 
 Have grateful hands piled monumental stones. 
 
 Some of those piles I've seen : 
 The one at Lexington upon the green 
 
 Where the first blood was shed, 
 And to my country's independence led ; 
 
 And others on our shore, 
 The " Battle Monument" at Baltimore, 
 
 And that on Bunker's Hill. 
 Ay, and abroad a few more famous still : 
 
 Thy " tomb " Themistocles, 
 That looks out yet upon the Grecian seas, 
 
 And which the waters kiss 
 
 IHE B.\TILE .MuXUMEXT. 
 
 That like a natural knoll, 
 Sheep climb and nibble over as they stroll, 
 
 Watched by some turbaned boy, 
 Upon the margin of the plain of Troy. 
 
 Such honors grace the bed, 
 I know, whereon the warrior lays hi.'^ head, 
 
 And hears, as life ebbs out. 
 The conquered flying, and the conqueror ? 
 shout. 
 
 But, as his eye grows dim, 
 What is a column or a mound to him ? 
 
 What to the parting soul. 
 The mellow note of bugles ? WTiat the roll 
 
532 
 
 SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 
 
 Of drums ? No, let me die 
 Where the blue heaven bends o'er me lovingly, 
 
 And the soft summer air, 
 As it goes by me, stirs my thin, white 
 hair. 
 
 And from my forehead dries 
 The death damp as it gathers, and the skies 
 
 Seem waiting to receive 
 My soul to their clear depths. Or let me leave 
 
 The world, when round my bed 
 Wife, children, weeping friends, are gathered, 
 
 And the calm voice of prayer 
 And holy hymning shall my soul prepare. 
 
 To go and be at rest 
 With kindred spirits, spirits who have blessed 
 
 The human brotherhood 
 By labors, cares, and counsels for their good. 
 
 In my dying hour, 
 When riches, fame, and honor, have no power 
 To bear the spirit up, 
 
 Or from my lips to turn aside the cup 
 
 That all must drink at last, 
 0, let me draw refreshment from the past ! 
 
 Then let my soul run back. 
 With peace and joy, along my earthly track, 
 
 And see that all the seeds 
 That I have scattered there in virtuous deeds, 
 
 Have sprung up, and have given. 
 Already, fruits of which to taste in heaven. 
 
 And though no grassy mound 
 Or granite pile says 'tis heroic ground 
 
 Where my remains repose. 
 Still will I hope, — vain hope, perhaps, — th? t 
 those 
 
 Whom I have striven to bless, — 
 The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless, — 
 
 May stand around my grave. 
 With the poor prisoner and the lowest slave, 
 
 And breathe an humble prayer. 
 
 That they may die like him whose bones are 
 
 moldering there. 
 
 SAM WELLEBS VALENTINE. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 ^' VE done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment ; " I ve been a 
 writin'." 
 
 "So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young 'ooman, I 
 hope, Sammy." 
 
 f " "Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. " It's a wal- 
 
 1 entine." 
 " A what ?" exclaimed Mr. "Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the 
 word. 
 
 "A walentine," replied Sam. 
 
 " Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, " I 
 didn't 'think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your 
 father's wicious propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery 
 subject ; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own 
 mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought was a moral lesson as no man 
 could ever ha' forgotten to his dyin' day ! I didn't think you'd ha' done 
 it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it." These reflections were too 
 
HAU WELLER'S VALENTINE. 533 
 
 much for the good old man ; he raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank 
 off the contents. 
 
 " Wot's the matter now ?" said Sam. 
 
 *' Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, " it'll be a wery agonizin' 
 trial to me at my time o' life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, 
 as the wery old turkey remarked ven the farmer said he vos afeerd he 
 should be obliged to kill him for the London market." 
 
 " Wot'll be a trial ?" inquired Sam. 
 
 "To see you married, Sammy; to see you a deluded wictim, and 
 thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital," replied Mr. Weller. 
 " It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Sam, " I ain't a goin' to get married, don't you fret 
 yourself about that. I know you're a judge o' these things ; order in your 
 pipe, an' I'll read you the letter — there !" 
 
 Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and 
 began with a very theatrical air — 
 
 " ' Lovely 
 
 " Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. " A double glass 0' the 
 inwariable, my dear." 
 
 " Very well, sir," replied the girl, who, with great quickness, appeared, 
 vanished, returned, and disappeared. 
 
 " They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. 
 
 " Yes," replied his father, " I've been here before, in my time. Go 
 on, Sammy." 
 
 " * Lovely creetur',' " repeated Sam. 
 
 " 'Taint in poetry, is it?" interposed the father. 
 
 " No, no," replied Sam. 
 
 " Wery glad to hear it," said Mr, Weller. " Poetry's unnat'ral. No 
 man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's black- 
 in' or Rowland's oil, or some 0' them low fellows. Never you let yourself 
 down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy." 
 
 " Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once 
 more commenced and read as follows : 
 
 " ' Lovely creetur' i feel myself a damned ' " — 
 
 " That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his 
 mouth. 
 
 "No: it ain't damned," observed Sam, holding the letter up to the 
 light, " it's ' shamed,' there's a blot there ; ' i feel myself ashamed.' " 
 
 " Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." 
 
 " ' Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — .' I forget wot this 
 
534 SAM WELLER'S VxVLENTINE. 
 
 'ere word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts 
 to remember. 
 
 " Why don't you look at it, then ?" inquired Mr. Weller. 
 
 " So I am a lookin' at it," repHed Sam, " but there's another blot : 
 here's a 'c,' and a ' i,' and a 'd.' " 
 
 " Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller. 
 
 "No, it aiut that," said Sam: " 'circumscribed,' that's it." 
 
 " That aint as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. 
 Weller, gravely. 
 
 " Think not?" said Sam. 
 
 " Nothin' like it," replied his father. 
 
 "But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam. 
 
 "Veil, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a 
 few moments' reflection. " Go on, Sammy." 
 
 '"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of 
 you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.' " 
 
 " That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing 
 his pipe to make way for the remark. 
 
 " Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered. 
 
 "Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, 
 " is, that there ain't no callin' names in it — no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that 
 kind ; wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, 
 Sammy?" 
 
 "Ah! wot indeed?" replied Sam. 
 
 "You might just as veil call her a griffin, or a 'unicorn, or a king's 
 arms at once, which is wery veil known to be a col-lection o' fabulous 
 animals," added Mr. Weller. 
 
 " Just as well," replied Sam. 
 
 " Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. 
 
 Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows : his father 
 continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, 
 which was particularly edifying. 
 
 " ' Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' " 
 
 " So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically. 
 
 " ' But now,' " continued Sam, " ' now I find wot a reg'lar soft-headed, 
 ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though 
 i like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that ray- 
 ther strong," said Sam, looking up. 
 
 Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 
 
SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE. 535 
 
 "'So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, — as the 
 gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you 
 that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart 
 in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken 
 by the profeel macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my 
 dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on com- 
 plete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and 
 a quarter.' " 
 
 " I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, 
 dubiously. 
 
 " No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contest- 
 ing the point. 
 
 " ' Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over 
 what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said 
 Sam. 
 
 "That's rayther a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy ?" inquired Mr. 
 Weller. 
 
 " Not a bit on it," said Sam : " she'll vish there wos more, and that's 
 the great art o' letter writin'." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Weller, " there's somethin' in that ; and I vish your 
 Mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel 
 principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?" 
 
 " That's the difficulty," said Sam ; " I don't know what to sign it." 
 
 " Sign it — Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that 
 name. 
 
 " Won't do," said Sam. " Never sign a walentine with your own 
 name." 
 
 " Sign it Pickvick then," said Mr. Weller; ''it's a wery good name, 
 and a easy one to spell." 
 
 " The wery thing," said Sam. " I could end with a worse: what do 
 you think ?" 
 
 " I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. " I never know'd a 
 respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an afiectin' copy 
 o' worses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos 
 only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule." 
 
 But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had 
 occurred to him, so he signed the letter — 
 
 " Your love-sick 
 Pickwick." 
 
536 
 
 SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 
 
 SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 IwSjW^P from the South at break of day, 
 ^yk; Bringing to Winchester fresh dismaj% 
 The affrighted air with a shudder 
 bore, 
 Like a herald in haste, to the chief- 
 tain's door. 
 The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, 
 Telling the battle was on once more, 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 And wider still those billows of war 
 Thundered along the horizon's bar ; 
 And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
 
 The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 
 Making the blood of the listener cold. 
 As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray. 
 And Sheridan twenty miles away. 
 
 But there is a road from Winchester town, 
 A good, broad highway leading down ; 
 And there through the flush of the morning 
 
 light, 
 A steed as black as the steeds of night, 
 Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. 
 As if he knew the terrible need, 
 He stretched away at his utmost \ 
 
GOD. 
 
 537 
 
 Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, 
 With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thunder- 
 ing South, 
 
 The dust, like smoke from the cannon's 
 mouth ; 
 
 Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and 
 faster. 
 
 Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
 
 The heart of the steed, and the heart of the 
 master 
 
 Were beating like prisoners assaulting their 
 walls. 
 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
 
 Every nerve of the charger was strained to 
 full play, 
 
 With Sheridan only ten miles away. 
 
 Under his spurning feet, the road 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
 And the landscape sped away behind 
 Like an ocean flying before the wind. 
 And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire. 
 Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. 
 But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; 
 lie is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, 
 And Sheridan only five miles away. 
 
 The first that the General saw were the groups 
 Of stragglers, and the retreating troops : 
 What was done, — what to do, — a glance told 
 
 him both, 
 And striking his spurs with a terrible oath. 
 He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of 
 
 huzzas. 
 And the wave of retreat checked its course 
 
 there, because 
 The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 
 With foam and with dust the black charger 
 
 was gray ; 
 By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril's 
 
 play, 
 He seemed to the whole great army to say, 
 " I've brought you Sheridan all-the way, 
 From Winchester down to save the day." 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 
 Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 
 And when their statues are placed on high. 
 Under the dome of the Union sk}', — 
 The American soldier's Temple of Fame, 
 There with the glorious General's name 
 Be it said in letters both bold and bright : 
 " Here is the steed that saved the day 
 By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 
 From Winchester, — twenty miles away !" 
 
 GOD. 
 
 FROM THE RUSSIAN OF DERZHAVIN. 
 
 THOU eternal One! whose presence 
 
 "'^~ All space doth occupy, all motion 
 f f^ guide ; 
 
 i'^ Unchang'd through time's all-devasta- 
 ting flight ! 
 Thou only God ! There is no God 
 beside ! 
 Being above all beings ! Three-in one ! 
 Whom none can comprehend, and none 
 
 explore ; 
 Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone; 
 Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — 
 Being whom we call God — and know no 
 more! 
 
 In its sublime research, philosophy 
 May measure out the ocean deep — may 
 
 count 
 The sands, or the sun's rays — but God ! for 
 
 Thee 
 There is no weight nor measure ; — none can 
 
 mount 
 Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest 
 
 spark. 
 Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would 
 
 try 
 To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark; 
 And thought is lost ere thought can soar so 
 
 high- 
 E'en like past moments in eternity. 
 
638 
 
 GOD. 
 
 Thou from primeval notliingnoss didst call, 
 Fiist chaos, then existence ; — Lord! on Thee 
 Eternity had its foundation ; — all 
 Sprung forth from Thee; — of light, joy, 
 
 harmony. 
 Sole origin ; — all life, all beauty. Thine. 
 Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
 Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ; 
 Thou art, and wert, and shalt be ! Glorious, 
 Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 
 
 Thy chains the unmeasured universe 
 
 surround ; 
 Upheld by Thee ; by Thee inspired with 
 
 breath ! 
 Thou the beginning with the end hast 
 
 bound, 
 And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
 As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze 
 So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from 
 
 Thee, 
 And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
 Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
 Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy 
 
 praise. 
 
 A million torches lighted by Thy hand 
 Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; 
 They own Thy power, accomplish Thy com- 
 mand. 
 All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
 What shall we call them ? Pyres of crystal 
 
 light— 
 A glorious company of golden streams — 
 Lamps of celestial ether burning bright — 
 Suns lighting systems with their joyful 
 
 beams ? 
 But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 
 
 Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea. 
 All this magnificence in Thee is lost ; 
 What are ten thousand worlds compared to 
 
 Thee? 
 And what am I then? Heaven's unnum- 
 bered host. 
 Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
 In all the glory of sublimest thought. 
 Is but an atom in the balance weighed 
 Against Thy greatness, — is a cipher brouglit 
 
 Against infinity ! What am I then ? 
 
 Naught ! 
 Naught! But the effluence of Thy light 
 
 Divine, 
 Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom. 
 
 too ; 
 Yes, in my spirit doth Thy Spirit shine. 
 As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
 
 Naught ! but I live, and on hope's pinions 
 
 fly 
 
 Eager toward Thy presence ; for in Thee 
 I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring 
 
 high 
 Even to the throne of Thy Divinity, 
 I am God ! and surely Thou must be ! 
 Thou art! directing, guiding all! Thou art' 
 Direct my understanding then to Thee. 
 Control my spirit, guide my wandering 
 
 heart ; 
 Though but an atom midst immensity, 
 Still I am something, fashioned by Thy 
 
 hand ! 
 I hold a middle rank, 'twixt heaven and 
 
 earth. 
 On the last verge of mortal being stand, 
 Close to the realm where angels have their 
 
 birth. 
 Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 
 The chain of being is complete in me ; 
 In me is matter's last gradation lost, 
 And the next step is spirit — Deity ! 
 I can command the lightning, and am dust ! 
 A monarch, and a slave ; a worm, a god ! 
 Whence came I here, and how ? so marvel- 
 
 ously 
 Constructed and conceived? Unknown! 
 
 this clod 
 Lives surely through some higher energy ; 
 For from itself alone it could not be ! 
 Creator, yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
 Created me ! Thou source of life and good ! 
 Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
 Thy light. Thy love, in the bright plenitude, 
 Filled me with an immortal soul to spring 
 Over the abyss of death, and bade it wear 
 The garments of eternal day, and wing 
 Its heavenly flight beyond the little sphere, 
 Even to its source — to Thee — its author there. 
 
 thoughts ineffable ! visions blest ! 
 
REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 539 
 
 Though worthless our conception all of Thee, \ Thus seek Thy presence — Being wise and 
 Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast, i good, 
 
 And waft its homage to Thy Deity. ; Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore ; 
 
 U-od ! thus alone my lonely thoughts can And when the tongue is eloquent no more, 
 
 soar : 
 
 The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude. 
 
 BEBECGA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 |00K from the window once again, kind maiden, but beware that 
 you are not marked by the archers beneath — Look out once more, 
 and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." 
 
 With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she 
 had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the 
 ^ lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from 
 beneath. 
 
 " What dost thou see, R.ebecca ? " again demanded the wounded 
 knight. 
 
 "Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine 
 eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." 
 
 " That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe ; " if they press not right on to 
 carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little 
 against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, 
 fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself ; for as the leader is, so will 
 his followers be." 
 
 "I see him not," said R.ebecca. 
 
 " Foul craven ! " exclaimed Ivanhoe ; " does he blench from the helm 
 when the wind blows highest ? " 
 
 " He blenches not ! he blenches not ! " said Rebecca, "I see him now ; 
 he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican.- — 
 They pull down the piles and palisades ; they hew down the barriers with 
 axes. — His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven 
 over the field of the slain. — They have made a breach in the barriers — 
 they rush in — they are thrust back ! — Front-de-Boeuf heads the defen- 
 ders ; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the 
 breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of 
 Jacob ! it is the meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans 
 moved by adverse winds!" 
 
540 
 
 REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANHOE. 
 
 She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a 
 sight so terrible. 
 
 "Look forth again, Eebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her 
 
 retiring ; " the 
 archery must in 
 a degree have 
 ceased ; for they 
 are now fighting 
 hand to hand. — 
 Look, there is 
 now less dan- 
 ger." 
 
 Rebecca again 
 looked forth and 
 almost immedi- 
 ately exclaimed, 
 " Holy proph- 
 ets of the law ! 
 Front-de - Boeuf 
 and the Black 
 Knight fight on 
 the beach hand 
 to hand, amid 
 the roar of their 
 followers, who 
 watch the prog- 
 ress of the strife. 
 Heaven strike 
 with the cause 
 of the oppressed 
 and of the cap- 
 tive!" She then 
 uttered a loud 
 shriek, and ex- 
 claimed, "He is 
 down ! — he is down ! " 
 
 *' Who is down ? " cried Ivanhoe. 
 
 "The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly 
 again shouted with joyful eagerness—" But no— but no !— the name of the 
 Lord of hosts be blessed !— he is on foot again, and fights as if there were 
 
 THE ANCIENT STRONGHOLD. 
 
REBECCA DESCRIBES THE SIEGE TO IVANIIOE. 54I 
 
 twenty men's strength in his single arm— His sword is broken — he snatches 
 an axe from a yeoman — he presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow — 
 The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman 
 — he falls — he falls ! " 
 
 " Front-de-Boeuf? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 
 
 "Front-de-Boeuf!" answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the 
 rescue, headed by the haughty Templar— their united force compels the 
 champion to pause — They drag Front-de-Boeuf within the walls." 
 
 " The assailants have won the barriers, have they not ? " said 
 Ivanhoe. 
 
 " They have — they have ! " exclaimed Rebecca "and they press the 
 besieged hard upon the outer wall ; some plant ladders, some swarm like 
 bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other — down go 
 stones, beam?, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they 
 bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault. 
 — Great God ! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be 
 thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren ! " 
 
 " Thmk not of that," said Ivanhoe ; '' this is no time for such 
 thoughts — Who yield ? — who push their way ? " 
 
 " The ladders are thrown down," replied Rebecca, shuddering ; " the 
 soldiers He grovelling under them like crushed reptiles— The besieged 
 have the better." 
 
 " Saint George strike for us ! " exclaimed the knight ; " do the false 
 yeomen give way ? " 
 
 "No !" exclaimed Rebecca, " they bear themselves right yeomanly — 
 the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe — the thun- 
 dering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and 
 shouts of the battle — Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold cham- 
 pion — he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or 
 feathers ! " 
 
 " By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on 
 his couch, " methought there was but one man in England that might do 
 such a deed ! " 
 
 "The postern gate shakes," continued Rebecca; "it crashes — it is 
 splintered by his blov/s — they rush in — the outwork is won— Oh, God ! — 
 they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the 
 moat — men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no 
 longer ! " 
 
 "The bridge— the bridge which communicates with the castle— have 
 they won that pass ? " exclaimed Ivanhoe. 
 
542 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 "No," replied Rebecca, "the Templar has destroyed the plank on 
 which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle 
 — the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others — Alas ! 
 I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than upon battle." 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 SAW him once before, 
 As he passed by the door ; 
 
 And again 
 The pavement stones resound 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say that in his prime, 
 Ere the pruning-knife of tim 
 
 Cut him down, 
 Not a better man was found 
 By the crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON. 
 
 543 
 
 But now he walks the streets, 
 
 But now his nose is thin, 
 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 
 And it rests upon his chin, 
 
 So forlorn ; 
 
 Like a staff; 
 
 And he shakes his feeble head, 
 
 And a crook is in his back, 
 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 " They are gone." 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 I know it is a sin 
 
 On the lips that he has pressed 
 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 In their bloom ; 
 
 At him here, 
 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 
 But the old three-cornered hat. 
 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 
 And the breeches, — and all tliac, 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 Are so queer ! 
 
 My grandmamma has said — 
 
 And if I should live to be 
 
 Poor old lady ! she is dead 
 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 
 Long ago— 
 
 In the spring, 
 
 That he had a Roman nose, 
 
 Let them smile, as I do now, 
 
 And his cheek was like a rose 
 
 At the old forsaken bough 
 
 In the snow. 
 
 Where I cling. 
 
 JOHN JANKIN'S SERMON 
 
 SHE minister said last night, says he, 
 " Don't be afraid of givin' ; 
 If your life ain't nothin' to other 
 folks. 
 Why what's the use of livin' ?" 
 And that's what I say to my wife, 
 says I, 
 
 "There's Brown, that mis'rable sin- 
 ner. 
 He'd sooner a beggar would starve, than 
 give 
 A cent towards buyin' a dinner." 
 
 I tell you our minister's prime, he is, 
 
 But I couldn't quite determine. 
 When I heard him givin' it right and left, 
 
 Just who was hit by the sermon. 
 Of course there couldn't be no mistake. 
 
 When he talked of long-winded prayin', 
 For Peters and Johnson they sot and 
 scowled 
 
 At every word he was sayin'. 
 
 And the minister he went on to say, 
 " Ther's various kinds of cheatin', 
 
 And religion's as good for every day 
 
 As it is to bring to meetin'. 
 I don't think much of a man that gives 
 
 The loud Amens at my preachin'. 
 And spends his time the followin' week 
 
 In cheatin' and overreachin'." 
 
 I guess that dose was bitter 
 
 For a man like Jones to swaller ; 
 But I noticed he didn't open his mouth, 
 
 Not once, after that, to holler. 
 Hurrah, says I, for the minister — 
 
 Of course I said it quiet — 
 Give us some more of this open talk ; 
 
 It's very refreshin' diet. 
 
 The minister hit 'em every time ; 
 
 And when he spoke of fashion. 
 And a-riggin' out in bows and things. 
 
 As woman's rulin' passion, 
 And a-comin' to church to see the styles, 
 
 I couldn't help a-winkin' 
 And a nudgin' my wife, and, says I, " That 
 you," 
 
 And I guess it sot her thinkin'. 
 
/ 
 
 544. 
 
 THE MODEL CHURCH. 
 
 Says I to myself, that sermon's pat ; 
 
 But man is a queer creation ; 
 And I'm much afraid that most o' the folks 
 
 Wouldn't take the application. 
 Now, if he had said a word about 
 
 My personal mode o' sinnin', 
 I'd have gone to work to right myself, 
 
 And not set there a-grinnin'. 
 
 Just then the minister says, says he, 
 " And now I've come to the fellers 
 
 Who've lost this shower by usin' their 
 friends 
 As a sort o' moral umbrellers. 
 
 Go home," says he, " and find your fai:lts. 
 
 Instead of huntin your brothers'. 
 Go home," he says, " and wear the coats 
 
 You've tried to fit on others." 
 
 My wife she nudged, and Brown he winked 
 
 And there was lots o' smilin', 
 And lots o' lookin' at our pew ; 
 
 It sot my blood a-bilin'. 
 Says I to myself, our minister 
 
 Is gettin' a little bitter; 
 I'll tell him when meetin's out, that I 
 
 Ain't at all that kind of a critter. 
 
 THE MODEL CHURCH. 
 
 JOHN H. YATES. 
 
 i^ELL wife, I've found the moc?e? church 
 '''-^ — I worshipped there to-day ! 
 It made me think of good old times 
 
 before my hair wa.s gray. 
 The meetin' house was fixed up more 
 
 than they were years ago, 
 But then I felt when I went in it 
 wasn't built for show. 
 
 The sexton didn't seat me away back by the 
 
 door; 
 He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as 
 
 old and poor : 
 He must have been a Christian, for he led me 
 
 through 
 The long aisle of that crowded church, to find 
 
 a place and pew. 
 
 I wish you'd heard that singin' — it had the 
 old-time ring ; 
 
 The preacher said, with trumpet voice, " Let 
 all the people sing !" 
 
 The tune was Coronation, and the music up- 
 ward rolled. 
 
 Till I thought I heard the angels striking all 
 their harps of gold. 
 
 My deafness seemed to melt away ; my spirit 
 caught the fire ; 
 
 I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that 
 melodious choir, 
 
 And sang as in my youthful days, " Let an- 
 gels prostrate fall, 
 
 Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him 
 Lord of all." 
 
 I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that 
 hymn once more ; 
 
 I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a 
 glimpse of shore ; 
 
 I almost wanted to lay down this weather- 
 beaten form, 
 
 And anchor in the blessed port forever from 
 the storm. 
 
 The preachin f Well, I can't just tell all the 
 preacher said ; 
 
 I know it wasn't written ; I know it wasn't 
 read ; 
 
 He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of 
 his eye 
 
 Went flashin' along from pew to pew, nor pas- 
 sed a sinner by. 
 
 The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple gos- 
 pel truth ; 
 
 It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hoj^e- 
 ful vouth. 
 
THE REST OF THE JUST. 
 
 645 
 
 'Twas full of consolation for- weary hearts 
 
 that bleed ; 
 'Twa« full of invitations to Christ, and not to 
 
 creed. 
 
 The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles 
 and in Jews ; 
 
 He shot the golden sentences down in the 
 finest pews, 
 
 And — though I can't see very well — I saw 
 the falling tear 
 
 That told me hell was someways off, and heav- 
 en very near. 
 
 How swift the golden moments fled within 
 
 that holy place ! 
 How brightly beamed the light of heaven 
 
 from every happy face! 
 Again I longed for that sweet time when 
 
 friend shall meet with friend. 
 
 " Where congregations ne'er break up, and 
 Sabbaths have no end." 
 
 I hope to meet that minister — that congrega- 
 tion too — 
 
 In that dear home beyond the stars that shine 
 from heaven's blue. 
 
 I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's even- 
 ing gray. 
 
 That happy hour of worship in that model 
 church to-day. 
 
 Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the 
 victory be won ; 
 
 The shining goal is just ahead : the race is 
 nearly run. 
 
 O'er the river we are nearin', they are throng- 
 in' to the shore 
 
 To shout our safe arrival where the weary 
 weep no more. 
 
 THE REST OF THE JUST. 
 
 ' EICHARD BAXTER 
 
 , ^Y^ . 
 
 _ JPrEST ! how sweet the sound ! It is melody to my ears ! It lies as a 
 ^^■^ reviving cordial at my heart, and fram thence sends forth lively 
 spirits which beat through all the pulses of my soul ! Eest, not as 
 the stone that rests on the earth, nor as this flesh shall rest in the 
 1 grave, nor such a rest as the carnal world desires. blessed rest ! 
 •J when we rest not day and night saying, " Holy, holy, holy, Lord 
 God Almighty : " when we shall rest from sin, but not from worship; from 
 suffering and sorrow, but not from joy ! blessed day ! when I shall rest 
 with God ! when I shall rest in the bosom of my Lord ! when my perfect 
 soul and body shall together perfectly enjoy the most perfect God ! when 
 God, who is love itself, shall perfectly love me, and rest in this love to me, 
 as I shall rest in my love to Him ; and rejoice over me with joy, and jov 
 over me with singing, as I shall rejoice in Him ! 
 
 This is that joy which was procured by sorrow, that crown which was 
 procured by the Cross. My Lord wept that now my tears might be wiped 
 away ; He bled that I might now rejoice ; he was forsaken that I might 
 not now be forsook ; He then died that I might now live. free mercy, 
 that can exalt so vile a wretch ! Free to me, though dear to Christ : free 
 grace that hath chosen me, when thousands were forsaken. Thus is not 
 
rA6 A PATRIOT'S LAST APPEAL. 
 
 like our cottages of clay, our prisons, our earthly dwellings. This voice 
 of joy is not like our old complaints, our impa.tient groans and sighs ; nor 
 this melodious praise like the scoflfs and revilings, or the oaths and curses, 
 which we heard on earth. This body is not like that we had, nor this soul 
 like the soul we had, nor this life like the life we lived. We have changed 
 our place and state, our clothes and thoughts, our looks, language, and 
 company. Before, a saint was weak and despised ; but now, how happy 
 and glorious a thing is a saint ! Where is now their body of sin, which 
 wearied themselves and those about them ? Where are now our different 
 judgments, reproachful names, divided spirits, exasperated passions, strange 
 looks, uncharitable censures ? Now are all of one judgment, of one name, 
 of one heart, house and glory. sweet reconciliation ! happy union I 
 
 A PATRIOTS LAST APPEAL. 
 
 ROBERT EMMET. 
 
 IJKET no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor. I 
 i^p would not have submitted to a foreign oppressor, for the same rea- 
 ^"■^'^ son that I would resist the present domestic oppressor. In the 
 dignity of freedom, I would have fought on the threshold of my 
 a) country, and its enemy should only enter by passing over my life- 
 less corpse. And am I, who lived but for my country, and who have sub- 
 jected myself to the dangers of a jealous and watchful oppressor, and the 
 bondage of the grave, only to give my countrymen their rights, and my 
 country its independence — am I to be loaded with calumny, and not 
 suffered to resent or repel it ? No, God forbid ! 
 
 If the spirits of the illustrious dead participate in the concern and 
 cares of those who are dear to them in this transitory life, ever-dear and 
 venerable shade of my departed father, look down with scrutiny upon the 
 conduct of your suffering son, and see if I have ever for a moment deviated 
 from those principles of morality and patriotism which it was your care to 
 instil into my youthful mind, and for which I am now to offer up my life. 
 My lords, you are impatient for the sacrifice — the blood which you 
 seek is not congealed by the artificial terrors that surround your victim ; 
 it circulates warmly and unruffled through the channels which God created 
 for nobler purposes, but which you are bent to destroy for purposes so 
 grievous that they cry to Heaven. Be ye patient ! I have but a few 
 words more to say. I am going to my cold and silent grave ; my lamp of 
 
THE LAW OF DEATH. 
 
 547 
 
 life is nearly extinguished; my race is run, the grave opens to receive 
 me, and I sink into its bosom! I have but one request to ask at my 
 departure from this world ; it is the charity of its silence ! Let no man 
 write my epitaph; for as no man who knows my motives dare now 
 vindicate them, let not prejudice or ignorance asperse them. Let them and 
 me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until 
 other times and other men can do justice to my character. When my 
 country takes her place among the nations of the earth — then, and not till 
 then, let my epitaph be written. I have done. 
 
 THE LA W OF DEATH. 
 
 JOHN HAY. 
 
 I^I^HE song of Kilvany. Fairest she 
 pjB In all the land of Savathi. 
 ^M She had one child, as sweet and gay 
 m\% And dear to her as the light of day. 
 4^ She was so young, and he so fair, 
 i- The same bright eyes and the same 
 T dark hair, 
 
 To see them by the blossomy way 
 They seemed two children at their 
 play. 
 
 There came a death-dart from the sky, 
 Kilvany saw her darling die. 
 The glimmering shades his eye invades. 
 Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades ; 
 His warm heart feels the icy chill, 
 The round limbs shudder and are still. 
 And j'et Kilvany held him fast 
 Long after life's last pulse was past, 
 As if her kisses could restore 
 The smile gone out forevermore. 
 
 But when she saw her child was dead 
 She scattered ashes on her head. 
 And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet, 
 And rushing wildly through the street, 
 She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet. 
 
 " Master ! all-helpful ! help me now ! 
 Here at thy feet I humbly bow : 
 Have mercy, Buddha ! help me now !" 
 She groveled on the marble floor, 
 
 And kissed the dead child o'er and o'er ; 
 And suddenly upon the air 
 There fell the answer to her prayer : 
 " Bring me to-night a Lotus, tied 
 With thread from a house where none has 
 died." 
 
 She rose and laughed with thankful joy. 
 Sure that the God would save her boy. 
 She found a Lotus by the stream ; 
 
 She plucked it from its noonday dream. 
 And then from door to door she fared, 
 To ask what house by death was spared. 
 Her heart grew cold to see the eyes 
 Of all dilate with slow surprise : 
 
548 
 
 WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 
 
 " Kilvany, thou hast lost thj- hea'l ; 
 Nothing can help a child that's di-ad. 
 There stands not by the Ganges' side 
 A house where none hath ever died." 
 Thus through the long and weary day, 
 From every door she bore away, 
 Within her heart, and on her arm, 
 A heavy load, a deeper harm. 
 By gates of gold and ivory. 
 By wattled huts of poverty. 
 The same refrain heard poor Kilvany, 
 
 The living are few — the dead are many. 
 The evening came, so still and fleet, 
 And overtook her hurrying feet, 
 And, heart-sick, by the sacred fane 
 She fell, and prayed the God again. 
 
 She sobbed and beat her bursting breast : 
 " Ah ! thou hast mocked me ! Mightiest ! 
 Lo ! I have wandered far and wide — - 
 There stands no house where none hath 
 died." 
 
 A SONG FOR HEARTH AND HOME. 
 
 WILLIAM E. DURYEA. 
 
 .ARK is the night, and fitful and drear- 
 
 Rushes the wind like the waves of 
 the sea ; 
 Little care I, as here I sit cheerily, 
 Wife at my side and my baby on knee. 
 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 Home is the kingdom, and Love is 
 the king ! 
 
 Flashes the firelight upon the dear faces, 
 Dearer and dearer and onward we go, 
 Forces the shadow behind us, and places 
 Brightness around us with warmth in the 
 glow. 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 Home is the kingdom, and Love is the 
 king! 
 
 Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory. 
 Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of 
 the soul. 
 Telling of trust and content the sweet story, 
 Lifting the shadows that over us roll. 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 Home is the kingdom and Love is the 
 king! 
 
 Richer than miser with perishing treasure, 
 Served with a service no conquest could 
 bring ; 
 Happy with fortune that words cannot meas- 
 ure. 
 Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. 
 King, king, crown me the king : 
 Home is the kingdom, and Love is the 
 king. 
 
 WIDOW BEDOTT TO ELDER SNIFFLES. 
 
 REVEREND sir, I do declare 
 9]Mt ^^ drives me most to frenzy, 
 --- ■ To think of you a lying there 
 Down sick with influenzy. 
 
 A body'd thought it was enough 
 To mourn your wife's departer, 
 
 Without sich trouble as this ere 
 To come a follerin' arter. 
 
 But sickness and affliction 
 Are sent by a wise creation, 
 
 And always ought to be underwent 
 By patience an<i resignation. 
 
 I could to your bedside fly, 
 And wipe your weeping eyes. 
 
 And do my best to cheer you up, 
 If 't wouldn't create surprise. 
 
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 549 
 
 It's a world of trouble we tarry in, 
 But, Elder, don't despair ; 
 
 That you may soon be movin' again 
 Is constantly my prayer. 
 
 Both sick and well, you may depend 
 
 You'll never be forgot 
 By your faithful and affectionate friend, 
 
 Priscilla Pool Bedott. 
 
 THE LA UGH OF A CHILD. 
 
 LOVE it, I love it, the laugh of a child, 
 Now rippling and gentle, now merry 
 
 and wild; 
 Ringing out on the air with its inno- 
 cent gush, [hush; 
 Like the trill of a bird at the twilight's soft 
 
 Floating off on the breeze, like the tones of a 
 
 bell. 
 Or the music that dwells on the heart of a 
 
 shell; 
 Oh ! the laugh of a child, so wild and so free 
 Is the merriest sound in the world for me. 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 
 
 SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 
 
 |0W dear to this heart are the scenes 
 ImIi of my childhood. 
 
 When fond recollection presents 
 
 them to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep- 
 tangled wild-wood, 
 And every loved spot which my in- 
 fancy knew ; — 
 The wide-spreading pond, and tlie mill which 
 stood by it. 
 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cat- 
 aract fell ; 
 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh 
 it. 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung in 
 the well. 
 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 bucket, 
 
 The moss-covered bucket which hung in the 
 well. 
 
550 
 
 DRESS REFORM. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I bail as a trea- 
 sure; 
 For often, at uoon, when returned from the 
 field. 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can 
 yield. 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were 
 glowing ! 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it 
 fell; 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
 flowing. 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from 
 the well ; I 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to re- 
 ceive it. 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my 
 lips ! 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
 leave it. 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter 
 sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved situa- 
 tion. 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in 
 the well ; 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the 
 well. 
 
 DRESS REFORM. 
 
 T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 
 
 ^g CONVENTION has recently 
 i^HH the women who are oi")Dose' 
 
 been held in Vineland, attended by 
 the women who are opposed to extravagance in dress. They 
 ^^^^ propose, not only by formal resolution, but by personal example, 
 to teach the world lessons of economy by wearing less adornment 
 f and dragging fewer yards of silk. We wish them all success, 
 
 1 although we would have more confidence in the movement if so 
 
 many of the delegates had not worn bloomer dresses. Moses makes war 
 upon that style of apparel in Deuteronomy xxii. 5 : " The woman shall not 
 wear that which pertaineth unto man." Nevertheless we favor every 
 efibrt to stop the extravagant use of dry goods and millinery. 
 
 We have, however, no sympathy with the implication that women are 
 worse than men in this respect. Men wear all they can without interfer- 
 ing with their locomotion, but man is such an awkward creature he cannot 
 find any place on his body to hang a great many fineries. He could not 
 got round in Wall Street with eight or ten flounces and a big handled 
 parasol, and a mountain of back hair. Men wear less than women, not 
 because they are more moral, but because they cannot stand it. As it is, 
 many of our young men are padded to a superlative degree, and have 
 corns and bunions on every separate toe from wearing tight shoes. 
 
 Neither have we any sympathy with the implication that the present 
 
LORD ULLINS DAUGHTER. 
 
 551 
 
 is worse than the past in matters of dress. Compare the fashion-plates of 
 tne seventeenth century with the fashion-plates of the nineteenth, and you 
 decide in favor of our day. The women of Isaiah's time beat anything 
 now. Do we have the kangaroo fashion Isaiah speaks of — the daughters 
 who walked forth with " stretched forth necks" ? Talk of hoops ! Isaiah 
 speaks of women with " round tires like the moon." Do we have hot 
 irons for curling our hair ? Isaiah speaks of " wimples and crisping pins." 
 Do we sometimes wear glasses astride our nose, not because we are near- 
 sighted, but for beautification ? Isaiah speaks of the " glasses, and the 
 earrings, and the nose jewels." The dress of to-day is far more sensible 
 than that of a hundred or a thousand years ago. 
 
 But the largest room in the world is room for improvement, and we 
 would cheer on those who would attempt reformation either in male or 
 female attire. Meanwhile, we rejoice that so many of the pearls, and 
 emeralds, and amethysts, and diamonds of the world are coming into the 
 possession of Christian women. Who knows but the spirit of consecra- 
 tion may some day come upon them, and it shall be again as it was in the 
 time of Moses, that for the prosperity of the house of the Lord the women 
 may bring their bracelets, and earrings, and tablets, and jewels ? The 
 precious stones of earth will never have their proper place till they are set 
 around the Pearl of Great Price. 
 
 LOBD ULLIWS DA UGHTER. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 ^1^ CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! 
 And I'll give thee a silver pound 
 To row us o'er the ferry." 
 
 . " Now who be ye, would cross Loch- 
 
 This dark and stormy water ?" 
 ' 0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 
 
 " And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we've fled together; 
 
 For should he find us in the glen, 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 " His horsemen hard behind us ride; 
 Should they our steps discover. 
 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 When they have slain her lover? '— 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight. 
 
 " I'll go, my chief — I'm readj'. 
 It is not for your silver bright. 
 
 But for your winsome lady." 
 
 " And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry ; 
 So though the waves are raging white, 
 
 I'll row 5'ou o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace ; 
 
 The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
552 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind, 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 
 Adown the glen rode armed men — 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her — 
 When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 
 
 The tempest gathered o'er her. 
 
 •' 0, haste thee, haste !" the lady cries ; 
 
 " Though tempests round us gather; 
 I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 And still they rowed amidst the roar 
 Of waters fast prevailing ; — 
 
 Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; 
 His wrath was changed to wailing, 
 
ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 553 
 
 For sore dismayed, through storm and shade 
 
 His child he did discover ; 
 One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 " Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, 
 Across this stormy water ; 
 
 " And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 
 My daughter ! — Oh, my daughter !" 
 
 'Twasvain : — the loud waves lashed the shore. 
 
 Return or aid preventing ; 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PEOCTOR. 
 
 DO not ask, Lord ! that life may be 
 A pleasant road ; 
 pf I do not ask that Thou wouldst take 
 mh from me 
 
 ^ Aught of its load ; 
 
 il do not ask that flowers should always 
 spring 
 
 Beneath my feet ; 
 I know too well the poison and the sting 
 
 Of things too sweet. 
 For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord ! I plead : 
 
 Lead me aright — 
 Though strength should falter, and though 
 heart should bleed — 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 I do not ask, Lord, that Thou shouldst 
 shed 
 
 Full radiance here ; 
 Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 
 
 Without a fear. 
 
 I do not ask my cross to understand. 
 
 My way to see, — 
 Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand, 
 
 And follow Thee. 
 Joy is like restless day, but peace divine 
 
 Like quiet night. 
 Lead me, Lord, till perfect day shall 
 shine, 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 ANNABEL LEE. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 ^T was many and many a year ago, 
 In a kingdom by the sea, 
 That a maiden lived, whom you may 
 know. 
 By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
 I And this maiden she lived with no other 
 I thought 
 
 Than to love, and be loved by me. 
 
 I was a child, and she was a child. 
 In this kingdom by the sea ; 
 
 But we loved with a love that was more than 
 love, 
 I and my Annabel Lee, — 
 With a love that the winged seraphs of 
 heaven 
 Coveted her and me. 
 
 And this was the reason that long ago, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
 
 My beautiful Annabel Lee : 
 
554 
 
 THE FIRE-BELL'S STORY. 
 
 So that her high-born kinsmen came, 
 
 Ami neither the angols in heaven above, 
 
 And bore her away from me, 
 
 Nor the demons down under the sea. 
 
 To shut her up in a sepulchre, 
 
 Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea. 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 The angols, not so happy in heaven. 
 
 For the moon never beams without bringing 
 
 Went envying her and me. 
 
 me dreams 
 
 Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know) 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
 
 In this kingdom by the sea, 
 
 And the stars never rise but I feel the bright 
 
 That the wind came out of the cloud by 
 
 eyes 
 
 night, 
 
 Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
 
 Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 
 
 And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the 
 
 
 side 
 
 But our love it was stronger by far than the 
 
 Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my 
 
 love 
 
 bride. 
 
 Of those who were older than we. 
 
 In her sepulchre there by the sea. 
 
 Of many far wiser than we ; 
 
 In her tomb by the sounding sea. 
 
 THE FIRE-BELL'S STORY. 
 
 GEORGE L 
 
 . . n^-)^ . 
 
 ?|«^iK(9iV(? — Dong — the bells rang out I 
 
 ^Inji Over the housetops ; and then a shout 
 
 Of " Fire ! " came echoing up the 
 street. 
 
 With the sound of eager, hurrying 
 feet. 
 
 Dong — Dong — the sonorous peal 
 Came mingled with clatter of engine wheel 
 And whistle shrill, and horse's hoof ; 
 And lo ! from the summit of yonder roof 
 A flame bursts forth, with a sudden glare. 
 Dong — Dong— on the midnight air 
 The sound goes ringing out over the town ; 
 And hundreds already are hurrying down. 
 Through the narrow streets, with breathless 
 
 speed 
 Following whither the engines lead. 
 Dong — Dong — and from windows high 
 Startled ones peer at the ruddy sky. 
 And still the warning loud doth swell 
 From the brazen throat of the iron-tongued 
 
 bell, 
 Sending a shudder, and sending a start 
 To many a home, and many a heart. 
 Up in yon tenement, where the glare 
 
 . CATLIN. 
 
 Shines dimly forth on the starlit air 
 Through dingy windows ; where flame and 
 
 smoke 
 Already begin to singe and choke. 
 See the affrighted ones look out 
 In helpless terror, in horrible doubt. 
 Begging for succor. Now behold 
 The ladders, by arms so strong and bold, 
 Are reared ; like squirrels the brave men climb 
 To the topmost story. Indeed, 'twere time — 
 " They all are saved !" said a voice below, 
 And a shout of triumph went up." But no — 
 " Not all — ah, no!" — 'twas a mother's shriek ; 
 The cry of a woman, agonized, weak. 
 Yet nerved to strength by her deep woe's 
 
 power, 
 " Great God, my child!" — even strong men 
 
 cower 
 'Neath such a cry. " Oh, save my child!" 
 She screamed in accents sorrowful, wild. 
 
 Up the ladders, a dozen men 
 Rushed in generous rivalry then, 
 Bravely facing a terrible fate. 
 Breathless the crowd below 
 
MOTHER'S VACANT CHAIR. 
 
 555 
 
 See ! There's one who has gained the sill 
 Of yonder window. Now, with a will, 
 He bursts the sash with his sturdy blow ; 
 And it rattles down on the pave below. 
 Now, he has disappeared from sight — 
 Faces below are ashen and white. 
 In that terrible moment. Then a cry 
 Of joy goes up to the flame-lit sky — 
 Goes up to welcome him back to life. 
 God help him now in his terrible strife ! 
 Once more he mounts the giddy sill. 
 Cool and steady and fearless still ; 
 Once more he grasps the ladder — see ! 
 
 What is it he holds so tenderly ? 
 Thousands of tearful, upturned eyes 
 Are watching him now ; and with eager cries 
 And sobs and cheerings, the air is rent 
 As he slowly retraces the long descent, 
 And the child is saved! 
 
 Ah ! ye who mourn 
 For chivalry dead, in the days long gone, 
 And prate of the valor of olden time, 
 Remember this deed of love sublime. 
 And know that knightly deeds, and bold, 
 Are as plentiful now as in days of old. 
 
 MOTHERS VACANT CHAIR. 
 
 T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 
 
 pp GO a little farther on in your house, and I find the mother's chair. It 
 dis is very apt to be a rocking-chair. She had so many cares and 
 troubles to soothe, that it must have rockers, I remember it well. 
 It was an old chair, and the rockers were almost worn out, for I was 
 the youngest, and the chair had rocked the whole family. It made 
 a creaking noise as it moved, but there was music in the sound. It 
 was just high enough to allow us children to put our heads into her lap. 
 That was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries. Oh, 
 what a chair that was. It was different from the father's chair — it was 
 entirely different. You ask me how ? I cannot tell, but we all felt it was 
 different. Perhaps there was about this chair more gentleness, more ten- 
 derness, more grief when we had done wrong. When we were wayward, 
 father scolded, but mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. In the 
 sick days of children other chairs could not keep awake ; that chair always 
 kept awake — kept easily awake. That chair knew all the old lullabies, 
 and all those wordless songs which mothers sing to their sick children — 
 songs in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influences are 
 combined. That old chair has stopped rocking for a good many years. It 
 may be set up in the loft or the garret, but it holds a queenly power yet. 
 "When at midnight you went into that grog-shop to get the intoxicating 
 draught, did you not hear a voice that said, " My son, why go in there ? " 
 and a louder than the boisterous encore of the theatre, a voice saying, 
 " My son, what do you here ? " And when you went into the house of 
 
556 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 sin, a voice saying, " What would your mother do if she Icnew you were 
 here ? " and you were provoked at yourself, and you charged yourself with 
 superstition and fanaticism, and your head got hot with your own thoughts, 
 and you went home and you went to bed, and no sooner had you touched 
 the bed than a voice said, "What a prayerless pillow ! " Man ! what is 
 the matter ? This ! You are too near your mother's rocking chair. " Oh, 
 pshaw ! '■ you say, " there's nothing in that. I'm five hundred miles off 
 from where I was born — I'm three thousand miles off from the Scotch kirk 
 whose bell was the first music I ever heard." I cannot help that. You 
 are too near your mother's rocking-chair. "Oh !" you say, " there can't 
 be anything in that ; that chair has been vacant a great while." I cannot 
 help that. It is all the mightier for that ; it is omnipotent, that vacant 
 mother's chair. It whispers. It speaks. It weeps. It carols. It 
 mourns. It prays. It warns. It thunders. A young man went off and 
 broke his mother's heart, and while he was away from home his mother 
 died, and the telegraph brought the son, and he came into the room where 
 she lay, and looked upon her face, and cried out, " mother, mother, what 
 your life could not do your death shall effect. This moment I give my 
 heart to God." And he kept his promise. Another victory for the 
 vacant chair. With reference to your mother, the words of my text were 
 fulfilled: "Thou shalt be missed because thy seat will be empty." 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 T. BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 i^ITHIN this sober realm of leafless 
 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamy 
 air ; 
 Like some tanned reaper, in his hour 
 of ease, 
 When all the fields are lying brown and bare. 
 
 The gray barns looking from their hazy hills 
 O'er the dim waters widening in the vales. 
 Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, 
 On the dull thunder of alternate flails. 
 All sights were mellowed and all sounds 
 subdued, 
 The hills seemed further and the streams 
 sang low. 
 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 His winter log with many a muffled blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, 
 Their banners bright with every martial 
 hue, 
 
 Now stood, like some sad, beaten host of old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. 
 
 On slumberous wings the vulture tried his 
 flight, 
 The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's 
 complaint, 
 And, like a star slow drowning in the light. 
 The village church-vane seemed to pale and 
 faint. 
 
THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 557 
 
 The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew, — 
 Crew thrice, and all was stiller than he- 
 fore ; 
 Silent till some replying wanderer blew 
 His alien horn, and then was heard no 
 more. 
 
 Where erst the jay; within the elm's tall crest; 
 Made garrulous trouble round the unt 
 young: 
 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, 
 An early harvest and a plenteous year : 
 
 Where every bird which charmed the vernal 
 feast 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at 
 morn, 
 To warn the reapers of the rosy east — 
 All now was songless, empty, and lor- 
 lorn. 
 
 And where the oriole hung her swaying nest 
 By every light wind like a censer swung ; 
 
 Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves. 
 The busy swallows circling ever near, 
 
 Alone, from out the stubble piped the 
 
 quail, 
 And croaked the crow through all the 
 dreary gloom ; 
 
558 
 
 GRADATIM. 
 
 Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale. 
 Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds night 
 by night; 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 
 Sailed slowly by — passed noiseless out of 
 sight. 
 
 Amid all this, in this most cheerless air, 
 And where the woodbine sheds upon the 
 porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there 
 Firing the floor with his inverted torch — 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 
 
 The white-haired matron, with monoto- 
 nous tread. 
 Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless 
 mien 
 Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying 
 thread. 
 
 She had known sorrow. He had walked 
 with her, 
 Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen 
 crust ; 
 
 And in the dead leaves still she heard the 
 stir 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. 
 
 While yet her cheek was bright with summer 
 
 bloom. 
 
 Her country summoned, and she gave her 
 
 all; 
 
 And twice War bowed to her his sable plume — 
 
 Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. 
 
 Re-gave the swords — but not the hand that 
 drew, , 
 
 And struck for liberty the dying blow ; 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
 
 Fell, mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, 
 Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
 
 Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and tremu- 
 lous tune. 
 
 At last the thread was snapped — her head 
 was bowed : 
 Life dropped the distaS' through his hands 
 serene ; 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her careful 
 shroud. 
 While Death and Winter closed the autumn 
 scene 
 
 GRADATIM. 
 
 J. G. HOLLA^'D. 
 
 ^pEAVEN is not reached at a single 
 l^^ll bound ; 
 
 But we build the ladder by which 
 
 we rise 
 From the lowly earth to the 
 t^ vaulted skies, 
 
 J And we mount to the summit round 
 
 by round. 
 
 I count this thing to be grandly true ; 
 That a noble deed is a step toward God — 
 Lifting the soul from the common sod 
 
 To a purer air and a broader view. 
 
 We rise by things that are under our feet ; 
 By what we have mastered of good and 
 
 gain ; 
 By the pride deposed and the passion slain, 
 And the vanquished ills that we hourly 
 meet. 
 
 We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust. 
 When the morning calls us to life and 
 
 light; 
 But our hearts grow weary, and ere the 
 night 
 Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. 
 
THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 559 
 
 We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray. 
 And we think that we mount the air on 
 
 wings 
 Beyond the recall of sensual things, 
 
 While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. 
 
 Winga for the angels, but feet for the men ! 
 
 We may borrow the wings to find the way ; 
 
 We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and 
 pray ; 
 But our feet must rise, or we fall again. 
 
 Only in dreams is a ladder thrown 
 
 From the weary earth to the sapphire 
 
 walls ; 
 But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, 
 
 And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. 
 
 Heaven is not reached at a single bound ; 
 But we build the ladder by which we rise 
 From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 
 
 And we mount to the summit round by 
 round. 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. 
 
 THOMAS JEFFERSON. 
 
 ^IS mind was great and powerful without being of the very first order : 
 his penetration strong, and so far as he saw, no judgment was ever 
 sounder. It was slow in operation, but sure in conclusion. Hence 
 the common remark of his officers of the advantage he derived from 
 councils of war, where, hearing all suggestions, he selected what- 
 ever was best; and certainly no general ever planned his battles more 
 judiciously. But if deranged during the course of the action, if any 
 member of his plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, he was slow 
 in a re-adjustment. The consequence was, that he often failed in the field, 
 and rarely against an enemy in station, as at Boston and York. He was 
 incapable of fear, meeting personal dangers with the calmest unconcern. 
 
 Perhaps the strongest feature in his character was prudence, never 
 acting until every circumstance, every consideration was maturely weighed; 
 refraining if he saw a doubt, but when once decided, going through with 
 his purpose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was most pure, 
 his justice the most inflexible I have ever known; no motives of interest 
 or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to bias his decision. 
 He was, indeed, in every sense of the word, a wise, a good, and a great 
 man. His temper was naturally irritable and high-toned ; but reflection 
 and resolution had obtained a firm and habitual ascendancy over it. If 
 ever, however, it broke its bounds, he was most tremendous in his wrath. 
 In his expenses he was honorable, but exact ; liberal in contributions to 
 whatever promised utility ; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary 
 projects, and all unworthy calls on his charity. His heart was not warm 
 in its affections ; but ho exactly calculated every man's value, and gave him a 
 
560 
 
 MARY GARVIN. 
 
 solid esteem proportioned to it. His person, you know was fine, his stature 
 exactly what one would wish ; his deportment easy, erect, and noble, the 
 best horseman of his age, and the most graceful figure that could be seen 
 on horseback. Although in the circle of his friends, where he might be 
 unreserved with safety, he took a free share in conversation, his colloquial 
 talents were not above mediocrity, possessing neither copiousness of ideas, 
 nor fluency of words. In public, when called on for a sudden opinion, he 
 was unready, short, and embarrassed. Yet he wrote readily, rather dif- 
 fusely, in an easy and correct style. This he had acquired by conversa- 
 tion with the world, for his education was merely reading, writing, and 
 common arithmetic, to which he added surveying at a later day. 
 
 His time was employed in action chiefly, reading little, and that only 
 in agriculture and English history. His correspondence became necessarily 
 extensive, and with journalizing his agricultural proceedings, occupied most 
 of his leisure hours withm doors. On the whole his character was, in its 
 mass, perfect, in nothing bad, in a few points indifferent ; and it may truly 
 be said, that never did nature and fortune combine more completely to 
 make a man great, and to place him in the same constellation with what- 
 ever worthies have merited from man an everlasting remembrance. For 
 his was the singular destiny and merit of leading the armies of his country 
 successfully through an arduous war, for the establishment of its indepen- 
 dence ; of conducting its councils through the birth of a government, new 
 in its forms and principles, until it had settled down into a quiet and 
 orderly train. 
 
 MARY GARVIN. 
 
 J. G. WHITTIER. 
 
 5R0M the heart of Waumbek Methna, 
 from the lake that never fails, 
 Falls the Saco in the green lap of 
 
 Conway's intervales ; 
 There, in wild and virgin freshness, 
 its waters foam and flow. 
 As when Darby Field first saw them — two 
 hundred years ago. 
 
 But, vexed in all its seaward course with 
 
 bridges, dams and mills, 
 How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its 
 
 freedom of the hills, 
 
 Since traveled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and 
 
 stately Champernoon 
 Heard on its banks the grey wolf's howl, the 
 
 trumpet of the loon ! 
 
 With smoking- axle hot with speed, with 
 steeds of fire and steam, 
 
 Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind 
 him like a dream. 
 
 Still from the hurrying train of Life fly back- 
 wards, far and fast. 
 
 The milestones of the fathers, the land-marks 
 of the past. 
 
MARY GARVIN. 
 
 561 
 
 But human hearts remain unchanged ; the 
 
 sorrow and the sin, 
 The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to 
 
 our own akin ; 
 And if in tales our fathers told, the songs our 
 
 mothers sung, 
 Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is 
 
 always j'oung. 
 
 sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks 
 to-day ! 
 
 mill-girl, watching late and long the shut- 
 tle's restless play ! 
 
 Let, for the once, a listening ear the working 
 hand beguile. 
 
 And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a 
 tear or smile ! 
 
 The evening gun had sounded from gray 
 
 Fort Mary's walls ; 
 Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared 
 
 and plunged the Saco's falls ; 
 
 And -westward on the sea-wind, that damp 
 
 and gusty grew, 
 Over cedars darkening inland, the smokes of 
 
 Spurwink blew. 
 
 On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the 
 
 crackling walnut log ; 
 Right and left sat dame and good man, and 
 
 between them lay the dog. 
 
 Head-on paws, and tail slow wagging, and 
 
 beside him on her mat, 
 Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and 
 
 purred the mottled cat. 
 38 
 
 "Twenty years!" said Goodman Garvin, 
 speaking sadly, under breath, 
 
 And his gray head slowly shaking, as one 
 who speaks of death. 
 
 The goodwife dropped her needles ; " It is 
 
 twenty years to-day 
 Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our 
 
 child away." 
 
 Then they sank into the silence, for each 
 
 knew the other's thought, 
 Of a great and common sorrow, and words 
 
 were needed not. 
 
 " Who knocks ?" cried Goodman Garvin. The 
 
 door was open thrown ; 
 On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked 
 
 and furred, the fire-light shone ; 
 
 One with courteous gesture liltelthe bear- 
 skin from his head ; 
 
 " Lives here Elkanah Garvin ?" " I am he," 
 the goodman said. 
 
 " Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the 
 
 night is chill with rain." 
 And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred 
 
 the fire amain. 
 
 The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the fire- 
 light glistened fair 
 
 In her large, moist eyes, and over soft folds 
 of dark brown hair. 
 
 Dame Garvin looked upon her : " It is Mary's 
 
 self I see ! 
 Dear heart!" she cried, "now tell me, ha," 
 
 my child come back to me ?" 
 
 "My name indeed is Mary," said the stran- 
 ger, sobbing wild ; 
 
 '• Will you be to me a mother ? I am Mary 
 Garvin's child ! 
 
 " She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her 
 
 dying day 
 She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk 
 
 far away. 
 
 " And when the priest besought her to do 
 me no such wrong, 
 
562 
 
 MAKY GARVIN. 
 
 She said, 'May (iod forgive mc ! I have 
 closed my heart too long. 
 
 " ' When I hid me from my father, and shut 
 
 out my mother's call, 
 I sinned against those dear ones, and the 
 
 Father ol us all. 
 
 " ' Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks 
 
 no tie of km apart ; 
 Better heresy in doctrine, than herei-y of 
 
 heart. 
 
 " ' Tell me not the Church must censure ; she 
 
 who wept the cross beside 
 Never made her own flesh strangers, nor the 
 
 claims of blood denied ; 
 
 '• Amen !" the old man answered, as he 
 
 brushed a tear away, 
 And, kneeling by the hearthstone, said, with 
 
 reverence, " Let us pray." 
 
 All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew 
 
 paraphrase, 
 "Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his 
 
 prayer of love and praise. 
 
 But he started at beholding, as he rose from 
 
 off his knee, 
 The stranger cross his forehead with the sign 
 
 of Papistrie. 
 
 " What is this ?" cried Farmer Garvin. " la 
 an English Christian's home 
 
 " ' And if she who wronged her parents with 
 
 her child atones to them, 
 Earthly daughter. Heavenly mother ! thou 
 
 at least wilt not condemn !' 
 
 " So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed 
 
 mother S[)ake ; 
 As we come to do her bidding, so receive us 
 
 for her sake." 
 
 " God be praised !" said Goodwife Garvin ; 
 
 " He taketh and he gives ; 
 He woundeth, but he healeth ; in her child 
 
 our daughter lives!" 
 
 A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the 
 sign of Rome?" 
 
 Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed 
 his trembling hand, and cried : 
 
 " 0, forbear to chide, my father ; in that 
 faith my mother died ! 
 
 '■ On her wooden cross at Simeoe the dews 
 
 and sunshine fall, 
 As they fell on Spurwink's graveyard ; and 
 
 the dear God watches all !" 
 
OUR DEBT TO IRVING. 
 
 563 
 
 The old man stroked the fair head that rested 
 
 on his knee; 
 " Your words, dear child," he answered, " are 
 
 God's rebuke to me. 
 
 " Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our 
 
 faith and hope be one. 
 Let me be your father's father, let him be to 
 
 me a son." 
 
 When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through 
 
 the still and frosty air. 
 From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, 
 
 called to sermon and to prayer. 
 
 To the goodly house of worship, where, in 
 
 order due and fit, 
 As by public vote directed, classed and 
 
 ranked, the people sit ; 
 
 Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly 
 
 squire before the clown, 
 From the brave coat lace embroidered, to the 
 
 gray frock shading down ; 
 
 From the pulpit read the preacher, — " Good- 
 man Garvin and his wife 
 
 Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness 
 hath followed them through life. 
 
 " For the great and crowning mercy, that 
 their daughter, from the wild, 
 
 Where she rests (they hope in God's peace), 
 has sent to them her child ; 
 
 " And the prayers of all God's people they 
 
 ask, that they may prove 
 Not unworthy, through their weakness, of 
 
 such special proof of love." 
 
 As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged 
 
 couple stood, 
 And the fair Canadian also, in her mode.-t 
 
 maidenhood. 
 
 Thought the elders, grave and doubting, " She 
 
 is Papist born and bred "; 
 Thought the young men, " 'Tis an angel in 
 
 Mary Garvin's stead !" 
 
 OUR DEBT TO IRVINa. 
 
 CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 
 -^ 
 
 ^HE service that Irving rendered to American letters no critic dis- 
 putes, nor is there any question of our national indebtedness to 
 him for investing a crude and new land with the enduring charms 
 of romance and tradition. In this respect, our obligation to him 
 f is that of Scotland to Scott and Burns ; and it is an obligation 
 
 1 due only, in all history, to here and there a fortunate creator to 
 
 whose genius opportunity is kind. The Knickerbocker Legend and the 
 romance wij:h which Irving has invested the Hudson are a priceless legacy ; 
 and this would remain an imperishable possession in popular tradition if 
 the literature creating it were destroyed. His position in American litem- 
 
564 OUR DEBT TO IRVING. 
 
 ture, or in that of the English tongue, will be determined only by the 
 slow settling of opinion, which no critic can foretell, and the operation of 
 which no criticism seems able to explain. I venture to believe, however, 
 that the verdict will not be in accord with much of the present prevalent 
 criticism. 
 
 Irving was always the literary man; he had the habits, the idiosyn- 
 crasies of the literary man. I mean that he regarded life not from the 
 philanthropic, the economic, the poHtical, the philosophic, the metaphy- 
 sic, the scientific or the theologic, but purely from the literary point of 
 view. 
 
 He belongs to that class of which Johnson and Goldsmith are perhaps 
 as good types as any, and to which America has added very few. The 
 literary point of view is taken by few in any generation ; it may seem to 
 the world of very little consequence in the pressure of all the complex 
 interests of life, and it may even seem trivial "amid the tremendous ener- 
 gies applied to immediate affairs; but it is the point of view that 
 endures ; if its creations do not mould human life, like the Eoman law, 
 they remain to charm and civilize, like the poems of Horace. You must 
 not ask more of them than that. 
 
 And this leads me to speak of Irving's moral quality, which I cannot 
 bring myself to exclude from a literary estimate, even in the face of the 
 current gospel of art for art's sake. There is something that made Scott 
 and Irving personally loved by the millions of their readers, who had only 
 the dimmest ideas of their personality. This was some quality perceived 
 in what they wrote. Each one can define it for himself; there it is, and I 
 do not see why it is not as integral a part of the authors — an element in 
 the estimate of their future position — as what we term their intellect, their 
 knowledge, their skill, or their art. However you rate it, you cannot 
 account for Irving's influence in the world without it. In his tender tri- 
 bute to Irving, the great-hearted Thackeray, who saw as clearly as anybody 
 the place of mere literary art in the sum total of life, quoted the dying 
 words of Scott'to Lockhart, "Be a good man, my dear." We know well 
 enough that the great author of " The Newcomes " and the great author 
 of " The Heart of Midlothian " recognized the abiding value in literature 
 of integrity, sincerity, purity, charity, faith. These are beneficences ; and 
 Irving's literature, walk round it and measure it by whatever critical in- 
 struments you will, is a beneficent literature. The author loved good women 
 and little children and a pure life ; he had faith in his fellow-men, a kindly 
 sympathy with the lowest, without any subservience to the highest ; he 
 retained a belief in the possibility of chivalrous actions, and did not care 
 
THE GLADIATOR. 
 
 565 
 
 to envelop them in a cynical suspicion ; he was an author still capable of 
 an enthusiasm. His books are wholesome, full of sweetness and charm, of 
 humor without any sting, of amusement without any stain ; and their 
 more sohd qualities are marred by neither pedantry nor pretension. 
 
 THE GLADIATOR. 
 
 J. A. JONES. 
 
 I|HEY led a lion from his. den, 
 *- The lord of Afric's sun-scorched 
 plain; 
 And there he stood, stern foe of 
 men, 
 And shook his flowing mane. 
 There's not of all Rome's heroes, ten 
 That dare abide this game. 
 His bright eye naught of lightning lacked ; 
 His voice was like the cataract. 
 
 They brought a dark-haired man along, 
 Whose limbs with gyves of brass were 
 bound ; 
 
 Youthful he seemed, and bold, and strong, 
 And yet unscathed of wound. 
 
 Blithely he stepped among the throng, 
 And careless threw around 
 
 A dark eye, such as courts the path 
 
 Of him who braves a Dacian's wrath. 
 
 Then shouted the plebeian crowd, — 
 
 Rung the glad galleries with the sound ; 
 
 And from the throne there spake aloud 
 A voice, — " Be the bold man unbound ! 
 
 And, by Rome's sceptre, yet unbowed, 
 By Rome, earth's monarch crowned, 
 
 Who dares the bold, the unequal strife, 
 
 Though doomed to death, shall save his life." 
 
 Joy was upon that dark man's face : 
 And thus, with laughing eye, spake he : 
 
 " Loose ye the lord of Zaara's waste. 
 And let my arms be free : 
 
 ' He has a martial heart,' thou sayest ; 
 But oh ! who will not be 
 
 A hero, when he fights for life, 
 
 For home and country, babes and wife? 
 
 " And thus I for the strife prepare : 
 The Thracian falchion to me bring, 
 
 But ask th' imperial leave to spare 
 The shield, — a useless thing. 
 
 Were I a Samnite's rage to dare, 
 Then o'er me would I fling 
 
 The broad orb ; but to lion's wrath 
 
 The shield were but a sword of lath." 
 
 And he has bared his shining blade, 
 And springs he on the shaggy foe ; 
 
 Dreadful the strife, but briefly played ; — 
 The desert-king lies low : 
 
 His long and loud death-howl is made ; 
 And there must end the show. 
 
 And when the multitude were calm. 
 
 The favorite freedman took the palm. 
 
 " Kneel down, Rome's emperor beside !" 
 He knelt, that dark man ; — o'er his brow 
 
 Was thrown a wreath in crimson dyed ; 
 And fair words gild it now : 
 
 " Thou art the bravest youth that ever tries 
 To lay a lion low ; 
 
 And from our presence forth thou go'st 
 
 To lead the Dacians of our host." 
 
 Then flushed his cheek, but not with pride, 
 And grieved and gloomily spake he : 
 
 " My cabin stands where blithely glide 
 Proud Danube's waters to the sea : 
 
 I have a young and blooming bride, 
 And I have children three ; — 
 
 No Roman wealth or rank can give 
 
 Such joy as in their arms to live. 
 
 " My wife sits at the cabin door, 
 
 With throbbing heart and swollen eyes ;— 
 
566 
 
 THE RIVER PATH. 
 
 While tears her cheek are coursing o'er, 
 
 She speaks of sundered ties ; 
 She bids my tender babes deplore 
 
 The death their father dies ; 
 She tells these jewels of my home, 
 I bleed to please the rout of Rome 
 I cannot let those cherubs stray 
 
 Without their sire's protecting care ; 
 And I would chase the griefs away 
 
 Which cloud my wedded fair." 
 The monarch spoke ; the guards obey ; 
 
 The gates unclosed are : 
 He's gone ! No golden bribes divide 
 The Dacian from his babes and bride. 
 
 THE RIVER PATH. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 ij^lpO bird song floated down the hill, 
 ll^j^ The tangled bank below was still ; 
 '#^W No rustle from the birchen stem, 
 my No ripple from the water's hem. 
 
 The dusk of twilight round us grew. 
 We felt the falling of the dew, 
 For from us, ere the day was done, 
 The wooded hills shut out the sun. 
 
 But on the river's farthest side 
 We saw the hill-tops, glorified, — 
 A tender glow, exceeding fair, 
 A dream of day without its glare. 
 
 With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : 
 With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; 
 While dark, through willowy vistas seen, 
 The river rolled in shade between. 
 
 From out the darkness where we trod, 
 We gazed upon those hills of God, 
 Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. 
 We spake not, but our thought was one. 
 
 We paused, as if from that bright shore 
 Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; 
 And stilled our beating hearts to hear 
 The voices lost to mortal ear ! 
 
THE CROWDED STREETS. 
 
 i67 
 
 Sudden our pathway turned from night ; 
 The hills swung open to the light; 
 Through their green gates the sunshine 
 
 showed, 
 A long, slant splendor downward flowed. 
 
 Do'.vn glade and glen and bank it rolled ; 
 It bridged and shaded stream with gold ; 
 And borne on piers of mist, allied 
 The shadowy with the sunlit side. 
 
 "So," prayed we, " when our feet draw near 
 The river dark, with mortal fear, 
 And the night cometh chill wi:h dew, 
 Father ! let thy light break through. 
 
 " So let the hills of doubt divide, 
 So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! 
 So let the eyes that fail on earth 
 On thy eternal hills look forth ; 
 And in thy beckoning angels know 
 The dear ones whom we loved below !" 
 
 DOT LAMBS WHAT MARY HAF GOT 
 
 '"^- VPiY haf got a leetle lambs already , 
 Dose vool vos yite like shnow , 
 
 Und efery times dot Mary did vend ouJ, 
 Dot lambs vent also out, wid Mary. 
 
 Dot lambs dit follow Mary von day of der 
 school-house, 
 Vich vos obbosition to der rules of her 
 school-master ; 
 Also, vich ir did caused dose schillen to smile 
 out loud, 
 Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides 
 ov der school-house. 
 
 Und so dot school-master dit kick der lambs 
 gwick oud ; 
 Likewise dot lambs dit loaf around on dei 
 outsider, 
 Und did shoo der flies mit his tail oil 
 patiently aboud — 
 Until Mary did come also from dot school- 
 house oud. 
 
 Und den dot lambs did run right away gwick 
 to Mary, • 
 Und dit make his hot gwick on Mary's 
 arms. 
 Like he would said, " I don't was s -hared, 
 Mary would kejit me from droubles ena- 
 how !" 
 
 " Vot vos der reason aboud it, of dot lambs 
 und Mary ?" 
 Dose schillen did ask it dot school-master : 
 " Veil, don'd you know it. dot Mary lofo 
 dose lambs already ?" 
 Dot school-master did said. 
 
 THE CEO WDED STREETS. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 gSipET me move slowly through the street, How fast the flitting figures come 
 ^i| Filled with an ever-shifting train 
 
 Amid the sound of steps that beat 
 The murmuring walks like autumn 
 rain. 
 
 The mild, the fierce, the stony face — 
 Some bright, with thoughtless smiles, anl 
 some 
 Where secret tears have left their trace, 
 
5G8 
 
 JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 They pass to toil, to strife, to rest — 
 To halls in which the feast is spread — 
 
 To charrbers where the funeral guest 
 In silence sits beside the bed. 
 
 And some to happy homes repair. 
 
 Where children pressing cheek to cheek, 
 
 With mute caresses shall declare 
 The tenderness they cannot speak. 
 
 And some who walk in calmness here, 
 Shall shudder as they reach the door 
 
 Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
 Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 
 
 Youth, with pale cheek and tender frame, 
 And dreams of greatness in thine eye, 
 
 Go'st thou to build an early name, 
 Or early in the task to diC ? 
 
 Keen son of trade, with eager brow, 
 Who is now fluttering in thy snare. 
 
 Thy golden fortunes tower they now. 
 Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 
 
 Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
 The dance till daylight gleams again ? 
 
 To sorrow o'er the untimely dead? 
 Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 
 
 Some, famine struck, shall think how long 
 The cold, dark hours, how slow the light ; 
 
 And some, who flaunt amid the throng. 
 Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 
 
 Each where his tasks or pleasure call, 
 They pass and heed each other not ; 
 
 There is one who heeds, who holds them all 
 In His large love and boundless thought. 
 
 These struggling tides of life that seem 
 In wayward, aimless course to tend, 
 
 Are eddies of the mighty stream 
 That rolls to its appointed end. 
 
 JER USALEM B Y MOONLIGHT. 
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 
 
 I^HIHE broad moon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its beam 
 ^^M has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absalom, 
 •^"^^^ the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehoshaphat. Full 
 i falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined 
 I in its silvery blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers, and fre- 
 quent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as it en- 
 circles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hills, far more famous 
 than those of Rome ; for all Europe has heard of Sion and of Calvary, while 
 the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and nations beyond, are igno- 
 rant of the Capitolian and Aventine Mounts. 
 
 The broad steep of Sion, crowned with the tower of David ; nearer still, 
 Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of Abraham, but built, 
 alas ! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's chosen one ; close to its 
 cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and airy arches, the moonlight falls 
 upon Bethesda's pool ; farther on, entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the 
 eye, though 'tis the noon of night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a 
 long, winding ascent to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary, called 
 the Street of Grief because there the most illustrious of the human as well 
 
JERUSALEM BY MOONLIGHT. 569 
 
 as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine Son 
 of the most favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suffering 
 and shame, which is now throughout all Christendom the emblem of triumph 
 and of honor; passing over groups and masses of houses built of stone, with 
 terraced roofs, or surmounted with small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, 
 where Melchisedeck built his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of 
 Scopas, where Titus gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. 
 Titus destroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted 
 the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their imperial 
 capital ; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, is now worshipped 
 before every altar in Eome. 
 
 The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars in the 
 darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The all-pervading 
 stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have traveled over the plain of 
 Sharon from the sea. It wails among the tombs, and sighs among the cypress 
 groves. The palm tree trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. 
 
 Is it the breeze that has traveled over the plain of Sharon from the 
 sea? Or is it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that 
 they could not save ? Their spirits surely would linger on the land where 
 their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending fate Omni- 
 potence had shed human tears. Who can but believe that, at the midnight 
 hour, from the summit of the Ascension, the great departed of Israel as- 
 semble to gaze upon the battlements of their mystic city ? There might 
 be counted heroes and sages, who need shrink from no rivalry with the 
 brightest and the wisest of other lands ; but the law-giver of the time of 
 the Pharaohs, whose laws are still obeyed ; the monarch whose reign has 
 ceased for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all 
 nations of the earth ; the teacher whose doctrines have modeled civilized 
 Europe ; the greatest of legislators, the greatest of administrators, and 
 the greatest of reformers ; what race, extinct or living, can produce three 
 such men as these ? 
 
 The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The wailing 
 breeze has become a moaning wind ; a white film spreads over the purple 
 sky ; the stars are veiled, the stars are hid ; all becomes as dark as the 
 waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehoshaphat. The tower of David 
 merges into obscurity ; no longer glitter the minarets of the mosque ot 
 Omar ; Bethesda's angelic waters, the gate of Stephen, the street of sacred 
 sorrow, the hill of Salem, and the heights of Scopas, can no longer be dis- 
 cerned. Alone in the increasing darkness, while the very line of the walls 
 gradually eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulchre is a beacon-light. 
 
570 
 
 BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 
 
 £A TTLE OF LOOKO UT MO UNTAIK 
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 me but two brigades," said 
 Hooker, frowning at fortified 
 Lookout, 
 
 And I'll engage to sweep yon 
 mountain clear of that mocking 
 rebel rout!" 
 
 At early morning came an order that set the 
 
 general's face aglow ; 
 " Now," said he to hia staff, " draw out my 
 
 soldiers. Grant sa3-s that I may go !" 
 Hither and thither dash'd each eager colonel 
 
 to join his regiment. 
 
BATTLE OF LOOKOUT MOUNTAIN. 
 
 571 
 
 Whilft a low rumor of the daring purpose ran 
 on from tent to tent ; 
 
 For the long-roll was sounded in the valley, 
 and the keen trumpet's bray, 
 
 And the wild laughter of the swarthy veter- 
 ans, who cried, " We fight to-day!" 
 
 The solid tramp of infantry, the rumble of 
 
 the great jolting gun, 
 The sharp, clear order, and the fierce steeds 
 
 neighing, "Why's not the fight begun ?"' — 
 All these plain harbingers of sudden conflict 
 
 broke on the startled ear ; 
 And, last, arose a sound that made your blood 
 
 leap — the ringing battle cheer. 
 
 The lower works were carried at one onset. 
 Like a vast roaring sea 
 
 Of le^d and fire, our soldiers from the trench- 
 es swept out the enemy ; 
 
 And we could see the gray coats swarm.ing up 
 from the mountain's leafy base. 
 
 To join their comrades in the higher fastness 
 — for life or death the race ! 
 
 Then our long line went winding round the 
 
 mountain, in a huge serpent track. 
 And the slant sun upon it flash'd and glim- 
 
 mer'd, as on a dragon's back. 
 Higher and higher the column's head push'd 
 
 onward, ere the rear moved a man ; 
 And soon the skirmish-lines their straggling 
 
 volleys and single shots began. 
 
 Then the bald head of Lookout flamed and 
 bellow'd, and all its batteries woke, 
 
 And down the mountain pour'd the bomb- 
 shells, puffing into our eyes their smoke ; 
 
 And balls and grape-shot rained upon our col- 
 umn, that bore the angry shower 
 
 As if it were no more than that soft dropping 
 which scarcely stirs the flower. 
 
 Oh, glorious courage that inspires the hero, 
 and runs through all his men ! 
 
 The heart that fail'd beside the Rappahan- 
 nock, it was itself again ! 
 
 The star that circumstance and jealous faction 
 shrouded in envious night. 
 
 Here shone with all the splendor of its na- 
 ture, and w ith a freer flight ! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! there go the well-known cra,h- 
 ing volleys, the long-continued roar. 
 
 That swells and falls, but never ceases wholly, 
 until the fight is o'er. 
 
 Up towards the crystal gates of heaven ascen- 
 ding, the mortal tempests beat. 
 
 As if they sought to try their cause together 
 before God's very feet ! 
 
 We saw our troops had gain'd a footing al- 
 most beneath the topmost ledge, 
 
 And back and forth the rival lines went surg- 
 ing upon the dizzy edge. 
 
 Sometimes we saw our men fall backward 
 slowly, and groaned in our despair ; 
 
 Or cheer'd when now and then a stricken 
 rebel plunged out in open air, 
 
 Down, down, a thousand empty fathoms drop- 
 ping, his God alone knows where ! 
 
 At eve, thick haze upon the mountain gath- 
 ered, with rising smoke stain'd black, 
 
 And not a glimpse of the contending armies 
 shone through the swirling rack. 
 
 Night fell o'er all ; but still they flash'd their 
 lightnings and rolled their thunders loud. 
 
 Though no man knew upon what side was 
 going that battle in the cloud. 
 
 Night! what a night! — of anxious thought 
 and wonder : but still no tidings came 
 
 From the bare summit of the trembling moun- 
 tain, still wrapp'd in mist and flame. 
 
 But towards the sleepless dawn, stillness, more 
 dreadful than the fierce sound of war. 
 
 Settled o'er Nature, as if she stood breathless 
 before the morning star. 
 
 As the sun rose, dense clouds of smoky vapor 
 
 boil'd from the valley's deeps, 
 Dragging their torn and ragged edges slowly 
 
 up through the tree-clad steeps. 
 And rose and rose, till Lookout, like a vision, 
 
 above us grandly stood, 
 And over his black crags and storm-blanch'J 
 
 headlands burst the warm, golden flood. 
 
 Thousands of eyes were fix'd upon the moun- 
 tain, and thousands held their breath. 
 
 And the vast army, in the valley watching 
 seem'd touched with sudden death. 
 
572 
 
 JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISrUTE. 
 
 High o'er us soP;re(l great Lookout, robed in 
 
 purple, a glory on his face, 
 A human meaning in his hard, calm features, 
 
 beneath that heavenly grace. 
 
 Out on a crag walk'd something — What? an 
 eagle that treads yon giddy height ? 
 
 Surely no man ! But still he clamber'd for- 
 ward into the full, rich light ; 
 
 Then up he started, with a sudden motion, 
 and from the blazing crag 
 
 Flung to the morning breeze and sunny ra- 
 diance the dear old starry flag ! 
 
 Ah ! then what follow'd ? Scarr'd and war- 
 worn soldiers, like girls, flush'd through 
 their tan. 
 
 And down the thousand wrinkles of the bat- 
 tles a thousand tear-drops ran ; 
 
 Men seized each other in return'd embraces, 
 and sobbed for very love ; 
 
 A spirit which made all that moment broth- 
 ers seem'd falling from above. 
 
 And, as we gazed, around the mountains 
 
 summit our glittering files appear'd ; 
 Into the rebel works we saw them marching ; 
 
 and we — we cheer'd, we cheer'd ! 
 And they above waved all their flags before 
 
 us, and join'd our frantic shout, 
 Standing, like demigods, in light and triumph, 
 
 upon their own Lookout ! 
 
 JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISPUTE. 
 
 EGBERT LEIGHTON. 
 
 ^OHN Davisor. and Tibbie, his wife, 
 ^ Sat toasi,ing their taes ae nicht 
 
 When something startit in the fluir. 
 And blinkit by their sicht. 
 
 " Guidwife," quoth John, " did ye see 
 that moose ?" 
 Whar sorra was the cat?" 
 " A moose ?" " Aye, a moose." " Na, na, guid- 
 man, 
 It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat." 
 
 * Ow, ow, guidwife, to think ye've been 
 
 Sae lang aboot the hoose. 
 An' no to ken a moose frae a rat ! 
 
 Yon was'na a rat! 'twas a moose." 
 
 " I've seen mair mice than you, guidman — 
 
 An' what think ye o' that? 
 Sae baud your tongue an' say nae mair 
 I tell ye, it was a rat." 
 
 Me hand my tongue for you, guidwife ! 
 
 I'll be mester o' this hoose — 
 I saw't as plain as een could see't. 
 
 An' I te'il ye, it was a moose!" 
 
 " If you're the mester o' the hoose 
 
 It's I'm the mistress o't ; 
 An' I ken best what's in the hoose, 
 
 Sae I tell ye it was a rat." 
 
 " Weel, weel, guidwife, gae mak' the brose, 
 
 An' ca' it what ye please." 
 So up she rose and made the brose, 
 
 While John sat toasting his taes. 
 
 They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, 
 And aye their lips played smack ; 
 
 They supit, and supit, and supit the brose, 
 Till their lugs began to crack. 
 
 " Sic fules we were to fa' oot guidwife, 
 Aboot a moose — " "A what ? 
 
 It's a lee ye tell, an' I say it again. 
 It was'na a moose, 'twas a rat !" 
 
 " Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face ? 
 
 " My faith, but ye craw croose ! 
 I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear't — 
 
 'Twas a moose!" " 'Twas a rat !" " 'Twas 
 
 I" 
 
THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 
 
 573 
 
 Wi' her spoon she strack him ower the pow — 
 
 " Ye dour auld doit, tak' that ; 
 Gae to your bed, ye canker'd sumph — 
 
 'Twas a rat! 'Twas a moose! 'Twas a rat!" 
 
 She sent the brose caup at his heels, 
 
 As he hirpled ben the hoose ; 
 Yet he shoved oot his head as he streekit the 
 door, 
 
 And cried, " 'Twas a moose! 'twas a moose!" 
 
 But when the carle was fast asleep 
 
 She paid him back for that, 
 And roared into his sleeping lug, 
 
 " 'Twas a rat ! 'twas a rat ! 'twas a rat 
 
 The de'il be wi' me if I think 
 
 It was a beast ava ! — 
 Neist mornin', as she sweepit the fluir, 
 
 She faund wee Johnnie's ba' ! 
 
 THE BELLS OF SHANDOK 
 
 FATHER PROUT. 
 
 dTH deep affection 
 And recollection 
 I often think of 
 
 Those Shandon bells. 
 Whose sounds so wild would. 
 In the days of childhood. 
 Fling round my cradle 
 • Their magic spells. 
 
 On this I ponder 
 Where'er I wander. 
 And thus grow fonder, 
 
 Sweet Cork, of thee, — 
 With thy bells of Shandon 
 That sound so grand, on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heard bells chiming 
 Full many a clime in, 
 Tolling sublime in 
 
 Cathedral shrine ; 
 While at a glib rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate ; 
 But all their music 
 
 Spoke naught like thine. 
 
 For memory, dwelling 
 On each proud swelling 
 Of thy belfry, knelling 
 
 Its bold notes free. 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 
 Sound far more grand, 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I've heal^Psells tolling 
 Old Adrian's Mole in. 
 Their thunder rolling 
 
 From the Vatican ; 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In the gorgeous turrets 
 
 Of Notre Dame ; 
 
 But thy sounds were sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 
 Pealing solemnly. 
 ! the Bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand, on 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow ; 
 While on tower and kiosk, oh, 
 In Saint Sophia 
 
 The Turkman gets, 
 And loud in air 
 Calls men to prayer, 
 From the tapering summits 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 
674 
 
 SIGHTS ON THE SEA. 
 
 Such empty phantom 
 
 'Tis the bells of Shandon, 
 
 I freely grant them ; 
 
 That sound so grand, on 
 
 But there's an anthem 
 
 The pleasant waters 
 
 More dear to me — 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 SIGHTS ON THE SEA. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 iJUlpO one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, 
 ^i^ ~ a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are 
 '''^^^ the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract 
 
 J the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quar- 
 ter-railing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for 
 hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; to gaze upon the 
 piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy 
 realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle 
 undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those 
 happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
 with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep 
 at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow 
 
 -^memmm^v: 
 
 THE PORPOISE. 
 
 of the ship; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; 
 or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre, through the blue waters. 
 My imagination would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery 
 world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of 
 
ST. JOHN THE AGED. 575 
 
 the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; 
 ana of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would 
 be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of 
 a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious 
 monument of human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over 
 wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into communication ; . 
 has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions 
 of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has difi'used the light of know- 
 ledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together 
 those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed 
 to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. 
 At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse 
 attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have 
 been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, 
 by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent 
 their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the 
 name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted 
 about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long 
 sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? Their 
 struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the 
 tempest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep ; silence, 
 oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story 
 of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ! What prayers 
 ofiered up at the deserted fireside of home ! . How often has the mistress, 
 the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual 
 intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened 
 into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one 
 memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be 
 known, is, that she sailed from her port, "and was never heard of more ! " 
 
 ST. JOHN THE AGED. 
 
 I'M growing very old. This weary ! Is bent and hoary with its weight of years, 
 head ' The limbs that followed Him my Master oft. 
 
 That hath so often leaned on Jesus' •■ From Galilee to Judah ; yea, that stood 
 
 breast | Beneath the cross, and trembled with Hi) 
 
 In days long past, that seem almost i groans, 
 
 a dream — Refuse to bear me even throucrh the streets, 
 
576 
 
 ST. JOHN THE AGED. 
 
 To preach unto my children. Even my lips 
 Refuse to form the words my heart sends 
 
 forth. 
 My ears are dull ; they scarcely hear the 
 
 sobs 
 Of my dear children gathered round my 
 
 couch ; 
 My eyes so dim they cannot see the tears. 
 God lays His hand upon me — yea, His hand, 
 And not His rod — the gentle hand that I 
 Felt those three years, so often pressed in 
 
 mine, 
 In friendship such as passeth woman's love. 
 
 ■" I'm old, so old ! I cannot recollect 
 The faces of my friends, and I forget 
 The words and deeds that make up daily 
 
 life; 
 But that dear face, and every word He 
 
 spoke, 
 Grow more distinct as others fade away ; 
 So that I live with Him and holy dead 
 More than with living. 
 
 "Some seventy years ago 
 I was a fisher by the sacred sea ; 
 It was at sunset. How the tranquil tide 
 Bathed dreamily the pebbles ! How the 
 
 light 
 Crept up the distant hills, and in its wake 
 Soft purple shadows wrapped the dewy 
 
 fields ; 
 And then He came and called me : then I 
 
 For the first time on that sweet face. Those 
 
 eyes 
 From out of which, as from a window, shono 
 Divinity, looked on my inmost soul. 
 And lighted it forever. Then His words 
 Broke on the silence of my heart, and made 
 The whole world musical. Incarnate Love 
 Took hold of me, and claimed me for its 
 
 own ; 
 I followed in the twilight, holding fast 
 His mantle. 
 
 " Oh ! what holy walks we had 
 Through harvest fields, and desolate, dreary 
 
 wastes ; 
 And oftentimes He leaned upon my arm. 
 
 Weary and wayworn. I was young and 
 
 strong. 
 And so upbore Him. Lord ! now / am 
 
 weak. 
 And old, and feeble. Let me rest on Thee ! 
 So put Thine arm around me closer still ! 
 How strong Thou art ! The daylight draws 
 
 apace ; 
 Come, let us leave these noisy streets, and 
 
 take 
 The path to Bethany ; for Mary's smile 
 Awaits us at the gate, and Martha's hands 
 Have long prepared the cheerful evening 
 
 meal ; 
 Come, James, the Master waits, and Peter, 
 
 see, 
 Has gone some steps before. 
 
 " What say you, friends ? 
 That this is Ephesus, and Christ has gone 
 Back to His kingdom? Ay, 'tis so, 'tis so. 
 I know it all ; and yet, just now, I seemed 
 To stand once more upon my native hills. 
 And touch my Master. 0, how oft I've 
 
 seen 
 The touching of His garments bring back 
 
 strength 
 To palsied limbs ! I feel it has to mine. 
 Up ! bear me to my church once more, 
 There let me tell them of a Saviour's love ; 
 For by the sweetness of my Master's voice 
 Just now, I think He must be very near — 
 Coming, I trust, to break the vail which 
 
 time 
 Hath worn so thin that I can see beyond, 
 And watch His footsteps. 
 
 " So raise up my head ; 
 How dark it is ! I cannot seem to see 
 The faces of my flock. Is that the sea 
 That murmurs so, or is it weeping ! Hush .' 
 ' My little children ! God so loved the 
 
 world 
 He gave His Son ; so love ye one another, 
 Love God and men. Amen.' Now bear me 
 
 back ; 
 My legacy unto an angry world is this. 
 I feel my work is finished. Are the streets 
 
 so full ? 
 What call the flock my name? the Holy 
 
 John ? 
 
HE KNOWS. 
 
 577 
 
 Nay, write me rather, Jesus Christ's beloved, 
 And lover of my children. 
 
 " Lay me down 
 Once more upon my couch, and open wide 
 The eastern window. See ! there comes a 
 
 light. 
 Like that which broke upon my soul at e'en, 
 When, in the dreary isle of Patmos, Gabriel 
 
 came. 
 And touched me on the shoulder. See ! it 
 
 grows. 
 As when we mounted towards the pearly 
 
 gates ; 
 I know the way ! I trod it once before. 
 And hark ! it is the song the ransomed sung, 
 Of glory to the Lamb ! How loud it sounds ; 
 And that unwritten one ! Methinks my soul 
 
 Can join it now. But who are these who 
 
 crowd 
 The shining way?* Say! joy! 'tis the 
 
 eleven! 
 With Peter first ; how eagerly he looks I 
 How bright the smiles are beaming on James' 
 
 face! 
 I am the last. Once more we are complete 
 To gather round the Paschal feast. 
 
 " My place 
 Is next my Master — ! my Lord ! my Lord ! 
 How bright Thou art, and yet the very same 
 I loved in Galilee ! 'Tis worth the hundred 
 
 years 
 To feel this bliss ! So lift me up, dear Lord, 
 Unto Thy bosom. There shall I abide." 
 
 HE KNOWS. 
 
 MARY G. BEAINARD. 
 
 KNOW not what will befall me ! 
 
 God hangs a mist o'er my eyes; 
 And o'er each step of my onward path 
 
 He makes new scenes to rise, 
 And every joy He sends to me 
 
 Comes as a sweet and glad surprise. 
 
 I see not a step before me. 
 
 As I tread the days of the year, 
 
 But the past is still in God's keeping, 
 The future His merc)^ shall clear, 
 
 And what looks dark in the distance, 
 May brighten as I draw near. 
 
 For perhaps the dreaded future 
 Has less bitterness than I think ; 
 
 The Lord may sweeten the water 
 Before I atoop to drink. 
 
 Or, if Marah must be Marah, 
 He will stand beside its brink. 
 
 It may be there is waiting 
 
 For the coming of my feet. 
 Some gift of such rare blessedness. 
 
 Some joy so strangely sweet, 
 39 
 
 That my lips can only tremble 
 With the thanks I cannot speak. 
 
 0, restful, blissful ignorance ! 
 
 'Tis blessed not to know. 
 It keeps me quiet in those arms 
 
 Which will not let me go. 
 And hushes my soul to rest 
 
 On the bosom which loves me so. 
 
 So I go on not knowing ! 
 
 I would not if I might; 
 I would rather walk on in the dark with 
 God, 
 
 Than go alone in the light, 
 I would rather walk with Him by faith, 
 
 Than walk alone by sight. 
 
 My heart shrinks back from trials 
 W'hich the future may disclose. 
 
 Yet I never had a sorrow 
 
 But what the dear Lord chose; 
 
 So I send the coming tears back. 
 
 With the whispered word " He knows." 
 
578 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 THE SOLDIERS DREAM. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Hl^^^UR bugles sang truce, for the night- 
 ^^^ cloud had lowered, 
 
 ^jf^";!:^ Aud the sentinel stars set their watch 
 - in the sky ; 
 
 And thousands had sunk on the 
 ground overpowered : 
 The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful 
 array 
 Far, far, I had roamed on a desolate track : 
 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the 
 way 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed 
 me back. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of 
 straw, 
 By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded 
 the slain, 
 At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it 
 again. 
 
 I How to thn pleasant fields, traversed so oi. 
 In life's morning march when my bosoui 
 was young ; 
 I heard my own mountain -goats bleating 
 aloft. 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn 
 reapers sung. 
 
OLD COACHING DAY£ 
 
 579 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I 
 swore 
 From my home and my weeping friends 
 never to part ; 
 My little ones kissed me a thousand times 
 o'er, 
 And my wife sobbed aloud in her full- 
 ness of heart. 
 
 Stay, stay with us ! — rest ; thou art weary 
 and worn ! 
 And fain was their war-broken soldier 
 to stay ; 
 But sorrow returned with the dawning of 
 morn. 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear 
 melted 
 
 OLD COACHING DAYS. 
 
 c 
 
 JOHN POOLE. 
 
 KETUENED to Eeeves's Hotel, College Green, where I was lodging. 
 The individual who, at this time, so ably filled the important office 
 of " Boots " at the hotel was a character. Be it remembered that, 
 in his youth, he had been discharged from his place for omitting to 
 i call a gentleman, who was to go by one of the morning coaches, and 
 el who, in consequence of such neglect, missed his journey. 
 
 My slumbers were fitful— disturbed. Horrible dreams assailed me. 
 Series of watches each pointing to the hour of four passed slowly before 
 me — then, time-pieces — dials of larger size — and at last, enormous steeple- 
 clocks, all pointing to four, four, four. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream, 
 
 and endless processions of watchmen moved along, each mournfully dinning 
 in my ears, '•' Past four o'clock." At length I was attacke<l by nightmare. 
 Methought I was an hour-glass — old Father Time bestrode me — he 
 pressed upon me with unendurable weight — fearfully and threateningly 
 did he wave his scythe above my head — he grinned at me, struck three 
 blows, audible blows, with the handle of his scythe, on my breast, stooped 
 his huge head, and shrieked in my ear — 
 
 " Vor o'clock, zur ; I zay it be vore o'clock." 
 
 It was the awful voice of Boots. 
 
 "Well, I hear you," groaned I. 
 
 "But I doant hear you. Vor o'clock, zur." 
 
 "Very well, very well, that'll do." 
 
 " Beggin' your pardon, but it woan't do, zur. 'Ee must get up — past 
 vore, zur." 
 
 And he thundered away at the door ; nor did he cease knocking till 1 
 
580 OLD COACHING DAYS. 
 
 was fairly up, and had shown myself to him in order to satisfy him of the 
 fact. 
 
 "That'll do, zur; 'ee told I to carl'ee, and I hope I ha' carld'ee 
 property." 
 
 I lit my taper at the rushlight. On opening a window-shutter, I was 
 regaled with the sight of a fog, a parallel to which London itself, on one 
 of its most perfect November days, could scarcely have produced. A dirty 
 drizzling rain was falHng. My heart sank within me. It was now twenty 
 minutes past four. I was master of no more than forty disposable minutes, 
 and, in that brief space, what had I not to do ! The duties of the toilet 
 were indispensable — the portmanteau m,ust be packed — and, run as fast 
 as I might, I could not get to the coach-office in less than ten minutes. 
 Hot water was a luxury not to be procured; at that villainous hour not a 
 human being in the house (nor, do I firmly believe, in the universe entire,) 
 had risen — my unfortunate self, and my companion in wretchedness, poor 
 Boots, excepted. The water in the jug was frozen ; but, by dint of ham- 
 mering upon it with the handle of the poker, I succeeded in enticing out 
 about as much as would have filled a tea-cup. Two towels, which had 
 been left wet in the room, were standing on a chair, bolt upright, as stiflF 
 as the poker itself, which you might almost as easily have bent. The 
 tooth-brushes were riveted to the glass in which I had left them, and of 
 which, (in my haste to disengage them from their stronghold,) they carried 
 away a fragment ; the soap was cemented to the dish ; my shaving-brush 
 was a mass of ice. In shape more appalling discomfort had never ap- 
 peared on earth. I approached the looking-glass. Even had all the 
 materials for the operation been tolerably thawed, it was impossible to use 
 a razor by such a light. 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 " Now, if 'ee please, zur ; no time to lose ; only twenty-vive minutes 
 to vive." 
 
 I lost my self-possession — I have often wondered that morning did not 
 unsettle my mind. 
 
 There was no time for the performance of anything like a comfortable 
 toilet. I resolved, therefore, to defer it altogether till the coach should 
 stop to breakfast. " I'll pack my portmanteau ; that viust be done." In 
 went whatever happened to come first to hand. In my haste, I had 
 thrust in, amongst my own things, one of mine host's frozen towels. 
 Everything must come out again. 
 
 "Who's there?" 
 
 "Now, zur; 'ee'l be too late, zur." 
 
THE PENNY YE MEANT TO GI'E. 581 
 
 " Coming ! " 
 
 Everything was now gathered together — the portmanteau would not 
 lock. No matter, it must be content to travel to town in a deshabille of 
 straps. Where were my boots ? In my hurry I had packed away both 
 pair. It was impossible to travel to London on such a day in sHppers. 
 Again was everything to be undone. 
 
 " Now, zur, coach be going." 
 
 The most unpleasant part of the ceremony of hanging (scarcely ex- 
 cepting the closing act) must be the hourly notice given to the culprit of 
 the exact length of time he has to live. Could any circumstance have 
 added much to the miseries of my situation, most assuredly it would have 
 been those unfeeling reminders. 
 
 "I'm coming," again replied I, with a groan. " I have only to pull 
 on my boots." They were both left-footed ! Then must I open the rascally 
 portm.anteau again. 
 
 " Please, zur " 
 
 "What in the name of the do you want now ? " 
 
 " Coach be gone, please zur." 
 
 " Gone ! Is there a chance of my overtaking it ? ' 
 
 " Bless 'ee ! noa zur ; not as Jem Eobbins do droive. He be vive 
 mile off by now." 
 
 " You are certain of that ? " 
 
 " I warrant'ee, zur." 
 
 At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was almost a compensa- 
 tion for all my sufferings past. 
 
 " Boots," said I, " you are a kind-hearted creature, and I will give 
 you an additional half-crown. Let the house be kept perfectly quiet, and 
 desire the chamber-maid to call me " 
 
 " At what o'clock, zur ? " 
 
 " This day three months at the earliest ! " 
 
 ''THE PENNY YE MEANT TO GI'E." 
 
 ^KI^TIERE'S a funny tale of a stingy man, | When the sexton came with his begging 
 ^H^ Who was none too good, but might 
 
 'SX^ have been worse, 
 ^"i^ Who went to his church on a Sun- 
 el day night, 
 i* And carried along his well filled 
 J purse. 
 
 plate. 
 The church was but dim with the candle's 
 
 light ; 
 The stingy man fumbled all through hif 
 
 purse, 
 And chose a coin by touch, and not sight. 
 
582 
 
 MY PLAYMATE. 
 
 It's an odd thing, now, that guineas should 
 be 
 
 So like unto pennies in shape and size. 
 " I'll give a penny," the stingy man said : 
 
 " The poor must not gifts of pennies de- 
 
 The penny fell down with a clatter and ring! 
 
 And back in his seat leaned the stingy man. 
 " The world is so full of the poor," he thought : 
 
 " I can't help them all — I give what I can." 
 
 Ha, ha ! how tke sexton smiled, to be sure. 
 To see the gold guinea fall into his plate ! 
 
 Ha, ha ! how the stingy man's heart was 
 wrung. 
 Perceiving his blunder, but just too late ! 
 
 "No matter," he said: "in the Lord's ac- 
 count 
 
 That guinea of gold is set down to me. 
 They lend to him who give to the poor ; 
 
 It will not so bad an investment be." 
 
 " Na, na, men," the chuckling sexton cried 
 out: 
 " The Lord is na cheated — He kens thee 
 well; 
 He knew it was only by accident 
 
 That out o' thy fingers the guinea fell ' 
 
 " He keeps an account, na doubt, for the 
 puir : 
 But in that account He'll set down to 
 thee 
 Na mair o' that golden guinea, my mon. 
 Than the one bare penny ye meant to gi'e !" 
 
 There's a comfort, too, in the little tale — 
 A serious side as well as a joke ; 
 
 A comfort for all the generous poor. 
 In the comical words the sexton spoke ; 
 
 A comfort to think that the good Lord knows 
 How generous we really desire to be, 
 
 And will give us credit in his account 
 For all the pennies we long " to gi'e." 
 
 MY PLAYMATE. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIEE. 
 
 ^i[||iHE pines were dark on Raraoth Hill, 
 ^IS*; Their song was soft and low ; 
 
 The blossoms in the sweet May wind 
 Were falling like the snow. 
 
 The blossoms drifted at our feet, 
 The orchard birds sang clear ; 
 
 The sweetest and the saddest day 
 It seemed of all the year. 
 
 For more to me than birds or flowers, 
 My playmate left her home. 
 
 And took with her the laughing spring 
 The music and the bloom. 
 
 She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 
 She laid her hand in mine : 
 
 What more could ask the bashful boy 
 Who fed her father's kine ? 
 
SHIBBOLETH. 
 
 583 
 
 She left us in the bloom of May : 
 
 The constant years told o'er 
 Their seasons w_ith as sweet May morns, 
 
 But she came back no more. 
 
 I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 
 
 Of nneventful years ; 
 Still o'er and o'er I sow the Spring 
 
 And reap the Autumn ears. 
 
 She lives where all the golden year 
 
 Her summer roses blow; 
 The dusky children of the sun 
 
 Before her come and go. 
 
 There haply with her jeweled hands 
 She smooths her silken gown, — 
 
 No more the homespun lap wherein 
 I shook the walnuts down. 
 
 The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 
 
 The brown nuts on the hill. 
 And still the May-day flowers make sweet 
 
 The woods of FoUymill. 
 
 The lilies blossom m the pond, 
 
 The birds build in the tree, 
 The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 
 
 The slow song of the sea. 
 
 I wonder if she thinks of them, 
 And how the old time seems, — 
 
 If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 
 Are sounding in her dreams. 
 
 I see her face, I hear her voice ; 
 
 Does she remember mine ? 
 And what to her is now the boy 
 
 Who fed her father's kine ? 
 
 What cares she that the orioles build 
 For other eyes than ours, — 
 
 That other hands with nuts are filled, 
 And other laps with flowers ? 
 
 O playmate in the golden time ! 
 
 Our mossy seat is green. 
 Its fringing violets blossom yet, 
 
 The old trees o'er it lean. 
 
 The winds So sweet with birch and fern 
 
 A sweeter memory blow ; 
 And there in spring the veeries sing 
 
 The song of long ago. 
 
 And still the pines of Ramoth wood 
 Are moaning like the sea, — 
 
 The moaning of the sea of change 
 Between myself and thee ! 
 
 SHIBBOLETH. 
 
 Then said they unto him : " Say now Shibboleth ;" and lie said Sibboleth. They took him and slew him at the 
 pjissages of Jordan ; and there fell at that time of the Ephraimites, forty and two thousand. Judges xii. 6. 
 
 , «^Y^^ ■ 
 
 E. H. J. CLEVELAND. 
 
 |OWN to the stream they flying go ; 
 Right on the border stand the foe, — 
 Stand the foe, and this threat they 
 
 make : 
 " Shibboleth say, or your head we'll 
 
 take !" 
 
 Up to his desk the good man goes, 
 Down in the pews they sit, his foes, — 
 Sit his foes, and this threat they make : 
 "Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take! 
 Say : Remember the Sabbath day. 
 In it ye neither shall work nor play ; 
 Say it commences on Saturday night, — 
 
 Just about early candle-light; 
 
 Or, to make it a little surer still. 
 
 When the sun goes down behind the hill ; 
 
 And if the sun sets at half-past four, 
 
 Close the shutters, and bar the door ; 
 
 Tell the strangers your gates within 
 
 That to do otherwise is a sin ; 
 
 And at half-past four on the following day, 
 
 Take out your knitting, and work or play- 
 
 For the Lord allows, in his law sublime, 
 
 Twenty-four hours for holy time ; 
 
 Thus you must speak our Shibboleth." 
 
 Nothing daunted, the good man saith. 
 
584 
 
 SHIBBOLETH. 
 
 "Ye must remember the Sabbath day — 
 In it ye neither shall work nor play, 
 Tell the strangers your gates within 
 That to do otherwise is a sin. 
 But at twelve o'clock it begins, I'm sure. 
 Not on Saturday at half-past four ! 
 A.nd at twelve o'clock at night it ends — 
 This is the fourth command, my friends." 
 
 Down sits the parson in his seat. 
 
 Up rise his enemies from the pit ; 
 
 " Off with his head !" they wrathful say, 
 
 " How he abuses our Sabbath day !" 
 
 Up comes another to take his place. 
 
 Heated and panting from the chase, 
 
 And again the foe their menace make : 
 
 " Shibboleth say, or your head we'll take ! 
 
 Say that the Lord made bond and free. 
 
 Slavery's an evil, not sin per se ; 
 
 Slaves there have been from the first man's 
 
 fall, 
 And a righteous God upholds it all. 
 This is the pass-word — speak it plain." 
 
 And the good man answers back again, 
 " I know that the Lord made bond and free 
 All of one blood — ' and cursed is he,' 
 Saith a righteous God in his holy ire, 
 'Who useth service and giveth no hire ! ' " 
 
 " This man will never our Shibboleth say !" 
 Thus cry the foe, as they eager lay 
 Their violent hands on the clerical crown, 
 " He is not one of us — hew him down !" 
 
 And again to the next in the sacred desk, 
 They look from below and propound this 
 
 text: 
 " Say that we fell in Adam's fall, 
 And that in Adam we sinned all ; 
 Say that in him we all are dead. 
 Else you'll oblige us to take your head." 
 
 A moment they wait to hear the word, 
 But shout as soon as his voice is heard, 
 " Oh, hear ye now what this rebel saith ? 
 Sibboleth only — not Shibboleth." 
 
 Another cry in the stifled air. 
 
 Another head with its gory hair 
 
 By the rolling stream, and another threat 
 
 The dire assassins are making yet : 
 
 " Shibboleth say, and the stream shall flow 
 
 Right and left as you onward go ; 
 
 Sibboleth say, and your head shall fall 
 
 Right in the pass, as fell they all. 
 
 Say that our sins we must all forsake — 
 
 That the yoke of Christ we rnust willing 
 
 take ; 
 Our tongues from evil we mui3t restrain. 
 And from the alluring cup abstain ; 
 But we have made an amendment fair, 
 And due allowance, here and there. 
 For such as have but little grace, — 
 Every one understands the case; 
 We who are young in grace must grow, 
 But still in the ways of folly go ; 
 We must have our pleasures, and perchance 
 Amuse ourselves in a little dance , 
 And we who are somewhat older grown — 
 Though our lips are the Lord's and not our 
 
 own, — 
 Must now and then be allowed to speak. 
 Though our words be truly not over meek ; 
 And should we happen to speak in a hurry, 
 Why surely the parson needn't worry, — 
 Not even though we should blast his fame, 
 For the poor church members are not to 
 
 blame ; 
 And though we are not inclined to drink 
 Of the sparkling cup, yet we surely think 
 It will never answer to fully put down 
 The sale of the article in our town. 
 These things we vyillingly, freely tell, 
 That you may learn our Shibboleth well. 
 Thus do we all of our sins forsake, 
 And the yoke of Christ thus easy take. 
 For hath He not called the burden li(/ht* 
 Shibboleth say, as we indite." 
 
 But "Be ye holy," he calmly saith ; 
 " Brethren, this is my Shibboleth." 
 
 A sudden cry and a sudden gleam 
 
 Of a glancing sword by the crimson stream, 
 
 And " Off with his head !" they vengeful cry, 
 
 " He is an Ephrairaite, — let hira die ;" 
 
 And quick dispatch him with all their might, 
 
 Just as another one comes in sight. 
 
 Glad welcome give to the next who stands 
 
 With the " bread of life " in his pious hands. 
 
SELLING A COAT. 
 
 585 
 
 In his pious hands, and they iiear him 
 
 through, 
 " We believe it all, and so do you ; 
 But this is not enough to say, 
 We must have it said in a particular way — 
 Say that the sinner can't repent 
 Without the Spirit is on him sent; 
 To the email word cant, have a due regard. 
 Else things will be apt to go very hard." 
 
 But the good man says : " He can, but won't; 
 1 know that my danger is imminent." 
 
 And they quick reply, " We're sorry to make 
 Such a very small word as this to take 
 Your head from your shoulders, — thus, — 
 
 entire, — 
 But you have incurred our holy ire ;* 
 The meaning of both is the same, 'tis true. 
 
 But such an excuse will never do ; 
 'Tis a very important word, my friend, 
 You wiU please to perceive you are near 
 your end." 
 
 Forty-two thousand fell that day. 
 Forty-two thousand bodies lay 
 Of the Ephraimites, in the narrow way 
 That led to the running river. 
 
 Forty-two thousand more will fall. 
 For when they accept the " unanimous call " 
 They may be assured they have staked their ali 
 By the theological river. 
 
 For still to the crossing do they hie, 
 And still the " Shibboleth " eager try, 
 But stop in the narrow pass to die, 
 And go not over the river. 
 
 SELLING A COAT. 
 
 fftw^ STORY is told of a clothing merchant on Chatham Street, New 
 York, who kept a very open store and drove a thriving trade, tho 
 natural consequence being that he waxed wealthy and indolent. 
 He finally concluded to get an assistant to take his place on the 
 sidewalk to " run in" customers, while he himself would enjoy his 
 otium cum dig within the store. Having advertised for a suiiaoie clerk, 
 he awaited applications, determined to engage none but a good talker who 
 would be sure to promote his interest. 
 
 Several unsuccessful applicants were dismissed, when a smart looking 
 Americanized Jew came along and applied for the situation. The '' boss" 
 was determined not to engage the fellow without proof of his thorough 
 capability and sharpness. Hence the following dialogue: 
 
 " Look here, young man ! I told you somedings. I vill gone up de 
 street und valk me back past dis shop yust like I vas coundrymans, and if 
 you can make me buy a coat of you, I vill hire you right away quick." 
 
 " All right," said the young man, " go ahead, and if I don't sell you a 
 coat I won't ask the situation." 
 
 The proprietor proceeded a short distance up the street, then sauntered 
 back toward the shop, where the young man was on the alert for him. 
 " Hi ! look here ! Don't you want some clothes to-day ?" 
 
586 SELLING A COAT. 
 
 " No, I don't vant me nothing," returned the boss. 
 
 " But step inside and let me show you what an elegant stock we 
 have," said the '' spider to the fly," catching him by the arm, and forcing 
 him into the store. 
 
 After considerable palaver, the clerk expectant got down a coat, on 
 the merits of which he expatiated at length, and finally offered it to "the 
 countryman" at thirty dollars, remarking that it was '' dirt cheap." 
 
 " Dirty tollar ? My kracious ! I vouldn't give you dwenty. But I 
 don't vant de coat anyvays." 
 
 "You had better take it, my friend; you don't get a bargain like this 
 every day." 
 
 " No ; I don't vant it. I gone me out. Good-day." 
 
 " Hold on ! don't be in such a hurry," answered the anxious clerk. 
 " See here, now the boss has been out all day, and I haven't sold a dollar's 
 worth. I want to have something to show when he comes back, so take 
 the coat at twenty-five dollars ; that is just what it cost. I don't make a 
 cent on it ; but take it along." 
 
 " Young mans, don'd I told you three, four, couple of dimes dat I don't 
 vant de coat?" 
 
 " Well, take it at twenty dollars ; I'll lose money on it, but I want 
 to make one sale anyhow, before the boss comes in. Take it at twenty 
 dollars." 
 
 " Veil, I don't vant de coat, but I'll give you fifteen tollar, and not one 
 cent more." 
 
 " Oh, my friend, I couldn't do it! Why, the coat cost twenty-five; 
 yet sooner than not make a sale, I'll let you have it for eighteen dollars, 
 and stand the loss." 
 
 " No; I don't vant it anyvays. It ain't vurth no more as fifteen 
 tollar, but I vouldn't give a cent more, so help me kracious." 
 
 Here the counterfeit rustic turned to depart, pleased to think that he 
 had got the best of the young clerk ; but that individual was equal to the 
 emergency. Knowing that he must sell the garment to secure his place, 
 he seized the parting boss, saying : 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you how it is. The man who keeps this store is an 
 uncle of mine, and as he is a mean old cuss, I want to bust him. Here, 
 take the coat at fifteen dollars." 
 
 This settled the business. The proprietor saw that this was too valu- 
 able a salesman to let slip, and so engaged him at once ; and he may be 
 seen every day standing in front of the shop, urging innocent countrymen 
 to buy clothes which are " yust de fit," at sacrificial prices. 
 
THE MYSTIC WEAVER. 
 
 587 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 
 
 ALLAN CUjNTNINGHAM. 
 
 P WET sheet and a flowing sea, — 
 A wind that follows fast, 
 And fills the white and rustling sail, 
 
 And bends the gallant mast, — 
 And bends the gallant mast, my 
 
 boys, 
 While, like the eagle free, 
 
 Away the good ship flies, and 
 leaves 
 Old England on the lee. 
 
 for a soft and gentle wind ! 
 
 I heard a fair one cry ; 
 But give to me the snorting breeze 
 
 And white waves heaving high — 
 And white waves heaving high, my boya. 
 
 The good ship tight and free ; 
 The world of waters is our home, 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 There's tempest in yon horned moon, 
 
 And lightning in you cloud ; 
 And hark the music, mariners ! 
 
 The wind is piping loud, — 
 The wind is piping loud, my boys, 
 
 The lightning flashing free ; 
 While the hollow oak our palace is, 
 
 Our heritage the sea. 
 
 TEE MYSTIC WEA VER. 
 
 CALMLY see the Mystic Weaver, 
 Throw his shuttle to and fro ; 
 'Mid the noise and wild confusion. 
 Well the weaver seems to know 
 What each motion 
 And commotion. 
 What each fusion 
 And confusion, 
 In the grand result will show, 
 As the nations, 
 
 Kings and stations. 
 Upward, Downward, 
 Hither, thither. 
 As in mystic dances, go. 
 
 In the present all is mystery ; 
 In the past 'tis beauteous history. 
 O'er the mixing and the mingling, 
 How the signal bells are jingling ' 
 See you not the weaver leaving 
 
588 
 
 THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. 
 
 Finished work behind, in weaving ? 
 See you not the reason subtle, 
 As the web and woof diminish. 
 Changing into beauteous finish. 
 Why the Weaver makes his shuttle, 
 Hither, thither, scud and scuttle ? 
 
 Glorious wonder ! what a weaving ! 
 To the dull beyond believing ! 
 Such, no fabled ages know. 
 Only faith can see the mystery, 
 How, along the aisles of History 
 Where the feet of sages go. 
 Loveliest to the purest eyes. 
 Grand the mystic tapet lies ! 
 Soft and smooth, and even 
 As if made for angel's treadinj 
 Tufted circles touching ever. 
 
 In-wrought figures fading never ; 
 Every figure has its plaidings, 
 Brighter form and softer shadings 
 Each illumined, — what a riddle ! 
 From a Cross that gems the middle. 
 
 'Tis a saying : — some reject it. 
 That its light is all reflected ; 
 That the tapet's hues are given 
 By a Sun that shines in Heaven ! 
 'Tis believed, by all believing. 
 That great God himself is weaving — 
 Bringing out the world's dark mystery, 
 In the light of Truth and History ; 
 And as web and woof diminish. 
 Comes the grand and glorious finish ; 
 When begin the golden ages 
 Long foretold by seers and sages. 
 
 THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. 
 
 WILL, M. CAELETON. 
 
 jHEY'VE got a bran new organ, Sue, 
 For all their fuss and search ; 
 They've done just as they said they'd 
 do. 
 And fetched it into church. 
 
 T They're bound the critter shall be seen. 
 And on the preacher's right. 
 They've hoisted up their new machine 
 
 In everybody's sight. 
 They've got a chorister and choir, 
 
 Ag'n my voice and vote ; 
 For it was never my desire. 
 
 To praise the Lord by note ! 
 
 I've been a sister good an' true, 
 
 For five and thirty year ; 
 I've done what seemed my part to do, 
 
 An' prayed my duty clear ; 
 I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, 
 
 Just as the preacher read ; 
 And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, 
 
 I took the fork an' led ! 
 And now their bold, new-fangled ways 
 
 Is comin' all about ; 
 
 And I, right in my latter days. 
 Am fairly crowded out ! 
 
 To-day, the preacher, good old dear. 
 
 With tears all in his eyes. 
 Read — " I can read my title clear 
 
 To mansions in the skies," — 
 I al'ays liked that blessed hymn — 
 
 I s'pose I al'ays will ; 
 It somehow gratifies my whim, 
 
 In good old " Ortonville ;" 
 But when that choir got up to sing, 
 
 I couldn't catch a word ; 
 They sung the most dog-gonedest thing 
 
 A body ever heard ! 
 
 Some worldly chaps was standin' near 
 
 And when I seed them grin, 
 I bid farewell to every fear. 
 
 And boldly waded in. 
 I thought I'd chase their tune along, 
 
 An' tried with all my might ; 
 But though my voice i« good an' strong 
 
 I couldn't steer it right ; 
 When they was high, then I was low, 
 
 An' also contra' wise ; 
 
A GERMAN TRUST SONG. 
 
 589 
 
 And I too fast, or they too slow, 
 To " mansions in the skies." 
 
 An' after every verse, you know 
 
 They played a little tune ; 
 I didn't understand, an' so 
 
 I started in too soon. 
 I pitched it pretty middlin' high, 
 
 I fetched a lusty tone. 
 But oh, alas ! I found that I 
 
 Was singing there alone ! 
 They laughed a little, I am told, 
 
 But I had done my best : 
 And not a wave of trouble rolled 
 
 Across my peaceful breast. 
 
 And sister Brown — I could but look — 
 
 She sits right front of me ; 
 She never was no singin' book, 
 
 An' never meant to be ; 
 But then she al'ays tried to do 
 
 The best she could, she said ; 
 She understood the time right through, 
 
 An' kep' it with her head ; 
 But when she tried this mornin', oh, 
 
 I had to laugh, or cough — 
 It kep' her head a bobbin' so, 
 
 It e'en a' most came off ! 
 
 An' Deacon Tubbs, — he all broke down, 
 
 As one might well suppose, 
 He took one look at sister Brown, 
 
 And meekly scratched his nose. 
 He looked his hymn book through and 
 through 
 
 And laid it on the seat. 
 And then a pensive sigh he drew, 
 
 And looked completely beat. 
 An' when they took another bout, 
 
 He didn't even rise. 
 But drawed his red bandanner out. 
 
 An' wiped his weepin' eyes. 
 
 I've been a sister good an' true, 
 
 For five an' thirty year ; 
 I've done what seemed my part to do, 
 
 And prayed my duty clear ; 
 But death will stop my voice, I know. 
 
 For he is on my track ; 
 And some day, I to church will go 
 
 And never more come back. 
 And when the folks get up to sing — 
 
 Whene'er that time shall be — 
 I do not want no patent thing 
 
 A squaalin' over me ! 
 
 A GERMAN TRUST SONG. 
 
 -sfer 
 
 LAMPERTIUS, 1625. 
 
 sUST as God leads me I would go ; 
 
 I would not ask to choose my 
 way ; 
 Content with what He will bestow. 
 Assured He will not let me stray. 
 So as He leads, my path I 
 
 And step by step I gladly take, 
 A child in Him confiding. 
 
 Tust as God leads, I am content ; 
 
 I rest me calmly in His hands ; 
 That which He hath decreed and sent — 
 
 That which His will for me commands, 
 I would that He should all fulfil 
 
 That I should do His gracious will 
 In living or in dying. 
 
 Just as God leads, I all resign ; 
 
 I trust me to my Father's will ; 
 When reason's rays deceptive shine. 
 His counsel would I yet fulfill ; 
 That which His love ordained 
 
 right. 
 Before He brought me to the light, 
 My all to Him resigning. 
 
 Just as God leads me, I abide 
 
 In faith, in hope, in suffering, true; 
 His strength is ever by my side — 
 
 Can aught my hold on Him undo ? 
 
590 
 
 MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 
 
 I hold me firm in patience, knowing 
 That God my life is still bestowing — 
 The best in kindness sending. 
 
 Just as God leads, I onward 
 
 go. 
 
 Oft amid thorns and briars keen ; 
 God does not yet His guidance show — 
 
 But in the end it shall be seen 
 How by a loving Father's will, 
 Faithful and true He leads me still. 
 
 MOUNTAIN AND SQUIRREL. 
 
 11. W. EMERSON. 
 
 Sfi||iJlpHE mountain and the squirrel 
 
 gjg Had a quarrel ; 
 
 %-^-^^^ And the former called the latter 
 
 "M " Little Prig." 
 
 ■«- Bun replied : 
 
 I " You are doubtless very big ; 
 
 j But all sorts of things and weather 
 Must be taken in together. 
 To make up a year 
 And a sphere. 
 
 And I think it no disgrace 
 
 To occupy my place. 
 
 If I'm not so large as you, 
 
 You are not so small as I, 
 
 And not half so spry. 
 
 I'll not deny you make 
 
 A very pretty squirrel track ; 
 
 Talents differ; all is well and wisely put ; 
 
 If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
 
 Neither can you crack a nut." 
 
 MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 
 
 LITCHFIELD MOSELEY. 
 
 JHEKE was to be a balloon ascent from the lawn, and Fanny had 
 tormented her father into letting her ascend with the aeronaut. I in- 
 stantly took my plans ; bribed the aeronaut to plead illness at the 
 I moment when the machine should have risen ; learned from him the 
 ! management of the balloon, though I understood that pretty well 
 before, 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 accompanied him. Fanny was in despair. 
 
 " Am I to lose my air expedition ? " she exclaimed, looking over the 
 side of the car ; " some one understands the management of this thing, 
 surely? Nobody! Tom!" she called out to me, "you understand it, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 "Perfectly," I answered. 
 
 " Come along, then," she cried ; " be quick, before papa comes back." 
 
MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 
 
 591 
 
 The company in general endeavored to dissuade her from her 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 
 my time. 
 
 " I understand the going up part," I an- 
 swered; "to come down is not so easy," 
 and I whistled. 
 
 " AVhat do you mean," she cried. 
 " Why, when you want to go up faster, 
 you throw some sand overboard," I repHed, 
 suiting the action to the word. 
 
 " Don't be foolish, Tom," she said, trying 
 indifferent, but trembling uncommonly. 
 
 "Foolish ! " I said; " 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. Go 
 it, you cripples ! " and over went another sand-bag. 
 
 " Why, you're mad, surely," she whispered in utter terror, and tried 
 to reach the bags, but I kept her back. 
 
 " Only with love, my dear," I answered, smiUng pleasantly ; " only 
 with love for you. Oh, Fanny, I adore you ! Say you will be my wife." 
 
 " Never ! " she answered ; " I'll go to Ursa Major first, though I've 
 got a big enough 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 Jenkins 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 March in Saul. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Jenkins," she said suddenly, " come, Tom, let us descend 
 now, and I'll promise to say nothing whatever about all this." 
 
 s*^^^ 
 
 to appear quite calm and 
 
592 MAKING LOVE IN A BALLOON. 
 
 I continued the execution of the Dead March. 
 
 " But if you do not begin the descent at once I'll tell 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," was the reply. 
 
 Over went the sand, and the solemn notes of the Dead March re- 
 sounded through the car. 
 
 " I thought you were a gentleman," said Fanny rising up in a terrible 
 rage from the bottom of the car, where she had been sitting, and looking 
 perfectly beautiful in her wrath. " 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 well 
 as mine by your madness ? " 
 
 I explained that I adored her so much that to die in her company 
 would be perfect bliss, so that I begged she would not consider my feelings 
 at all. She dashed off her beautiful hair from her face, and standing per- 
 fectly erect, looking like the Goddess of Anger or Boadicea — if you can 
 imagine that personage in a balloon — she said, " I command you to begin 
 the descent this instant ! " 
 
 The Dead March, whistled in a manner essentially gay and lively, 
 wag 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 in the bottom of the car. I threw over the 
 sand. Then she tried another plan. Throwing herself upon her knees, 
 and bursting into tears, she said : 
 
 " Oh, forgive me for my slight 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 ? " said I. 
 
 " I can't! I can't ! " she answered. 
 
 Over went 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 do not take care, ours will be solemnized there." 
 
 I took up the fifth bag. " Come," I said, " my wife in life, or my 
 companion in death. Which is it to be ? " and I patted the sand-bag in 
 
THE BELLS. 593 
 
 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 softest-hearted creature breathing, and would not pain any living 
 thing, and I confess she had beaten me. I wason the point of flinging the 
 bag back into the car, and saying, " Dearest Fanny, forgive me for fright- 
 ening you. Marry whomsoever you wish. 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, Jenkins is your slave — 
 your dog — your footstool. His duty, henceforth, is to go whithersoever 
 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," said she, with the same strange look. 
 
 I tossed the bag into the bottom of the car, and opened the valve. 
 The balloon descended. Gentlemen, will you believe it ? — when we had 
 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 to- 
 wards her to receive anew the promise of her hand — will you believe it ? — 
 she gave me a box on the ear that upset me against the car, and ruiming 
 to her father, who at that moment came up, she related to him and the 
 assembled company what she called my disgraceful conduct in the balloon, 
 and ended by informing me that all of her hand that I was likely to get 
 had been already bestowed upon my ear, which she assured me had been 
 given with all her heart. 
 
 TEE BELLS. 
 
 EDGAR A. POE, 
 f^iwEAR the sledges with the bells- 
 
 ^ Silver bells 
 
 °p«;"%^ What a world of merriment their 
 J> melody foretells ! 
 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens, seem to twinkle 
 4U 
 
 With a crystalline delight ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
 wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells - 
 From the j ingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
594 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony 
 foretells ! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she 
 
 On the moon ! 
 Oh, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 
 On the future ! how it tells 
 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency 
 tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak. 
 They can only shriek, shriek. 
 Out of tune, 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the 
 
 fire. 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and 
 frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor, 
 Now — now to sit or never. 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 WTiat a horror they 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 
 of the bells — 
 Of the bells— 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells— 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their mon- 
 ody 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, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 On the human heart a stone — 
 They are neither man nor woman — 
 They are neither brute nor human — 
 
 They are ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 
 A pffian from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the psean of the bells ! 
 And he dances and he yells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 To the pasan of the bells — 
 Of the bells ; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 595 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 
 To the tolling of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells- 
 Bells, bells, bells, 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 ^^^T the close of the day, when the hara- 
 
 Wmm let i^ still- 
 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetful- 
 ness prove, 
 When naught but the torrent is 
 heard on the hill. 
 
 And naught but the nightingale's song in 
 the grove, 
 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar. 
 While his harp rung symphonious, a her- 
 mit began ; 
 No more with himself or with nature at war. 
 He thought as a sage, though he felt as a 
 man ; 
 
 " Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and 
 woe, 
 
 Why, lone Philomela, that languishing 
 fall? 
 For spring shall return, and a lover be- 
 stow, 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. 
 But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,-- 
 Mourn, sweetest complainer, man 
 calls thee to mourn ; 
 0, soothe him whose pleasures like 
 thine pass away ! 
 Full quickly they pass — but they 
 never return. 
 
 " Now gliding remote on the verge 
 of the sky, 
 The moon, half extinguished, her 
 crescent displays ; 
 But lately I marked when majestic 
 on high 
 She shone, and the planets were 
 
 lost in her blaze. 
 '11 on, thou fair orb, and with glad- 
 ness pursue 
 The path that conducts thee to 
 splendor again ! 
 But man's faded glory what change shall 
 renew? 
 Ah, fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 
 
 " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no 
 more. 
 I mourn, — but, ye woodlands, I mourn not 
 for you ; 
 
 For morn is approaching your charms to re- 
 store, 
 
596 
 
 MRS. LOFTY AND I. 
 
 Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit- 
 tering with dew. 
 Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, — 
 Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 
 But when shall spring visit the mouldering 
 urn? 
 0, when shall day dawn on the night of 
 the grave ? 
 
 •' 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science 
 betrayed. 
 That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to 
 blind, 
 My thoughts wont to roam from shade on- 
 ward to shade. 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
 '0 pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, 
 ' Thy creature, who fain would not wander 
 from thee ! 
 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquished my 
 pride ; 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only 
 canst free.' " 
 
 " And darkness and doubt are now flying 
 away ; 
 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. 
 So breaks on the traveler, faint and astraj', 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of 
 morn. 
 See truth, love, and mercy in triumph de- 
 scending. 
 And nature all glowing in Eden's first 
 bloom ! 
 On the cold cheek of death smiles and rosea 
 are blending. 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the 
 tomb." 
 
 WINTER SONG. 
 
 LUDWIG HOLTY. 
 
 ^^UMMER joys are o'er; 
 
 Flowrets bloom no more, 
 Wintry winds are sweeping ; 
 Through the snow-drifts peeping 
 Cheerful evergreen 
 i- Rarely now is seen. 
 
 Now no plumed throng 
 Charms the wood with song ; 
 Ice-bound trees are glittering ; 
 
 Translated from the German by Charles T. Brooks. 
 
 Merry snow-birds twittering, 
 Fondly strive to cheer 
 Scenes so cold and drear. 
 
 "Winter, still I see 
 Many charms in thee, — 
 Love thy chilly greeting, 
 Snow-storms fiercely beating, 
 And the dear delights 
 Of the long, long nights. 
 
 MBS. LOFTY AND I. 
 
 }RS. LOFTY keeps a carriage, 
 
 So do I; 
 She has dapple grays to draw it, 
 
 None have I ; 
 She's no prouder with her coachman 
 
 Than am I 
 With my blue-eyed laughing baby 
 
 Trundling by ; 
 
 I hide his face, lest she should see 
 The cherub boy, and envy me. 
 
 Her fine husband has white fingers, 
 
 Mine has not ■ 
 
 He could give his bride a palace, 
 
 Mine a cot : 
 
Ice-bound trees are glittering 
 Merry snow-birds twittering, 
 
 Fondly strive to cheer 
 Scenes so cold and drear." 
 
OUR SKATER BELLE. 
 
 59^ 
 
 Her's comes beneath the star-light, 
 
 Ne'er cares she: 
 
 Mine comes in the purple twilight, 
 Kisses me. 
 
 And prays that He who turns life's sands, 
 
 Will hold his lov'd ones in His hands. 
 
 Mrs. Lofty has her jewels, 
 
 So have I ; 
 She wears her's upon her bosom. 
 
 Inside I ; 
 She will leave her's at death's portals, 
 
 By and by : 
 I shall bear the treasure with me, 
 
 When I die ; 
 
 For I have love, and she has gold ; 
 She counts her wealth, mine can't b* 
 told. 
 
 She has those that love her station. 
 
 None have 1 • 
 But I've one true heart beside me. 
 
 Glad am I ; 
 I'd not change it for a kingdom, 
 
 No not I ; 
 God will weigh it in his balance. 
 
 By and by ; 
 And then the diff 'rence 't will define 
 'Twixt Mrs. Lofty's wealth and mine. 
 
 CLEON 
 
 CHARLES 
 
 AND I. 
 
 MACKAY. 
 
 |O^LE0N hath a million acres — ne'er a one 
 
 !^ff* Cleon dwelleth in a palace — in a cot- 
 # tage, I; 
 
 J Cleon hath a dozen fortunes — not a 
 
 ^ penny, I ; 
 
 J But the poorer of the twain is Cleon, 
 and not I. 
 
 Cleon, true, possesseth acres — but the land- 
 scape, I ; 
 
 Half the charms to me it yieldeth, money 
 cannot buy ; 
 
 Cleon harbors sloth and dullness — freshening 
 vigor, I ; 
 
 He in velvet, I in fustian ; richer man am I. 
 
 Cleon is a slave to grandeur— free as thought 
 am I ; 
 
 Cleon fees a score of doctors — need of none 
 have I. 
 
 Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleoa 
 fears to die ; 
 
 Death may come — he'll find me ready — hap- 
 pier man am I. 
 
 Cleon sees no charm in nature — in a daisy, I ; 
 
 Cleon hears no anthem ringing in the sea 
 and sky. 
 
 Nature sings to me forever — earnest listen- 
 er, I; 
 
 State for state, with all attendants, who 
 would change? Not I, 
 
 OUB SKATER BELLE. 
 
 ^^JJKLONG the frozen lake she comes 
 
 In linking crescents, light and 
 fleet ; 
 The ice-imprisoned Undine hums 
 A welcome to her little feet. 
 
 I see the jaunty hat, the plume 
 
 Swerve bird-like in the joyous gale, — 
 
 The cheeks lit up to burning bloom. 
 
 The young eyes sparkling through the veil 
 
 The quick breath parts her laughing lips, 
 The white neck shines through tossing 
 curls ; 
 
 Her vesture gently sways and dips. 
 As on she speeds in shell-like whorls. 
 
698 
 
 DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 Men stop and smile to see her go ; 
 
 They gaze, they smile in pleased surprise 
 They ask her name, they long to show 
 
 Some silent friendship in their eyes. 
 
 She glances not ; she passes on ; 
 Her stately footfall quicker rings ; 
 
 She guesses not the benison 
 
 Whicn follows her on noiseless wings. 
 
 Smooth be her ways, secure her tread 
 Along the devious lines of life. 
 
 From grace to grace successive led, — 
 A noble maiden, nobler wife I 
 
 ADVICE TO YOUNG MEN. 
 
 NOAH PORTER. 
 
 I^IS^OUNG men, you are the architects of your own fortunes. Eely 
 upon your own strength of body and soul. Take for your star self- 
 reUance, faith, honesty, and industry. Inscribe on your banner, 
 " Luck is a fool, pluck is a hero." Don't take too much advice — 
 keep at your helm and steer your own ship, and remember that 
 the great art of commanding is to take a fair share of the work. 
 Don't practice too mach humanity. Think well of yourself. Strike out. 
 Assume your own position. Put potatoes in your cart, over a rough road, 
 and small ones go to the bottom. Kise above the envious and jealous. 
 Fire above the mark you intend to hit. Energy, invincible, determination, 
 with a right motive, are the levers that move the world. Don't drink. 
 Don't chew. Don't smoke. Don't swear. Don't deceive. Don't read 
 novels. Don't marry until you can support a wife. Be in earnest. Be 
 self-reliant. Be generous. Be civil. Bead the papers. Advertise your 
 business. Make money and do good with it. Love your God and fellow men. 
 Love truth and virtue. Love your country, and obey its laws. If this 
 advice be impHcitly followed by the young men of the country, the mil- 
 lennium is at hand. 
 
 DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 tW/EO shall recount our martyr's 
 
 ufFerings for this people since No- 
 vember, 1860 ? His horizon had been black with storm by day 
 and by night; he has trod the way of danger and of darkness; 
 on his shoulders rested a government dearer to him than his own 
 life. At its integrity millions of men were striking at home, and 
 upon this government foreign eyes lowered. It stood a lone island 
 
DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN. 599 
 
 in the sea, full of storms, and every tide and wave seemed eager to devour 
 it. Upon thousands of hearts great sorrows and anxieties have rested, but 
 not on one such or in such a measure as upon that simple, truthful, noble 
 soul, our faithful and sainted Lincoln. Never rising to the enthusiasm of 
 more impatient natures in hours of hope, and never sinking with mercurial 
 natures in hours of defeat to such depths of despondency, he held on with 
 immovable patience and fidelity, putting caution against hope that it might 
 not be premature and hope against caution that it might not yield to 
 dread and danger. He wrestled ceaselessly through four black and dread- 
 ful purgatorial years wherein God was cleansing the sin of His people as 
 by fire. At last the watcher beheld the gray dawn for the country ; the 
 mountains began to give their forms forth from out of darkness, and the 
 East came rushing towards us with arms full of joy for all our sorrows. 
 Then it was for him to be glad exceedingly that had sorrowed immeasu- 
 rably. Peace could bring no heart such joy, such rest, such honor, trust 
 and gratitude. He but looked upon it as Moses looked upon the promised 
 land, and then the wail of the nation proclaimed that he had gone from 
 among us. Not thine the sorrow, but ours, sainted soul. Thou hast 
 indeed entered the promised land while we yet are on the march. To us 
 remains the rocking of the deep and the storm upon the land. Days of 
 duty and nights of watching, but thou art sphered high above all dark- 
 ness, far beyond all sorrow and weariness. Oh, weary heart, rejoice ex- 
 ceedingly thou that hast enough suffered. Thou hast beheld Him who, 
 invisibly, hath led thee in this great wilderness. Thou standest among 
 the elect; around thee are the royal men that have ennobled human life in 
 every age, and the coronet of glory on thy brow as a diadem of joy is upon 
 thee for evermore. Over all this land, over all the little cloud of years 
 that now from thy infinite horizon moves back as a speck, thou art lifted 
 up as high as the star is above the cloud. In the goodly company of 
 Mount Zion thou shalt find that rest which thou hast sorrowing sought ; 
 and thy name, an everlasting name in Heaven, shall flourish in fragrance 
 and beauty as long as the sun shall last upon the earth, and hearts remain 
 to revere truth, fidelity and goodness. 
 
 He who now sleeps has by this event been clothed with new influence. 
 Dead, he speaks to men who now willingly hear what before they refused 
 to listen to. Now his simple and weighty words will be gathered like 
 those of Washington, and your children and children's children shall 
 be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep wisdom of the utterances 
 which, in time of party heat, passed as idle words. The patriotism of men 
 will receive a new impulse, and men, for his sake, will love the whole 
 
600 
 
 FUNERAL OF LINCOLN. 
 
 country which he loved so well. I swear you on the altar of his memory 
 to be more faithful to the country for which he has perished by his very 
 perishing, and swear anew hatred to that slavery which made him a 
 martyr and a conqueror. 
 
 And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than 
 when alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming. Cities and 
 States are his pall-bearers, and the cannon speaks the hours with solemn 
 progression. Dead, dead, dead, he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead ? 
 Is Hampden dead ? Is David dead ? Is any man that ever was fit to live 
 dead? Disenthralled of flesh, risen to the unobstructed sphere where 
 passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life is now 
 grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful, as no earthly life can be. 
 Pass on, thou that hast overcome ! Your sorrows, oh people, are his peans, 
 your bells and bands and muffled drums sound triumph in his ears. Wail 
 and weep here ; God makes it echo joy and triumph there. Pass on ! 
 Four years ago, oh Illinois, we took from thy midst an untried man ; and 
 from among the people ; we return him to you a mighty conqueror. Not 
 thine any more, but the nation's ; not ours, but the world's. Give him 
 place, oh ye prairies. In the midst of this great continent his dust shall 
 rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle 
 anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the mighty 
 places of the West, chant his requiem ! Ye people behold the martyr 
 whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for 
 liberty ! 
 
 FUNERAL OF LINCOLN, 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 (lEACE ! Let the long procession come, 
 For, hark ! — the mournful, muffled 
 drum. 
 The trumpet's wail afar ; 
 And see ! the awful car ! 
 
 Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 
 While cannon boom, and bells toll slow. 
 
 And go thou sacred car, 
 
 Bearing our woe afar ! 
 
 Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 
 Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait 
 
 To honor all they can, 
 
 The dust of that good man ! 
 
 Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
 As greatest kings might die to gain : 
 The just, the wise, the brave 
 Attend thee to the grave ! 
 
 And you, the soldiers of our wars, 
 Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars. 
 Salute him once again. 
 Your late commander, — slain! 
 
THE SUN IS WARM, THE SKY IS CLEAR. 
 
 601 
 
 Yes, let your tears indignant fall. 
 But leave your muskets on tlie wall ; 
 
 There shall his grave be made, 
 And there his bones be laid ! 
 
 Your country needs you now 
 Beside the forge, the plough ! 
 
 And there his countrymen shall come, 
 
 So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
 
 The fallen to his last repose. 
 
 Beneath no mighty dome, 
 But in his modest home. 
 
 The churchyard where his children rest, 
 
 With memory proud, with pity dumb, 
 And strangers, far and near. 
 For many and many a year ! 
 
 For many a year and many an age. 
 While History on her ample page 
 The virtues shall enroll 
 
 The quiet spot that suits him best, 
 
 Of that paternal soul! 
 
 THE SUN IS WARM, TEE SKY IS CLEAR. 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE 8HELLEY. 
 
 KHE sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
 The waves are dancing fast and 
 bright, 
 
 S' l* Blue isles and snowy mountains 
 
 wear 
 • The purple noon's transparent light: 
 The breath of the moist air is light 
 Around its unexpanded buds ; 
 Like many a voice of one delight, — 
 The winds', the birds', the ocean- 
 floods', — 
 The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
 tude's. 
 
 I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
 With green and purple sea-weeds 
 
 strown ; 
 I see the waves upon the shore 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers 
 
 thrown ; 
 I sit upon the sands alone ; 
 The lightning of the noontide ocean 
 Is fla?hing round me, and a tone 
 Arises from its measured motion, — 
 How sweet, did any heart now share 
 
 in my emotion ! 
 
 Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
 Nor peace within nor calm around, 
 Nor that Content surpassing wealth 
 
 The sage in meditation found. 
 And walked with inward glory crowned, — 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor lei- 
 sure; 
 Others I see whom these surround ; 
 Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another 
 measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild 
 Even as the winds and waters are : 
 I could lie down like a tired child, 
 
G02 
 
 SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. 
 
 And weep away the life of care 
 "Which I have borne, and yet must bear 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 
 My cheek grow cold, and hear the 
 sea 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- 
 notony. 
 
 SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN. 
 
 ^piiROLD the lantern aside, and shudder 
 ^|ffl|i not so; 
 
 f^gvL There's more blood to see than this 
 ^ stain on the snow ; 
 
 I There are pools of it, lakes of it, just 
 I over there, 
 
 And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson- 
 soaked hair. 
 Did you think, when we came, you and I, 
 
 out to-night 
 To search for our dead, yon would be a fair 
 sight ? 
 
 You're his wife ; you love him — you think 
 
 so ; and I 
 Am only his mother ; my boy shall not lie 
 In a ditch with the rest, while my arms caji 
 
 bear 
 His form to a grave that mine own may soon 
 
 share. 
 So, if your strength failiS, best go sit by the 
 
 hearth. 
 While his mother alone seeks his bed on the 
 
 earth. 
 
 You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me 
 
 the light. 
 And follow my footsteps — my heart will lead 
 
 right. 
 Ah, God ! what is here? a great hejip of the 
 
 slain. 
 All mangled and gory ! — what horrible pain 
 These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, 
 
 ye weep. 
 Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep ! 
 
 More! more! Ah! I thought I could never- 
 more know 
 Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below, 
 Since I stood in the porch and heard his 
 chief tell 
 
 How brave was my son, how he gallantly 
 
 fell. 
 Did they think I cared then to see officers 
 
 stand 
 Before my great sorrow, each hat in each 
 
 hand? 
 
 Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor 
 
 fright. 
 That your red hands turn over toward this 
 
 dim light 
 These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you 
 
 had kept 
 Your senses this morning ere his comrades 
 
 had left. 
 You had beard that his place was worst of 
 
 them all, — 
 Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he 
 
 would fall. 
 
 There's the moon through the clouds : 
 Christ what a scene ! 
 
 Dost Thou from Thy heavens o'er such vi- 
 sions lean, 
 
 And still call this cursed world a footstool of 
 Thine ? 
 
 Hark ! a groan ! there another, — here in this 
 line 
 
 Piled close on each other! Ah, here is the 
 flag, 
 
 Torn, dripping with gore; — bah! they died 
 for this rag. 
 
 Here's the voice that we seek ; poor soul, do 
 
 not start ; 
 We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er 
 
 the heart! 
 Is there aught we can do ? A message to 
 
 give 
 To any beloved one ? I swear, if I live, 
 To take it for sake of the words my boy said, 
 
FROM WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. 
 
 603 
 
 " Home," " mother," " wife," ere he reeled 
 down 'moug the dead. 
 
 But, first, can you tell where his regiment 
 
 stood ? 
 Speak, speak, man, or point ; 'twas the Ninth. 
 
 Oh, the blood 
 Is choking his voice ! What a look of 
 
 despair ! 
 There, lean on mj^ knee, while I put back 
 
 the hair 
 Froin eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, 
 
 my own. 
 My hands were both idle when you died alone. 
 
 He's dying — he's dead! Close his lids, let 
 
 us go. 
 God's peace on his soul ! If we only could 
 
 Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has 
 
 turned sick ; 
 Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here 
 
 so thick ? 
 I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! 
 One might think you were nursed on the red 
 
 lap of War. 
 
 He's not here — and not here. What wild 
 
 hopes flash through 
 My thoughts, as, foot-deep, I stand in this 
 
 dread dew. 
 And cast up a prayer to the blue, quiet sky ! 
 Was it you, girl, that shrieked ? Ah ! what 
 
 face doth lie 
 Upturned toward me there, so rigid and 
 
 white ? 
 God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My 
 
 old sight 
 
 Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, 
 
 my son ! 
 Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! 
 
 There, lift off your arms ; let him come to 
 
 the breast 
 Where first he was lulled, with my soul's 
 
 hymn, to rest. 
 Your heart never thrilled to your lover's 
 
 fond kiss 
 As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this ? 
 
 He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes. 
 you're right. 
 
 Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to- 
 night. 
 
 Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, 
 and your j^ears 
 
 May still hold fair hopes ; but the old die of 
 tears. 
 
 Yes, take him again ; — ah ! don't lay your 
 face there ; 
 
 See the blood from his wound has stained 
 your loose hair. 
 
 How quiet you are ! Has she fainted '! — her 
 
 cheek 
 Is cold as his own. Say a word to me, — speak ! 
 Am I crazed ? Is she dead ? Has her heart 
 
 broke first? 
 Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is 
 
 worst. 
 I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these 
 
 dead ; 
 Those corpses are stirring ; God help my poor 
 
 head ! 
 
 I'll sit by my children until the men come 
 To bury the others, and then we'll go home. 
 Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, 
 
 don't move. 
 Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by 
 
 love. 
 Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! 
 God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep ! 
 
 FBOJf WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. 
 
 iiiT would be peculiarly improper to omit, in this first official act, my fer- 
 ^ vent supplications to that Almighty Being who rules over the uni- 
 Jl verse, who presides in the councils of nations, and whose providential 
 % aids can supply every human defect, that His benediction, may conse- 
 
604 
 
 FROM WASHINGTON'S INAUGURAL. 
 
 crate, to tlie liberties and happiness of the people of the United States, 
 a government instituted by themselves for these essential purposes, and 
 may enable every instrument employed in the administration to execute 
 with success the functions allotted to its charge. In tendering this homage 
 to the Great Author of every public and private good, I assure myself that 
 it expresses your sentiments not less than my own, nor those of my fellow- 
 citizens at lara-e less than either. 
 
 MOUNT VERNON, WASHINGTON'S MODEST HOME. 
 
 No people can be bound to acknowledge and adore the invisible hand 
 which conducts the affairs of men more than the people of the United 
 States. Every step by which they have advanced to the character of 
 an independent nation seems to have been distinguished by some token 
 of Providential agency ; and in the important revolution just accom- 
 plished in the system of their united government, the tranquil deliberations 
 and voluntary consent of so many distinct communities from which the 
 event has resulted, cannot be compared with the means by which most 
 governments have been established, without some return of pious gratitude, 
 along with an humble anticipation of the future blessings which the past 
 seems to presage. 
 
THE COUNTESS. 
 
 605 
 
 SLEEP OF THE BRA VE. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS, 
 
 ?0W sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 
 By all their country's wishes blessed ! 
 When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
 Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
 She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
 Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 
 
 By fairy hands their knell is rung ; 
 By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; 
 There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, 
 To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; 
 And Freedom shall awhile repair, 
 To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 
 
 i^^a 
 
 "*^25i*'. •'•'•■•^i---^''^«- 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 
 J. G. WHITTIEB. 
 
 ER the wooded northern ridge. 
 
 Between its houses brown. 
 
 To the dark tunnel of the bridge, 
 
 I The street comes straggling down. 
 
 You catch a glimpse, through birch and pine, 
 
 Of gable, roof, and porch. 
 The tavern with its swinging sign, 
 
 The sharp horn of the church. 
 
 The river's steel-blue crescent curves 
 
 To meet in ebb and flow, 
 The single broken wharf that serves 
 
 For sloop and gundelow. 
 
 With salt-sea scents along its shores, 
 The heavy hay boats crawl, 
 
 The long antennae of their oars 
 In lazy rise and fall. 
 
 
 .<<)t, 
 
606 
 
 THE COUNTESS. 
 
 Along the gray abutment's wall 
 The idle shad-net dries : 
 
 The toll-man, in his cobbler's stall, 
 Sits smoking with closed eyes. 
 
 You hear the pier's low undertone 
 Of waves that chafe and gnaw ; 
 
 You start, — a skipper's horn is blown 
 To raise the creaking draw. 
 
 At times the blacksmith's anvil sounds 
 
 "With slow and sluggard beat, 
 Or stage-coach on its dusty rounds 
 
 Wakes up the staring street. 
 
 A place for idle eyes and ears, 
 A cob-webbed nook of dreams, 
 
 Left by the stream whose waves are years, 
 The stranded village seems. 
 
 And there, like other moss and rust, 
 
 The native dweller clings. 
 And keeps, in uninquiring trust, 
 
 The old, dull round of things. 
 
 The fisher drops his patient lines. 
 
 The farmer sows his grain. 
 Content to hear the murmuring pines, 
 
 Instead of railroad train. 
 
 Go where, along the tangled steep 
 
 That slopes against the west. 
 The hamlet's buried idlers sleep 
 
 In still profounder rest. 
 
 Throw back the locust's flowery plume. 
 
 The birch's pale-green scarf, 
 And break the web of brier and bloom 
 
 From name and epitaph. 
 
 A simple muster-roll of death. 
 Of pomp and romance shorn, 
 
 The dry, old names that common-breath 
 Has cheapened and outworn. 
 
 Yet pause by one low mound, and part 
 
 The wild vines o'er it laced. 
 And read the words, by rustic art, 
 
 Upon its head-stone traced. 
 
 Haply yon white-haired villager 
 
 Of four-score years can say, 
 What means the noble name of her 
 
 Who sleeps with common clay. 
 
 An exile from the Gascon land 
 
 Found refuge here and rest, 
 And loved of all the village band, 
 
 Its fairest and its best. 
 
 He knelt with her on Sabbath morns, 
 He worshiped through her eyes. 
 
 And on the pride that doubts and scoru:5 
 Stole in her faith's surprise. 
 
 Her simple daily life he saw 
 
 By homeliest duties tried. 
 In all things by an untaught law 
 
 Of fitness justified. 
 
 For her his rank aside he laid ; 
 
 He took the hue and tone 
 Of lowly life and toil, and made 
 
 Her simple ways his own. 
 
 Yet still, in gay and careless ease, 
 
 To harvest-field or dance 
 He brought the gentle courtesies. 
 
 The nameless grace of France. 
 
 And she who taught him love, not les? 
 
 From him she loved in turn, 
 Caught, in her sweet unconsciousness. 
 
 What love is quick to learn. 
 
 Each grew to each in pleased accord, 
 
 Nor knew the gazing town 
 If she looked upward to her lord, 
 
 Or he to her looked down. 
 
 How sweet when summer's day was o'or- 
 
 His violin's mirth and wail. 
 The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore, 
 
 The river's moonlit sail ! 
 
SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 607 
 
 Ah ! Life is brief, though love be long ; 
 
 The altar and the bier, 
 The burial hymn and bridal song. 
 
 Were both in one short year. 
 
 Her rest is quiet on the hill, 
 Beneath the locust's bloom : 
 
 Far off her lover sleeps as still 
 Within his scutcheoned tomb. 
 
 The Gascon lord, the village maid, 
 In death still clasp their hands ; 
 
 The love that levels rank and grade 
 Unites their several lands. 
 
 What matter whose the hillside grave, 
 Or whose the blazoned stone? 
 
 Forever to her western wave 
 Shall whisper blue Garonne ! 
 
 iove ! — so hallowing every soil 
 That gives thy sweet flowers room, 
 
 Wherever, nursed by ease or toil. 
 The human heart takes bloom ! 
 
 Plant of lost Eden, from the sod 
 . Of sinful earth unriven, 
 White blossom of the trees of God 
 Dropped down to us from heaven ! 
 
 This tangled waste of mound and stone 
 
 Is holy for thy sake ; 
 A sweetness which is all thy own, 
 
 Breathes out of fern and brake. 
 
 And while ancestral pride shall twine 
 The Gascon's tomb with flowers, 
 
 Fall sweetly here, song of mine, 
 With summer's bloom and showers. 
 
 And let the lines that severed seem 
 
 Unite again in thee. 
 As western wave and Gallic stream 
 
 Are mingled in one sea. 
 
 SELF-RELIANCE. 
 
 EALPH WALDO EMERSON, 
 
 1^ SUPPOSE no man can violate his nature. All the sallies of his will 
 ^ are rounded in by the law of his being, as the inequalities of Andes 
 '•C and Himalaya are insignificant in the curve of the sphere. Nor does 
 % it matter how you gauge and try him. A character is like an 
 I acrostic or Alexandrian stanza ; read it forward, backward, or across, 
 r it still spells the same thing. In this pleasing, contrite, wood-life which 
 God allows me, let me record day by day my honest thought without pros- 
 pect or retrospect, and, I cannot doubt, it will be found symmetrical, 
 though I mean it not, and see it not. My book should smell of pines, and 
 resound with the hum of insects. The swallow over my window should 
 41 
 
608 SELP-RELIANCE. 
 
 interweave that thread or straw he carries in his bill into my web also. 
 We pass for what we are. Character teaches above our wills. Men 
 imagine that they communicate their virtue or vice only by overt actions, 
 and do not see that virtue or vice emit a breath every moment. Fear 
 never but you shall be consistent in whatever variety of actions, so 
 they be each honest and natural in their hour. For if one will, 
 the actions will be harmonious, however unlike they seem. These varieties 
 are lost sight of when seen at a little distance, at a little height of thought. 
 One tendency unites them all. The voyage of the best ship is a zigzag 
 line of a hundred tacks. This is on)y microscopic criticism. See the line 
 from a sufficient distance, and it straightens itself to the average tendency. 
 Your genuine action will explain itself, and will explain your other genuine 
 actions. Your conformity explains nothing. Act singly, and what you 
 have already done singly will justify you now. Greatness always appeals 
 to the future. If I can be great enough now to do right and scorn eyes 
 I must have done so much right before as to defend me now. Be it how it 
 will, do right now. Always scorn appearances, and you always may. The 
 force of character is cumulative. All the foregone days of virtue work 
 their health into this. What makes the majesty of the heroes of the senate 
 and the field, which so fills the imagination ? The consciousness of a train 
 of great days and victories behind. There they all stand and shed a 
 united light on the advancing actor. He is attended as by a visible escort 
 of angels to every man's eye. That is it which throws thunder into 
 Chatham's voice, and dignity into Washington's port, and America into 
 Adams' eye. Honor is venerable to us, because it is no ephemeris. It is 
 always ancient virtue. We worship it to-day, because it is not of to-day. 
 We love it, and pay it homage, because it is not a trap for our love and 
 homage, but is self-dependent, self-derived, and therefore of an old, immacu- 
 late pedigree, even if shown in a young person. I hope in these days we 
 have heard the last of conformity and consistency. Let the words be 
 gazetted, and ridiculous henceforward. Instead of the gong for dinner, let 
 us hear a whistle from the Spartan fife. Let us bow and apologize never 
 more. A great man is coming to eat at my house. I do not wish to 
 please him ; I wish that he should wish to please me. I will stand here for 
 humanity, and though I would make it kind, I would make it true. Let 
 us affront and reprimand the smooth mediocrity and squalid contentment 
 of the times, and hurl in the face of custom, and trade, and office, the tact 
 which is the upshot of all history, that there is a great responsible 
 Thinker and Actor moving wherever moves a man ; that a true man belongs 
 to no other time or place, but is the centre of things. Where he is there 
 
NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 
 
 609 
 
 is nature. He measures you, and all men, and all events. You are con- 
 8tra",ned to accept his standard. Ordinarily, everybody in society reminds 
 us of somewhat else, or of some other person. Character, reality, reminds 
 you of nothing else. It takes place of the whole creation. The man 
 mucsi be so much that he must make all circumstances indifferent, — put all 
 means into the shade. This all great men are and do. Every true man 
 is a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinite spaces, and numbers, 
 and time, fully to accomplish his thought ; and posterity seems to follow 
 his steps as a procession. A man Caesar is born, and for ages after we 
 have a Roman Empire. Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow 
 and cleave to his genius, that he is confounded with virtue and the 
 possible of man. An institution is the lengthened shadow of one man ; 
 as the Reformation of Luther ; Quakerism of Fox ; Methodism of 
 Wesley ; Abolition of Clarkson. Scipio, Milton called " the height of 
 Rome ;" and all history resolves itself very easily into the biography of a 
 few stout and earnest persons. 
 
 NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 jgVEN is come; and from the dark Park, 
 hark, 
 The signal of the setting sun — one 
 
 gun! 
 And six is sounding from the chime, 
 
 prime time 
 To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane 
 slain, — 
 Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, — 
 Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made 
 
 Clade, 
 Denying to his frantic clutch much touch: — 
 Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride 
 Jour horses as no other man can span ; 
 Or -^ the small Olympic Pitt sit split 
 ijAUghing at Liston, while you quiz his 
 phiz. 
 
 Anon night comes, and with her wings brings 
 
 tnings 
 Suf^h as, with his poetic tongue, Young 
 
 The gas up-blazes with its bright white 
 
 light, 
 And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl. 
 
 growl, 
 About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal, 
 Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. 
 
 Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, 
 
 crash, 
 Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep. 
 But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, 
 And while they're going, whisper low, " No 
 
 Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads 
 
 leads, 
 And sleepers waking, grumble, — " Drat that 
 
 cat!" 
 Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls, 
 Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. 
 
 Now Bulls of Baihan, of a prize size, rise 
 
610 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 In childish dreams, and with a roar gore 
 
 poor 
 Gregory, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ; — 
 But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest- 
 
 Dreameth of one of her old flames, James 
 Games 
 
 And that she hears — what faith is man's — 
 
 Ann's banns 
 And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twici 
 
 thrice ; 
 White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out 
 That upward goes, shows Rose knows those 
 
 bows' woes ! 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 JAMES GRAHAME. 
 
 ^^:|2o , 
 
 j^l^OW still the morning of the hallowed I Calmness sits throned on yon unmovinj 
 day ! | cloud. 
 
 
 Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
 The ploughboy's whistle and the milk-maid's 
 
 song. 
 The scythe lies glittering in the dewy 
 
 wreath 
 Of tedded grass mingled with fading flowers. 
 That yestermorn bloomed, waving in the 
 
 breeze ; 
 Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the 
 
 hum 
 Of early bee, the trickling of the dew. 
 The distant bleating, midway up the hill. 
 
 To him who wanders o'er the upland leas 
 The blackbird's note comes mellower from 
 
 the dale ; 
 And sweeter from the sky the gladsome 
 
 lark 
 Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lu'nin^ 
 
 brook 
 Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn 
 
 glen ; 
 While from yon lowly roof, whose circling 
 
 smoke 
 O'er mounts the mist, is heard at intervals 
 
MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 
 
 611 
 
 The voice of psalms, the simple song of 
 
 Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks 
 
 praise. 
 With dove-like wings Peace o'er yon village 
 broods ; 
 
 on man. 
 Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set 
 free. 
 
 The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's 
 
 din 
 Hath ceased ; all, all around is quietness. 
 Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
 
 Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; 
 And as his stiff, unwieldy bulk he rolls, 
 His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning 
 ray. 
 
 MY MOTHERS BIBLE. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 IN one of the shelves in my hbraiy, surrounded by volumes of all kinds 
 on various subjects, and in various languages, stands an old book, 
 in its plain covering of brown paper, unprepossessing to the eye, and 
 apparently out of place among the more pretentious volumes that 
 stand by its side. To the eye of a stranger it has certainly 
 neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn ; its leaves 
 marred by long use ; yet, old and worn as it is, to me it is the most beauti- 
 ful and most valuable book on my shelves. No other awakens such asso- 
 ciations, or so appeals to all that is best and noblest within me. It is, 
 or rather it was, my mother's Bible — companion of her best and holiest 
 hours, source of her unspeakable joy and consolation. From it she derived 
 the principles of a truly Christian life and character. It was the light to 
 her feet, and the lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side ; and, 
 as her steps tottered in the advancing pilgrimage of life, and her eves 
 grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the well-worn 
 pages. 
 
 One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of the 
 coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed on beyond the stars and beyond 
 the morning, and entered into the rest of the eternal Sabbath — to look 
 upon the face of Him of whom the law and the prophets had spoken, and 
 whom, not having seen, she had loved. And now, no legacy is to me more 
 precious than that old Bible. Years have passed; but it stands there on 
 its shelf, eloquent as ever, witness of a beautiful life that is finished, and a 
 silent monitor to the living. In hours of trial and sorrow it says, " Be 
 not cast down, my son ; for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of 
 thy countenance and thy God." '- In moments of weakness and fear it 
 says, " Be strong, my son ; and quit yourself manfully," When some- 
 
612 
 
 BREAD ON THE WATERS. 
 
 times, from the cares and conflicts of external life, I come back to the 
 study, weary of the world and tired of men — of men that are so hard and 
 selfish, and a world that is so unfeeling — and the strings of the soul have 
 become untuned and discordant, I seem to hear that Book saying, as with 
 the well-remembered tones of a voice long silent, "Let not your heart be 
 troubled. For what is your life? It is even as a vapor." Then my 
 troubled spirit becomes calm ; and the little world, that had grown so 
 great and so formidable, sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful, I 
 am strong. 
 
 There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or open it. 
 A glance of the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of association sup- 
 ply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is otherwise ; hours in life 
 when some deeper grief has troubled the heart, some darker, heavier cloud 
 is over the spirit and over the dwelling, and when it is a comfort to take 
 down that old Bible and search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest edi- 
 tions, the original languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the 
 critical apparatus which the scholar gathers around him for the study of 
 the Scriptures, are laid aside ; and the plain old English Bible that was 
 my mother's is taken from the shelf. 
 
 BREAD ON THE WATERS. 
 
 hmA 
 
 GEORGE L. CATLIN. 
 
 ' ^'Jf^^^TER," the little fellow said, 
 ^<>J^ " Please give me a dime to buy 
 
 some bread." 
 
 , I turned to look at the ragged form, 
 
 ¥ That, in the midst of the pitiless storm, 
 j Pinched and haggard and old with 
 care, 
 In accents pleading, was standing there. 
 'Twas a little boy not twelve years old : 
 He shivered and shook in the bitter cold. 
 His eyes were red — with weeping, I fear — 
 And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear 
 E'en then. 
 
 His misery struck me dumb ; 
 'Twas a street in a crowded city slum. 
 Where an errrand of duty led ray feet 
 
 That day, through the storm and blinding 
 
 sleet. 
 "Poor little fellow !" at last I said, 
 " Have you no father?" 
 
 "No, he's dead!" 
 The answer came : " You've a mother, then ?" 
 " Yes, sir," he said, with a sob : " She's been 
 Sick for a year, and the doctor said 
 She'd never' again get up from bed." 
 " You are hungry, too !" I asked in pain. 
 As I looked at his poor, wan face again. 
 '' Hungry," he said, with a bitter groan 
 That would melt to pity a heart of stone ; 
 " I am starved ; we are all starving," he said, 
 " We haven't had a crust of bread — 
 Me, nor mother, nor baby Kate — 
 Since yesterday morning." 
 
THE BELFRY PIGEON. 
 
 613 
 
 I did not wait 
 To ask him more. " Come, come," I cried, 
 " You shall not hunger ;" and at my side 
 His poor little pattering footsteps fell 
 On my ear with a sadness I cannot tell ; 
 But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me 
 
 stop 
 Bsfore the door of a baker's shop, 
 And we entered. 
 
 " Now eat away, my boy, 
 As much as you like," I said. With joy, 
 And a soft expression of childish grace, 
 He looked up into my friendly face, 
 And sobbed, as he strove to hide a tear : 
 " Oh, if mother and baby Kate were hero !" 
 " But eat," said I, " never mind them now," 
 A thoughtml look stole over his brow, 
 And lo ! from his face the joy had fled. 
 "What! While they're starving at home I" 
 
 he said : 
 " Oh, no, sir! I'm hungry, indeed, 'tis true. 
 But I cannot eat till they've had some too." 
 
 The tears came rushing — I can't tell why — 
 To my eyes, as he spoke these words. Said I: 
 " God bless you ! Here, you brave little man, 
 
 Here, carry home all the bread you can." 
 Then I loaded him down with loaves, until 
 He could carry no more. I paid the bill ; 
 And before he could quite understand 
 Just what I was doing, into his hand 
 I slipped a bright new dollar ; then said, 
 " Good-by," and away on my journey sped. 
 
 'Twas four years ago. But one day last May, 
 As I wandered by chance through East 
 
 Broadway, 
 A cheery voice accosted me. Lo ! 
 'Twas the self-same lad of years ago, 
 Though larger grown — and his looks, in truth. 
 Bespoke a sober, industrious youth. 
 
 " Mister," he said, " I'll never forget 
 
 The kindness you showed when last we met. 
 
 I work at a trade, and mother is well, 
 
 So is baby Kate ; and I want to tell 
 
 You this — that we owe it all to you. 
 
 'Twas you — don't blush, sir — that helped us 
 
 through 
 In our darkest hour ; and we always say 
 Our luck has been better since that day 
 When you sent me home with bread to fe^d 
 Those starving ones in their hour of need." 
 
 THE BELFRY PIGEOK 
 
 N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 ^N the cross-beam under the Old South 
 bell 
 
 The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
 
 In summer and winter that bird is 
 there. 
 
 Out and in with the morning air. 
 
 I love to see him track the street, 
 With his wary eye and active feet ; 
 And I often watch him as he springs. 
 Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
 Till across the dial his shade has passed, 
 And the belfry edge is gained at last. 
 'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note, 
 And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 
 There's a human look in its swelling breast, 
 
 And the gentle curve of its lowly crest; 
 And I often stop with the fear I feel. 
 He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 
 
 Whatever is rung on that noisy bell. 
 Chime of the hour or funeral knell. 
 The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 
 When the tongue swings out to the midnight 
 
 moon. 
 When the sexton cheerily rings for noon. 
 When the clock strikes clear at morning ligh*, 
 When the child is waked with " nine at night," 
 When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air. 
 Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, 
 Whatever tale in the bell is heard. 
 
614 
 
 THE RESPONSIVE CHORD. 
 
 He broods on his folded feet, unstirred, 
 Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
 He takes the time to smooth his breast ; 
 Then drops again, with filmed eyes, 
 And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 
 
 Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
 A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
 With wings to fly to wood and glen. 
 Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
 And daily, with unwilling feet, 
 I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 
 But, unlike me, when day is o'er, 
 Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar ; 
 
 Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
 
 Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, 
 
 And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 
 
 I would that in such wings of gold, 
 
 I could my weary heart up-fold ; 
 
 I would I could look down unmoved, 
 
 (Unloving as I am unloved,) 
 
 And while the world throngs on beneath. 
 
 Smooth down my cares, and calmly breathe ; 
 
 And never sad with others' sadness. 
 
 And never glad with others' gladness, 
 
 Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime. 
 
 And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. 
 
 THE RESPONSIVE CHORD. 
 
 J. WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 ijiN' tne early spring of 1863, when the Confederate and Federal armies 
 iP were confronting each other on the opposite hills of Stafford and 
 Jk Spottsylvania, two bands chanced one evening, at the same hour, to 
 I begin to discourse sweet music on either bank of the river. A large 
 f crowd of the soldiers of both armies gathered to listen to the music, 
 1 the friendly pickets not interfering, and soon the bands began to answer 
 each other. First the band on the northern bank would play " Star 
 Spangled Banner," " Hail Columbia," or some other national air, and at 
 its conclusion the " boys in blue " would cheer most histily. And then 
 the band on the southern bank would respond with " Dixie " or " Bonnie 
 Blue Flag," or some other Southern melody, and the " boys in gray " 
 would attest their approbation with an " old Confederate yell." But pres- 
 ently one of the bands struck up, in sweet and plaintive notes which were 
 wafted across the beautiful Rappahannock, were caught up at once by the 
 other band and swelled into a grand anthem which touched every heart, 
 " Home, Sweet Home ! " At the conclusion of this piece there went up a 
 simultaneous shout from both sides of the river — cheer followed cheer, and 
 those hills, which had so recently resounded with hostile guns, echoed and 
 re-echoed the glad acclaim. A chord had been struck responsive to which 
 the hearts of enemies — enemies then — could beat in unison ; and, on both 
 sides of the river, 
 
 " Something down the soldier's cheek 
 Washed off the stains of powder." 
 
THE TRUE TEMPLE. 
 
 615 
 
 KM 
 
 ^¥¥:t^l£,'* 
 
 
 i^i^^tmf^^. 
 
 THE TRUE TEMPLE. 
 
 «|k|OT where high towers rear 
 
 Their lofty heads above some costly 
 '^' fane, 
 
 Doth God our Heavenly Father on- 
 ly deign 
 Our humble prayers to hear, — ■ 
 
 Not where the lapsing hours 
 The cankering footprints of the spoiler, time, 
 Are idly noted with a sounding chime, 
 
 From proud cathedral towers ; 
 
 Not where the chiseled stone. 
 And shadowy niche, and shaft and architrave, 
 The dim old chancel, or the solemn nave 
 
 Seem vast and chill and lone : 
 
 Not 'neath the vaulted dome, 
 Or fretted roof, magnificently flung, 
 O'er cushioned seats, or curtained desks oVm- 
 hung 
 
 With rare work of the loom ; 
 
 Not where the sunlight falls 
 From the stained oriel with a chastened shade. 
 O'er sculptured tombs where mighty ones aro 
 laid, 
 
 Till the last trumpet calb ; 
 
 Not where rich music floats 
 Through the hushed air until the soul isstirred, 
 As 't were a chord from that bright land as 
 heard 
 
 When angels swell the notes. 
 
616 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY. 
 
 Perchance 'tis well to raise 
 These palace temples, thus rich wrought, to 
 
 Him 
 Who 'midst His thousand thousand cherubims 
 
 Can stoop to list our praise. 
 
 Yet when our spirits bow 
 And sue for mercy at His sacred shrine, 
 Can all the trappings of the teeming mine 
 
 Light up the darkened brow ? 
 
 no I — God may be there — 
 His smile may on such costly altars rest ; 
 
 Yet are His humbler sanctuaries blest 
 With equal love and care. 
 
 Aye, wheresoe'er on earth 
 Or on the shore or on tlie far blue sea 
 His children, offspring of the true, may be, 
 
 There hath his spirit birth. 
 
 Our sins may be forgiven. 
 As, weak and few, our prayers go up to God ; 
 E'en though our temple floor be earth's green 
 sod. 
 
 Its roof the vault of heaven. 
 
 THE DRUMMER BOY. 
 
 AN INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. 
 
 LiPTAIN Graham, the 
 
 men wei 
 
 saym 
 Ye would want a drummer lad, 
 So I've brought my boy Sandie. 
 
 Tho' my heart is woful sad ; 
 But nae bread is left to feed us, 
 
 And no siller to buy more, 
 For the gudeman sleeps forever. 
 Where the heather blossoms o'er. 
 
 " Sandie, make your manners quickly, 
 
 Play your blithest measure true — 
 Give us ' Flowers of Edinboro',' 
 
 While yon fifer plays it too. 
 Captain, heard ye e'er a player 
 
 Strike in truer time than he?" 
 " Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray 
 
 Drummer of our corps shall be." 
 
 " I give ye thanks— but. Captain, maybe 
 
 Ye will hae a kindly care 
 For the friendless, lonely laddie, 
 
 When the battle wark is sair ■ 
 For Sandie's aye been good and gentle, 
 
 And I've nothing else to love. 
 Nothing— but the grave off yonder, 
 
 And the Father up above." 
 
 Then her rough hand gently laying 
 On the curl-encircled head. 
 
 She blest her boy. The tent was silent, 
 And not another word was said ; 
 
 For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming 
 Of a benison, long ago, 
 
 Breathed above his head, then golden. 
 Bending now, and touched with snow. 
 
 "Good-bye, Sandie" "Good-bye, mother, 
 
 I'll come back some summer day ; 
 Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers 
 
 Ever. Do they, Captain Gra — ? 
 One more kiss — watch forme, mother. 
 
 You will know 'tis surely me 
 Coming home — for you will hear me 
 
 Playing soft the reveille." 
 
 After battle. Moonbeams ghastly 
 
 Seemed to link in strange affright. 
 As the scudding clouds before them 
 
 Shadowed faces dead and white ; 
 And the night wind softly whispered, 
 
 When low moans its light wing bore — 
 Moans that ferried spirits over 
 
 Death's dark wave to yonder shore. 
 
 Wandering where a footstep careless 
 Might go splashing down in blood. 
 
 Or a helpless hand lie grasping 
 Death and daisies from the sod — 
 
THE BALLOT-BOX. 
 
 G17 
 
 Captain Graham walked swift onward, 
 While a faintly-beaten drum 
 
 Quickened heart and step together • 
 " Sandie Murray ! See, I come! 
 
 " Is it thus I find you, laddie ? 
 
 Wounded, lonely, lying here, 
 Playing thus the reveille ? 
 
 See — the morning is not near." 
 A moment paused the drummer boy. 
 
 And lifted up his drooping head : 
 
 " Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 
 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. 
 
 " Morning ! See, the plains grow brighter — 
 
 Morning — and I'm going home ; 
 That is why I play the measure, 
 
 Mother will not see me come; 
 But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain — " 
 
 Hush, the boy has spoken true ; 
 To him the day has dawned forever. 
 
 Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 
 
 THE BALLOT-BOX. 
 
 E. II. CHAPIN. 
 
 f^^ AM aware that the ballot-box is not everywhere a consistent symbol ; 
 fiJs but to a large degree it is so. I know what miserable associations 
 cluster around this instrument of popular power. I know that the 
 arena in which it stands is trodden into mire by the feet of reckless 
 ¥ ambition and selfish greed. The wire-pulling and the bribing, the 
 ^ pitiful truckling and the grotesque compromises, the exaggeration and 
 the detraction, the melo-dramatic issues and the sham patriotism, the party 
 watchwords and the party nicknames, the schemes of the few paraded as 
 the will of the many, the elevation of men whose only worth is in the votes 
 they command, — vile men, whose hands you would not grasp in friendship, 
 whose presence you would not tolerate by your fireside — incompetent men, 
 whose fitness is not in their capacity as functionaries, or legislators, but as 
 organ pipes ; — the snatching at the slices and ofial of office, the intemper- 
 ance and the violence, the finesse and the falsehood, the gin and the glory ; 
 these are indeed but too closely identified with that political agitation 
 which circles around the ballot box. 
 
 But, after all, they are not essential to it. They are only the masks 
 of a genuine grandeur and importance. For it is a grand thing, — some- 
 thing which involves profound doctrines of right, — something which has 
 cost ages of effort and sacrifice, — it is a grand thing that here, at last, 
 each voter has just the weight of one man; no more, no less; and the 
 weakest, by virtue of his recognized manhood, is as strong as the mightiest. 
 And consider, for a moment, what it is to cast a vote. It is the token o) 
 inestimable privileges, and involves the responsibilities of an hereditary 
 trust. It has passed into your hands as a right, reaped from fields of suf- 
 
618 
 
 THE REVEILLE. 
 
 fering and blood. The grandeur of history is represented in your act. 
 Men have wrought with pen and tongue, and pined in dungeons, and died 
 on scaffolds, that you might obtain this symbol of freedom, and enjoy this 
 consciousness of a sacred individuality. To the ballot have been trans- 
 mitted, as it were, the dignity of the sceptre and the potency of the 
 sword. 
 
 And that which is so potent as a right, is also pregnant as a duty ; 
 a duty for the present and for the future. If you will, that folded leaf 
 becomes a tongue of justice, a voice of order, a force of imperial law; 
 securing rights, abolishing abuses, erecting new institutions of truth and 
 love. And, however you will, it is the expression of a solemn responsibil- 
 ity, the exercise of an immeasurable power for good or for evil, now and 
 hereafter. It is the medium through which you act upon your country, — 
 the organic nerve which incorporates you with its life and welfare. There 
 is no agent with which the possibilities of the republic are more intimately 
 involved, none upon v/hich we can fall back with more confidence than the 
 ballot-box. 
 
 THE REVEILLE. 
 
 T. B. HART. 
 
 ^ARK ! I hear the tramp of thousands, 
 ill And of armed men the hum — 
 Lo ! a nation's hosts have gathered 
 r Round the quick alarming drum, 
 
 Saying, " Come, 
 Freemen, come. 
 Ere your heritage be wasted !" said the quick 
 alarming drum. 
 
 " Let me of my heart take counsel — 
 
 War is not of Life the sum ; 
 Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
 
 When the autumn days shall come ?" 
 But the drum 
 Echoed, "Come! 
 Death shall reap the braver harvest !" said 
 the solemn-sounding drum. 
 
 " But when won the coming battle, 
 What of profit springs therefrom ? 
 
 What if conquest, subjugation, 
 Even greater ills become ?" 
 
 But the drum 
 Answered, "Come! 
 You must do the sum to prove it !" said the 
 Yankee-answering drum. 
 
 What if, 'mid the cannon's thunder. 
 
 Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 
 When my brethren fall around me, 
 
 Should my heart grow cold and numb ?" 
 But the drum 
 Answered, " Come ! 
 Better there in death united than in life a 
 recreant — come !" 
 
 Thus they answered— hoping, fearing— 
 Some in faith, and doubting some- 
 Till a trumpet-voice, proclaiming, 
 
 Said, " My chosen people, come I" 
 Then the drum, 
 Lo ! was dumb, 
 For the great heart of the nation, throbbing 
 answered, " Lord we come I" 
 
LABOR IS WORSHIP. 
 
 619 
 
 SEVEN TIMES TWO. 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 OP^OU bells in the steeple, ring, ring out | " Turn again, turn again," once they rang 
 
 cheerily 
 While a boy listened alone : 
 Made his heart yearn again, musing so 
 wearily 
 All by himself on a stone. 
 
 Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days 
 are over, 
 
 No magical sense conveys, , And mine, they are yet to be ; 
 
 And bells have forgotten their old art of j No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught 
 telling discover : 
 
 The fortune of future days. I You leave the story to me. 
 
 your 
 ;a^^ How many soever they be, 
 ¥^ And let the brown meadow-lark's 
 
 '^ note as he ranges 
 
 \ Come over, come over to me. 
 
 Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swell- 
 
 LABOR IS WORSHIP. 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 ||AUSE not to dream of the future be- i From the rough sod blows the soft-breathinc 
 
 flower ; 
 
 From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; 
 Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from 
 his part. 
 
 ^■^^ fore us 
 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that 
 
 (|'% come o'er us 
 
 f Hark, how Creation's deep, musical 
 
 'I chorus, 
 
 ■j Uniutermitting, goes up into 
 
 heaven ! 
 Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; 
 Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 
 More and more richly the rose-heart 
 keeps glowing. 
 Till from its nourishing stem it i^ 
 riven. 
 
 " Labor is worship !" — the robin is sing- 
 
 " Labor is worship !" — the wild bee is 
 
 ringing ; 
 Listen ! that eloquent whisper upspring- 
 
 ing 
 Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great ; Labor is life ! 'Tis the still water faileth ; 
 
 heart. I Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
 
 From the dark cloud flows the life-giving ; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust as 
 
 shower ; saileth ; 
 
620 
 
 LABOR IS WORSHIP. 
 
 Flowers droop and die in the stillness of 
 noon. 
 Labor is glory !— the flying cloud lightens ; 
 Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
 Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; 
 Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep 
 them in tune. 
 
 Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us. 
 Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, 
 
 How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride 
 
 sweeping, 
 True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides 
 Labor is wealth ! In the st-a the pearl grow- 
 
 eth; 
 Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon 
 
 floweth ; 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest blow 
 
 eth; 
 Temple and statue the marble block 
 
 hides. 
 
 
 Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. 
 Work— and pure slumbers shall wait on thy 
 
 pillow ; 
 Work — thou shalt riile over Care's coming 
 
 billow ; 
 Lie not down v.'caried 'neath Woe's weeping- 
 willow ; 
 Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! 
 
 Labor is health ! Lo, the husbandman reaping, 
 How through his veins goes the life current 
 leaping ! 
 
 Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish 
 
 are round thee ; 
 Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath 
 
 bound thee ; 
 Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; 
 Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. 
 Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
 Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
 Labor! all labor is noble and holy ; 
 
 Let thy great deeds be thy j)rayer to thy 
 
 God. 
 
THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER. 621 
 
 THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 |l^ ROSE and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of 
 III steps which leads into the body of the building, my eye was caught 
 ^ by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the small 
 ^^ staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of 
 I this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of 
 1 platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and 
 queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and 
 funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ; 
 where warriors, prelates, courtiers and statesmen, lie mouldering in their 
 beds of darkness. Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, 
 rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. 
 The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce 
 an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end 
 of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from the 
 throne to the sepulchre. "Would not one think that these incongruous 
 mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness ? — 
 to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and 
 dishonor to which it must soon arrive, how soon that crown which encircles 
 its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of 
 the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. 
 The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the 
 painted windows in the high vaults above me; the lower parts of the 
 abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels 
 and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into 
 shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in 
 the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the 
 cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, trav- 
 ersing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
 I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portals of 
 the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the 
 whole building with echoes. 
 
 I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I 
 had been contemplating, but found they were already fallen into indistinct- 
 ness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become con- 
 founded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from ofif 
 the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but 
 
622 
 
 THE LOST CHURCH. 
 
 a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the empti- 
 ness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, the empire 
 of death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the 
 relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monu- 
 ments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a 
 name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too much 
 engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the characters and anec- 
 dotes that gave interest to the past, and each age is a volume thrown aside 
 to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday 
 out of our recollection ; and will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor 
 to-morrow. '' Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, " find their graves 
 in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our sur- 
 vivors." History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and 
 controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tablet ; the statue falls from 
 the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand ; 
 and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is the 
 security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains 
 of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty 
 sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian 
 mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; 
 Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 
 
 What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from 
 sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must come when its 
 gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the 
 feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall 
 whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the scattered 
 tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions 
 of death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove 
 hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. 
 Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from record and recollection ; 
 his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. 
 
 THE LOST CHURCIL 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN OF J. L. UHLAND. 
 
 riN yon dense wood full oft a bell 
 
 Is heard o'erhead in pealings hollow 
 f»? Yet whence it comes can no one tell, 
 W Nor scarce its dark tradition follow. 
 For winds the chimes are wafting o'er, 
 
 Of the lost church in mystery shrouded 
 The pathway, too, is known no more, 
 That once the pious pilgrims cro'vded. 
 
 I lately in that wood did stray. 
 
CLEAR THE WAY. 
 
 623 
 
 Where not a footworn path extended, 
 And from corruptions of the day 
 
 My inmost soul to God ascended ; 
 And in the silent, wild repose 
 
 I heard that ringing deeper, clearer ; 
 The higher my aspirings rose. 
 
 The sound descended fuller, nearer. 
 
 That sound my senses so entranced. 
 
 My soul grew so retired and lowly, 
 I ne'er could tell how it had chanced 
 
 That I had reached a state so holy. 
 A century, it seemed to me, 
 
 Or more, had passed while I was dreaming. 
 When I a radiant place could see 
 
 Above the mists, with sunlight streaming. 
 
 The heavens a deep, dark blue appeared, 
 
 The sun's fierce light and heat were flow- 
 ing. 
 And in the golden light upreared, 
 
 A proud cathedral pile was glowing. 
 It seemed to me the clouds so bright. 
 
 As if on wings, that pile was raising, 
 Until its spires were lost to sight 
 
 Within the blessed heavens blazing. 
 
 And lo ! that sweet bell's music broke 
 
 In quivering streams from out ihe tower ; 
 
 No mortal hand its tones awoke — 
 That bell was rung by holy power. 
 
 And through my beating heart, too, swept 
 That power in full and perfect measure ; 
 
 And then in that high dome I stepped 
 With faltering feet and tim'rous pleasure. 
 
 Yet can I not in words make known 
 
 What then I felt. On windows painted, 
 And darkly clear, around me shown. 
 
 Were pious scenes of martyrs sainted. 
 Thus wondrous clear mine eyes before, 
 
 Did they of life a picture show me ; 
 And out into a world I saw, 
 
 Of women and God's warriors holy. 
 
 I knelt before the altar there — 
 
 Devotion, love, all through me stealing — 
 And all the Heaven's glory fair 
 
 Was o'er me painted on the ceiling ; 
 And lo ! when next I upward gazed, 
 
 The dome's vast arch had burst, and — 
 wonder ! — 
 The Heaven's gate wide open blazed. 
 
 And every veil was rent asunder! 
 
 What glories on mine eyes did fall 
 
 While thus in reverent awe still kneeling, 
 What holier sounds I heard than all 
 
 Of trumpet blast or organ pealing, 
 No words possess the power to tell ! 
 
 Who truly would such bliss be feeling. 
 Go listen to the wondrous bell 
 
 That, weird-like, through the wood is peal- 
 ing. 
 
 CLEAR THE WAY. 
 
 CHARLES MACKAY 
 
 _^5. 
 
 rif'lr EN of thought, be up and stirring 
 night and day : 
 Sow the seed — withdraw the cur- 
 
 y^^\i^^ tain — clear the way ! 
 
 ^ Men of action, aid and cheer them, 
 I as ye may ! 
 
 i There's a fount about to stream. 
 
 There's a light about to beam. 
 There's a warmth about to glow. 
 There's a flower about to blow ; 
 42 
 
 There's a midnight blackness changing into 
 
 gi-ay. 
 Men of thought and men of action, clear 
 
 the way ! 
 
 Once the welcome light has broken, who 
 
 shall say 
 What the uuimagined glories of the day ? 
 What the evil that shall perish in its ray ? 
 Aid the dawning, tongue and pen ; 
 
624 
 
 THE NOBLE REVENGE. 
 
 Aid it, hopes of honest men, 
 Aid it, paper ; aid it, type ; 
 Aid it, for the hour is ripe. 
 And our earnest must not slacken into 
 
 play. 
 Men of thought and men of action, clear the 
 way ! 
 
 Lo ! a cloud's about to vanish from the 
 
 day; 
 And a brazen wrong to crumble into clay. 
 
 Lo ! the right's about to conquer; clear th-; 
 way! 
 
 With the right shall many more 
 Enter smiling at the door : 
 With the giant wrong shall fall 
 Many others, great and small. 
 That for ages long have held us for their 
 
 prey. 
 Men of thought and men of action, clear the 
 way ! 
 
 THE NOBLE REVENGE. 
 
 iMiHE coffin was a plain one — a poor miserable pine coffin. 
 ^1^ on the top ; no lining of white satin for the pale brow ; 
 
 2 
 
 No flowers 
 no smooth 
 ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid de- 
 cently back, but there was no crimped cap with neat tie beneath 
 the chin. The sufferer from cruel poverty smiled in her sleep ; 
 she had found bread, rest, and health. 
 " I want to see my mother," sobbed a poor little child, as the under- 
 taker screwed down the top. 
 
 " You cannot ; get out of the way, boy ; why don't somebody take 
 the brat ? " 
 
 " Only let me see her one minute ! " cried the helpless orphan, clutch- 
 ing the side of the charity box, and as he gazed upon the rough box, 
 agonized tears streamed down the cheeks on which no childish bloom ever 
 lingered. Oh ! it was painful to hear him cry the words, " Only once, let 
 me see my mother, only once ! " 
 
 Quickly and brutally the heartless monster struck the boy away, so 
 that he reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting with 
 grief and rage — his blue eyes distended, his lips sprang apart, fire glittered 
 through his eyes as he raised his little arm with a most unchildish laugh, 
 and screamed, "When I am a man, I'll be revenged for that ! " 
 
 There was a coffin and a heap of earth between the mother and the 
 poor forsaken child — a monument much stronger than granite built in the 
 boy's heart the memory of the heartless deed. 
 
 The court-house was crowded to suffocation. 
 
 " Does any one appear as this man's counsel ? " asked the Judge. 
 
TWO VIEWS. 
 
 625 
 
 There was a silence when he had finished, until, with lips tightly 
 pressed together, a look of strange intelligence blended with a haughty re- 
 serve upon his handsome features, a young man stepped forward with a firm 
 tread and kindly eye to plead for the erring friendless. He was a stranger, 
 but at the first sentence there was silence. The splendor of his genius 
 entranced — convinced. 
 
 The man who could not find a friend was acquitted. 
 
 " May God bless you, sir ; I cannot," he said. 
 
 " I want no thanks," replied the stranger. 
 
 " I — I — I believe you are unknown to me." 
 
 " Man, I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago, this day, you 
 struck a broken-hearted little boy away from his dear mother's coffin. I 
 was' that boy." 
 
 The man turned livid. 
 
 " Have you rescued rae then, to take my life ? " 
 
 "No, I have a sweeter revenge. I have saved the life of a man whose 
 brutal conduct has rankled in my breast for the last twenty years. Go 
 then, and remember the tears of a friendless child." 
 
 The man bowed his head in shame, and went from the presence oi 
 magnanimit}'' as grand to him as it was incomprehensible. 
 
 TWO VIEWS. 
 
 ^ old farm-house with meadows wide, 
 And sweet with clover on each side ; 
 A blight-eyed boy who looks from out 
 1 The door with woodbine wreathed about, 
 i And wishes his one thought all day : 
 « " Oh ! if I could but fly away 
 From this dull spot the world to see, 
 How very happy I should be ! " 
 
 Amid the city's constant din, 
 A man who round the world has been, 
 Who, 'mid the tumult and the throng 
 Is thinking, thinking all day long ; 
 " Oh could I only tread once more 
 The field-path to the farm house door, 
 The old green-meadow could I see, 
 How very happy I should be ! " 
 
626 
 
 THE LULL OF ETERNITY. 
 
 THE LULL OF ETERNITY. 
 
 FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL. 
 
 jr|¥pANY a voice has echoed the cry for 
 ^^^ " a lull in life," 
 
 ^^ Fainting under the noontide, faint- 
 ing under the strife. 
 Is it the wisest longing? Is it the 
 .f truest gain ? 
 
 J Is not the Master withholding pos- 
 
 sible loss and pain ? 
 
 Perhaps if He sent the lull, we might fail of 
 our heart's desire ! 
 
 Swift and sharp the concussion, striking out 
 living fire ; 
 
 Nightly and long the friction resulting in 
 living glow, 
 
 Heat that is force of the spirit, energy fruit- 
 ful in flow. 
 
 What if the blast should falter ? What if 
 
 the fire be stilled ? 
 What if the molten metal cool ere the mould 
 
 be filled ? 
 What if the hands hang down when a work 
 
 is almost done ? 
 What if the sword be dropped when a battle 
 won? 
 
 Past many an unseen maelstrom the strong 
 wind drives the skiff, 
 
 When a lull might drift it onward to fatal 
 swirl or cliff. 
 
 Faithful the guide who spurreth, sternly for- 
 bidding repose, 
 
 When treacherous slumber lureth to pause 
 amid Alpine snows. 
 
 The lull of Time may be darkness, falling in 
 
 lonely night, 
 But the lull of eternity neareth, rising in full, 
 
 calm light : 
 The earthly lull may be silence, desolate, 
 
 deep and cold, 
 But the heavenly lull shall be music, sweeter 
 
 a thousand fold. 
 
 Here it is "calling apart," and the place may 
 
 be desert indeed. 
 Leaving and losing the blessings linked with 
 
 our busy need. 
 There ! why should I say it ? hath not the 
 
 heart leaped up, 
 Swift and glad, to the contrast, filling the full, 
 
 full cup ! 
 
 Still shall the key-word, ringing, echo the 
 
 same sweet " Come !" 
 " Come " with the blessed myriads, safe in the 
 
 Father's home ; 
 " Come," for the work is over; " Come," for 
 
 the feast is spread ; 
 " Come," for the crown of glory waits for the 
 
 weary head. 
 
 When the rest of faith is ended, and the rest 
 
 of hope is past. 
 The rest of love remaineth. Sabbath of life, 
 
 at last. 
 No more fleeting hours, hurrying down the 
 
 day, 
 But golden stillness of glory, never to pass 
 
 away. 
 
 Time, with its pressure of moments, mocking 
 us as they fell. 
 
 With relentless beat of a footstep, hour by 
 hour, the knell 
 
 Of a hope or an aspiration, then shall have 
 passed away, 
 
 Leaving a grand, calm leisure, leisure of end- 
 less day. 
 
 Leisure that cannot be dimmed by the touch 
 of time or place ; 
 
 Finding its counterpart measure only in in- 
 finite space ; 
 
 Full, and yet ever filling ; leisure without 
 alloy, 
 
 Eternity's seal on the lim'tless charter of 
 heavenly joy. 
 
FORMATION OF ICEBERGS. 
 
 627 
 
 Leisure to fathom the fathomless, leisure to 
 
 seek and to know 
 Marvels and secrets and glories Eternity 
 
 only can show . 
 Leisure of holiest gladness, leisure of holiest 
 
 love, 
 Leisure to drink from the fountain of infinite 
 
 peace above. 
 
 Art thou patiently toiling, waiting the Jilas- 
 
 ter's will. 
 For a rest that seems never nearer, a hush 
 
 that is far off still ? 
 
 Does it seem that the noisy city never will 
 
 let thee hear 
 The sound of His gentle footsteps, drawing, 
 
 it may be, near ? 
 
 Does it seem that the blinding dazzle of noon- 
 day glare and heat 
 
 Is a fiery veil between thy heart and visions 
 high and sweet? 
 
 What though a lull in life may never be 
 made for thee ? 
 
 Soon shall a "better thing" be thine, the 
 Lull of Eternity. 
 
 FORMATION OF ICEBERGS. 
 
 ELISHA KENT KANE. 
 
 j^T an island known in the Esquimaux tongue as Ekarasak, there lived 
 a deputy assistant of the Eoyal Greenland Company, a worthy 
 man by the name of Grundeitz. It seems that the deep water of 
 Omenaks Fiord is resorted to for halibut fishing, an operation which 
 is carried on at the base of the cliffs, with very long lines of whale- 
 While Mr. Grundeitz, in a jolly-boat belonging to the company. 
 
 was fishin 
 
 gup 
 
 the fiord, his 
 
 attention was called to a large number of 
 bearded seals, who were 
 sporting about beneath 
 one of the glaciers that 
 protruded into the bay. 
 While approaching for 
 the purpose .of a shot, 
 he heard a strange 
 sound, repeated at in- 
 tervals like the ticking 
 of a clock, and appar- 
 ently proceeding from 
 the body of the ice. 
 At the same time the 
 seal, which the moment 
 before had been per- 
 fectly unconcerned, dis- 
 appeared entirely, and his Esquimaux attendants, probably admonished by 
 
C28 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 previous experience, insisted upon removing the boat to a greater distance. 
 It was well they did so ; for, gazing at the white face of the glacier at the 
 distance of about a mile, a loud explosive detonation, like the crack of a 
 whip vastly exaggerated, reached their ears, and at the same instant, with 
 reverberations like near thunder, a great mass fell into the sea, obscuring 
 everything in a cloud of foam and mist. 
 
 The undulations which radiated from this great centre of displace- 
 ment were fearful. Fortunately for Mr. Grundeitz, floating bodies do not 
 change their position very readily under the action of propagated waves, 
 and the boat, in consequence, remained outside the grinding fragments ; 
 but the commotion was intense, and the rapid succession of huge swells 
 such as to make the preservation of the little party almost miraculous. 
 
 The detached mass slowly adjusted itself after some minutes, but it 
 was nearly an hour before it attained its equilibrium. It then floated on 
 the sea, an iceberg. 
 
 HOME, SWEEI HOME. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 
 
 ID pleasures and palaces though we 
 ^1^^^ may roam, 
 
 "flfe^'^f Be it ever so humble there's no 
 )T place like home ! 
 
 A charm from the skies seems to 
 hallow us here 
 Which, seek through the world is ne'er 
 met with elsewhere 
 Home ! home, sweet home ! 
 There's no place like home ! 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 
 
 vain ! 
 0, give me my lowly thatched cottage 
 
 again ! 
 The birds singing gayly that came to my 
 
 call; 
 0, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than 
 
 all! 
 Home! home, sweet home! 
 There's no place like home ! 
 
OUR LAMBS. 
 
 629 
 
 OUR LAMBS. 
 
 pli LOVED them so, 
 
 Ul Thatwhen the Elder Shepherd of the fold 
 f^? Came, covered with the storm and pale 
 # and cold, 
 
 !* And begged for one of my sweet lambs 
 to hold, 
 I bade Ilim go. 
 
 He claimed the pet, 
 A little fondling thing, that to my breast 
 Clung always, either in quiet or unrest — • 
 I thought of all my lambs I loved him best, 
 
 And yet— and yet — 
 
 I laid him down 
 In those white shrouded arms, with bitter 
 
 tears ; 
 For some voice told me that, in after years. 
 He should know naught of passion, grief or 
 fears. 
 
 As I had known. 
 
 And yet again 
 That Elder Shepherd came. — My heart grew 
 
 faint. 
 He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint, 
 Another ! She, who gentle as a saint. 
 
 Ne'er gave me pain. 
 
 Aghast, I turned away, 
 There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, 
 Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam. 
 Her holy eyes, with heaven in their beam. 
 
 I knelt to pray. 
 
 '" Is it Thy will ? 
 My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given? 
 Oh! Thou hast many such in heaven." 
 And a soft voice said ; " Nobly hast thou 
 striven, 
 
 But — peace, be still." 
 
 Oh how I wept. 
 And clasped her to my bosom, with a wild 
 And yearning love — my lamb, mv pleasant 
 
 child. 
 Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled, 
 
 And slept. 
 
 ' Go ! go!" I cried: 
 For once again that Shepherd laid his hand 
 Upon the noblest of our household band. 
 Like a pale spectre, there he took his stand. 
 Close to his side. 
 
 And yet how wondrous sweet 
 I The look with which he heard my passionate 
 I cry: 
 
 " Touch not my lamb ; for him, oh ! let me 
 I die!" 
 
 " A little while," he said, with smile and sigh, 
 " Again to meet." 
 
 Hopeless I fell ; 
 And when I rose, the light had burned so low, 
 So faint, I could not see my darling go : 
 He had not bidden me farewell, but, oh ! 
 
 I felt farewell. 
 
 More deeply far 
 Than if my arms had compassed that slight 
 
 frame, 
 Though could I but have heard him call my 
 
 name — 
 " Dear Mother !" — but in heaven 'twill be the 
 same. 
 
 There burns my star ! 
 
 He will not take 
 Another lamb, I thought, for only one 
 Of the dear fold is spared to be my sun. 
 My guide, my mourner when this life is i^lone. 
 
 My heart would break. 
 
 Oh ! with what thrill 
 I heard him enter : but I did not know 
 (For it was dark) that he had robbed me so. 
 The idol of ray soul — he could not go. 
 
 Heart ! be still I 
 
 Came morning, can I tell 
 How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant 
 
 kept? 
 For waking, tears were mine ; I, sleeping, 
 
 wept. 
 And days, months, years, that weary vigil 
 kept. 
 Alas ! " Farewell." 
 
630 
 
 THE CLOCKWORK OF THE SKIES. 
 
 How often it is said ! 
 
 Ay ! it is well. 
 
 I sit and think, and wonder too, some time, 
 
 Well with my lambs, and with their earthly 
 
 How ,it will seem, when, in that happier clime 
 
 guide. 
 
 It never will ring out like funeral chime 
 
 There, pleasant rivers wander they beside, 
 
 Over the dead. 
 
 Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide, 
 
 
 Ay ! it is well. 
 
 No tears ! no tears ! 
 
 
 Will there a day come that I shall not weep ? 
 
 Through the dreary day 
 
 For I bedew my pillow in my sleep. 
 
 They often come from glorious light to me ; 
 
 Yes, yes ; thank God ! no grief that cUme 
 
 I cannot feel their touch, their faces see. 
 
 shall keep. 
 
 Yet my soul whispers, they do come to me. 
 
 No weary years. 
 
 Heaven is not far away. 
 
 THE CLOCKWORK OF THE SKIES. 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 ;E derive from the observations of tlie heavenly bodies which are 
 made at an observatory our only adequate measures of time, and 
 our only means of comparing the time of one place with the time 
 of another. Our artificial timekeepers, — clocks, watches, and 
 cbronometers, — however ingeniously contrived and admirably fa- 
 bricated, are but a transcript, so to say, of the celestial motions, 
 and would be of no value without the means of regulating them by obser- 
 vation. It is impossible for them, under any circumstances, to escape the 
 imperfection of all machinery, the work of human hands ; and the moment 
 we remove with our timekeeper east or west, it fails us. It will keep 
 home-time alone, like the fond traveler who leaves his heart behind him. 
 The artificial instrument is of incalculable utility, but must itself be regu- 
 lated by the eternal clockwork of the skies. 
 
 This single consideration is suificient to show how completely the daily 
 business of life is affected and controlled by the heavenly bodies. It is they 
 and not our main-springs, our expansion-balances, and our compensation- 
 pendulums, which give us our time. To reverse the line of Pope, — 
 
 'Tis with our watches and our judgments : none 
 Go just alike, but each believes his own. 
 
 But for all the kindreds and tribes and tongues of men, — each upon their 
 own meridian, — from the Arctic pole to the equator, from the equator to 
 the Antarctic pole, the eternal sun strikes twelve at noon, and the glorious 
 constellacions, far up in the everlasting belfries of the skies, chime twelve 
 
LADY CLARE. 
 
 631 
 
 at midnight — twelve for the pale student over his flickering lamp — twelve 
 amid the flaming wonders of Orion's belt, if he crosses the meridian at 
 that fated hour — twelve by the weary couch of languishing humanity, 
 twelve in the star-paved courts of the Empyrean — twelve for the heaving 
 tides of the ocean ; twelve for the weary arm of labor ; twelve for the toil- 
 ing brain ; twelve for the watching, waking, broken heart ; twelve for the 
 meteor which blazes for a moment and expires ; twelve for the comet whose 
 period is measured by centuries ; twelve for every substantial, for every 
 imaginary thing, which exists in the sense, the intellect, or the fancy, and 
 which to speech or thought of man, at the given meridian, refers to the 
 lapse of time. 
 
 LADY CLARE. 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 ^T was the time 
 p when lilies 
 blow, 
 
 And clouds 
 are highest 
 up in air, 
 Lord Ronald 
 brought a 
 lily-white doe. 
 
 To give his cousin, 
 Lady Clare. 
 
 I trow they did not 
 part in scorn ; 
 Lovers long betroth- 
 ed were they ; 
 They two will wed the 
 morrow morn ; 
 God's blessing on the 
 day! 
 
 " He does not love me for my birth, 
 Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 
 
 He loves me for my own true worth. 
 And that is well," said Lady Clare. 
 
 In there came old Alice, the nurse. 
 
 Said, " Who was this that went from thee?" 
 
 " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
 " To-morrow he weds with me." 
 
 "Oh, God be thank 'd," said Alice the nurse, 
 " That all comes round so just and fair, 
 
 Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
 And you are not the Lady Clare." 
 
 " Are you out of your mind, my nurse, my 
 nurse?" 
 
 Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?" 
 " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
 
 " I speak the truth ; you are my child. 
 
 "The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 
 
 I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
 I buried her like my own sweet child, 
 
 And put my child in her stead." 
 
 " Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
 
 Oh mother," she said ; " if this be true. 
 
 To keep the best man under the sun 
 So many years from his due." 
 
 "Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
 " But keep the secret for your life. 
 
 And all you have will be Lord Ronald's 
 When you are man and wife." 
 
632 
 
 CRIME SELF-REVEALED. 
 
 " If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
 " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 
 
 Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold. 
 And fling the diamond necklace by." 
 
 '! Nay, now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
 " But keep the secret all you can." 
 
 She said, " Not so ; but I will know 
 If there be any faith in man." 
 
 " Nay, now, what faith ?" said Alice the 
 nurse, 
 
 " The man will cleave unto his right." 
 "And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
 
 " Though I should die to-night." 
 
 " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 
 
 Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." 
 " Oh, mother, mother, mother," she said, 
 
 " So strange it seems to me. 
 
 " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. 
 
 My mother dear, if this be so, 
 And lay your hand upon my head, 
 
 And bless me, mother, ere I go." 
 
 She clad herself in a russet gown, 
 She was no longer Lady Clare : 
 
 She went by dale, and she went by down. 
 With a single rose in her hair. 
 
 The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 
 Leapt up from where she lay, 
 
 Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 
 And follow'd her all the way. 
 
 Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower ; 
 
 " Oh, Lady Clare you shame your worth 1 
 Why come you drest like a village-maid, 
 
 That are the flower of the earth ?" 
 
 " If I come drest like a village-maid, 
 
 I am but as my fortunes are : 
 I am a beggar-born," she said, 
 
 " And not the Lady Clare." 
 
 "Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
 " For I am yours in word and in deed, 
 
 Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
 " Your riddle is hard to read." 
 
 Oh and proudly stood she up ! 
 
 Her heart within her did not fail ; 
 She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 
 
 And told him all her nurse's tale. 
 
 He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; 
 
 He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood : 
 " If you are not the heiress born. 
 
 And I," said he, " the next in blood — 
 
 " If you are not the heiress born. 
 And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 
 
 We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
 And you shall still be Lady Clare." 
 
 CRIME SELF-REVEALED. 
 
 DANIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 ^GAINST the prisoner at the bar, as an individual, I cannot have the 
 slightest prejudice. I would not do him the smallest injury or in- 
 justice. But I do not affect to be indifferent to the discovery and 
 the punishment of this deep guilt. I cheerfully share in the oppro- 
 brium, how much soever it may be, which is cast on those who 
 feel and manifest an anxious concern that all who had a part in planning^ 
 or a hand in executing, this deed of midnight assassination, may be brought 
 to answer for their enormous crime at the bar of public justice. 
 
CRIME SELF-REVEALED. 633 
 
 Gentlemen, this is a most extraordinary case. In some respects it has 
 hardly a precedent anywhere — certainly none in our New England history. 
 An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his 
 own bed, is made the victim of a butchery murder, for mere pay. Deep 
 sleep had fallen on the destined victim, and on all beneath his roof. A 
 healthful old man to whom sleep was sweet — the first sound slumbers of 
 the night hold him in their soft but strong embrace. 
 
 The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an 
 unoccupied apartment; with noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half 
 lighted by the moon ; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches 
 the door of the chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and con- 
 tinued pressure, till it turns on its hinges ; and he enters and beholds his 
 victim before him. The room was uncommonly light. The face of the inno- 
 cent sleeper was turned from the murderer ; and the beams of the moon, 
 resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to strike. 
 The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle or a 
 motion from the repose of sleep to the repose of death ! It is the assas- 
 sin's purpose to make sure work ; and he yet plies the dagger, though it 
 was obvious that life had been destroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He 
 even raises the aged arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and 
 replaces it again over the wound of the poniard ! To finish the picture, 
 he explores the wrist for the pulse ! he feels for it, and ascertains that it 
 beats no longer ! It is accomplished ! the deed is done ! He retreats — 
 retraces his steps to the window, passes through as he came in, and escapes. 
 He has done the murder ; no eye has seen him, no ear has heard him ; the 
 secret is his own, and it is safe ! 
 
 Ah ! gentlemen, that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret can be 
 safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner, 
 where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that 
 eye which glances through all disguises, and beholds everything as in the 
 splendor of noon, — such secrets of guilt are never safe ; " murder will 
 out." True it is that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern 
 things, that those who break the great law of heaven, by shedding man's 
 blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a case excitingr 
 so much attention as this, discovery must and will come, sooner or later. 
 A thousand eyes turn at once to explore every man, every thing, every 
 circumstance, connected with the time and place; a thousand ears catch 
 every whisper; a thousand excited minds intently dwell on the scene; 
 shedding all their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into 
 a blaze of discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. 
 
634 
 
 GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 It is false to itself — or rather it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience 
 to be true to itself — it labors under its guilty possession, and knows not 
 what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence 
 of such an inhabitant; it finds itself preyed on by a torment which it 
 dares not acknowledge to God or man. A vulture is devouring it, and it 
 asks no sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The secret 
 "which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him ; and like the evil 
 spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him whithersoever 
 it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demand- 
 ing disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in 
 his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. 
 It has become his master; — it betrays his discretion; it breaks down his 
 courage ; it conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to 
 embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle him, the fatal 
 secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It must be con- 
 fessed ; it will be confessed ; there is no refuge from confession but in 
 suicide, and suicide is confession. 
 
 GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 ||HEY well deserve to have, 
 
 That know the strong'st and surest 
 way to get. 
 
 f if So Judas kiss'd his Master ; 
 
 And cried — all hail! when as he 
 meant, — all harm. 
 
 A scar nohly got, or a noble scar, is a 
 good livery of honor. 
 
 He that is giddy thinks that the world turns 
 round. 
 
 A lady's verily is 
 As potent as a lord's. 
 
 What is yours to bestow is not yours to 
 
 Praising what is lost 
 Makes the remembrance dear. 
 
 "What is the city but the people ? 
 
 Let them obey, that know not how to rule. 
 
 A friend i' the court is better than a penny 
 in purse. 
 
 The plants look up to heaven, from whence 
 They have their nourishment. 
 
 Things in motion sooner catch the eye, 
 Than what not stirs. 
 
 Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks 
 draw deep. 
 
 A friend should bear his friend's infirmities. 
 Make not your thoughts your prisons. 
 There is no time so miserable but a man may 
 be true. 
 
 Let us be sacrificers, but no butchers. 
 
 Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. 
 
 Striving to better, oft we mar what's well. 
 
 Receive what cheer you may ; 
 The night is long, that never finds the day. 
 
 Wisely and slow : they stumble that run 
 
 fast. 
 Nor ask advice of any other thought 
 But faith, fulness, and courage. 
 
GEMS FROM SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 635 
 
 Happy are they that hear their detractions, 
 and can put them to mending. 
 
 Nor seek for danger 
 Where there's no profit. 
 
 Brevity is the soul of wit, 
 And tediousness the limbs and outward 
 flourishes. 
 
 Pity is the virtue of the law, 
 
 And none but tyrants use it cruelly. 
 
 All difficulties are but easy when they are 
 known. 
 
 When sorrows come, they come not single 
 
 spies, 
 But in battalions. 
 
 Fashion wears out more apparel than the 
 man. 
 
 Too light winning 
 Makes the prize light. 
 
 What great ones do. 
 The less will prattle of. 
 
 Men are men ; the best sometimes forget. 
 
 A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. 
 
 True valor still a true respect should have. 
 
 Oft the eye mistakes, the brain being trou- 
 bled. 
 
 Thoughts are but dreams, till their effects be 
 tried. 
 
 die — the young possess the 
 
 The old be 
 hive. 
 
 Mud not the fountain that gave drink to 
 thee. 
 
 Mar not the thing that cannot be amended. 
 
 The hearts of old gave hands : 
 But our new heraldry is— hands, not hearts. 
 
 Security 
 Is mortal's chiefest enemy. 
 
 Dull not device by coldness and delay. 
 
 Wisely weigh 
 Our sorrow with our comfort. 
 
 A custom 
 More honor'd in the breach than the observ- 
 ance. 
 
 Celerity is never more admired, 
 Than by the negligent. 
 
 The weakest kind of fruit 
 Drops earliest to the ground. 
 
 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, 
 But to support him after. 
 
 Be to yourself 
 As you would to your friend. 
 
 Trust not him, that hath once broken faith. 
 
 There's place and means for every man alive. 
 
 There's not one wise man among twenty that 
 will praise himself. 
 
 Small things make base men proud. 
 
 A golden mind stoops not to i^how of dross. 
 
 How poor an instrument, 
 May do a noble deed. 
 
 Things ill got had ever bad success. 
 
 Every cloud engenders not a storm. 
 
 Pleasure and action make the hours seem 
 short. 
 
 Direct not him whose way himself will 
 choose. 
 
 It is religion that doth make vows kept. 
 
 An honest tale speeds best, being plainly 
 told. 
 
 There's beggary in the love that can be 
 reckon'd. 
 
 Take all the swift advantage of the hours. 
 Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the 
 brow. 
 
 'Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss. 
 
 The better part of valour is — discretion. 
 
 Short-lived wits do wither as they grow. 
 
 The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. 
 
 The words of Mercury are harsh after the 
 song of Apollo. 
 
 There's small choice in rotten apples. 
 Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. 
 Strong reasons make strong actions. 
 Fly pride, says the peacock. 
 
G36 THE GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. 
 
 THE GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS. 
 
 «^ 
 
 i^AVERNS, especially those which are situated in limestone, commonly 
 
 gl^K present the formations called stalactites, from a Greek word signi- 
 
 X fying distillation or dropping. The manner of their production 
 
 4 admits of a very plain and simple explanation. They proceed from 
 
 S water trickling through the roofs containing carbonate of lime, 
 held in solution by carbonic acid. Upon exposure to the air the 
 carbonic acid is gradually disengaged, and a pellicle of lime is deported. 
 The process proceeds, drop after drop, and eventually, descending points 
 hanging from the roof are formed, resembling icicles, which are composed 
 of concentric rings of transparent pellicles of lime, presenting a very 
 peculiar appearance, and, from their connection with each other, produc- 
 ing a variety of singular shapes. These descending points are the stalac- 
 tites properly so called, from which the stalagmites are to be distinguished, 
 which cover the floors of caverns with conical inequalities. These are pro- 
 duced by the evaporation of the larger drops which have fallen to the bot- 
 tom, and are stalactites rising upwards from the ground. Frequently, in 
 the course of ages, the ascending and descending points have been so in- 
 creased as to meet together, forming natural columns, a series of which 
 bears a striking resemblance to the pillars and arches of Gothic architec- 
 ture. 
 
 The amount of this disposition which we find in caverns capable of 
 producing it, is, in fact, enormous, and gives us an impressive idea of their 
 extraordinary antiquity. The grotto of Antiparos — one of the islands of the 
 Grecian Archipelago — is particularly celebrated on account of the size and 
 diversity of form of these deposits. It extends nearly a thousand feet 
 beneath the surface, in primitive limestone, and is accessible by a narrow 
 entrance which is often very steeply inclined, but divided by level landing 
 places. After a series of descents, the traveler arrives at the Great Hall, 
 AS it is called, the sides and roof of which are covered with immense in- 
 crustations of calcareous matter. The purity of the surrounding stone, 
 and the thickness of the roof in which the unfiltered water can deposit all 
 impure admixtures, give to its stalactites a beautiful whiteness. Tall 
 pillars stand in many places free, near each other, and single groups of 
 stalagmites form figures so strongly resembling plants, that Tournefort en- 
 deavored to prove from them a vegetable nature in stone. The remark of 
 that intelligent traveler is an amusing example of over confidence: — 
 "Once again I repeat it, it is impossible this should be done by the 
 
GROTTO OF ANTIPAEOS. 
 
THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 637 
 
 droppings of water, as is pretended by those who go about to explain 
 the formation of congelations in grottoes. It is much more probable that 
 these other congelations we speak of, and which hang downwards or rise 
 out different ways, were produced by one principle, namely, vegetation." 
 
 The sight of the whole is described, by those who have visited this 
 cavern, as highly imposing. In the middle of the Great Hall, there is a 
 remarkably fine and large stalagmite, more than twenty feet in diameter, 
 and twenty-four feet high, termed the Altar, from the circumstance of the 
 Marquis de Nointel, the ambassador from Louis XIV. to the Sultan, hav- 
 ing caused high mass to be celebrated here in the year 1673. The cere- 
 mony was attended by five hundred persons ; the place was illuminated by 
 a hundred large wax torches ; and four hundred lamps burned in the 
 grotto, day and night, for the three days of the Christmas festival. This 
 cavern was known to the ancient Greeks, but seems to have been com- 
 pletely lost sight of till the seventeenth century. 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STOBY. 
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 
 
 iHROUGH the blue and frosty heav- 
 ens, 
 Christmas stars were shining bright ; 
 Glistening lamps throughout the city 
 Almost matched their gleaming 
 ? light ; 
 
 ] While the winter snow was lying, 
 And the winter winds were sighing, 
 Long ago, one Christmas night. 
 
 While, from every tower and steeple. 
 Pealing bells were sounding clear, 
 
 Never with such tones of gladness. 
 Save when Christmas time is near. 
 
 Many a one that night was merry 
 Who had toiled through all the year. 
 
 That night saw old wrongs forgiven : 
 Friends, long parted, reconciled ; 
 
 Voices all unused to laughter, 
 Mournful eyes that rarely smiled, 
 
 Trembling hearts that feared the morrow. 
 From their anxious thoughts beguiled. 
 43 
 
 Rich and poor felt love and blessing 
 From the gracious season fall ; 
 
 Joy and plenty in the cottage, 
 Peace and feasting in the hall ; 
 
 And the voices of the children 
 Ringing clear above it all ! 
 
 Yet one house was dim and darkened ; 
 
 Gloom, and sickness, and despair, 
 Dwelling in the gilded chambers. 
 
 Creeping up the marble stair ; 
 Even stilled the voice of mourning. 
 
 For a child lay dying there. 
 
 Silken curtains fell around him. 
 Velvet carpets hushed the tread ; 
 
 Many costly toys were lying, 
 All unheeded, by his bed ; 
 
 And his tangled golden ringlets 
 Wore on downy pillows spread. 
 
 The skill of all that mighty city 
 To save one little life was vain : 
 
038 
 
 THE ANGEL'S STORY. 
 
 One little thread from being broken, 
 One fatal word from being spoken ; 
 
 Nay, his very mother's pain, 
 And the mighty love within her. 
 
 Could not give him health again. 
 
 So she knelt there still beside him. 
 She alone with strength to smile. 
 
 Promising that he should suffer 
 No more in a little while, 
 
 Murmuring tender song and story. 
 Weary hours to beguile. 
 
 Suddenly an unseen Presence 
 
 Checked those constant moaning cries, 
 Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering, 
 
 Praised those blue and wondering eyes, 
 Fixed on some mysterious vision 
 
 With a startled, sweet surprise. 
 
 For a radiant angel hovered, 
 
 Smiling, o'er the little bed ; 
 White his raiment, from his shoulders 
 
 Snowy, dove-like pinions spread. 
 And a star-like light was shining 
 
 In a glory round his head. 
 
 While, with tender love, the ; 
 
 Leaning o'er the little nest. 
 In his arms the sick child folding. 
 
 Laid him gently on his breast, 
 Sobs and wailings told the mother 
 
 That her darling was at rest. 
 
 So, the angel, slowly rising. 
 
 Spread his wings, and through the air. 
 Bore the child, and while he held him 
 
 To his heart with loving care. 
 Placed a branch of crimson roses. 
 
 Tenderly beside him there. 
 
 While the child, thus clinging, floated 
 Toward the mansions of the blest. 
 
 Gazing from his' shining guardian. 
 To the flowers upon his breast. 
 
 Thus the angel spake, still smiling 
 On the little heavenly guest : 
 
 " Know dear little one, that heaven 
 Does no earthly thing disdain — 
 
 Man's poor joys find there an echo 
 
 Just as surely as his pain ; 
 Love, on earth so feebly striving. 
 
 Lives divine in heaven again ! 
 
 " Once in that great town below us, 
 
 In a poor and narrow street. 
 Dwelt a little sickly orphan ; 
 
 Gentle aid, or pity sweet, 
 Never in life's rugged pathway 
 
 Guided his poor tottering feet. 
 
 " All the striving, anxious forethought 
 That should only come with age, 
 
 Weighed upon his baby spirit. 
 
 Showed him soon life's sternest page. 
 
 Grim want was his nurse, and sorrow 
 Was his only heritage. 
 
 " All too weak for childish pastimes, 
 
 Drearily the hours sped ; 
 On his hands, so small and trembling. 
 
 Leaning his poor aching head. 
 Or through dark and painful hours 
 
 Lying helpless on his bed. 
 
 " Dreaming strange and longing fancies 
 
 Of cool forests far away ; 
 And of rosy, happy children, 
 
 Laughing merrily at play, 
 Coming home through green lanes, bearing 
 
 Trailing boughs of blooming May. 
 
 " Scarce a glimpse of azure heaven 
 Gleamed above that narrow street, 
 
 And the sultry air of summer 
 
 (That you call so warm and sweet) 
 
 Fevered the poor orphan, dwelling 
 In that crowded alley's heat. 
 
 " One bright day, with feeble footsteps 
 Slowly forth he tried to crawl, 
 
 Through the crowded city's pathways. 
 Till he reached the garden wall ; 
 
 Where 'mid princely halls ami mansions 
 Stood the lordliest of all. 
 
 " There were trees with giant branches, 
 Velvet glades where shadows hide ; 
 
THE ANGEL S STORY. 
 
 639 
 
 There were sparkling fountains glancing 
 Flowers which, in luxuriant pride, 
 
 Ever wafted breaths of perfume 
 To the child who stood outside. 
 
 " He against the gate of iron 
 
 Pressed his wan and wistful face, 
 
 Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure 
 At the glories of the place : 
 
 Never had his brightest day-dream 
 Shone with half such wondrous grace. 
 
 " You were playing in that garden, 
 Throwing blossoms in the air. 
 
 Laughing when the petals floated 
 Downward on your golden hair ; 
 
 And the fond eyes watching o'er you, 
 
 And the splendor spread before you, 
 Told a house's hope was there. 
 
 " When your servants, tired of seeing 
 
 Such a face of want and woe. 
 Turning to the ragged orphan. 
 
 Gave him coin and bade him go, 
 Down his cheeks so thin and wasted 
 
 Bitter tears began to flow. 
 
 But that look of childish sorrow 
 
 On your tender child-heart fell, 
 And you plucked the reddest roses 
 
 From the tree you loved so well, 
 Passed them through the stern, cold gra- 
 ting, 
 
 Gently bidding him ' Farewell !' 
 
 Dazzled by the fragrant treasure 
 
 And the gentle voice he heard. 
 In the poor forlorn boy's spirit 
 
 Joy, the sleeping seraph, stirred ; 
 In his hand he took the flowers. 
 
 In his heart the loving word. 
 
 So he crept to his poor garret : 
 
 Poor no more, but rich and bright, 
 For the holy dreams of childhood — 
 
 Love, and Rest, and Hope, and Light — 
 Floated round the orphan's pillow. 
 
 Through the starry summer night. 
 
 '■ Day dawned, yet the vision lasted — 
 All too weak to rise he lay ; 
 
 Did he dream that none spake harshly — 
 All were strangely kind that day ? 
 
 Surely, then, his treasured roses 
 Must have charmed all ills away, 
 
 " And he smiled, though they were fading ; 
 
 One by one their leaves were shed ; 
 ' Such bright things could never perish ; 
 
 They would bloom again,' he said. 
 When the next day's sun had risen 
 
 Child and flowers both were dead. 
 
 " Know, dear little one ! our Father 
 Will no gentle deed disdain ; 
 
 Love on the cold earth beginning 
 Lives divine in heaven again. 
 
 While the angel hearts that beat there 
 Still all tender thoughts retain." 
 
 So the angel ceased, and gently 
 
 O'er his little burden leant ; 
 While the child gazed from the shining, 
 
 Loving eyes that o'er him bent, 
 To the blooming roses by him, 
 
 Wondering what their mystery meant 
 
 Thus the radiant angel answered. 
 And with tender meaning smiled : 
 
 " Ere your childlike, loving spirit 
 Sin and the hard world defiled, 
 
 God has given me leave to seek you — 
 I was once that little child !" 
 
 In the churchyard of that city 
 Rose a tomb of marble rare. 
 
 Decked, as soon as spring awakened. 
 With her buds and blossoms fair — 
 
 And a humble grave beside it — 
 None knew who rested there. 
 
640 
 
 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 JAMES A. GARFIELD. 
 
 SELECTED FEOM VARIOUS OKATIOKS. 
 
 ^ij^ FEEL a profounder reverence for a 
 
 W^ Boy than for a Man. I never meet 
 
 5*1^1 a ragged Boy in the street without 
 
 4m feeling that I may owe him a salute, 
 ^ for I know not what possibilities 
 
 J may be buttoned up under his coat. 
 
 Poverty is uncomfortable, as I can testify ; 
 but nine times out of ten the best thing 
 that can happen to a young man is to 
 be tossed overboard and compelled to 
 sink or swim for himself. In all my 
 acquaintance I never knew a man to be 
 drowned who was worth the saving. 
 
 There are times in the history of men and 
 nations, when they stand so near the 
 veil that separates Mortals and Immor- 
 tals, Time from Eternity, and Men from 
 their God, that they can almost hear 
 their breathings and feel the pulsations 
 of the heart of the Infinite. 
 
 Growth is better than Permanence, and per- 
 manent growth is better than all. 
 
 It is no honor or profit merely to appear in 
 the arena. 'The Wreath is for those who 
 contend. 
 
 There is a fellowship among the Virtues by 
 which one great, generous passion stimu- 
 lates another. 
 
 The privilege of being a Young Man is a 
 great privilege, and the privilege of 
 growing up to be an independent Man 
 in middle life is a greater. 
 
 Many books we can read in a railroad car 
 and feel a harmony between the rushing 
 of the train and the haste of the Author. 
 
 If the power to do hard work is not Talent, 
 it is the best possible substitute for it. 
 
 Occasion may be the bugle-call that summons 
 an army to battle, but the blast of a 
 bngle can never make Soldiers or win 
 Victories. 
 
 Things don't turn up in this World until 
 somebody turns them up. 
 
 If there be one thing upon this earth that 
 mankind love and admire better than 
 another, it is a brave Man — it is a man 
 who dares look the Devil in the face 
 and tell him he is a Devil. 
 
 True art is but the anti-type of Nature^ 
 the embodiment of discovered Beauty in 
 utility. 
 
 Every character is the joint product of Nature 
 and Nurture. 
 
 Not a man of Iron, but of Live Oak. 
 
 Power exhibits itself under two distinct 
 forms — strength and force — each pos- 
 sessing peculiar qualities and each perfect 
 in its own sphere. Strength is typified 
 by the Oak, the Rock, the Mountain. 
 Force embodies itself in the Cataract, 
 the Tempest, the Thunderbolt. 
 
 As a giant Tree absorbs all the elements of 
 growth within its reach and leaves only 
 a sickly Vegetation in its shadow, so do 
 towering great Men absorb all the 
 strength and glory of their surroundings 
 and leave a dearth of Greatness for a 
 whole generation. 
 
 It has been fortunate that most of our great- 
 est Men have left no descendants to 
 shine in the borrowed lustre of a great 
 name. 
 
 In order to have any success in life, or any 
 worthy success, you must resolve to 
 carry into your work a fullness ot 
 Knowledge — not merely a Sufficiency, 
 but more than a Sufficiency. 
 
 Be fit for more than the thing you are now 
 doing. 
 
 Young Men talk of trusting to the Spur of 
 the Occasion. That trust is vain. Occa- 
 sions cannot make Spurs. If you expect 
 to wear Spurs you must win them. It 
 you wish to use them you must buckle 
 them to j^our own heels before you go 
 into the Fight. 
 
FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 
 
 641 
 
 That man will be a benefactor of his race 
 who shall teach us how to manage 
 rightly the first years of a Child's educa- 
 tion. 
 
 Great Ideas travel slowly and for a time 
 noiselessly, as the Gods whose Feet were 
 shod with wool. 
 
 He who would understand the real Spirit of 
 Literature should not select authors of 
 any one period alone, but rather go to 
 the fountain-head, and trace the little 
 rill as it courses along down the ages, 
 broadening and deepening into the great 
 ocean of Thought which the Men of the 
 present are exploring. 
 
 Eternity alone will reveal to the human race 
 its debt of gratitude to the peerless and 
 immortal name of Washington. 
 
 The scientific spirit has cast out the Demons 
 and presented us with Nature, clothed 
 in her right mind and living under the 
 reign of law. It has given us for the 
 sorceries of the Alchemist, the beautiful 
 laws of Chemistry ; for the dreams of 
 the Astrologer, the sublime truths of 
 astronomy : for the wild visions of Cos- 
 mogony, the monumental records of 
 geology; for the anarchy of Diabolism, 
 the laws of God. 
 
 We no longer attribute the untimely death 
 of infants to the sin of Adam, but to 
 bad nursing and ignorance. 
 
 Imagine if you can what would happen if 
 to-morrow morning the railway locomo- 
 tive and its corollary, the telegraph, 
 were blotted from the earth. To what 
 humble proportions Mankind would be 
 compelled to scale down the great enter- 
 prizes they are now puthing forward 
 with such ease ! 
 
 Heroes did not Tnake our liberties, they but 
 reflected and illustrated them. 
 
 The Life and light of a nation are insepa- 
 rable. 
 
 We confront the dangers of Suffrage by the 
 blessings of universal education. 
 
 There is no horizontal Stratification of society 
 in this country like the rocks in the 
 earth, that hold one class down below 
 forevermore, and let another come to 
 the surface to stay there forever. Our 
 Stratification is like the ocean, where 
 every individual drop is free to move, 
 and where from the sternest depths of 
 the mighty deep any drop may come up 
 to glitter on the highest wave that rolls. 
 
 There is deep down in the -hearts of the 
 American people a strong and abiding 
 love of our Country which no surface 
 storms of passion can ever shake. 
 
 Our National safety demands that the foun- 
 tains of political power shall be made 
 pure by Intelligence and kept pure by 
 Vigilance. 
 
 FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. 
 
 JOHN W. PALMER. 
 
 JS^IManE night is late, the house is still ; 
 Wm The angels of the hour fulfil 
 ♦;^^L Their tender ministries, and move 
 
 ^ From couch to couch in cares of love. 
 
 ](• They drop into thy dreams, sweet 
 
 I wife. 
 
 The happiest smile of Charlie's life, 
 And lay on baby's lips a kiss. 
 Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; 
 And, as they pass, they seem to make 
 
 A strange, dim hymn, " For Charlie's 
 
 sake." 
 My listening heart takes up the strain. 
 And gives it to the night again, 
 Fitted with words of lowly praise. 
 And patience learned of mournful days 
 And memories of the dead child's ways. 
 
 His will be done, His will be done ! 
 Who gave and took away my son. 
 
642 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 In " the far land " to shine and sing 
 Before the Beautiful, the King, 
 Who every day doth Christmas make, 
 All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. 
 
 For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 
 I will anoint me where he lies, 
 And change my raiment, and go in 
 To the Lord's house, and leave my sin 
 
 Without, and seat me at his board, 
 Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. 
 
 For wherefore should I fast and weep, 
 
 And sullen moods of mourning keep ? 
 
 I cannot bring him back, nor he, 
 
 For any calling, come to me. 
 
 The bond the angel Death did sign, 
 
 God sealed — for Charlie's sake and mine. 
 
 THE BRIDR 
 
 SIR JOHN 
 
 . o-C|?o . 
 
 |HE maid, and thereby hangs a tale. 
 For such a maid no Whitsun-ale 
 
 Could ever yet produce : 
 
 No grape that's kindly ripe could be 
 
 So round, so plump, so soft as she. 
 
 Nor half so full of juice. 
 
 Her finger was so small, the ring 
 
 Would not stay on which they did bring, — 
 
 It was too wide a peck ; 
 And, to say truth, — for out it must, — 
 It looked like the great collar — just — 
 
 About our young colt's neck. 
 
 Her feet, beneath her petticoat. 
 Like little mice stole in and out, 
 
 As if they feared the light ; 
 But 0, she dances such a way ! 
 No sun upon an Easter-day 
 
 Is half 60 fine a sisrht. 
 
 SUCKLING. 
 
 Her cheeks so rare a white was on. 
 No daisy makes comparison ; 
 
 Who sees them is undone ; 
 For streaks of red were mingled there. 
 Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, 
 
 The side that's next the sun. 
 
 Her lips were red ; and one was thin, 
 Compared to that was next her chin. 
 
 Some bee had stung it newly ; 
 But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, 
 I durst no more upon them gaze. 
 
 Than on the sun in July. 
 
 Her mouth so small, when she does 
 Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break, 
 
 That they might passage get ; 
 But she so handled still the matter, 
 They came as good as ours, or better, 
 
 And are not spent a whit. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 HENRY KING. 
 
 ^ ?IKE to the falling of a star, 
 ll Or as the flights of eagles are, 
 
 Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
 Or silver drops of morning dew. 
 Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
 Or bubbles which on water stood, — 
 
 E'en such is man, whose borrowed light 
 Is straight called in, and paid to-night, 
 The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
 The spring entombed in autumn lies, 
 The dew dries up, the star is shot. 
 The flight is past, — and man forgot ! 
 
HABITS OF TROUT. 
 
 G43 
 
 HABITS OF TROUT. 
 
 WILLIAM C. PRIME. 
 
 pl®T is noteworthy, and has doubtless often attracted the attention 
 
 ^ of anglers, that different books give 
 totally different instructions and infor- 
 mation about the same fish. This is 
 easily explained. Most of the writers 
 
 on angling have written from experience ob- 
 tained in certain waters. One who has taken 
 
 trout for a score of years in the St. Kegis 
 
 waters forms his opinion of these fish from 
 
 their habits in those regions. But a St. Eegis 
 
 trout is no more like a Welakennebacook trout 
 
 in his habits than a Boston gentleman is 
 
 to a New Yorker, Who would think of de- 
 scribing the habits and customs of mankind 
 
 from a knowledge of the Englishman ? Yet 
 
 we have abundance of book-lore on the habits 
 
 of fish, founded on acquaintance with the fish 
 
 in one or another locality. To say truth, until 
 
 one has studied the habits of trout in all the 
 
 waters of the world, it is unsafe for him to ven- 
 ture any general account of those habits. 
 
 Take the simplest illustration. If you are 
 
 on the lower St. Regis, and seek large trout, 
 
 rise before the sun, and cast for the half hour 
 
 preceding and the half hour following sunrise. 
 
 You will find the fish plenty and voracious, 
 
 striking with vigor, and evidently on the feed. 
 
 But go to Profile Lake (that gem of all the 
 
 world of waters), wherein I have taken many 
 
 thousand trout, and you will scarcely ever have 
 
 a rise in the morning. In the one lake the fish 
 
 are in the habit of feeding at day-dawn. In the 
 
 other no trout breakfasts till nine o'clock, unless, 
 
 like the departing guests of the neighboring 
 
 hotel, business or pleasure lead him to be up for 
 
 once at an early hour. 
 
644 
 
 'NO MORE SEA." 
 
 So, too, you may cast on Profile Lake at noon in the sunshine, and as 
 in most waters, though the trout are abundant, they will not be tempted 
 to rise. But in Echo Lake, only a half-mile distant, where trout are 
 scarce, I have killed many fish of two and three pounds' weight, and nearly 
 all between eleven and one in bright, sunshiny weather. In fact, when 
 they rise at all in Echo Lake, it is almost invariably at that hour, and 
 very seldom at any other. Men have their hours of eating, settled into 
 what we call habits. The Bostonian dines at one hour, the New Yorker 
 at another. One should not attempt to describe the eating habits of man 
 in general from either class, or from both. In many respects the habits of 
 fish are formed, as are the habits of men, by the force of circumstances, or 
 by the influence of the imitative propensity. They do some things only 
 because they have seen other fish do so. Instinct leads them to some 
 habits, education to others. 
 
 NO MORE SEA." 
 
 WILLIAM H. HENDERSON, 
 
 "^§S* LONELY, exiled one ! 
 ii^||K Upon the Patmos shore I 
 stand : 
 
 thee 
 
 J"l^ ' Thou dreamest gravely of thine own 
 
 dear land, 
 I Far by the rising sun. 
 
 Thinking of Galilee, 
 And the hoarse waves that part thee from its 
 
 shore. 
 Not strange it seems to hear thee murmuring 
 o'er 
 
 Thy song of " No More Sea." 
 
 Shall we not then beside 
 Some friend or brother, count from pebbly 
 
 beach 
 
 The white-winged ships as far as eye can 
 reach 
 
 On the horizon wide ? 
 
 Alas ! and no more sea ? 
 No grey cloud-shadows flickering o'er the 
 
 deep? 
 No curling breakers by the rocky steep 
 Or beachy shore ? Ah, me! 
 
ECHOES. 
 
 645 
 
 No more in foamy spray 
 Shall we with merry jest and full-voiced 
 
 laughter 
 Delight ourselves, and breast the surges after 
 
 The dust and heat of day ? 
 
 Shall there be no more shells ? 
 Nor golden sand? Nor crimson sea- weed 
 
 shine — 
 Nor pearls, nor coral that beneath the brine 
 
 Adorn the ocean cells ? 
 
 On balmy summer day 
 Shall we not float in dainty skiff along. 
 And suit the dipping oar to choral song. 
 
 Upon some sheltered bay ? 
 
 Its pure, chaste lips shall never cease to kiss 
 Its sister earth so dear. 
 
 A darker, sadder sea 
 Spreads its drear waste before the prophet's 
 
 eye — 
 A sea of sin across which floats the sigh 
 
 Of fallen humanity. 
 
 And surges of dark thought 
 And angry passion loom upon its face. 
 Telling the ruin of a shipwrecked race. 
 
 In countless centuries wrought. 
 
 This is the great Red Sea, 
 Whose waves shall yet at God's own voice 
 roll back. 
 
 Yes, apostolic seer; 
 Not of the watery brine thou tell est 
 this: 
 
 That through the pathway His redeemed 
 may walk. 
 
 Safe, fearless, joyful, free. 
 
 ECHOES. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 .,0W sweet the answer Echo makes 
 To Music at night 
 When, roused by lute or horn, she 
 
 wakes, 
 And far away o'er lawns and lakes 
 Goes answering light! 
 
 Yet Love hath echoes truf^r far 
 
 And far more sweet 
 Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
 Of horn or lute or soft guitar 
 
 The songs repeat. 
 
6^6 
 
 SOFT SAWDER AND HUMAN NATUR. 
 
 SOFT SAWDER AND HUMAN NATUR. 
 
 THOMAS C. HALIBURTON. 
 
 ®|^N the course of a journey which Mr. Slick performs in company with 
 iM, the reporter of his humors, the latter asks him how, in a country so 
 X poor as Nova Scotia he contrives to sell so many clocks. " Mr. 
 Slick paused," continues the author, "as if considering the propriety 
 of answering the question, and looking me in the face, said, in a con- 
 fidential tone: ' Why, I don't care if I do tell you, for the market is 
 glutted, and I shall quit this circuit. It is done by a knowledge of soft 
 saioder wcidi human natur. But here; — I have just one left. Neighbor 
 Steel's wife asked to have the refusal of it, but I guess I won't sell it. I 
 had but two of them, this one and the feller of it, that I sold Governor 
 Lincoln. General Green, secretary of state for Maine, said he'd give me 
 fifty dollars for this here one — it has composition wheels and patent axles; 
 it is a beautiful article — a real first chop — no mistake, genuine superfine ; 
 but I guess I'll take it back ; and, besides, Squire Hawk might think it 
 hard that I did not give him the offer.' 
 
 "'Dear me,' said Mrs. Flint, 'I should like to see it; where is it?' 
 ' It is in a chest of mine over the way, at Tom Tape's store ; I guess he 
 can ship it on to Eastport.' 'That's a good man,' said Mrs. Flint, 'jist 
 let's look at it.' Mr. Slick, willing to oblige, yielded to these entreaties, 
 and soon produced the clock — a gaudy, highly varnished, trumpery-look- 
 ing affair. He placed it on the chimney-piece, where its beauties were 
 pointed out and duly appreciated by Mrs. Flint, whose admiration was about 
 ending in a proposal, when Mr. Flint returned from giving his directions 
 about the care of the horses. The deacon praised the clock ; he, too, 
 thought it a handsome one ; but the deacon was a prudent man : he had 
 a watch, he was sorry, but he had no occasion for a clock. ' I guess you're 
 in the wrong furrow this time, deacon; it ain't for sale,' said Mr. Slick; 
 ' and if it was, I reckon neighbor Steele's wife would have it, for she gives 
 me no peace about it.' Mrs. Flint said that Mr. Steele had enough to do, 
 poor man, to pay his interest, without buying clocks for his wife. ' It's 
 no consarn of mine,' said Mr. Slick, ' as long as he pays me, what he has 
 to do ; but I guess I don't want to sell it ; and, beside, it comes too high ; 
 that clock can't be made at Khode Island under forty dollars. 
 
 " ' Why, it an't possible ! ' said the Clockmaker, in apparent surprise, 
 looking at his watch, ' why, as I'm alive, it is four o'clock, and if I haven't 
 been two hours here — how on airth shall I reach Kiver Philip to-night ? 
 I'll tell you what, Mrs. Flint ; I'll leave the clock in your care till I return 
 
NIAGARA. 
 
 647 
 
 on my way to the States — I'll set it agoing, and put it to the right time.' 
 As soon as this operation was performed, he delivered the key to the deacon 
 with a sort of serio-comic injunction to wind up the clock every Saturday 
 night, which Mrs. Flint said she would take care should be done, and 
 promised to remind her husband of it, in case he should chance to for- 
 get it. 
 
 " ' That,' said the Clockmaker, as soon as we were mounted, ' that I 
 call human natur ! Now, that clock is sold for forty dollars — it cost me 
 six dollars and fifty cents. Mrs. Flint will never let Mrs. Steele have the 
 refusal — nor will the deacon learn until I call for the clock, that having 
 once indulged in the use of a superfluity, it is difficiflt to give it up. We 
 can do without any article of luxury we have never had, but when once 
 obtained, it is not in human natur to surrender it voluntarily. Of fifteen 
 thousand sold by myself and partners in this province, twelve thousand 
 were left in this manner, only ten clocks were ever returned — when we 
 called for them, they invariably bought them. We trust to soft sawder 
 to get them into the house, and to human natur that they never come out 
 of it." 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 LYDIA HUNTLY SIGOURNEY. 
 
 l^LOW on forever, in thy glorious robe 
 Of terror and of beauty. Yes, flow 
 
 on, 
 Unfathom'd and resistless. God hath 
 
 set 
 His rainbow on thy forehead, and 
 
 the cloud 
 Mantled around thy feet. — And he 
 doth give 
 Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him 
 Eternally, — bidding the lip of man 
 Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour 
 Incense of awe-struck praise. 
 
 And who can dare 
 To lift the insect trump of earthly hope. 
 Or love, or sorrow, 'mid the peal sublime 
 Of thy tremendous hymn ? — Even Ocean 
 
 shrinks 
 Back from thy brotherhood, and his wild 
 
 waves 
 Retire abash'd. — For he doth sometimes seem 
 
 To sleep like a spent laborer, and recall 
 His wearied billows from their vexing play, 
 And lull them to a cradle calm : but thou. 
 With everlasting, undecaying tide, 
 Dost rest not night or day. 
 
 The morning stars. 
 When first they sang o'er young creation's 
 
 birth, 
 Heard thy deep anthem, — and those wreck' 
 
 ing fires 
 That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve 
 The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name 
 Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears, 
 On thine unfathom'd page. — Each leafy bough 
 That lifts itself within thy proud domain, 
 Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, 
 And tremble at the baptism. — Lo ! yon birds 
 Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing 
 Amid thy foam and mist. — 'Tis meet for them 
 To touch thy garment's hem, — or lightly stir 
 The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath, — 
 
648 FINGAL'S CAVE. 
 
 Who sport unharm'd upon the fleecy cloud, 
 
 And listen at the echoing gai,e of heaven, 
 
 Without reproof. — But as for us, — it seems 
 
 Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak 
 
 Familiarly of thee. — JMothinks, to tint 
 
 Thy glorious features with our pencil'n point, 
 
 Or woo thee to the tablet of a song, In the dread presence of the Invisible 
 
 Were profanation. As if to answer to its God through thee, 
 
 Thou dost make the soul 
 A wondering witness of thy majesty ; 
 And while it rushes with delirious joy 
 To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step. 
 And check its rapture with the humbling view 
 Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand 
 
 FINGAL'S CA VE. 
 
 ^[iN the volcanic rocks, cavern formations are very common, and one of 
 
 i^ the most splendid examples in the world occurs in the basalt, a rock 
 
 ijk of comparatively modern igneous origin. This is the well-known 
 
 * cave of Fingal, in the island of Staffa, a small island on the western 
 
 ! coast of Scotland, composed entirely of amorphous and pillared basalt. 
 The name of the island is derived from its singular structure, Staffa, 
 signifying, in the Norwegian language, a people who were early on the 
 coast, a staff, and figuratively, a column. The basaltic columns have in 
 various places yielded to the action of the waveg, which have scooped out 
 caves of the most picturesque description, the chief of which are the Boat 
 cave, the Cormorant cave, so called from the number of these birds visiting 
 the spot, and the great cave of Fingal. 
 
 It is remarkable that this grand natural object should have remained 
 comparatively unknown, until Sir Joseph Banks had his attention acci- 
 dentally directed to it, and may be said to have discovered it to the inhab- 
 itants of South Britain. This great cave consists of a lava-like mass at 
 the base, and of two ranges of basaltic columns resting upon it, which 
 present to the eye an appearance of regularity almost architectural, and 
 supporting an irregular ceiling of rock. According to the measurements 
 of Sir Joseph Banks, the cave from the rock without is three hundred 
 and seventy-one feet six inches ; the breadth at the mouth, fifty-three feet 
 seven inches ; the height of the arch at the mouth, one hundred and seven- 
 teen feet six inches ; depth of water at the mouth, eighteen feet ; and at 
 the bottom of the cave, nine feet. The echo of the waves which wash 
 into the cavern has originated its Celtic name, Llaimbh-bim, the Cave of 
 Music. Maculloch remarks : " If too much admiration has been lavished 
 on it by some, and if, in consequence, more recent visitors have left it with 
 disappointment, it must be recollected, that all descriptions are but pictures 
 of the feelings of the narrator ; it is, moreover, as unreasonable to expect 
 
FINGAL'S CAVE. 
 
 649 
 
 that the same objects should produce corresponding effects on all minds, 
 on the enlightened and on the vulgar, as that every individual should 
 alike be sensible to the merits of Phidias and Raphael, of Sophocles and 
 of Shakespeare. 
 
 But if this cave were even destitute of that order and symmetry, that 
 richness arising from multiplicity of parts combined with greatness of 
 
 dimension and simplicity of style, which it possesses sti 1 the prolonged 
 len-th the twilight gloom half concealing the playful and varying effects 
 of Reflected light, the echo of the measured surge as it rises and lalls he 
 transparent green of the water, and the profound and fairy solitude of the 
 whole scene, could not fail strongly to impress a mir.d gifted with any sense 
 of beauty in art or in nature, and it will be compelled to own it is not 
 without cause that celebrity has been conferred on ^.he Cave of Fingal. 
 
650 
 
 THE CELESTIAL CUUiMTKY. 
 
 THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. 
 
 lyg^OR thee, dear, dear Country ! 
 |j^;J Mine eyes their vigils keep ; 
 
 \^X For very love beholding 
 A Thy happiness, they weep. 
 
 Y The mention of thy glory, 
 tf- Is unction to the breast, 
 
 J And medicine in sickness, 
 
 And love, and life, and rest. 
 
 one, only Mansion ! 
 
 Paradise of Joy ! 
 Where tears are ever banished. 
 
 And smiles have no alloy, 
 Beside thy living waters, 
 
 All plants are great and small. 
 The cedar of the forest. 
 
 The hyssop of the wall ; 
 With jaspers glow thy bulwarks. 
 
 Thy streets with emeralds blaze, 
 The sardius and topaz 
 
 Unite in thee their rays ; 
 Thine ageless walls are bonded 
 
 With amethyst unpriced ; 
 The saints build up its fabric. 
 
 And the corner-stone is Christ. 
 
 The Cross is all thy splendor, 
 
 The Crucified thy praise ; 
 His laud and benediction 
 
 Thy ransomed people raise : 
 " Jesus, the Gem of Beauty, 
 
 True God and Man," they sing, 
 " The never-failing Garden, 
 
 The ever-golden Ring ; 
 The Door, the Pledge, the Husband, 
 
 The Guardian of His Court ; 
 The Day-star of Salvation, 
 
 The Porter and the Port!" 
 
 Thou hast no shore, fair ocean ! 
 
 Thou hast no time, bright day ! 
 Dear fountain of refreshment 
 
 To pilgrims far away ! 
 Upon the Rock of Ages, 
 
 They raise the holy tower ; 
 
 behnard de morlaix, a. d., 1145. 
 
 Thine is the victor's laurel, 
 And thine the golden dower I 
 
 Thou feel'st in mystic rapture, 
 
 Bride that know'st no guile, 
 The Prince's sweetest kisses. 
 
 The Prince's loveliest smile ; 
 Unfading lilies, bracelets 
 
 Of living pearl, thine own ; 
 The Lamb is ever near thee. 
 
 The Bridegroom thine alone. 
 The Crown is He to guerdon, 
 
 The Buckler to protect. 
 And He, Himself the Mansion, 
 
 And He the Architect. 
 
 The only art thou need'st — 
 
 Thanksgiving for thy lot : 
 The only joy thou seek'st — 
 
 The Life where Death is not. 
 And all thine endless leisuire, 
 
 In sweetest accents sings 
 The ill that was thy merit, 
 
 The wealth that is thy King's ! 
 
 Jerusalem the golden. 
 
 With milk and honey blest. 
 Beneath thy contemplation 
 
 Sink heart and voice oppressed . 
 I know not, I know not. 
 
 What social joys are there ! 
 What radiancy of glory, 
 
 What light beyond compare ! 
 
 And when I fain would sing them, 
 ]\Iy spirit fails and faints ; 
 
 And vainly would it image 
 The assembly of the Saints. 
 
 They stand, those halls of Zion, 
 
 All jubilant with song, 
 And bright with many an angel, 
 
 And all the martyr throng ; 
 The Prince is ever in them. 
 
 The daylight is serene ; 
 Tlie pastures of the Blessed 
 
 Are decked in glorious sheen 
 
THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY. 
 
 651 
 
 There is the Throne of David, 
 
 And there, from care released, 
 The song of them that triumph, 
 
 The shout of them that feast ; 
 And they who, with their Leader, 
 
 Have conquered in the fight, 
 For ever and for ever 
 
 Are clad in robes of white ! 
 
 holy, placid harp-notes 
 
 Of that eternal hymn ! 
 sacred, sweet reflection. 
 
 And peace of Seraphim ! 
 thirst, forever ardent, 
 
 Yet evermore content ! 
 true, peculiar vision 
 
 Of God omnipotent ! 
 Ye know the many mansions 
 
 For many a glorious name, 
 And divers retributions 
 
 That divers merits claim ; 
 For midst the constellations 
 
 That deck our earthly sky, 
 This star than that is brighter — 
 
 And so it is on high. 
 
 Jerusalem the glorious ! 
 
 The glory of the elect ! 
 dear and future vision 
 
 That eager hearts expect ! 
 Even now by faith I see thee, 
 
 Even here thy walls discern ; 
 To thee my thoughts are kindled, 
 
 And strive, and pant, and yearn. 
 
 O none can tell thy bulwarks. 
 
 How glorious they rise ! 
 none can tell thy capitals 
 
 Of beautiful device ! 
 Thy loveliness oppresses 
 
 All human thought and heart ; 
 And none, peace, Zion, 
 
 Can sing thee as thou art ! 
 
 New mansion of new people. 
 Whom God's own love and light 
 
 Promote, increase, make holy, 
 Identify, unite ! 
 
 Thou City of the Angels ! 
 Thou City of the Lord ! 
 
 Whose everlasting music 
 Is the glorious decachord ! 
 
 And there the band of Prophets 
 
 United praise ascribes, 
 And there the twelve-fold chorus 
 
 Of Israel's ransomed tribes, 
 The lily-beds of virgins. 
 
 The roses' martyr glow, 
 The cohort of the Fathers 
 
 Who kept the Faith below, 
 
 And there the Sole-begotten 
 I Is Lord in regal state — 
 
 He, Judah's mystic Lion, 
 He, Lamb Immaculate. 
 fields that know no sorrow ! 
 state that fears no strife ! 
 
 princely bowers ! land of 
 
 realm and home of Life ! 
 
 Jerusalem, exulting 
 On that securest shore, 
 
 1 hope thee, wish thee, sing thee, 
 And love thee ever more ! 
 
 I ask not for my merit, 
 
 1 seek not to deny 
 !My merit is destruction, 
 
 A child of wrath am I ; 
 But yet with Faith I venture, 
 
 And Hope upon my way ; 
 For those perennial guerdons 
 
 I labor night and day. 
 
 The best and dearest Father, 
 
 Who made me and who saved. 
 Bore with me in defilement. 
 
 And from defilement saved, 
 When in His strength I struggle. 
 
 For very joy I leap. 
 When in my sin I totter, 
 
 I weep, or try to weep : 
 But grace, sweet grace celestial, 
 
 Shall all its love display. 
 And David's Royal fountain 
 
 Purge every sin away. 
 
 mine, my golden Zion ! 
 
 lovelier far than gold. 
 With laurel-girt battalions, 
 
 And safe victorious fold ! 
 
662 
 
 ARCTIC LIFE. 
 
 sweet and blessed Country, 
 
 Exult, dust and ashes ! 
 
 Shall I ever see thy face ? 
 
 The Lord shall be thy part ; 
 
 sweet and blessed Country, 
 
 His only. His forever, 
 
 Shall I ever win thy grace? 
 
 Thou shalt be, and thou art ! 
 
 I have the hope within me 
 
 Exult, dust and ashes I 
 
 To comfort and to bless ! 
 
 The Lord shall be thy part ; 
 
 Shall I ever win the prize itself ? 
 
 His only, His for ever, 
 
 Otellme, tellme, Yes! 
 
 Thou shalt be, and thou art i 
 
 ARCTIC LIFE. 
 
 ELISHA KENT KANE. 
 
 |l|^l|OW do we spend the day when it is not term- day, or rather the 
 ^^K twenty-four hours? for it is either all day here, or all night, or a 
 "^"^^ twilight mixture of both. How do we spend the twenty-four 
 
 4; hours ? 
 
 J At six in the morning, McGary is called, with all hands who 
 
 have.sZep^ in. The decks are cleaned, the ice-hole opened, the refreshing 
 beef-nets examined, the ice-tables measured, and things aboard put to 
 rights. At half-past seven, all hands rise, wash on deck, open the doors 
 for ventilation, and come below for breakfast. We are short of fuel, and 
 therefore cook in the cabin. Our breakfast, for all fare alike, is hard tack, 
 pork, stewed apples frozen like molasses-candy, tea and coffee, with a deli- 
 cate portion of raw potato. After breakfast, the smokers take their pipe 
 till nine : then all hands turn to, idlers to idle, and workers to work ; 
 Ohlsen to his bench ; Brooks to his " preparations " in canvass ; McGary 
 
ARCTIC LIFE. 
 
ARCTIC LIFE. 653 
 
 to play tailor ; Whipple to make shoes ; Bonsall to tinker ; Baker to skin 
 birds, — and the rest to the "office ! " Take a look into the Arctic Bureau ! 
 One table, one salt-pork lamp with rusty chlorinated flame, three stools, 
 and as many waxen-faced men with their legs drawn up under them, the 
 deck at zero being too cold for the feet. Each has his department : Kane 13 
 writing, sketching, and projecting maps ; Hayes copying logs and meteoro- 
 logicals ; Sontag reducing his work at Fern Eock. A fourth, as one of 
 the working members of the hive, has long been defunct: you will find him 
 in bed, or studying "Littell's Living Age." At twelve, a business round 
 of inspection, and orders enough to fill up the day with work. Next, the 
 'drill of the Esquimaux dogs, — my own peculiar recreation, — a dog-trot, 
 especially refreshing to legs that creak with every kick, and rheumatic 
 shoulders that chronicle every descent of the whip. And so we get on to 
 dinner-time; the occasion of another gathering, which misses the tea and 
 coffee of breakfast, but rejoices in pickled cabbage and dried peaches 
 instead. 
 
 At dinner as at breakfast the raw potato comes in, our hygienic lux- 
 ury. Like doctor stuff generally, it is not as appetizing as desirable. 
 Grating it down nicely, leaving out the ugly red spots liberally, and adding 
 the utmost oil as a lubricant, it is as much as I can do to persuade the 
 mess to shut their eyes and bolt it, like Mrs. Squeers' molasses and brim- 
 stone at Dotheboys' Hall. Two absolutely refuse to taste it. I tell them of 
 the Silesians using its leaves as a spinach, of the whalers* in the South Seas 
 getting drunk on the molasses which had preserved the large potatoes of 
 the Azores, — I point to this gum, so fungoid and angry the day before yes- 
 terday, and so flat and amiable to-day, — all by a potato poultice : my elo- 
 quence is wasted : they persevered in rejecting the admirable compound. 
 
 Sleep, exercise, amusement, and work at will, carry on the day till our 
 six o'clock supper, a meal something like breakfast, and something like 
 dinner, only a little more scant, and the officers come in with the reports 
 of the day. Doctor Hayes shows me the log, I sign it; Sontag the weather, 
 I sign the weather ; Mr. Bonsall the tides and thermometers. Thereupon 
 comes in mine ancient, Brooks ; and I enter in his journal No. 3 all the 
 work done under his charge, and discuss his labors for the morrow. 
 
 McGary comes next, with the cleaning-up arrangements, inside, out- 
 side, and on decks ; and Mr. Wilson follows with ice measurements. And 
 last of all comes my own record of the day gone by ; every line, as I look 
 back upon its pages, giving evidence of a weakened body and harassed 
 mind. We have cards sometimes, and chess sometimes, — and a few maga- 
 zines, Mr. Littell's thoughtful present, to cheer away the evening. 
 
654 
 
 THE CHANGELING. 
 
 THE CHANGELING. 
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 TOR the fairest maid in Hampton 
 They needed not to search, 
 Who saw young Anna Favor 
 Come walking into church, — 
 
 Or bringing from the meadows. 
 At set of harvest-day. 
 
 The frolic of the blackbirds, 
 The sweetness of the hay. 
 
 She'll come when she hears it crying, 
 In the shape of an owl or bat. 
 
 And she'll bring us our darling Anna 
 In place of her screeching brat." 
 
 Then the goodman, Ezra Dalton, 
 Laid his hand upon her head : 
 
 " Thy sorrow is great, woman ! 
 I sorrow with thee," he said. 
 
 Now the weariest of all mothers, 
 The saddest two-years bride. 
 
 She scowls in the face of her husband. 
 And spurns her child aside. 
 
 " Rake out the red Coals, goodman, 
 
 For there the child shall lie. 
 Till the black witch comes to fetch her. 
 
 And both up chimney fly. 
 
 " It's never my own little daughter, 
 It's never my own," she said ; 
 
 " The witches have stolen my Anna, 
 And left me an imp instead. 
 
 " 0, fair and sweet was my baby. 
 Blue eyes, and ringlets of gold ; 
 
 But this is ugly and wrinkled. 
 Cross, and cunning, and old. 
 
 " I hate the touch of her fingers, 
 
 I hate the feel of her skin ; 
 It's not the milk from my bosom. 
 
 But my blood, that she sucks in. 
 
 " My face grows sharp with the torment ; 
 
 Look ! my arms are skin and bone ! — 
 Rake open the red coals, goodman. 
 
 And the witch shall have her own. 
 
 " The paths to trouble are many, 
 
 And never but one sure way 
 Leads out to the light beyond it : 
 
 My poor wife, let us pray." 
 Then he said to the great All-Father, 
 
 " Thy daughter is weak and blind ; 
 Let her sight come back, and clothe her 
 
 Once more in her right mind. 
 " Lead her out of this evil shadow, 
 
 Out of these fancies wild ; 
 Let the holy love of the mother, 
 
 Turn again to her child. 
 " Make her lips like the lips of Mary, 
 
 Kissing her blessed Son ; 
 Let her hands, like the hands of Jesus, 
 
 Rest on her little one. 
 " Comfort the soul of thy handmaid, 
 
 Open her prison door. 
 And thine shall be all the glory 
 
 And praise forevermore." 
 Then into the face of its mother, 
 
 The baby looked up and smiled ; 
 And the cloud of her soul was lifted, 
 
 And she knew her little child. 
 A beam of slant west sunshine 
 
 Made the wan face almost fair. 
 
WHY? 
 
 G55 
 
 Lit the blue eyes' patient wonder 
 And the rings of pale gold hair. 
 
 She kissed it on lip and forehead, 
 She kissed it on cheek and chin ; 
 
 And she bared her snow-white bosom 
 To the lips so pale and thin. 
 
 0, fair on her bridal morning 
 
 Was the maid who blushed and smiled 
 But fairer to Ezra Dalton 
 
 Looked the mother of his child. j 
 
 With more than a lover's fondness 
 
 He stooped to her worn young face j 
 And the nursing child and the mother 
 
 He folded in one embrace. 
 
 " Now mount and ride, my goodman 
 As lovest thine own soul ! i 
 
 Woe's me if my wicked fancies 
 Be the death of Goody Cole !" 
 
 His horse he saddled and bridled. 
 
 And into the night rode he,— 
 Now through the great black woodland ; 
 
 Now by the white-beached sea. 
 
 He rode through the silent clearings. 
 
 He came to the ferry wide. 
 And thrice he called to the boatman 
 
 Asleep on the other side. 
 
 He set his horse to the river, 
 He swam to Newburg town. 
 
 And he called up Justice Sewall 
 In his nightcap and his gown. 
 
 And the grave and worshipful justice, 
 Upon whose soul be peace ! 
 
 Set his name to the jailer's warrant 
 For Goody Cole's release. 
 
 Then through the night the hoof-beats 
 Went sounding like a flail : 
 
 And Goody Cole at cock crow 
 Came forth from Ipswich jail. 
 
 WHY!' 
 
 jS|^P!|OW kind Reuben Esmond is growing 
 IUJi of late, 
 
 'l^'^aW' How he stops every day as he goes 
 by the gate, 
 Asking after my health. 'Tis a good- 
 hearted lad. 
 To think of the soldier, so lonely and 
 
 The school-children hail me as " Gran 'father 
 
 Brown," 
 Because I'm the oldest man left in the town ; 
 
 ETHEL LYNN. 
 
 But when the slant sunbeams come hither to 
 
 lie, 
 Reuben Esmond comes too — I cannot tell 
 
 why. 
 
 For I am a tedious and stupid old man, 
 Quite willing to do all the good that I can 
 But a crutch and a pension will tell you the 
 
 tale 
 Of the warm work I had in the Beech-For 
 
 est Vale. 
 
656 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 
 
 I've told it to Reuben — well, ten times or 
 
 more — 
 I, sitting just here, little Jo in the door, 
 (Jo is poor Mary's child, she that came home 
 
 to die, 
 God knew it was best, I couldn't see why.) 
 
 And Reuben and Josie, they sit very still, 
 
 When I tell how I fought over Hazelton Hill ; 
 
 But the child turns away if I chance to look 
 round. 
 
 And stares at the apple-blooms strewn on 
 the ground. 
 
 Then she says I must move when the sun- 
 light is gone, 
 
 She isn't afraid to be left there alone ; 
 
 And Reuben springs up so cheerful and spry, 
 
 To help me in-doors — I do wonder why. 
 
 He don't go away — he isn't afraid 
 
 Of the dew on the grass or the deep-falling 
 
 shade. 
 It must be very tedious for Josie to stay, 
 But she says she don't mind 't is the girl's 
 
 pleasant way. 
 She knows I like Reuben ; and so every night 
 She pins up her hair with a posy so bright. 
 'T is strange — in the morning the red roses 
 
 lie 
 All crushed on the step — I do wonder why. 
 
 There's neighbor Grey's son, he acts very 
 
 queer. 
 He used to be always so neighborly here ; 
 When I call to him now he grows white and 
 
 red, 
 
 Never asks me if Josie is living or dead. 
 He don't seem to like her, I thought he did 
 
 once, 
 But perhaps the old soldier is only a dunce. 
 He won't speak to Reuben when passing him 
 
 by, 
 Nor stop at his call — I do wonder why. 
 
 Here's Reuben to-day. He looks round my 
 
 chair 
 In the doorway for Jo. The child isn't there, 
 And the lad looks abashed. " I called — 
 
 Captain Brown," 
 And here he stops short, looking awkwardly 
 
 down, 
 " To ask you for Josie." The lad lifts his head, 
 While his cheek, like a girl's, flushed all over 
 
 red. 
 " I will love her and guard her until I shall 
 
 die, 
 And she loves me, she says, I cannot tell why." 
 
 I have surely forgotten how Time never 
 stays, 
 
 How the wave of the year gulfs the drops of 
 the days. 
 
 Little Jo seventeen ! Ah, yes, I remember. 
 
 Just seventeen years the eighteenth of No- 
 vember. 
 
 Little Josie a bride. " Take her, Reuben, 
 and be 
 
 Very tender and patient." More clearly I 
 
 Why Reuben should call every day going by, 
 To ask for ray welfare. Grandfather knows 
 why. 
 
 TEE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 . o^.fo , — 
 
 ^^ETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 
 ^jj^» When night is beginning to lower, 
 *^^^Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
 A That is known as the children's hour. 
 
 I hear in the chamber above me 
 The patter of little feet, 
 
 The sound of a door that is opened. 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study I see in the lamplight, 
 Descending the broad hall stair, 
 
 Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
iiiiiii 
 
 GRANDPA AND HIS PET? 
 
FRANKLIN'S ARRIVAL m THILADELPHIA. 
 
 657 
 
 A whisper and then a silence ; 
 
 Yet I know by their merry eyes 
 They are plotting and planning together 
 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 A sudden raid from the hall, 
 
 By three doors left unguarded. 
 They enter my castle wall. 
 
 They climb up into my turret, 
 
 O'er the arms and back of my chair : 
 
 If I try to escape, they surround me : 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses, 
 Their arms about me intwine. 
 
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
 In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 
 
 Do you think, blue -eyed banditti. 
 Because you have scaled the wall, 
 
 Such an old mustache as I am 
 Is not a match for you all ? 
 
 I have you fast in my fortress, 
 And will not let you depart, 
 
 But put you into the dungeon 
 In the round-tower of my heart. 
 
 And there will I keep you forever, 
 
 Yes, forever and a day. 
 Till the walls shall crumble to ruic 
 
 And moulder in dust 
 
 FRANKLIN'S ARRIVAL IN PHILADELPHIA. 
 
 ^T^N my arrival at Philadelphia, I was in my working dress, my best 
 clothes being to come by sea. I was covered with dirt; my 
 pockets were filled with shirts and stockings ; I was unacquainted 
 with a single soul in the place, and knew not where to seek a 
 lodging. 
 
 Fatigued with walking, rowing, and having passed the night 
 without sleep, I was extremely hungry, and all my money consisted of a 
 Dutch dollar, and about a shilHng's worth of coppers, which I gave to the 
 boatmen for my passage. As I had assisted them in rowing, they refused 
 it at first ; but I insisted on their taking it. A man is sometimes more 
 generous when he has little than when he has much money; probably 
 because, in the first case, he is desirous of concealing his poverty. 
 
 I walked towards the top of the street, looking eagerly on both sides, 
 till I came to Market Street, where I met with a child with a loaf of 
 bread. Often had I made my dinner on dry bread. I inquired where he 
 had bought it, and went straight to the baker's shop which he pointed out 
 to me. 
 
 I asked for some biscuits, expecting to find such as we had at Boston ; 
 but they made, it seems, none of that sort at Philadelphia. I then asked 
 for a three-penny loaf. They made no loaves of that price. Finding 
 myself ignorant of the prices, as well as of the difierent kinds of bread, I 
 
058 
 
 THROUGH TRIALS. 
 
 desired him to let me have threepenny-worth of bread of some kind or 
 other. He gave mo three large rolls. I was surprised at receiving so 
 much : I took them, however, and, having no room in my pockets, I walked 
 on with a roll under each arm, eating a third. In this manner I went 
 through Market Street to Fourth Street, and passed the house of Mr. Read^ 
 the father of my future wife. She was standing at the door, observed me, and 
 thought, with reason, that I made a very singular and grotesque aj^pearance. 
 I then turned the corner, and went through Chestnut Street, eating my 
 roll all the way; and, having made this round, I found myself again on 
 Market Street wharf, near the boat in which I arrived. I stepped into it to 
 take a draught of the river water ; and, finding myself satisfied with my 
 first roll, I gave the other two to a woman and her child, who had come 
 down with us in the boat, and was waiting to continue her journey. Thus 
 refreshed, I regained the street, which was now full of well-dressed people, 
 all going the same way. I joined them, and was thus led to a large 
 Quakers' meeting-house near the market-place. I sat down with the rest, 
 and, after looking round me for some time, hearing nothing said, and being 
 drowsy from my last night's labor and want of rest, I fell into a sound 
 sleep. In this state I continued till the assembly dispersed, when one of 
 the congregation had the goodness to wake me. This was consequently the 
 first house I entered, or in which T slept, at Philadelphia. 
 
 THROUGH TRIALS, 
 
 ROSENGARTEN. 
 
 |TJ||pnROUGH night to light. And though 
 ^1^ to mortal eyes 
 
 ■=Y Creation's face a pall of horror wear, 
 Good cheer, good cheer ! The gloom 
 of midnight flies, 
 Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair. 
 
 Through storm to calm. And though his 
 thunder car 
 The rumbling tempest drive through earth 
 and sky, 
 Good cheer, good cheer ! The elemental war 
 Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh. 
 
 Through frost to spring. And though the 
 biting blast 
 Of Euru3 stiffen nature's juicy veins. 
 
 Good cheer, good cheer ! When winter's wrath 
 is past, 
 Soft murmuring spring breathes sweetly 
 o'er the plains. 
 
 Through strife to peace. And though with 
 
 bristling front, 
 
 A thousand frightful deaths encompass thee, 
 
 Good cheer, good cheer! Brave thou the 
 
 battle's brunt, 
 
 For the peace march and song of victory. 
 
 Through cross to crown. And through thy 
 spirit's life 
 Trials untold assail with giant strength, 
 Good cheer, good cheer! Soon ends the bittei 
 strife, 
 
VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL. 
 
 659 
 
 And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ 
 
 And through this thistle-field of life, as- 
 
 at length. 
 
 cend 
 
 
 To the great supper in that world, whose 
 
 Through death to life. And through this 
 
 years 
 
 vale of tears, 
 
 Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end. 
 
 VISION OF THE MONK GABRIEL. 
 
 ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. 
 
 IJIIIPIS the soft twilight. Round the 
 ^H^Hf)^ shining fender, — 
 
 Two at my feet and one upon my 
 knee, — 
 Dreamy-eyed Elsie, bright-lipped Isa- 
 bel, 
 And thou, my golden-headed Raphael, 
 My fairy, small and slender. 
 Listen to what befell 
 Monk Gabriel, 
 In the old ages ripe with mystery : 
 Listen, my darlings, to the legend tender. 
 
 An aged man with grave, but gentle look — 
 His silence sweet with sounds 
 With which the simple-hearted spring 
 
 abounds ; 
 Lowing of cattle from the abbey grounds, 
 Chirping of insect, and the building rock 
 Mingled like murmurs of a dreaming shell ; 
 Quaint tracery of bird, and branch, and brook. 
 Flitting across the pages of his book, 
 Until the very words a freshness took — 
 Deep in his cell 
 Sat the monk Gabriel. 
 
 In his book he read 
 The words the Master to His dear ones said : 
 
 " A little while and ye 
 Shall see, 
 
 Shall gaze on Me ; 
 
 A little while again. 
 
 Ye shall not see Me then." 
 A little while ! 
 The monk looked up — a smile 
 Making his visage brilliant, liquid-eyed : 
 " Thou who gracious art 
 
 Unto the poor of heart, 
 blessed Christ!" he cried, 
 
 " Great is the misery 
 
 Of mine iniquity ; 
 But would J now might see. 
 Might feast on Thee !" 
 — The blood with sudden start, 
 Nigh rent his veins apart — 
 (Oh condescension of the Crucified :) 
 
 In all the brilliancy 
 
 Of His Humanity — 
 The Christ stood by his side ! 
 
 Pure as the early lily was His skin, 
 His cheek out-blushed the rose. 
 His lips, the glows 
 Of autumn sunset on eternal snows ; 
 
 And His deep eyes within. 
 Such nameless beauties, wondrous glories 
 
 dwelt 
 The monk in speechless adoration knelt. 
 In each fair hand, in each fair foot there shone 
 The peerless stars He took from Calvary ; 
 Around His brows in tenderest lucency 
 The thorn-marks lingered, like the flash of 
 
 dawn ; 
 And from the opening in His side there rilled 
 A light, so dazzling, that all the room was 
 
 filled 
 With heaven ; and transfigured in his place, 
 
 His very breathing stilled, 
 The friar held his robe before his face, 
 
 And heard the angels singing ! 
 
 'Twas but a moment — then, upon the 
 spell 
 Of this sweet presence, lo ! a something broke- 
 
660 
 
 BOOK-BUYERS. 
 
 A something trembling, in the belfry woko, 
 
 An hour hence, his duty nobly done 
 
 A shower of metal music ilinging 
 
 Back to his cell he came ; 
 
 O'er wold and moat, o'er park and lake and 
 
 Unasked, unsought, lo ! his reward was won ! 
 
 fell. 
 
 — Rafters and walls and floor were yet 
 
 And through the open windows of the cell 
 
 aflame 
 
 In silver chimes came ringing. 
 
 "With all the matchless glory of that sun. 
 
 
 And in the centre stood the Blessed One 
 
 It was the bell 
 
 (Praise be His Holy Name !) 
 
 Calling monk Gabriel, 
 
 Who for our sakes our crosses made His own, 
 
 Unto his daily task. 
 
 And bore our weight of shame. 
 
 To feed the paupers at the abbey gate ; 
 
 
 No respite did he ask. 
 
 Down on the threshold fell 
 
 Nor for a second summons idly wait ; 
 
 Monk Gabriel, 
 
 But rose up, saying in his humble way ; 
 
 His forehead pressed upon the floor of clay, 
 
 "Fain would I stay, 
 
 And while in deep humility he lay, 
 
 Lord ! and feast alway 
 
 (Tears raining from his happy eyes away) 
 
 Upon, the honeyed sweetness of Thy beauty ; 
 
 " Whence is this favor, Lo':d ?" he strove to 
 
 But 'tis Thy will, not mine. I must obey. 
 
 say. 
 
 Help me to do my duty !" 
 
 
 The while the Vision smiled, 
 
 The Vision only said, 
 
 The monk went fortli, light-hearted as a 
 
 Lifting its shining head ; 
 
 child. 
 
 " If ihou hadst staid, son, Jmust have fled." 
 
 BOOK-BUYERS. 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN. 
 
 SAY we have despised literature; what do we, as a nation, care 
 about books? How much do you think we spend altogether on our 
 libraries, public or private, as compared with what we spend on our 
 horses ? If a man spends lavishly on his librai-y, you call him mad — a 
 bibliomaniac. But you never call one a horse-maniac, though men ruin 
 themselves every day by their horses, and you do not hear of people 
 ruining themselves by their books. Or, to go lower still, how much do 
 you think the contents of the book-shelves of the United Kingdom, public 
 and private, would fetch, as compared with the contents of its wine cellars? 
 What position would its expenditure on literature take as compared with 
 its expenditure on luxurious eating ? We talk of food for the mind, as of 
 food for 'the body : now, a good book contains such food inexhaustibly : it 
 is provision for life, and for the best part of us ; yet, how long most people 
 would look at the best book before they would give the price of a large 
 turbot for itl Though there have been men who have pinched their 
 stomachs and bared their backs to buy a book, whose libraries were cheaper 
 
VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. 
 
 661 
 
 to them, I think, in theiend, than most men's dinners are. We are few of 
 us put to such a trial, and more the pity ; for, indeed, a precious thing is 
 all the more precious to us if it has been won by work or economy ; and if 
 public libraries were half as costly as public dinners, or books cost the 
 tenth part of what bracelets do, even foolish men and women might some- 
 times suspect there was good in reading as well as in munchingiand spark- 
 ling; whereas the very cheapness of literature is making even wiser people 
 forget that if a book is worth reading it is worth buying. 
 
 DAY DAWN. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 }^ WIND came up out of the sea. 
 
 And said, " 0, mists, mo,ke room for 
 
 Vr 
 
 ^% 
 
 It bailed ; . 
 
 Ye mariners, tin 
 
 ;Lt IS 
 
 And hurried landward far away, 
 Crying " Awake ! it is the d?y." 
 
 It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
 Hang all your leafy banners out !" 
 
 It touched the wood-bird's folded wing. 
 And said " bird, awake and sing." 
 
 And o'er the farms, " chanticleer. 
 Your clarion blow, the day is near." 
 
 It whispered to the fields of corn, 
 
 " Bow down, and hail the coming morn. 
 
 It shouted through the belfry tower, 
 " Awake ; bell ! proclaim the hour." 
 
 It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
 And said. " Not yet I in quiet lie." 
 
 VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. 
 
 WILLLVM B. SPRAGUE. 
 
 MET mo now, for a moment, show you what the two systems — Atheism 
 and Christianity — can do, have done, for individual character; and 
 ''^^^ I can think of no two names to which I may refer with more con- 
 fidence, in the way of illustration, than Voltaire and "Wilberforce ; 
 both of them names which stand out with prominence. 
 
562 VOLTAIRE AND WILBERFORCE. 
 
 Voltaire was perhaps tlie master-spirit in the school of French Atheism ; 
 and though he was not alive to participate in the horrors of the revolution, 
 probably he did more by his writings to combine the elements for that 
 tremendous tempest than any other man. And now I undertake to say 
 that you may draw a character in which there shall be as much of the 
 blackness of moral turpitude as your imagination can supply, and yet 
 you shall not have exceeded the reality as it was found in the character of 
 this apostle of Atheism. You may throw into it the darkest shades of 
 selfishness, making the man a perfect idolater of himself; you may paint 
 the serpent in his most wily form to represent deceit and cunning; you 
 may let sensuality stand forth in all the loathsomeness of a beast in the 
 mire; you may bring out envy, and malice, and all the baser and all the 
 darker passions, drawing nutriment from the pit; and when you have done 
 this, you may contemplate the character of Voltaire, and exclaim, "Here 
 is the monstrous original !" The fires of his genius kindled only to wither 
 and consume; he stood, for almost a century, a great tree of poison, not 
 only cumbering the ground, but infusing death into the atmosphere; and 
 though its foliage has long since dropped off, and its branches have with- 
 ered, and its trunk fallen, under the hand of time, its deadly root still 
 remains; and the very earth that nourishes it is cursed for its sake. 
 
 And now I will speak of Wilberforce; and I do it with gratitude and 
 triumph, — gratitude to the God who made him what he was; triumph that 
 there is that in his very name which ought to make Atheism turn pale. 
 Wilberforce was the friend of man. Wilberforce was the friend of enslaved 
 and wretched man. Wilberforce (for I love to repeat his name) consecrated 
 the energies of his whole life to one of the noblest objects of benevolence; 
 it was in the cause of injured Africa that he often passed the night in 
 intense and wakeful thought; that he counseled' with the wise, and 
 reasoned with the unbelieving, and expostulated with the unmerciful ; that 
 his heart burst forih with all its melting tenderness, and his genius with 
 all its electric fire; that he turned the most accidental meeting into a con- 
 ference for the relief of human woe, and converted even the Senate-House 
 into a theatre of benevolent action. Though his zeal had at one time 
 almost eaten him up, and the vigor of his frame was so far gone that he 
 stooped over and looked into his own grave, yet his faith failed not; and, 
 blessed be God, the vital spark was kindled up anew, and he kept on labor- 
 ing through a long succession of years; and at length, just as his friends 
 were gathering around him to receive his last whisper, and the angels were 
 gathering around to receive his departing spirit, the news, worthy to be 
 borne by angels, was brought to him, that the great object to which his 
 
SUNRISE IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. 
 
 G63 
 
 life had been given was gained; and then, Simeon-like, he clasped his 
 hands to die, and went off to heaven with the sound of deliverance to the 
 captive vibrating sweetly upon his ear. 
 
 Both Voltaire and Wilberforce are dead; but each of them lives in 
 the character he has left behind him. And now who does not delight to 
 honor the character of the one ? who does not shudder to contemplate the 
 character of the other ? 
 
 SUNEISE 7iV TEF VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 ^^^PWAKE, my soul ! not only passive 
 P^^^ praise 
 
 i,^^ Thou owebt ! not alone these swell- 
 ing tears, 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstacy ! 
 Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, 
 awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliiTs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the 
 
 vale ! 
 0, struggling with the darkness all the night. 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they 
 
 sink, — 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn, 
 Co-herald, — wake, 0, wake, and utter praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 WTio called you forth from night and utter 
 
 death. 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 
 Forever shattered and tho same forever? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
 
 your joy. 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came). 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's 
 
 brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest 
 
 plunge! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ' 
 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of 
 
 Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the 
 
 sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with 
 
 living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
 
 God ! — let the torrents, like a shout of 
 nations. 
 
 Answer ' and let the ice -plains echo, God ! 
 
 God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad- 
 some voice ! 
 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 
 sounds ! 
 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living Howers that skirt the eternal frost ' 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! 
 
 Thou, too, hoar Mount ! 
 pointing peaks. 
 
 with thy sky- 
 
o64 
 
 SUNRISE IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNIX. 
 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche unheard, 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the 
 
 pure serene, 
 Into the deptli of clouds that veil thy breast,- 
 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
 To rise before me, — Rise, 0, ever rise ! 
 Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth '. 
 Thou kingly Spiiit tlu'unod among the bins. 
 
 Then too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 In adoracion, upward from thy base 
 Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with 
 tears. 
 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth to 
 
 Heaven, 
 Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
 And tell the stars and tell yon rising sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God 
 
THE POWER OF WORDS. 665 
 
 THE POWER OF WORDS. 
 
 EDWIN P. WHIPPLE. 
 
 SI^OR-DS are most effective when arranged in that order which is 
 
 called style. The great secret of a good style, we are told, is to 
 
 have proper words in proper places. To marshal one's verbal 
 
 battalions in such order that they may bear at once upon all 
 
 4; quarters of a subject, is certainly a great art. This is done in 
 
 J different ways. Swift, Temple, Addison, Hume, Gibbon, Johnson, 
 
 Burke, are all great generals in the discipline of their verbal armies and 
 
 the conduct of their paper wars. Each has a system of tactics of his own, 
 
 and excels in the use of some particular weapon. 
 
 The tread of Johnson's style is heavy and sonorous, resembling that of 
 an elephant or a mail-clad warrior. He is fond of leveling an obstacle by 
 a polysyllabic battering-ram. Burke's words are continually practicing 
 the broad-sword exercise, and swooping down adversaries with every 
 stroke. Arbuthnot " plays his weapon like a tongue of flame." Addison 
 draws up his light infantry in orderly array, and marches through sentence 
 after sentence without having his ranks disordered or his line broken. 
 Luther is different. His words are " half battles ;" " his smiting idiomatic 
 phrases seem to cleave into the very heart of the matter." Gibbon's 
 legions are heavily armed, and march with precision and dignity to the 
 music of their own tramp. They are splendidly equipped, but a nice eye 
 can discern a little rust beneath their fine apparel, and there are sutlers in 
 his camp who lie, cog, and talk gross obscenity. Macaulay, brisk, lively, 
 keen, and energetic, runs his thought rapidly through his sentence, and 
 kicks out of the way every word which obstructs his passage. He reins 
 in his steed only when he has reached his goal, and then does it with such 
 celerity that he is nearly thrown backwards by the suddenness of his stop- 
 page. Gifford's words are moss-troopers, that waylay innocent travelers 
 and murder them for hire. Jeffrey is a fine " lance," with a sort of Arab 
 swiftness in his movement, and runs an iron-clad horseman through the eye 
 before he has had time to close his helmet. 
 
 John Wilson's camp is a disorganized mass, who might do effectual 
 service under better discipline, but who, under his lead, are suffered to 
 carry on a rambling and predatory warfare, and disgrace their general by 
 flagitious excesses. Sometimes they steal, sometimes swear, sometimes 
 drink, and sometimes pray. Swift's words are porcupine's quills, which he 
 throws with unerring aim at whoever approaches his lair. All of Ebene- 
 zer Elliot's words are gifted with huge fists, to pommel and bruise. Chat- 
 
666 DUST ON HER BIBLE. 
 
 ham and Miraboau throw hot shot into their opponents' magazines. 
 Talfourd's forces are orderly and disciphned, and march to the music of 
 the Dorian flute; those of Keats keep time to the tones of the pipe of 
 Phoebus ; and the hard, harsh-fea.turcd battahons of Maginn are always 
 preceded by a brass band. Hallam's word infantry can do much execution 
 when they are not in each other's way. Pope's phrases are either daggers 
 or rapiers. Willis's words are often tipsy with the champagne of the 
 fancy, but even when they reel and stagger they keep the line of grace 
 and beauty, and, though scattered at first by a fierce onset from graver 
 cohorts, soon reunite without wound or loss. 
 
 John Neal's forces are multitudinous, and fire briskly at every thmg. 
 They occupy all the provinces of letters, and are nearly useless from being 
 spread over too much ground. Everett's weapons are ever kept in good 
 order, and shine well in the sun ; but they are little calculated for warfare, 
 and rarely kill when they strike. Webster's words are thunderbolts, 
 which sometimes miss the Titans at whom they are hurled, but always 
 leave enduring marks when they strike. Hazlitt's verbal army is some- 
 times drunk and surly, sometimes foaming with passion, sometimes cool 
 and malignant, but, drunk or sober, are ever dangerous to cope with. 
 Some of Tom Moore's words are shining dirt, which he flings with 
 excellent aim. This list might be indefinitely extended, and arranged with 
 more regard to merit and chronology. My own words, in this connection, 
 might be compared to ragged, undisciplined militia, which could be easily 
 routed by a charge of horse, and which are apt to fire into each others' 
 
 DUST ON HER BIBLE. 
 
 ROBERT LOWRY. 
 
 Wji) MET her where Folly was queen of the 
 
 ^•f,)^ And Mirth bade the giddy ones come, 
 
 ^'h And she, 'mid the wildest, in dance 
 
 ^ and in song, 
 
 w Swept on with the current, so turgid 
 
 and strong — 
 
 There was dust on her Bible at home. 
 
 I met her again when away from the gay. 
 
 But the words of the scoffer that dropped by 
 
 the way 
 Betokened how sadly her heart was astray — 
 There was dust on her Bible at home. 
 
 I met her once more, but her brow had no care. 
 
 Her soul was Immanuel's throne ; 
 And I knew by the artless and tear-moistened 
 
 prayer. 
 That rose from the spirit in suppliance there. 
 
 In the stillness of thought she would roam ; That the dust on her Bible was gone. 
 
 I 
 
WINTER SPORTS. 
 
 667 
 
 WINTER SPORTS. 
 
 1 
 
 J 
 
 -^ 
 
 liJ^O some, the winter is a season to be dreaded. In their poverty they 
 ^"^ are exposed to the cutting blasts, the snow, the ice, the long dark 
 nights, the lack of many sources of employment. To others, win- 
 ter brings exhilaration and enjoyment of the keenest sort. The 
 eyes need not close upon the more sombre views of this rigorous 
 season, nor need the heart refuse the appeals of the suffering, if for a time 
 the more cheery side be viewed and winter sports be contemplated. 
 
 Despite the chilling blasts the people generally are ready to spring to 
 their cutters and sleighs of more pretentious size whenever snow falls and 
 
 opportunity offers. The merry laugh, 
 the joyful shout, the cheery song mingle 
 with the jingling sleigh-bells on city 
 streets and country roads, and for the 
 time a carnival of joy prevails. The 
 heavy sledges of traffic gather up liv- 
 ing loads, the business wagon affixed 
 to runners becomes a pleasure vehicle for a happy family, while the small 
 boy with hand-sled, home-made and rough or factory-made and costly, 
 plies his vocation catching a ride from the passing team, or coasting upon 
 some convenient hill. All these pursuits are followed with a relish seldom 
 felt in summer pastimes. Away from the city's busy sleighing scenes 
 winter sports multiply and intensify. Whittier tells of — 
 
 The moonlit skater's keen delight, 
 The sleigh-drive through the frosty night, 
 The rustic party, with its rough 
 Accompaniment of blind man's buff." 
 
658 WINTER sroRTS. 
 
 Something of these scenes is familiar to every one. To see them is 
 an inspiration ; to take part in them renews the youth of the aged, and 
 reinvigorates the young ; to remember them is Hke " the sound of distant 
 music, sweet, though mournful to the soul." 
 
 Few sports seem rougher than the tumble in the snow or the well- 
 contested battle with snow-balls. But who refuses to take a hand in such 
 a contest ? Even the staid and dignified men and matrons are led easily 
 into indulgences at this point. Considerations of health, or of garments 
 come before these prudent seniors, but down they go, regarded but for a 
 moment, when challenged to sport like this. The Quaker Poet himself 
 knew how this matter stood, for he declares in " Snow Bound," that 
 
 " the watchful young men saw 
 
 Sweet doorway pictures of the curls, 
 And curious eyes of merry girls, 
 Lifting their hands in mock defence 
 Against the snow-ball's compliments." 
 
 True, here the poet speaks of young people and their enjoyment, but 
 the evident relish he has for the whole matter shows that he himself 
 knew just how the matter stood. It may be doubted whether he could 
 long resist an appeal to toss these tender " missives " through some open 
 doorway, did curly heads and bright eyes but present themselves there. 
 
 To enter with zest and yet with care into the real enjoyment of out- 
 door sports — and especially in the bracing winter months— ;-is the part of 
 wisdom. Exhilaration, such as can be gained in no other way, is thus se- 
 cured. True health and vigor must exist before a hearty participation 
 can be had in such sports. But a helpful participation can be had on a 
 small physical capital. That effeminacy which dreads the bracing, highly 
 oxygenized atmosphere of midwinter is not conducive to manly strength. 
 On the other hand, there is a recklessness of exposure which is mistaken 
 

THE ROSE. 
 
 669 
 
 for manliness. This is equally undesirable. It will break one's constitu- 
 tion, and between a good constitution broken and one never strong there 
 is but little choice. Wise care blended with hearty earnestness should 
 rule our winter enjoyments. And a kindly consideration for less favored 
 ones should never be neglected. Many need our help, and should have it 
 freely while we ourselves rejoice. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 ^N his tower sat the poet 
 
 P Gazing on the roaring sea, 
 
 Take this rose," he sighed, "and 
 n^ throw it 
 
 T Where there's none that loveth 
 
 •T me. 
 
 J On the rock the billow bursteth, 
 And sinks back into the seas, 
 But in vain my spirit thirsteth 
 So to burst and be at ease. 
 
 ' Take, sea ! the tender blossom 
 
 That hath lain against my breast ; 
 
 On thy black and angry bosom 
 It will find a surer rest, 
 
 Life is vain, and love is hollow, 
 
 Ugly death stands there behind, 
 
 Hate, and scorn, and hunger follow 
 Him that toileth for his kind." 
 
 Forth into the night he hurled it. 
 
 And with bitter smile did mark 
 How the surly tempest whirled it 
 
 Swift into the hungry dark. 
 Foam and spray drive back to leeward, 
 
 And the gale, with dreary moan. 
 Drifts the helpless blossom seaward. 
 
 Through the breaking, all alone. 
 
 II. 
 
 Stands a maiden, on the morrow. 
 
 Musing by the wave-beat strand, 
 Half in hope, and half in sorrow 
 
 Tracing words upon the sand : 
 " Shall I ever then behold him 
 
 Who hath been my life so long, — 
 Ever to this sick heart fold him, — 
 
 Be the spirit of his song ? 
 
 
 " Touch not, sea, the blessed letters 
 I have traced upon thy shore, 
 
 Spare his name whose spirit fetters 
 Mine with love forever more ! " 
 
 Swells the tide and overflows it, 
 
 But with omen pure and meet. 
 
670 
 
 THE LOST LOVE. 
 
 Brings a little rose, and throws it 
 Humbly at the maiden's feet. 
 
 Full of bliss she takes the token, 
 
 And, upon her snowy breast, 
 Soothes the ruffled petals broken 
 
 With the ocean's fierce unrest. 
 " Love is thine, heart! and surely 
 
 Peace shall also be thine own, 
 For the heart that trusteth purely 
 
 Never long can pine alone." 
 
 in. 
 
 In his tower sits the poet. 
 
 Blisses new, and strange to him 
 Fill his heart and overflow it 
 
 With a wonder sweet and dim. 
 
 Up the beach the ocean slideth 
 With a whisper of delight, 
 
 And the moon in silence glideth, 
 
 Through the peaceful blue of night. 
 
 Poippling o'er the poet's shoulder 
 
 Flows a maiden's golden hair, 
 Maiden lips, with love grown bolder. 
 
 Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. 
 " Life is joy, and love is power. 
 
 Death all fetters doth unbind. 
 Strength and wisdom only flower 
 
 When we toil for all our kind. 
 
 Hope is truth, the future giveth 
 
 More than present takes away, 
 And the soul forever liveth 
 
 Nearer God from day to day." 
 Not a word the maiden muttered, 
 
 Fullest hearts are slow to speak. 
 But a withered rose-leaf fluttered 
 
 Down upon the poet's cheek. 
 
 THE LOST LOVE. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 »IIE dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 1^^] Beside the springs of Dove ; 
 ^A maid whom there were noneto 
 And very few to love. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 When Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But she is in her grave, and 
 
 The difference to me ! 
 
BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. g^j 
 
 BUCK FANSHA W'S FUNERAL. 
 
 S. C. CLEMENS. 
 
 mpHEEE was a grand time over Buck Fanshaw when he died. He 
 ^1^ was a representative citizen. On the inquest it was shown that, 
 ^L in the delirium of a wasting typhoid fever he had taken arsenic, 
 l> shot himself through the body, cut his throat, and jumped out of a 
 4 four-story window and broken his neck, and, after due deliberation, 
 J the j ury, sad and tearful, but with intelligence unblinded by its sor- 
 row, brought in a verdict of '' death by the visitation of Providence." 
 What could the world do without juries ! 
 
 Prodigious preparations were made for the funeral. All the vehicles 
 in town were hired, all the saloons were put in mourning, all the muni- 
 cipal and fire-company flags were hung at half-mast and all the firemen 
 ordered to muster in uniform, and bring their machines duly draped in 
 black. 
 
 Eegretful resolutions were passed and various committees appointed ; 
 among others, a committee of one was deputed to call on the minister — a 
 fragile, gentle, spiritual new fledgling from an eastern theological semi- 
 nary, and as yet unacquainted with the ways of the mines. The commit- 
 tee-man, " Scotty " Briggs, made his visit. 
 
 Being admitted to his presence, he sat down before the clergyman, 
 placed his fire-hat on an unfinished manuscript sermon under the minister's 
 nose, took from it a red silk handkerchief, wiped his brow, and heaved a 
 sigh of dismal impressiveness, explanatory of his business. He choked and 
 even shed tears, but with an efi"ort he mastered his voice, and said, in lugu- 
 brious tones : 
 
 " Are you the duck that runs the gospel-naill next door ? " 
 
 "Am I the — pardon me, I believe I do not understand." 
 
 "With another sigh and a half sob, Scotty rejoined : 
 
 " Why you see we are in a bit of trouble, and the boys thought maybe 
 you'd give us a lift, if we'd tackle you, that is, if I've got the rights of it, 
 and you're the head clerk of the doxology works next door." 
 
 "I am the shepherd in charge of the flock whose fold is next 
 door." 
 
 "The which?" 
 
 " The spiritual adviser of the little company of believers whose sanc- 
 tuary adjoins these premises." 
 
 Scotty scratched his head, reflected a moment, and then said : 
 
5^2 BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. • 
 
 " You ruther hold over me, pard. I reckon I can't call that card. 
 Ante and pass the buck." 
 
 " How ? I beg your pardon. What did I understand you to say ? " 
 
 " Well, you've ruther got the bulge on me. Or maybe we've both got 
 the bulge, somehow. You don't smoke me and I don't smoke you. You 
 see one of the boys has passed in his checks, and we want to give him a 
 good send off, and so the thing I'm on now is to roust out somebody to 
 jerk a little chin-music for us, and waltz him through handsome." 
 
 " My friend, I seem to grow more and more bewildered. Your obser- 
 vations are wholly incomprehensible to me. Can you not simplify them 
 some way ? At first I thought perhaps I understood you, but I grope 
 now. Would it not expedite matters if you restricted yourself to the cate- 
 gorical statements of fact unincumbered with obstructing accumulations of 
 metaphor and allegory ? " 
 
 Another pause and more reflection. Then Scotty said : " I'll have to 
 pass, I judge." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " You've raised me out, pard." 
 
 " I still fail to catch your meaning." 
 
 " Why, that last lead of your'n is too many for me — that's the idea. 
 I can't neither trump nor follow suit." 
 
 The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed. Scotty leaned his 
 head on his hand, and gave himself up to reflection. Presently his face 
 came up, sorrowful, but confident. 
 
 "I've got it now, so's you can savvy," said he. " What we want is a 
 gospel-sharp. See ? " 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 " Gospel-sharp. Parson." 
 
 " Oh ! Why did you not say so before ? I am a clergyman — a 
 
 parson." 
 
 " Now you talk ! You see my blind, and straddle it like a man. Put 
 it there !" — extending a brawny paw, which "closed over the minister's small 
 hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and fervent 
 gratification. 
 
 " Take him all round, pard, there never was abuUier man in the mines. 
 No man ever know'd Buck Fanshaw to go back on a friend. But it's all 
 up, you know ; it's all up. It ain't no use. They've scooped him ! " 
 
 " Scooped him ? " 
 
 " Yes — death has. Well, well, well, we've got to give him up. Yes, 
 indeed. It's a kind of a hard world after all, ain't it ? But, pard, he was 
 
BUCK FANSHAW'S FUNERAL. 673 
 
 a rustler. You ought to seen him get started once. He was a bully boy 
 with a glass eye ! Just spit in his face, and give him room according to 
 his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and go in. He was 
 the worst son of a thief that ever draw'd breath. Pard, he was on it. He 
 was on it bigger than an injuu ! " 
 
 " On it ? On what ? " 
 
 " On the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight. Understand ? He 
 didn't give a continental — for anyhoHy. Beg your pardon, friend, for 
 coming so near saying a cuss word — but you see I'm on an awful strain in 
 this palaver, on account of having to cramp down and draw everything so 
 mild. But we've got to give him up. There ain't any getting around 
 that, I don't reckon. Now if we can get you to help plant him — " 
 
 " Preach the funeral discourse ? Assist at the obsequies? " 
 
 " Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it ; that's our little game. We are 
 going to get up the thing regardless, you know. He was always nifty 
 himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch ; solid 
 silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a nigger on 
 the box, with a biled shirt and a plug hat on — how's that for high ? And 
 we'll take care of you, pard. We'll fix you all right. There will bfe a 
 kerridge for you ; and whatever you want you just 'scape out, and we'll 
 tend to it. We've got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind in No. 
 I's house, and don't you be afraid. Just go in and toot your horn, if you 
 don't sell a clam. Put Buck through as bully as you can, pard, for any- 
 body that know'd him will tell you that he was one of the whitest men 
 that was ever in the mines. You can't draw it too strong to do him jus- 
 tice. Here once when the Micks got to throwing stones through the 
 Methodist Sunday-school windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own notion, 
 shut up his saloon, and took a couple of six-shooters and mounted guard 
 over the Sunday-school. Says he, ' No Irish need apply.' And they 
 didn't. He was the bulliest man in the mountains, pard ; he could run 
 faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold more tangle-foot whiskey without 
 spilling it than any man in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard ; it'll 
 please the boys more than anything you could say. And you can say, 
 pard, that he never shook his mother." 
 
 " Never shook his mother ? " 
 
 " That's it — any of the boys will tell you so." 
 
 " Well, but why should he shake her ? " 
 
 " That's what I say — but some people does." 
 
 " Not people of any repute ? " 
 
 " Well, some that averages pretty so-so." 
 
674 
 
 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 
 
 " In my opinion a man that would offer personal violence to liis 
 mother, ought to — " 
 
 "Cheese it, pard; you've banked your ball clean outside the string. 
 What I was a-drivin' at was that he never throwed off on his mother — 
 don't you see ? No indeedy ! He give her a house to live in, and town 
 lots, and plenty of money ; and he looked after her and took care of her all 
 the time ; and when she was down with the small-pox, I'm cuss'd if he 
 didn't set up nights and nuss her himself! Beg your pardon for saying it, 
 but it hopped out too quick for yours truly. You've treated me like a 
 gentleman, and I ain't the man to hurt your feelings intentional. I think 
 you're white. I think you're a square man, pard. I like you, and I'll 
 lick any man that don't. I'll lick him till he can't tell himself from a last 
 year's corpse. Put it there ! " 
 
 [Another fraternal handshake — and exit.] 
 
 TEE EOUR OF DEATE. 
 
 MKS. F. HEMANS. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 J|And flowers to wither at the north 
 wind's breath, 
 And stars to set — but all. 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, 
 oh Death ! 
 
 Day is for mortal care, 
 Eve for glad meetings round the joy ous hearth. 
 Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of 
 prayer — 
 But all for Thee, thou mightiest of the earth. 
 
 The banquet hath its hour. 
 Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ; 
 There comes a day for griefs o'erwhelming 
 power, 
 A time for softer tears — but all are thine. 
 
 Youth and the opening rose 
 May look like things too glorious for decay. 
 And smile at thee — but thou art not of 
 those 
 That wait the ripened bloom to seize their 
 prey. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
 breath, 
 And stars to set — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh Death ! 
 
 "We know when moons shall wane, 
 When summer-birds from far shall cross the 
 sea. 
 When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden 
 grain — 
 But who shall teach us when to look for 
 thee? 
 
 Is it when Spring's first gale 
 Comes forth to whisper where the violets 
 lie? 
 Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
 They have oiie season — all are ours to die ! 
 
 Thou art where billows foam, 
 Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 
 
 Thou art around us in our peaceful home, 
 And the world calls us forth — and thou art 
 there. 
 
GRANDMOTHER'S SPECTACLES. 
 
 675 
 
 Thou art whert friend meets friend, 
 Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest — 
 Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets 
 rend 
 The skies, and swords beat down the princely 
 crest. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
 breath. 
 And stars to set — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh 
 Death ! 
 
 ANSWER '' TO THE HOUR OF DEATH: 
 
 MRS. CORNWALL BAROX WILSOX. 
 
 i|RUE, all we know must die, 
 ' Though none can tell the exact ap- 
 pointed hour ; 
 Nor should it cost the virtuous heart 
 
 a sigh, 
 Whether death doth crush the oak, or 
 nip the opening flower. 
 
 The Christian is prepared. 
 Though others tremble at the hour of gloom ! 
 
 His soul is always ready on his guard ; 
 His lamps are lighted 'gainst the bridegroom 
 come. 
 
 It matters not the time 
 When we shall end our pilgrimage below ; 
 Whether in youth's bright morn, or man- 
 hood's prime. 
 Or when the frost of age has whitened o'er 
 our brow. 
 
 The child has blossomed fair, 
 And looked so lovely on its mother's breast. 
 
 The source of many a hope and many a 
 prayer. 
 Why murmur that it sleeps when all at last 
 may rest ? 
 
 Snatched from a world of woe. 
 Where they must suffer most who longest 
 dwell, 
 It vanished like a flake of early snow, 
 That melts into the sea, pure as from heaven 
 it fell. 
 
 The youth whose pulse beats high. 
 Eager through glory's brilliant course to run. 
 Why should we shed a tear or breathe a 
 sigh. 
 That the bright goal is gained — the prize thus 
 early won ! 
 
 Yes ! all we know must die. 
 Since none can tell the exact appointed hour. 
 Why need it cost the virtuous heart a sigh. 
 Whether death doth crush the oak, or nip the 
 opening flower ? 
 
 GRANDMOTHERS SPECTACLES 
 
 T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 
 
 fUT sometimes these optical instruments get old and dim. Grand- 
 ^^ mother's pair had done good work in their day. They were large 
 and round, so that when she saw a thing she saw it. There was 
 a crack across the upper part of the glass, for many a baby had 
 made them a plaything, and all the grandchildren had at some 
 time tried them on. They had sometimes been so dimmed with tears that 
 
676 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S SRECTACLES. 
 
 she had to take them off and wipe them on her apron before she could see 
 through them at all. Her "second-sight" had now come, and she would 
 often let her glasses slip down, and then look over the top of them while 
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 along so well without them, she often lost her spectacles. Sometimes they 
 would lie for weeks untouched on the shelf in the red morocco case, the 
 flap unlifted. She could now look off upon the hills, which for thirty years 
 she had not been able to see from the piazza. Those were mistaken who 
 thought she had no poetry in her soul. You coulci see it in the way she 
 
THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 677 
 
 put her hand under the chin of a primrose, or cultured the geranium. 
 Sitting on the piazza one evening, in her rocking-chair, she saw a ladder 
 of cloud set up against the sky, and thought how easy it would be for a 
 spirit to climb it. She saw in the deep glow of the sunset a chariot of 
 fire, drawn by horses of fire, and wondered who rode in it. She saw a 
 vapor floating thinly away, as though it were a wing ascending, and grand- 
 mother muttered in a low tone: "A vapor that appeareth for a little sea- 
 son, and then vanisheth away." She saw a hill higher than any she had 
 ever seen before on the horizon, and on the top of it a king's castle. The 
 motion of the rocking-chair became slighter and slighter, until it stopped. 
 The spectacles fell out of her lap. A child, hearing it, ran to pick them 
 up, and cried : "Grandmother, what is the matter?" She answered not. 
 She never spake again. Second-sight had come ! Her vision had grown 
 better and better. What she could not see now was not worth seeing. 
 Not now through a glass darkly! Grandmother had no more need of 
 spectacles ! 
 
 THE OLD VILLAGE CHOIR. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR 
 
 HAVE fancied sometimes tlie Bethel- 
 bent beam 
 H That trembled to earth in the patri- 
 Yiy arch's dream, 
 
 Was a ladder of song in that wilder- 
 
 Jness rest, 
 From the pillow of stone to the blue 
 of the Blest, 
 And the angels descending to dwell with us 
 
 here, 
 "Old Hundred" and " Corinth," and "China" 
 and " Mear," 
 
 All the hearts are not dead nor under the 
 sod, 
 
 That these breaths can blow open to heaven 
 and God. 
 
 Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining 
 road — 
 
 Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, 
 
 But the sweet human psalms of the old- 
 fashioned choir, 
 
 To the girl that sang alto, the girl that sang 
 air. 
 
 " Let us sing to God's praise !" the minister 
 
 said : 
 AH' the psalm books at once fluttered open at 
 
 "York." 
 Sunned their long-dotted wings in the words 
 
 that he read, 
 While the leader leaped into the tune just 
 
 ahead, 
 And politely picked up the key-note with a 
 
 fork,' 
 And the vicious old viol went growling along 
 At the heels of the girls in the rear of the 
 
 song. 
 
 Oh, I need not a wing ; — bid no genii come 
 With a wonderful web from Arabian loom, 
 To bear me again up the river of Time, 
 When the world was in rhythm and life was 
 
 its rhyme, 
 And the stream of the j-ears flowed so noise- 
 less and narrow 
 That across it there floated the song of a 
 sparrow ; 
 
678 
 
 THE CORAL GROVE. 
 
 For a sprig of green caraway carries me 
 
 And dear sister Green, with more goodnesa 
 
 there, 
 
 than grace. 
 
 To the old village church and the old village 
 
 Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her 
 
 choir, 
 
 place. 
 
 Where clear of the floor my feet slowly 
 
 And where " Coronation " exultantly flows 
 
 swung 
 
 Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of 
 
 And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that 
 
 her toes ! 
 
 they sung, 
 
 To the land of the leal they have gone with 
 
 fill the glory aslant from the afternoon sun 
 
 their song, 
 
 Seemed the rafters of gold in Gods temple 
 
 Where the choir and the chorus together be- 
 
 begun ! 
 
 long. 
 
 
 Oh ! be lifted, ye gates ! Let us hear them 
 
 You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon 
 
 again. 
 
 Brown, 
 
 Blessed song! Blessed singers! forever, 
 
 Who followed by scent till he ran the tune 
 
 Amen! 
 
 down. 
 
 «^f^ 
 
 .ihtiiVH' 
 
 THE CORAL GROVE. 
 
 JAMES G, PERCIVAL. 
 
 ^EEP in the wave is a coral grove. 
 Where the purple mullet, and gold 
 
 fish rove ; 
 Where the sea-flower spreads its 
 
 leaves of blu« 
 That never are wet with falling dew, 
 But in bright and changeful beauty 
 shine 
 
 Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
 The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift. 
 And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; 
 
 From coral rocks the sea plants lift 
 
 Their boughs, where the tides and billows 
 
 flow ; 
 The water is calm and still below, 
 For the wind and waves are absent there, 
 And the sands are bright, as the stars that 
 
 glow 
 In the motionless fields of upper air. 
 There, with its waving blade of green, 
 Tlie sea flag streams through the silent water, 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
 
OVhia THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 679 
 
 To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter. 
 There, with a light and easy motion, [sea ; 
 The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep 
 And the 3-ellow and scarlet tufts of ocean 
 Are bending like corn on the upland lea 
 And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
 And is safe when the wrathful spirit of 
 
 storms 
 Has made the top of the wave his own. 
 
 And when the ship from his fury flies, 
 Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
 When the wind -god frowns in the murky 
 
 skies, [shore, 
 
 And demons are waiting the wreck on 
 Then, far below, in the peaceful sea. 
 The purple mullet and gold fish rove. 
 Where the waters murmur iranquilly. 
 Through the bending twigs of the coral 
 
 grove. 
 
 LA W. 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 AWS, as we read in ancient sages, 
 I Have been like cobwebs in all ages. 
 ,j.^^ Cobwebs for little flies are spread. 
 And laws for little folks are made ; 
 
 But if an insect of renown, 
 Hornet or beetle, wasp or drone, 
 Be caught in quest of sport or plunder, 
 The flimsy fetter flies in sunder. 
 
 OVUB THE RILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 WILL. M. CARLETON. 
 
 ^VER the hill to the poor-house I'm 
 
 trudgin' my weary way — 
 I, a woman of seventy, and only a 
 
 trifle gray — 
 I, who am smart an' chipper, for all 
 
 the years I've told. 
 As many another woman, that's only 
 
 half as old. 
 
 Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't make 
 
 it quite clear ! 
 Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so 
 
 horrid queer ! 
 Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro. 
 But this is a sort of journey I never thought 
 
 to go. 
 
 What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's 
 
 shame ? 
 Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? 
 True, I am not so supple, nor y^ so awful 
 
 stout, 
 46 
 
 But charity ain't no favor, if one can live 
 without. 
 
 I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day, 
 To work for a decent livm', an' pay my 
 
 honest way ; 
 For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll 
 
 be bound. 
 If any body only is willin' to have me round. 
 
 Once I was young andhan'some — I was 
 
 upon my soul — 
 Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black 
 
 as coal ; 
 And I can't remember, in them days, of 
 
 hearin' people say. 
 For any kind of reason, that I waa in their 
 
 way. 
 'Taint no use of boastin'. or talkin' over 
 
 free, 
 But many a house an' home was open then to 
 
680 
 
 OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 Many a han'some offer I bad from likely 
 
 men, 
 And nobody ever binted tbat I was a burden 
 
 tben. 
 
 And when to John I was married, sure be 
 
 was good and smart, 
 But he and all the neighbors would own I 
 
 done my part : 
 For life was all before me, an' I was young 
 
 an strong. 
 And I worked the best that I could in trym' 
 
 to get along. 
 
 And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us 
 
 there alone ; 
 When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' 
 
 dearer seemed to be, 
 The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took 
 
 him away from me. 
 
 Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to 
 
 cringe or fall^ 
 Still I worked for Charlie, for Cha.rlie was 
 
 now my all ; 
 And Charlie was pretty good to me, with 
 
 scarce a word or frown. 
 
 -'^^:.^ ^.%? 
 
 And so we worked together : and life was 
 
 hard but gay, 
 With now and then a baby, for to cheer us 
 
 on our way ; 
 Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed 
 
 clean an' neat, 
 An went to school like others, an' had 
 
 enough to eat. 
 
 So we worked for the childr'n, and raised 
 
 'em every one ; 
 Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as 
 
 we ought to 've done ; 
 Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some 
 
 good folks condemn, 
 But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best 
 
 to them. 
 
 Strange how much we think of our blessed 
 
 little ones ? — 
 I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have 
 
 died for my sons ; 
 And God he made that rule of love ; but 
 
 when we're old and gray, 
 I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to 
 
 work the other way. 
 
 Till at last he went a courtin', and brought 
 a wife from town. 
 
 She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleas- 
 ant smile — 
 
 She was quite conceity, and carried a heap 
 o' style; 
 
 But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with 
 her, I know; 
 
 But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't 
 make it go. 
 
 She had an edication, an' that was good for 
 her; 
 
 But when she twitted me on mine 'twas car- 
 ryin' things too fur ; 
 
 An' I told her once 'fore company (an it al- 
 most made her sick), 
 
 That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 
 'rithmatic. 
 
 So 'twas only a few days before the thing 
 
 was done — 
 They was a family of themselves, and I 
 
 another one; 
 And a very little cottage for one family will 
 do, 
 Strange, another thing : when our boys an' gut I have*never seen a house that was big 
 girls was grown, 1 enough for two. 
 
 i 
 
OVER THE HILLS FROM THE TOOR-HOUSE 
 
 681 
 
 An' I never could speak to suit her, never 
 
 An' then, I wrote to Rebecca, — ray girl who 
 
 could please her eye, 
 
 lives out West, 
 
 An' it made me independent, an' then I 
 
 And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty 
 
 didn't try ; 
 
 miles at best ; 
 
 But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like 
 
 An' one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, 
 
 a blow, 
 
 for any one so old, 
 
 When Charlie turned ag'in me, an' told me I 
 
 And t Other had an opinion the climate was 
 
 could go. 
 
 too cold. 
 
 I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house 
 
 So they have shirked and slighted me, an' 
 
 was small. 
 
 shifted me about — 
 
 And she was always a-hintin' how snug it 
 
 So they have well nigh soured me, an' worn 
 
 was for us all ; 
 
 my old heart out ; 
 
 And what with her husband's sisters, and 
 
 But still I've born up pretty well, an' wasn't 
 
 what with her childr'n three. 
 
 much put down. 
 
 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't 
 
 Till Charlie went to the poor-master, an' put 
 
 room for me. 
 
 me on the town. 
 
 An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son 
 
 Over the hill to the poor-house — my childr'n 
 
 I've got, 
 
 dear, good-bye ! 
 
 For Thomas' buildings'd cover the half of an 
 
 Many a night I've watched you when only 
 
 acre lot ; 
 
 God was nigh ; 
 
 But all the childr'n was on me — I couldn't 
 
 And God'll judge between us; but I will 
 
 stand their sauce — 
 
 al'ays pray 
 
 And Thomas said I needn't think I was 
 
 That you shall never suffer the half I do 
 
 comin' there to boss. 
 
 to-day. 
 
 OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 ►^r 
 
 MAY MIGNONETTE. 
 
 VER the hills to the poor-house sad 
 
 paths have been made to-day. 
 For sorrow is near, such asmaketh 
 
 the heads of the young turn 
 
 gray, 
 Causing the heart of the careless to 
 
 throb with a fevered breath- 
 
 To hear from her lips their last blessing before 
 she should start for her home 
 
 To Susan, poor Susan ! how bitter the agony 
 
 brought by the call, 
 For deep in her heart for her mother wide 
 
 rooms had been left after all ; 
 
 The sorrow that leads to the chamber whose And now, that she thought, by her fireside 
 
 light has gone out in death. 
 
 one place had been vacant for years, — 
 And while " o'er the hills " she was speeding 
 her path might be traced by her tears. 
 
 To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and 
 
 Charley, word sped 
 That mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps I Rebecca! she heard not the tidings, but those 
 
 when they heard might be dead ; i who bent over her knew 
 
 But e'en while they wrote she was praying i That led by the Angel of Death, near tha 
 
 that some of her children might come, | waves of the river she drew; 
 
682 
 
 A PRAYER FOR MY LITTLE OiVE. 
 
 Delirious, ever she told them her mother was 
 cooling her head, 
 
 V^'hile, weeping, they thought that ere morn- 
 ing both mother and child might be 
 dead, 
 
 And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was 
 
 quiv'ring in aspen-like grief, 
 While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him 
 
 like billows of wind o'er the leaf; 
 " Too late," were the words that had humbled 
 
 his cold, haughty pride to the dust, 
 And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, 
 
 crowned loving forgiveness with trust. 
 
 Bowed over his letters and papers, sat 
 
 Thomas, his bro^ lined by thought, 
 But little he heeded the markets or news of 
 
 his gains that they bro.ught ; 
 His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new 
 
 purpose seemed born in his eye, 
 And Thomas went " over the hills." to the 
 
 mother that shortly must die. 
 
 To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the 
 
 mother's message that morn. 
 And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the 
 
 sunlight blushed over the corn ; 
 And, strangest of all, by his side, was the 
 
 wife he had " brought from the town," 
 And silently Avept, while her tears strung 
 
 with diamonds her plain mourning 
 
 gown. 
 
 For each had been thinking, of late, how 
 
 they missed the old mother's sweet 
 
 smile, 
 And wond'ring how they could have been so 
 
 blind and unjust all that while ; 
 They thought of their harsh, cruel words, 
 
 and longed to atone for the past. 
 
 When swift o'er the heart of vain dreams 
 swept the presence of death's chilling 
 blast. 
 
 So into the chamber of death, one by one, 
 
 these sad children liad crept, 
 As they, in their childhood, had done, when 
 
 mother was tired and slept, — 
 And peace, rich as then, came to each, as 
 
 they drank in her blessing, so deep, 
 That, breathing into her life, she fell back in 
 
 her last blessed sleep. 
 
 And when "o'er the hills from the poor- 
 house,'' that mother is tenderly borne. 
 
 The life of her life, her loved children, tread 
 softly, and silently mourn. 
 
 For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as 
 the ocean is deep. 
 
 And into our lives, with sweet healing, the 
 balm of their bruising may creep 
 
 For swift come the flashings of temper, and 
 
 torrents of words come as swift. 
 Till out 'mong the tide-waves of anger, how 
 
 often we thoughtlessly drift ! 
 And heads that are gray with life's ashes, 
 
 and feet that walk down 'mong the 
 
 dead. 
 We send " o'er the hills to the poor-house " 
 
 for love, and, it may be, for bread. 
 
 Oh ! when shall we value the living while 
 
 yet the keen sickle is stayed. 
 Nor slight the wild flower in its blooming, 
 
 till all its sweet life is decayed? 
 Yet often the fragrance is richest, when 
 
 poured from the bruised blossom's soul, 
 And " over the hills from the poor-house " 
 
 the rarest of melodies roll. 
 
 A PRA YER FOR MY LITTLE ONE. 
 
 EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 pD bless my little one ! How fair 
 
 l^te The mellow lamp-light gilds 
 '^^ hair. 
 
 Loose on the cradle-pillow there. 
 God bless my little one ! 
 
 his 
 
 God guard my little one ! To me 
 Life, widowed of his life would be 
 As sea-sands widowed of the sea. 
 God guard my little one ! 
 
LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. 
 
 683 
 
 God love my little one! As clear 
 Cool sun3hiQ3 holds the first green spear 
 On April meadows, hold him dear. 
 God love my little one! 
 
 When these fond lips are mute, and when 
 I slumber, not to wake again, 
 God bless — God guard — God love him then. 
 My little one ! Amen. 
 
 LOSS OF THE AECTIC. 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 ^T was autumn. Hundreds had wended their way from pilgrimages ; 
 from Kome and its treasures of dead art, and its glory of living 
 nature; from the sides of the Switzer's mountains, and from the 
 capitals of various nations, — all of them saying m their hearts, we 
 will wait for the September gales to have done with their equinoctial 
 fnry, and then we will embark ; we will slide across the appeased 
 
684 LOSS OF THE ARCTIC. 
 
 ocean, and in the gorgeous month of October we will greet our longed-for 
 native land, and our heart-loved homes. 
 
 And so the throng streamed along from Berlin, from Paris, from the 
 Orient, converging upon London, still hastening toward the welcome ship, 
 and narrowing every day the circle of engagements and preparations. 
 They crowded aboard. ISfever had the Arctic borne sucli a host of pas- 
 sengers, nor passengers so nearly related to so many of us. The hour was 
 come. . The signal-ball fell at Greenwich. It was noon also at Liverpool. 
 The anchors were weighed; the great hull swayed to the current; the 
 national colors streamed abroad, as if themselves instinct with life and 
 national sympathy. The bell strikes ; the wheels revolve ; the signal-gun 
 beats its echoes in upon every structure along the shore, and the Arctic 
 glides joyfully forth from the Mersey, and turns her prow to the winding 
 channel, and begins her homeward run. The pilot stood at the wheel, 
 and men saw him. Death sat upon the prow, and no eye beheld him. 
 Whoever stood at the wheel in all the voyage. Death was the pilot that 
 steered the craft, and none knew it. He neither revealed his presence nor 
 whispered his errand. 
 
 And so hope was effulgent, and lithe gayety disported itself, and joy 
 was with every guest. Amid all the inconveniences of the voyage, there 
 was still that which hushed every murmur, — "Home is not far away." 
 And every morning it was still one night nearer home ! Eight days had 
 passed. They beheld that distant bank of mist that forever haunts the 
 vast shallows of Newfoundland, Boldly they made it ; and plunging in, 
 its pliant wreaths wrapped them about. They shall never emerge. The 
 last sunlight has flashed from that deck. The last voyage is done to ship 
 and passengers. At noon there came noiselessly stealing from the north 
 that fated instrument of destruction. In that mysterious shroud, that 
 vast atmosphere of mist, both steamers were holding their way with rush- 
 ing prow and roaring wheels, but invisible. 
 
 At a league's distance, unconscious; and at nearer approach, un- 
 warned ; within hail, and bearing right toward each other, unseen, unfelt, 
 till in a moment more, emerging from the gray mists, the ill-omened Vesta 
 dealt her deadly stroke to the Arctic. The death-blow was scarcely felt 
 along the mighty hull. She neither reeled nor shivered. Neither com- 
 mander nor officers deemed that they had suffered harm. Prompt upon 
 humanity, the brave Luce (let his name be ever spoken with admiration 
 and respect) ordered away his boat with the first officer to inquire if the 
 stranger had suffered harm. As Gourley went over the ship's side, oh, 
 that some good angel had called to the brave commander in the words of 
 
DOROTHY SULLIVAN. 
 
 685 
 
 Paul on a like occasion, " Except these abide in the ship, ye cannot be 
 saved." 
 
 They departed, and with them the hope of the ship, for now the waters 
 gaining upon the hold, and rising upon the fires, revealed the mortal blow. 
 Oh, had now that stern, brave mate, Gourley, been on deck, whom the 
 sailors were wont to mind, — had he stood to execute sufficiently the com- 
 mander's will, — we may believe that we should not have had to blush for 
 the cowardice and recreancy of the crew, nor weep for the untimely dead. 
 But, apparently, each subordinate officer lost all presence of mind, then 
 courage, and so honor. In a wild scramble, that ignoble mob of firemen, 
 engineers, waiters, and crew, rushed for the boats, and abandoned the 
 helpless women, children, and men, to the mercy of the deep! Four hours 
 there were from the catastrophe of collision to the catastrophe of sinking ! 
 Oh, what a burial was here ! Not as when one is borne from his home, 
 among weeping throngs, and gently carried to the green fields, and laid 
 peacefully beneath the turf and flowers. No priest stood to pronounce a 
 burial-service. It was an ocean grave. The mists alone shrouded the 
 burial-place. No spade prepared the grave, nor sexton filled up the hol- 
 lowed earth. Down, down they sank, and the quick returning waters 
 smoothed out every ripple, and left the sea as if it had not been. 
 
 DOROTHY SULLIVAN. 
 
 jH ! a wedding ring's pretty to wear, 
 And a bride of all women is fair, 
 But then there's no trusting 
 
 in men ; 
 And if I were a girl I'd have 
 
 lovers beware. 
 They may court you to-day, 
 sweet as birds in the May, 
 But to-morrow look out they'll be all flown 
 
 away.'' 
 Old Dolly Sullivan shook her gray head. 
 Lovers were now the last thing she need 
 
 dread. 
 But you never can tell who has once been a 
 
 belle. 
 " Sweethearts ! I've had 'em ! I know 'em !'' 
 she said. 
 
 " Just as long as your company's new, 
 There is no one that's equal to you. 
 
 You then can have choice of the men, 
 
 It's the black eyes to-day and to-morrow the 
 
 blue. 
 I once had a brocade for my wedding gown 
 
 made. 
 On the shelf of the store-room my wedding 
 
 cake laid. 
 Never that cake on the table was set. 
 Here I am, Dorothy Sullivan yet. 
 Let it go ! Let it go ! I am glad it was so ; 
 Hardly earned lessons we're slow to forget. 
 
 " Could I keep all now that I know 
 
 With the face that I had long ago, 
 
 Ah ! then I would pay back the men ; 
 
 I would a small part of the debt that I owe, 
 
 For 't is little care they, spite the fine things 
 
 they say. 
 How a woman's hf^art ache?, if they have 
 
 their own way. 
 
686 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAOT). 
 
 Promises ! little they keep men in awe 
 Trust 'em ! I'd sooner trust snow in a thaw, 
 For they're easy to make ; and more easy to 
 
 break. 
 Keep'in 'em's something that never I saw. 
 
 "When you come to your own wedding 
 
 morn, 
 Just to find you're a maid left forlorn, 
 Ah ! then, where's your faith in the men ? 
 
 When your wedding gown's on ; and your 
 
 bridegroom is gone, 
 You must take off that gown, and sit quietly 
 
 down." 
 Old Dolly Sullivan shook her gray head. 
 " Children once burnt of the fire have a dread, 
 Let your love stories be when you're talking 
 
 to me. 
 Sweethearts! I've had 'em, I know 'em," she 
 
 said. 
 
 THE EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND. 
 
 LAMARTINE. 
 
 4^ 
 
 -■^ 
 
 AM going to the guillotine," replied Madame Roland ; " a few 
 moments and I shall be there ; but those who send me thither 
 will follow me ere long. I go innocent, but they will come 
 stained with blood, and you who applaud our execution will then 
 I applaud theirs with equal zeal." Sometimes she would turn away 
 1 her head that she might not appear to hear the insults with which 
 she was assailed, and would lean with almost "filial tenderness over the 
 aged partner of her execution. The poor old man wept bitterly, and she 
 kindly and cheeringly encouraged him to bear up with firmness, and to 
 suffer with resignation. She even tried to enliven the dreary journey they 
 were performing together by little attempts at cheerfulness, and at length 
 succeeded in winning a smile from her fellow-sufferer. 
 
 A colossal statue of liberty, composed of clay, like the liberty of the 
 time, then stood in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, on the spot 
 now occupied by the Obelisk ; the scaffold was erected beside his statue. 
 Upon arriving there, Madame Roland descended from the cart in which 
 she had been conveyed. Just as the executioner had seized her arm to 
 enable her to be the first to mount to the guillotine, she displayed an in- 
 stance of that noble and tender consideration for others, which only a 
 woman's heart could conceive, or put into practice at such a moment. 
 " Stay ! " said she, momentarily resisting the man's grasp. " I have only 
 one favor to ask, and that is not for myself; I beseech you grant it me." 
 Then, turning to the old man, she said, " Do you precede me to the scaf- 
 fold ; to see my blood flow would be making you suffer the bitterness of 
 death twice over. I must spare you the pain of witnessing my punish- 
 ment." The executioner allowed this arrangement to be made. 
 
THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 
 
 687 
 
 With what sensibility and firmness must the mind have been imbued 
 which could, at such a time, forget its own sufferings, to think only of 
 saving one pang to an unknown old man ! and how clearly does this one 
 little trait attest the heroic calmness with which this celebrated woman met 
 her death ! After the execution of Lamarche, which she witnessed with- 
 out changing color, Madame Roland stepped lightly up to the scaffold, and, 
 bowing before the statue of Liberty, as though to do homage to a power far 
 whom she was about to die, exclaimed, " Liberty ! Liberty ! how many 
 crimes are committed in thy name ! " She then resigned herself to the 
 hands of the executioner, and in a few seconds her head fell into the basket 
 placed to receive it. 
 
 THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 
 
 MARY E. VANDYKE. 
 
 kH ! the quietest home on earth had I, 
 No thought of trouble, no hint of 
 ^»l care ; 
 
 m Like a dream of pleasure the days 
 \ fled by, 
 
 jj- And Peace had folded her pinions 
 J there. 
 
 But one day there joined in our house- 
 hold band 
 A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 Oh, the despot came in the dead of night, 
 And no one ventured to ask him why ; 
 
 Like slaves we trembled before his might, 
 Our hearts stood still when we heard him 
 cry; 
 
 For never a soul could his power withstand, 
 
 That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 He ordered us here, and he sent us there — 
 Though never a word could his small lips 
 speak — 
 
 With his toothless gums and his vacant stare. 
 And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, 
 
 Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, 
 
 "Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land." 
 
 But his abject slaves they turned on me: 
 Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me 
 there, 
 
 The while they worshiped with bended knee 
 The ruthless wretch with the missing hair, 
 For he rules them all with relentless hand. 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 Then I searched for help in every clime, 
 For Peace had fled from my dwelling now 
 
 Till I finally thought of old Father Time, 
 And low before him I made my bow. 
 
 "Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, 
 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
 land." 
 
 Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, 
 And a smile came over his features grim. 
 
 I'll take the tyrant under my care: 
 
 Watch what my hour-glass does to him. 
 
 The veriest humbug that ever was planned. 
 
 Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land. 
 
688 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. 
 
 Old Time is doing his work full well — 
 
 Much less of might docs the tyrant wield; 
 But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell 
 
 And sad tears fall as I see him yield. 
 Could I stay the touch of that shriveled 
 
 hand 
 I would keep the bald-head from No-man's- 
 land. 
 
 For the loss of peace I have ceased to care ; 
 
 Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth, 
 To love the wretch who forgot his hair, 
 
 And hurried along without a tooth. 
 And he rules me, too, with Lis tiny hand. 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's- 
 land. 
 
 THE GAMBLER'S WIFE. 
 
 REYNELL COAXES. 
 
 pi|AIlK is the night ! How dark ! No 
 
 ^B light: no fire! 
 
 "jj«y.e)s' Cold, on the hearth, the last faint 
 m ^ sparks expire ! 
 
 <"■ Shivering, she watches by the cradle- 
 
 •f side, 
 
 J For him, who pledged her love — last year 
 a bride ! 
 
 " Hark ! 't is his footstep ! No ! 't is past !- 
 
 't IS gone !" 
 Tick ! — tick ! — " How wearily the time crawls 
 
 on ! 
 Why should he leave me thus? — He once 
 
 was kind ! 
 And I believed 't would last ! — How mad ! — 
 
 How blind ! 
 
 " Rest thee, my babe !— Rest on ! — Tis hun- 
 ger's cry ! 
 
 Sleep ! — for there is no food ! — the fount is dry ! 
 
 Famine and cold their wearying work have 
 done. 
 
 My heart must break ! And thou !" The 
 clock strikes one. 
 
 "Hush! 't is the dice-box! Yes! he's there! 
 
 he's there ! 
 For this! — for this he leaves me to despair! 
 Leaves love ! leaves truth ! his wife ! his 
 
 child! for what? 
 The wanton's smile — the villain — and the 
 
 sot ! 
 
 " Yet I'll not curse him. No ! 't is all in 
 vain! 
 
 'T is long to wait, but sure he'll come again! 
 And I could starve, and bless him, but for you. 
 My child ! his child ! Oh, fiend!" The clock 
 strikes two. 
 
 "Hark! how the signboard creaks! The 
 
 blast howls by. 
 Moan ! Moan ! a dirge swells through the 
 
 cloudy sky ! 
 Ha! 't is his knock! he comes! he comes 
 
 once more!" 
 'Tis but the lattice flaps ! Thy hope is o'er i 
 
 " Can he desert us thus ? Ho knows I stay. 
 Night after night, in loneliness, to pray 
 For his return — and yet he sees no tear ! 
 No ! no ! it cannot be ! He will be here ! 
 
 "Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart 
 Thou'rt cold ! thou'rt freezing ! But we wilJ 
 
 not part ! 
 Husband ! — I die ! — Father ! — It is not he ! 
 God ! protect my child !" The clock strike)- 
 
 three. 
 
 They're gone, they're gone ! the glimmering 
 
 spark hath fled ! 
 The wife and child are numbered with the 
 
 dead, 
 On the cold hearth, outstretched in solemn 
 
 rest. 
 The babe lay, frozen on its mother's breast . 
 Tlie gambler came at last — but all was o'er — 
 Dread silence reigned around: — the clock 
 
 struck four I 
 
WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE? 
 
 680 
 
 TO A FRIEND IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 WILLIAM MUNFORD. 
 
 S^^a 
 
 ^^ KNOW in grief like yours how more 
 
 ^M than vain 
 
 ^^1 All comfort to the stricken heart 
 
 A appears ; 
 
 V And as the bursting cloud must spend 
 
 .(• its rain, 
 
 J So grief its tears. 
 
 I know that when your little darling's 
 form 
 Had freed the angel spirit fettered there, 
 You could not pierce beyond the breaking 
 storm, 
 
 In your despair. 
 
 You could not see the tender hand that 
 caught 
 Your little lamb, to shield him from all 
 harm ; 
 You missed him from your own, but never 
 thought 
 
 Of Jesus' arm ! 
 
 You only knew those precious eyes were 
 dim; 
 You only felt those tiny lips were cold ; 
 You only clung to what remained of him 
 Beneath the mould. 
 
 But oh ! young mother, look ! the gate un- 
 bars ! 
 
 And through the darkness, smiling from 
 the skies, 
 Are beaming on you, brighter than those 
 stars, 
 
 Your darling's eyes. 
 
 'Tis said that when the pastures down among 
 The Alpine hills have ceased to feed the 
 flocks. 
 And they must mount to where the grass is 
 young — 
 
 Far up the rocks. 
 
 The shepherd takes a little lamb at play, 
 
 And lifts him gently to his careful breast, 
 And, with its tender bleating, leads the way 
 For all the rest; 
 
 That quick the mother follows in the patii, 
 Then others go, like men whose faith gives 
 hopes, 
 And soon the shepherd gathers all he 
 hath— 
 
 Far up the 
 
 And on those everlasting hills He feeds 
 The trusting fold in green that never 
 palls ; 
 Look up ! see ! your little darling leads, — 
 
 The Shepherd calls ! 
 
 WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DUIPLE BE? 
 
 J. G. HOLLAND. 
 
 |VER the cradle the mother hung, 
 Softly cooing a slumber song, 
 And these were the simple words 
 she sung 
 All the evening long : 
 
 ■'Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee. 
 Where shall the baby's dimple be? 
 
 Where shall the angel's finger rest 
 When he comes down to the baby's nest? 
 Where shall the angel's touch remain 
 When he awakens my baby again ? 
 Still she bent and sang so low 
 
 A murmur into her music broke. 
 And she paused to hear, for she could bu« 
 know 
 
690 
 
 
 
 The baby's angel spoke : 
 "Cheek or chin, or knuckle or knee, 
 Where shall the baby's dimple be? 
 Where shall my finger fall and rest 
 When I come down to the baby's nest? 
 Where shall my finger's touch remain 
 When I wake your babe again ?" 
 
 Silent the mother sat and dwelt 
 Long on the sweet delay of choice, 
 
 DEFENCE OF I'RA DEL TOK. 
 
 And then by her baby's side she knelt 
 And sang with pleasant voice : 
 
 " Not on the limb, angel dear ! 
 For the charms with its youth will dis- 
 appear ; 
 Not on the cheek shall the dimple be, 
 For the harboring smile will fade and flee-. 
 But touch thou the chin with impress deep, 
 And my baby the angel's seal shall keep." 
 
 DEFENCE OF PRA DEL TOR. 
 
 J. A. WYLIE, 
 
 iilpEGOTIATIONS had been opened betAveen the men of the Valleys and 
 1^1^ the Duke of Savoy, and as they were proceeding satisfactorily, the 
 1^ * Vaudois were without suspicions of evil. This was the moment 
 that La Trinita chose to attack them. He hastily assembled his 
 troops, and on the night of the 16th of April he marched them 
 against the Pra del Tor, hoping to enter it unopposed, and give 
 the Vaudois " as sheep to the slaughter." f 
 
 The snows around the Pra were beginning to burn in the light of the 
 morning when the attention of the people, who had just ended their united 
 worship, was attracted by unusual sounds which were heard to issue from 
 the gorge that led into the valley. On the instant six brave mountaineers 
 rushed to the gateway that opens from the gorge. The long file of La 
 Trinita's soldiers was seen advancing two abreast, their helmets and cuiras- 
 ses glittering in the light. The six Vaudois made their arrangements, and 
 calmly waited till the enemy was near. The first two Vaudois, holding 
 loaded muskets, knelt down. The second two stood erect ready to fire 
 over the heads of the first two. The third two undertook the loading of 
 the weapons as they were discharged. The invaders came on. As the 
 first two of the enemy turned the rock they were shot down by the two 
 foremost Vaudois. The next two of the attacking force fell in like manner 
 by the shot of the Vaudois in the rear. The third rank of the enemy pre- 
 sented themselves only to be laid by the side of their comrades. In a few 
 minutes a little heap of dead bodies blocked the pass, rendering impossible 
 the advance of the accumulating file of the enemy in the chasm. 
 
 Meanwhile, other Vaudois climbed the mountains that overhung the 
 
DEFENCE OF PRA DEL TOR. 
 
 691 
 
 gorge in which the Piedmontese army was imprisoned. Tearing up the 
 great stones with which the hill-side was strewn, the Vaudois sent them 
 
 rolling down upon the host. Unable to advance from the wall of dead in 
 front, and unable to flee from the ever accumulating masses behind, the 
 
692 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 
 
 joldiers were crushed in dozens by the falling rocks. Panic set in ; and 
 famine in such a position was dreadful. Wedged together on the narrow 
 ledge, with a murderous rain of rocks falling on them, their struggles to 
 escape was frightful. They jostled one another, and trod each other under 
 foot, while vast numbers fell over the precipice, and were dashed on the 
 rocks or drowned in the torrent. 
 
 When those at the entrance of the valley who were watching the result 
 saw the crystal of the Angrogna begin about midday to be changed into 
 blood, "Ah!" said they, "the Pra del Tor has been taken; La Trinita 
 has triumphed ; then flows the blood of the Vaudois." And, indeed, the 
 Count on beginning his march that morning is said to have boasted that 
 by noon the torrent of the Angrogna would be seen to change color ; and 
 so in truth it did. Instead of a pellucid stream, rolling along on a white 
 gravelly bed, which is its usual appearance at the mouth of the valley, it 
 was now deeply dyed from recent slaughter. But when the few who had 
 escaped the catastrophe returned to tell what had that day passed within 
 the defiles of the Angrogna, it was seen that it was not the blood of the 
 Vaudois, but the blood of the ruthless invaders, which dyed the waters of 
 the Angrogna. The Count withdrew on that same night, to return no 
 more to the Valley. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S CHURCH. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF PAUL GEROT. 
 
 KHE bells of the church are ringing, 
 Papa and mamma are both gone; 
 ^Y And three little children sit singing 
 Together this still Sunday morn. 
 
 While the bells toll away in the steeple, 
 Though too small to sit still in a pew. 
 
 These busy, religious small people 
 Determined to have their church too. 
 
 So as free as the birds or the breezes 
 By which their fair ringlets are fanned, 
 
 Each rogue sings away as he pleases. 
 With book upside-down in his hand. 
 
 Their hymn has no sense in its letter, 
 Their music no rythm nor tune ; 
 
 Our worship perhaps may be better, 
 But theirs reaches God quite as soon. 
 
 Their angels stand close to the Father, 
 His Heaven is made bright by these 
 
 And the dear God above us would rather 
 Hear praise from their lips than from ours. 
 
 Sing on, little children, your voices 
 
 Fill the air with contentment and love ; 
 
 All nature around you rejoices 
 
 And the birds warble sweetly above. 
 
 Sing on, for the proudest orations, 
 
 The liturgies sacred and long, 
 The anthems and worship of nations 
 
 Are poor, to your innocent song. 
 
 Sing on : our devotion is colder, 
 
 Though wisely our prayers may be planned. 
 For often we, too, who are older. 
 
 Hold our book the wrong way in our hand. 
 
THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. 
 
 093 
 
 Sing on : our harmonic inventions 
 We study with labor and pain ; 
 
 Yet often our angry contentions 
 Take the harmony out of our strain. 
 
 Sing on : all our struggle and battle, 
 Our cry, when most deep and sincere- 
 
 What are they? a child's simple prattle, 
 A breath on the Infinite eai 
 
 THE CHAMBER OVER THE GATE. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 S|^S it so far from thee 
 
 ^|p Thou canst no longer see, 
 
 fS| In the Chamber over the Gate, 
 
 That old man desolate. 
 Weeping and wailing sore 
 For his son, who is no more? 
 Absalom, my son. 
 
 Is it 80 long ago 
 
 That cry of human woo 
 From the walled city came, 
 Calling on his dear name, 
 
 That it has died away 
 
 In the distance of to-day? 
 O Absalom, my son ! 
 
 There is no far or near. 
 There is neither there nor here. 
 There is neither soon nor late, 
 In that Chamber over the Gate, 
 
 Nor any long ago 
 To that cry of human woe, 
 Absalom, my son ! 
 
 From the ages that are past 
 The voice sounds like a blast, 
 Over seas that wreck and drown, 
 Over tumult of traffic and town. 
 And for ages yet to be 
 Come the echoes back to me, 
 Absalom, my son ! 
 
 Somewhere, at every hour. 
 
 The watchman on the tower 
 Looks forth, and sees the fleet 
 Approach of the hurrying feet 
 
 Of messengers, that bear 
 
 The tidings of despair. 
 O Absalom, m}- son ! 
 
 He goes forth from the door. 
 Who shall return no more. 
 
 With him our joy departs; 
 
 The light goes out in our hearts ; 
 In the Chamber over the Gate 
 We sit disconsolate. 
 
 Absalom, mvson ! 
 
 That 'tis a common grief 
 Bringeth but slight relief; 
 
 Ours is the bitterest loss, . 
 
 Ours is the heaviest cross ; 
 And forever that cry will be, 
 " Would God I had died for thee, 
 O Absalom, my son I " 
 
694 
 
 THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 
 
 GOD IN THE SEAS. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 SHESE restless surges eat away the 
 shores [plain 
 
 ^^^^^Of earth's old continents- the fertile 
 
 Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, 
 
 And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets 
 Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, 
 
 afar 
 In the green chambers of the middle sea, 
 Where broadest spread the waters and the 
 
 line 
 Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy 
 
 work, 
 Creator ! thou dost teach the coral worm 
 To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, 
 He builds beneath the waters, till, at last. 
 His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check 
 The long wave rolling from the southern 
 
 pole 
 To break upon Japan. 
 
 THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 
 
 A MATEIMONIAL EPIC. 
 
 j^OHN Dobbins was so captivated 
 W) By Mary Trueman's fortune, face 
 and cap, 
 (With near two thousand pounds the 
 hook was baited,) 
 That in he popped to matrimony's 
 trap. 
 
 One small ingredient towards happiness, 
 It seems, ne'er occupied a single thought; 
 For his accomplished bride 
 Appearing well supplied 
 With the three charms of riches, beauty, 
 dress. 
 He did not, as he ought, 
 Think of aught else ; so no inquiry made he 
 As to the temper of the lady. 
 
 And here was certainly a great omission ; 
 None should accept of Hymen's gentle fet- 
 ter, 
 " For worse or butter," 
 
 Whatever be their prospect or condition. 
 
 Without acquaintance with each other's 
 
 nature ; 
 For many a mild and gentle creature 
 Of charming disposition, 
 
 Alas ! by thoughtless marriage has de- 
 stroyed it. 
 So take advice ; let girls dress e'er so 
 
 tastily. 
 Don't enter into wedlock hastily 
 Unless you can't avoid it. 
 
 Week followed week, and, it must be confest. 
 The bridegroom and the bride had both been 
 
 blost: 
 Month after month had languidly transpired. 
 Both parties became tired : 
 Year after year dragged on ; 
 Their happiness was gone. 
 
 Ah ! foolish pair ! 
 I '■ Bear and forbear," 
 
THE EGGS AND THE HORSES. 
 
 695 
 
 Should be the rule for married folks to take, 
 But blind mankind (poor discontented 
 elves !) 
 
 Too often make 
 
 The misery of themselves. 
 
 At length the hasband said " This will not do ! 
 
 Mary, I never will be ruled by you : 
 
 So, wife, d'ye see? 
 
 To live together as we can't agree. 
 
 Suppose we part!" 
 
 With woman's pride, 
 
 Mary replied, 
 
 " With all my heart !" 
 
 John Dobbins then to Mary's father goes 
 And gives the list of his imagined woes. 
 " Dear son-in-law ! '' the father said, " I see 
 All is quite true that you've been telling me ; 
 Yet there in marriage is such strange fatality. 
 That when as much of life 
 
 You will have seen 
 
 As it has been 
 My lot to see, I think you'll own your wife 
 
 As good or better than the generality. 
 
 " An interest in your case I really take, 
 And therefore gladly this agreement make: 
 An hundred eggs within this basket lie. 
 With which your luck to-morrow you shall 
 
 try; 
 Also my five best horses with my cart ; 
 And from the farm at dawn you shall depart. 
 All round the country go, 
 
 And be particular, I beg ; 
 Where husbands rule, a horse bestow, 
 
 But where the wives, an egg. 
 And if the horses go before the eggs, 
 I'll ease you of your wife,— I will — I fegs! " 
 
 Away the married man departed, ■ 
 
 Brisk and light-hearted ; 
 
 Not doubting that, of course, 
 
 The first five houses each would take a horse. 
 
 At the first house he knocked, 
 
 He felt a little shocked 
 
 To hear a female voice, with angry roar, 
 Scream out, — Hullo ! 
 Who's there below ? 
 
 Why, husband, are you deaf ? Go to the 
 door, 
 47 
 
 See who it is, I beg." 
 
 Our poor friend John 
 
 Trudged quickly on, 
 But first laid at the door an egg. 
 
 I will not, all his journey through. 
 The discontented traveler pursue ; 
 
 Suffice it here to say 
 That when his first day's task was nearly 
 
 done. 
 He'd seen an hundred husbands, minus one. 
 And eggs just ninety-nine had given away. 
 " Ha, here's a house where he I seek must 
 
 dwell," 
 At length cried John ; " I'll go and ring the 
 bell." 
 
 The servant came, — John asked him, " Pray, 
 Friend, is your master in the way ? '" 
 " No," said the man, with smiling phiz, 
 " Mj^ master is not, but my mistress is ; 
 Walk in that parlor, sir, my lady's in it: 
 Master will be himself there in a minute. ' 
 The lady said her husband then was dressing. 
 And, if his business was not very pressing, 
 
 She would prefer that he should wait until 
 His toilet was completed ; 
 Adding, " Pray, sir, be seated." 
 
 " Madam, I will," 
 Said John, with great politeness ; " but I own 
 That you alone 
 
 Can tell me all I wish to know ; 
 Will you do so ? 
 Pardon my rudeness. 
 And just have the goodness 
 (A wager to decide) to tell me — do — 
 Who governs in this house, — your spouse or 
 
 you?" 
 " Sir," said the lady with a doubting nod, 
 " Your question's very odd ; 
 But as I think none ought to be 
 Ashamed to do their duty (do you see ?) 
 On that account I scruple not to say 
 It always is my pleasure to obey. 
 But here's my husband (always sad without 
 
 me); 
 Take not my word, but a?k him, if you 
 doubt me." 
 
 " Sir," said the husband " it is most true ; 
 I promise you, 
 
696 
 
 RAMBLINGB IN GREECE. 
 
 A more obedient, kind, and gentle woman 
 Does not exist." 
 "Give me your fist," 
 
 Said John, and, as the case is something 
 more than common. 
 Allow me to present you with a beast 
 Worth fifty guineas at the very least. 
 
 " There's Smiler, Sir, a beauty, you must own. 
 
 There's Prince that handsome black, 
 Ball the gray mare, and Saladin the roan, 
 
 Beside old Dun ; 
 
 Come, Sir, choose one ; 
 
 But take advice from me. 
 
 Let Prince be he ; 
 Why, Sir, you'll look the hero on his back." 
 
 " I'll take the black, and thank you, too," 
 " Nay, husband, that will never do ; 
 You know you've often heard me say 
 How much I long to have a gray ; 
 
 And this one will exactly do for me." 
 
 " No, no," said he, 
 
 " Friend, take the four others back, 
 
 And only leave the black." 
 
 " Nay, husband, I declare 
 
 I must have the gray mare :" 
 
 Adding (with gentle force), 
 
 " The gray mare is, I'm sure, the better horse " 
 
 " Well, if it must be so,— good Sir, 
 
 The gray mare we prefer ; 
 
 So we accept your gift." John made a feg: 
 
 "Allow me to present you with an egg ; 
 
 'Tis my last egg remaining, 
 
 The cause of my regaining, 
 
 I trust the fond affection of my wife, 
 
 Whom I will love the better of my life. 
 
 "Home to content has her kind fathei 
 
 brought me ; 
 I thank him for the lesson he has taught me." 
 
 EAMBLINGS IN GBEECE. 
 
 ROSSITER W. RAYMOND. 
 
 W^ PsBstum's ancient fanes I trod, 
 i^ And mused on those strange men of old, 
 ^ Whose dark religion could unfold 
 ^ So many gods, and yet no God. 
 
 Did they to human feelings own. 
 And had they human souls indeed ? 
 Or did the sternness of their creed 
 Frown their faint spirits into stone'' 
 
OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. 
 
 697 
 
 The southern breezes fan my face ; — 
 I hear the hum of bees arise, 
 
 And lizards dart, with mystic eyes 
 That shrine the secret of the place ! 
 
 These silent columns speak of dread ; 
 
 Of lonely worship without love; 
 And yet the warm, deep heaven above 
 
 Whispers a softer tale instead ! 
 
 THE BEAUTY OF YOUTH. 
 
 THEODORE PARKER. 
 
 j^^OW beautiful is youth, — early manhood, early womanhood, — how 
 wonderfully fair ! What freshness of life, cleanness of blood, purity 
 of breath ! What hopes ! There is nothing too much for the young 
 maid or man to put into their dream, and in their prayer to hope 
 i to put in their day. young men and women ! there is no picture 
 
 J of ideal excellence of manhood and womanhood that I ever draw 
 
 that seems too high, too beautiful for young hearts. 
 
 I love to look on these young faces, and see the firstlings of a young 
 man's beard, and the maidenly bloom blushing over the girl's fair cheek. 
 I love to see the pure eyes beaming with joy and goodness, to see the un- 
 conscious joy of such young souls, impatient of restraint, and longing for 
 the heaven which we fashion here. 
 
 So have I seen in early May, among the New England hills, the morning 
 springing in the sky, and gradually thinning out the stars that hedge 
 about the cradle of day ; and all cool and fresh and lustrous came the 
 morning light, and a few birds commenced their songs, prophets of very 
 many more ; and ere the sun was fairly up, you saw the pihky buds upon 
 the apple trees, and scented the violets in the morjiing air, and thought 
 of what a fresh and lordly day was coming up the eastern sky. 
 
 OUT OF THE OLD HOUSE, NANCY. 
 
 WILL M. CARLETON. 
 
 UT of the old house Nancy — moved up 
 '^Jl^ into the new ; 
 
 rAll the hurry and worry are just as 
 good as through ; 
 Only a bounden duty remains for you 
 
 and I, 
 And that's to stand on the door-step 
 here and bid the old house good-bye. 
 
 What a shell we've lived in these nineteen or 
 
 twenty years ! 
 Wonder it hadn't smashed in and tumbled 
 
 about our ears ; 
 Wonder it stuck together and answered till 
 
 to-day. 
 But every individual log was put up here to 
 
 stay. 
 
69S 
 
 OUT OF THE OLly HOUSE, NANCY. 
 
 Yes, a deal has happened to make this old 
 
 Here the old house will stand, but not as it 
 
 house dear : 
 
 stood bgfore ; 
 
 Christenin's, funerals, weddin's — what haven't 
 
 Winds will whistle through it and rains will 
 
 we had here ? 
 
 flood the floor ; 
 
 Not a log in this old buildin' bat its memo- 
 
 And over the hearth once blazing, the snow 
 
 ries has got — ■ 
 
 drifts oft will pile, 
 
 And not a nail in this old floor but touches 
 
 And the old thing will seem to be a mournin' 
 
 a tender spot. 
 
 all the while. 
 
 Out of tlie old house, Nancy— moved up iuto 
 
 the new ; 
 All the hurry and worry is just as good as 
 
 through ; 
 But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't 
 
 ashamed to say : 
 There's precious things in this old house we 
 
 never can take away. 
 
 Fare you well old house ! you're nought that 
 
 can feel or see. 
 But you seem like a liuman being — a dear 
 
 old friend to me ; 
 And we never will have a better home, if my 
 
 opinion stands, 
 Until we commence a keepin' house in the 
 
 " house not made with hands.'' 
 
THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN 
 
 699 
 
 THE MAPLE-TREE. 
 
 ?HEIs on the world's jQrst harvest- 
 day, 
 The forest trees before the Lord 
 y^ x^' Laid down their autumn offerings 
 "^ Of fruit, in golden sunshine stored, 
 
 I The Maple only, of them all, 
 i> Before the world's great harvest 
 King 
 With empty hands and silent stood — 
 She had no offering to bring 
 
 For m the early summer time, 
 
 While other trees laid by their board, 
 
 The Maple winged her fruit with love, 
 And sent it daily to the Lord. 
 
 There ran through all the leafy wood 
 
 A murmur and a scornful smile 
 But silent still the Maple stood, 
 
 And looked unmoved to God the while. 
 
 And then, while fell on earth a hush 
 So great it seemed like death to be, 
 
 From his white throne the mighty Lord 
 Stooped down and kissed the Maple-tiee 
 
 At that swift kiss there sudden thrilled 
 In every nerve, through every vein 
 
 An ecstasy of joy so great 
 
 It seemed almost akin to pain. 
 
 And there before the forest trees, 
 
 Blushing and pale by turns she stood ; 
 
 In every leaf, now red and gold, 
 Transfigured by the kiss of God. 
 
 And still when comes the autumn time. 
 And on the hills the harvest lies, 
 
 Blushing the Maple-tree recalls 
 Her life's one beautiful surprise. 
 
 THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 jO ye hear the children weeping, 
 my brothers. 
 Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
 They are leaning their young heads 
 against their mothers, — 
 And that cannot stop their tears. 
 The young lambs are bleating in the 
 
 meadows. 
 The young birds are chirping in the nest. 
 The young fawns are playing with the sha- 
 dows. 
 The young flowers are blowing toward 
 the west — 
 But the young, young children, O my bro- 
 thers. 
 They are weeping bitterly ! — 
 They are weeping in the playtime of the 
 others, 
 In the country of the free. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 Do you question the young children in their 
 sorrow. 
 
 Why their tears are falling so? — 
 The old man may weep for his to-morrow, 
 
 Which is lost in Long Ago — 
 The old tree is leafless in the forest — 
 
 The old year is ending in the frost — 
 The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest — 
 
 The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
 But the young, young children, my bro- 
 thers. 
 
 Do you ask them why they stand 
 Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
 mothers. 
 
 In our happy Fatherland ? 
 
 They look up with their pale and sunken 
 faces. 
 And their looks are sad to see. 
 
700 
 
 THE CRY OF THE CHILbREN. 
 
 For the man's hoary anguish draws and 
 presses 
 Down the cheeks of infancy ; 
 " Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary ;" 
 "Our young feet," they say, "are very 
 weak! 
 Few paces have we taken, yet are weary ; 
 
 Our grave-rest is very far to seek. 
 Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 
 children, 
 For the outside earth is cold, 
 And we young ones stand without, in our 
 bewildering, 
 And the graves are for the old." 
 
 "True," say the children, "it may happen 
 
 That we die before our time. 
 Little Alice died last year — the grave is 
 shapen 
 Like a snowball, in the rime. 
 We looked into the pit prepared to take her — 
 Was no room for any work in the close 
 clay: 
 From the sleep wherein she lieth none will 
 wake her, 
 Crying, "Get up, little Alice! it is day." 
 If you listen by that grave, in sun and 
 
 With your ear down, little Alice never 
 cries ! 
 Could we see her face, be sure we should not 
 know her, 
 For the smile has time for growing in 
 her eyes ! 
 And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled 
 in 
 The shroud, by the kirk chime ! 
 "It is good when it happens," say the children, 
 " That we die before our time." 
 
 Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking 
 
 Death in life, as best to have! 
 They are binding up their hearts away from 
 breaking, 
 With a cerement from the grave. 
 Go out, children, from the mine and from the 
 city; 
 Sing out, children, as the little thrushes 
 do;— 
 
 Pluck you handfuls of the meadow-cowslips 
 pretty ; 
 
 Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let 
 them through ! 
 But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the 
 meadows 
 Like our weeds anear the mine? 
 Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal- 
 shadows. 
 From your pleasures fair and fine ! 
 
 " For oh," say the children, "we are weary. 
 
 And we cannot run or leap ; 
 If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 
 
 To drop down in them and sleep. 
 Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping ; 
 
 We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 
 And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping. 
 
 The reddest flower would look as pale 
 as snow. 
 For, all day, we drag our burden tiring 
 
 Through the coal-dark underground; 
 Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron 
 
 In the factories, round and round. 
 
 " For, all day, the wheels are droning, turn- 
 ing— 
 Their wind comes in our faces, — 
 Till our hearts turn — our heads, with pulses 
 burning, 
 And the walls turn in their places ; 
 
THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 
 
 701 
 
 Turns the sky in the high window blank 
 and reeling ; 
 Turns the long light that drops adown 
 the wall ; 
 Turn the black flies that crawl along the 
 ceiling ; 
 All are turning, all the day, and we 
 with all. 
 And all day, the iron wheels are droning ; 
 
 And sometimes we could pray, 
 '0 ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moan- 
 ing) 
 ' Stop ! be silent for to-day !' " 
 
 Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each other 
 breathing 
 For a moment, mouth to mouth ; 
 Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh 
 wreathing 
 Of their tender human youth ! 
 Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
 
 Is not all the life God fashions or reveals ; 
 Let them prove their living souls against the 
 notion 
 That they live in you, or under you, 
 wheels ! 
 Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 
 Grinding life down from its mark ; 
 And the children's souls, which God is calling 
 sunward. 
 Spin on blindly in the dark. 
 
 Now tell the poor young children, my 
 brothers, 
 To look up to him and pray ; 
 So the Blessed One, who blesseth all the 
 others. 
 Will bless them another day. 
 They answer, "Who is God that He should 
 hear us. 
 While the rushing of the iron wheels is 
 stirred ? 
 When we sob aloud, the human creatures 
 near us 
 tasa by, hearing not, or answer not a 
 word; 
 And ive hear not (f(Jr the wheels in their 
 resounding) 
 Strangers speaking at the door : 
 
 Is it likely God, with angels singing round 
 him. 
 Hears our weeping any more ? 
 
 " Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, 
 
 And at midnight's hour of harm, 
 ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, 
 
 We say softly for a charm. 
 We know no other words, except ' Our Father,' 
 And we think that, in some pause of 
 angel's song, 
 God may pluck them with the silence sweet 
 to gather. 
 And hold both within His right hand 
 which is strong. 
 'Our Father!' If He heard us. He would 
 surely 
 (For they call Him good and mild) 
 Answer, smiling down the steep world very 
 purely, 
 'Come and rest with me, my child.' 
 
 "But, no!" say the children, weeping faster, 
 
 " He is speechless as a stone ; 
 And they tell us, of His image is the master 
 
 Who commands us to work on. 
 Go to!" say the children; "up in Heaven, 
 Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all 
 we find. 
 Do not mock us; grief has made us unbe- 
 lieving ; 
 We look up for God, but tears have made 
 us blind." 
 Do you hear the children weeping and dis- 
 proving, 
 0, my brothers, what ye preach ? 
 For God's possible is taught by his world's 
 loving, 
 And the children doubt of each. 
 
 And well may the children weep before you I 
 
 They are weary ere they run ; 
 They have never seen the sunshine, nor the 
 glory 
 Which is brighter than the sun : 
 They know the grief of man, without his 
 wisdom ; 
 They sink in man's despair, without his 
 calm; 
 Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, 
 
702 
 
 THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 
 
 Are martyrs, by the pang without the 
 palm; 
 Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly 
 
 The blesslflg of its memory cannot keep ; 
 Are orphans of Ihe earthly love and heavenly : 
 
 Let them weep ! let them weep ! 
 
 They look up, with their pale and sunken 
 faces. 
 And their look is dread to see, 
 For they mind you. of their angels in their 
 
 "With eyes turned on Deity; — 
 " How long," they say, "how long, cruel 
 nation. 
 Will you stand to move the world, on a 
 child's heart — 
 Stifle down with a mailed heel its palliation, 
 And tread onward to your throne amid 
 the mart? 
 Our blood splashes upward, gold-heaper, 
 
 And your purple shows your path ! 
 
 But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence, 
 
 Than the strong man in his wrath!" 
 
 A WOMAN'S LOVR 
 
 dAN knows not love — such love as 
 
 woman feels. 
 w"In him it is a vast devouring flame — 
 Resistless fed — in its own strength 
 
 consumed. 
 In woman's heart it enters step by 
 
 step, [ray 
 
 Concealed, disowned, until its gentler 
 
 Breathes forth a light, illumining her world. 
 Man loves not for repose ; he woos the 
 
 flower 
 To wear it as the victor's trophied crown ; 
 Whilst woman, when she glories in her love, 
 More like the dove, in noiseless constancy, 
 Watches the nest of her affection till 
 'Tis shed upon the tomb of him she loves. 
 
 THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS! 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 iND is there care in heaven ? And is 
 there love 
 
 *M5^? •^'^ heavenly spirits to these crea- 
 K tures base, 
 
 That may compassion of their evils 
 move? 
 There is : — else much more wretched 
 were the case 
 Of men than beasts • but the exceeding 
 
 grace 
 Of highest God ! that loves his creatures so 
 And all his workes with mercy doth em- 
 brace. 
 That blessed angels he sends to and fro, 
 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked 
 foe! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave. 
 To come to succour us that succour want ; 
 How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
 The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, 
 Against fowle feende? to ayd us militant I 
 
 They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward. 
 And their bright squadrons round about us 
 plant; 
 
 And all for love, and nothing for reward •, 
 
 0, why should heavenly God to men have 
 such regard ! 
 
A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 703 
 
 THE LAND WHERE JESUS TOILED. 
 
 THE MINISTRY OF JESUS. 
 
 EDWARD EICKERSTETH. 
 
 IjKJfcROM his lips 
 
 ^^1 Truth, limpid, without error, flowed. 
 ^'^?:;s>_L Disease 
 
 '"f^ Fled from his touch. Pain heard 
 I him and was not. 
 
 j Despair smiled m his presence. 
 
 Devils knew, 
 And trembled. In the Omnipotence of faith, 
 Unintermittent, indefectible, 
 
 Leaning upon his Father's might, he bent 
 All nature to his will. The tempest sank, 
 He whispering, into waveless calm. The bread 
 Given from his hands fed thousands, and to 
 
 spare. 
 The stormy waters, as the solid rock 
 Were pavement for his footstep. Death itself, 
 With vain reluctancies yielded its prey 
 To the stern mandate of the Prince of Life. 
 
 A MOTHER'S LOVE. 
 
 MOTHER'S love ! oh, soft and low 
 Aa the tremulous notes of the ring- 
 dove's call, 
 Or the murmur of waters that 
 . gently flow 
 
 f On the weary heart those accents fall ! 
 
 A mother's love ! the sacred thought 
 
 Unseals the hidden fount of tears, 
 As if the frozen waters caught 
 The purple light of earlier years. 
 
 A mother's love ! oh, 't is the dew 
 
 Which nourisheth life's drooping flowers, 
 
 And fitteth them to bloom anew 
 
 'Mid fairer scenes — in brighter bowers. 
 
704 SHOOTING PORPOISES. 
 
 SHOOTING PORPOISES. 
 
 T. DE WITT TALMAGE. 
 
 ?ANG, bang ! went the gun at the side of the San Jacinto, after we 
 p^^ had been two days out at sea on the way to Savannah. We were 
 Sii- ""f startled at such a strange sound on shipboard, and asked : 
 ^ ** "What are they doing ? " 
 
 I A few innocents of the deep, for the purpose of breathing or 
 
 1 sport, had hfted themselves above the wave, and a gentleman found 
 
 amusement in tickling them with shot. As the porpoise rolled over 
 wounded, and its blood colored the wave, the gunner was congratulated by 
 his comrades on the execution made. 
 
 It may have been natural dullness tnat kept us from appreciating the 
 grandeur of the deed. Had the porpoise impeded the march of the San 
 Jacinto, I would have said : 
 
 " Dose it with lead ! " 
 
 If there had been a possibility that by coming up to breathe it would 
 endanger our own supply of air, I would have said : 
 
 " Save the passengers and kill the dolphins ! " 
 
 If the marksman had harpooned a whale there would have been the 
 oil for use, or had struck down a gull, in its anatomy, he . might have ad- 
 vanced science. If he had gunpowdered the cook it might, in small quan- 
 tities, have made him animated ; or the stewardess, there would have been 
 the fun of seeing her jump. But, alas for the cruel disposition of the man 
 who could shoot a porpoise ! 
 
 There is no need that we go to sea to find the same style of gun- 
 ning. 
 
 After tea the parlor is full of romp. The children are playing ''■ Ugly 
 Mug," and " Bear," and " Tag," and " Yonder stands a lovely creature." 
 Papa goes in among the playing dolphins with the splash and dignity of a 
 Ban Jacinto. He cries, " Jim, get my slippers ! " " Mary, roll up the 
 stand ! " " Jane, get me the evening newspaper ! " " Sophia, go to bed ! " 
 " Harry, quit that snicker ! " " Stop that confounded noise, all of you ! " 
 The fun is over. The water is quiet. The dolphins have turned their 
 last somersault. Instead of getting down on his hands and knees, 
 and being as lively as a "bear," as any of them, he goes to shooting 
 •porpoises. 
 
SHOOTING PORPOISES. 
 
 705 
 
 Here is a large school of famous pretension, professors high-salaried, ap- 
 paratus complete, globes on which you can travel round the world in five 
 minutes, spectroscopes, and Leyden jars, and chromatropes, and electric 
 batteries. No one disputed its influence or its well-earned fame. The 
 masters and misses that graduate come out equipped for duty. Long may 
 it stand the adornment of the town. But a widow whose sons were 
 killed in the war opens a school in her basement. She has a small 
 group of little children whose tuition is her sole means of subsistence. 
 
 SHOOTING PORPOISES. 
 
 The high school looks with sharp eyes on the rising up of the low school. 
 The big institution has no respect whatever for little institutions. The 
 parents patronizing the widow must be persuaded that they are wasting 
 their children's time in that basement. Women have no right to be 
 widows or have their sons killed in the war. From the windows of the 
 high school the arrows are pointed at the helpless establishment in the 
 corner. " Bang !" goes the artillery of scorn till one of the widow's 
 scholars has gone. " Bang!" go the guns from the deck of the great edu-' 
 cational craft till the innovating institution turns over and disappears. 
 Well done ! Used it up quick ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Shooting porpoises ! 
 
706 
 
 THE DAY 18 DONE. 
 
 Grab, Chokcham & Co. have a large store. They sell more goods 
 than any in town. They brag over their income and the size of the glass 
 in their show-window. They have enough clerks on light salaries to man 
 a small navy. Mr. Needham, an honest man with small capital, opens a 
 store in the same business. One morning Mr. Grab says to his partner, 
 Mr. Chokehani : "Do you know a young chap has opened a store down 
 on the other end of this block in the same business ?" 
 
 " Has, eh ? We will settle him very speedily." Forthwith it is 
 understood that if at the small store a thing is sold for fifty cents, at the 
 large store you can get it for forty-five. That is less than cost, but Grab & 
 Chokeham are an old house, and can stand it, and Needham cannot. Small 
 store's stock of goods is getting low, and no money to replenish. Small 
 store's rent is due, and nothing with which to pay it. One day small store 
 is crowded with customers, but they have come to the sherifi"s sale. The 
 big fish has swallowed the little one. Grab & Chokeham roll on the floor 
 of counting-room in excess of merriment. Needham goes home to cry his 
 eyes out. Big store has pat an end to small store. Plenty of room for both, 
 but the former wanted all the sea to itself. No one had any right to 
 show his commercial head in those waters. " Pop !" " Pop !" Shooting 
 'porpoises ! 
 
 Is it not time that the world stopped wasting its ammunition ? If 
 you want to shoot, there is the fox of cruel cunning, and the porcupine of 
 fretfulness, and the vulture of filth, and the weasel of meanness, and the 
 bear of religious grumbling. Oh, for more hunters who can "draw a bead " 
 so as every time to send plump into the dust a folly of sin ! But let alone 
 the innocent things of land and deep. The world is wide enough for us all. 
 Big newspaper, have mercy on the little Great merchants, spare the weak. 
 Let the San Jacinto plow on its majestic way and pass unhurt the porpoises. 
 
 THE DA Y IS DONE. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 ■^[-lE day is done, and the darkness 
 '^ Falls from the wing of Night, 
 As a feather is wafted downward 
 From an eagle in his flight. 
 
 I see the lights of the village 
 
 Gleam through the rain and the mist ; 
 
 And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 
 That my soul cannot resist ; 
 
 A feeling of sadness and longing, 
 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles the rain 
 
THE DAY IS DONE. 
 
 707 
 
 Come, read to me some poem, 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay. 
 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
 And banish the thoughts of day : 
 
 Who, through long days of labor, 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 
 Still heard in his soul the music 
 Of wonderful melodies. 
 
 Not from the grand old masters. 
 Not from the bards sublime, 
 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 Through the corridors of time. 
 
 Such songs have power to quiet 
 The restless pulse of care. 
 
 And come like the benediction 
 That follows after prayer. 
 
 For, like strains of martial music, 
 Their mighty thoughts suggest 
 
 Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 
 And to-night I long for rest. 
 
 Then read from the treasured volume 
 
 The poem of thy choice ; 
 And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
 
 The beauty of thy voice. 
 
 Read from some humbler poet, 
 Whose songs gushed from his heart. 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer, 
 Or tears irom the eyelids start ; 
 
 And the night shall be filled with music 
 And the cares that infest the day 
 
 Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 
 And as silently steal away. 
 
' Words of genuine eloquence, spoken, 
 Thrill the passing hour; 
 Written, they inspire the ages." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
 
 AUTHORS AND POETS, 
 
 WHOSE BEST PRODtTCTIONS ARE GATHERED IN 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 " He loved home, for he had known what it was to be homeless. Ho 
 wrote to gladden youthful hearts, for his own warm heart had often craved 
 gladness when he was but a youth." 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ^,^ CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 
 
 ||Tri|[iis humorous writer, author of " The Puzzled Dutchman," " Pat's 
 pi^ Criticism," and four other poems of this volume, was born in 
 Ipjl^'^'l' Dorchester, Mass., April 21st, 1842. His parents were natives 
 X of New Hampshire. He received a common-school education, 
 
 I" leaving school when about fifteen years of age to enter a prominent 
 t business house in Boston. In August, 1862, then being twenty years 
 of age, he enlisted in the Thirteenth Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteers. 
 He was in the battles of Bull P\,uu, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville and 
 others, was wounded at Gettysburg, July 1, 1863, and held as prisoner for 
 three days until Federal troops retook the town. Upon his return home 
 he resumed business, and is now at the head of a large house in Boston. 
 
 His literary pursuits have but lately begun, his first poem having been 
 written in 1870, and his first dialect poem {" The Puzzled Dutchman ") 
 in February, 1872. From that time he was an occasional contributor of 
 the local papers, Oliver Optic's Magazine, Scribner's, etc., until 1876, 
 when he became a regular contributor to the Detroit Free Press, his first 
 poem in that paper being " Leedle Yawcob Strauss," which first appeared 
 June, 1876. All of his subsequent productions, with the exception of 
 " Hans and Fritz," have been written for that paper. His choicest 
 pieces have been selected to enrich the pages of this volume. 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 iii^osEPH ADDISON, who is pre-eminent as an author, essavist, hu- 
 ly^ morist, and moralist, was born in Milston, in Wiltshire, England, 
 ^^ May 1st, 1672. His father was the Rev. Lancelot Addison. He 
 ^1* attended school at the Charter House, and when about fifteen years 
 of age he entered at the Queen's College, Oxford, with a splendid stock of 
 48 711 
 
712 BIOGRArmCAL SKETCHES. 
 
 tlie best classical learning. In 1689 he removed to Magdalen College, 
 where he remained about ten years. Before he had decided on the choice 
 of a profession, he became acquainted with Charles Montague, the leading 
 Whig financier. He was persuaded by Montague to decline the clerical 
 profession, which his family preferred for him, and devote himself to the 
 service of the state. In 1705 Addison was appointed Under-Secretary of 
 State. He was elected to Parliament i:i 1708, and on one occasion rose to 
 speak, but was overcome by his natural diffidence, and at once abandoned 
 all effort to become a debater. His literary talents, however, rendered 
 him one of the main men of the Whig party, as at that time public opinion 
 was swayed by the pen more than by the tongue. 
 
 Addison was chief secretary to Lord Wharton, who was Lord-Lieutenant 
 of Ireland in 1709. In this year his friend Steele began the issue of " The 
 Tattler," which afforded Addison a fine opportunity for the display of his 
 genius. His graceful style, genial spirit, excellent invention and inimitable 
 humor rendered " The Tattler " and its successor, " The Spectator," 
 immensely popular. The latter was issued daily from March 1st, 1711, to 
 December 6th, 1712. In 1714 it reappeared as a tri- weekly. Addison 
 himself wrote nearly one-half the editorial contents of the Spectator, the 
 success of which was quite phenomenal. 
 
 On the death of Queen Anne he became secretary to the regency. 
 After that date he again became secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of 
 Ireland. He afterwards accepted a seat in the Board of Trade and began 
 to publish " The Freeholder." He became one of the two principal 
 secretaries of state in the ministry formed in 1717. He remained in office 
 but eleven months ; his retirement was attributed to his ill health and 
 inefficiency as a public speaker. He died on the 17th of June, 1719, 
 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Of Addison's conversational powers Lady Mary Montague said, that 
 she had " known all the wits," and that Addison was " the best company 
 in the world." " Addison's conversation," said Pope, " had something in 
 it more charming than I have found in any other man." 
 
 , ELIZABETH AKERS 
 
 HJ^HE authoress of the exquisite ballad " Eock me to Sleep, Mother," 
 pl^ holds a deservedly high place in the esteem of all who love pure 
 
 rand tender sentiment. She was a native of New England, born 
 in 1832, and volumes of her poems were published in 1853 and 
 1867. She subsequently became Mrs. Allen, and lived in Virginia. 
 
MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. 713 
 
 MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. 
 
 If^HE " Burial of Mose.s " is one of the grandest descriptive poems of 
 SR the EngUsh language. Its gifted authoress has done much good 
 
 P'^^^ work, especially in her " Hymns for Little Children," of which a 
 quarter of a million copies have been sold. She is the wife of the 
 Rev. W. Alexander, and is a native of Ireland. She was born in 1823, 
 and belongs to the Church of England. The one poem from her gifted 
 pen selected for this volume, is of itself enough to immortalize her name. 
 In grandeur of thought and diction it rises into the truly sublime. 
 
 , H. ALGER, JR. 
 
 Ijj^EV. HORATIO ALGER, JR., the author of " John Maynard," was born 
 " ii at Nortli Chelsea, Mass., January 13th, 1834. He graduated 
 at Harvard in 1852. He afterwards studied theology, and, in 
 1864, became pastor of a Unitarian congregation at Brewster, 
 Mass. He has published several volumes of poems, besides making 
 many valuable contributions to periodical literature. The poem given 
 on page 406 of Gems is one of the most stirring he has written. 
 
 WILLIAM R. ALGER. 
 
 piLLiAM rounseville ALGER, a distinguished clergyman and au- 
 |||l^ thor, was born at Freetown, Mass., in 1822. His writings, in 
 i|^ the main, have been theological, though poetry and general 
 ^ literature have been much enriched by his chaste and scholarly 
 
 i contributions. He has issued several volumes, one of which, entitled 
 J " Oriental Poetry," has furnished the two gems we have given. One 
 of these is from the Persian, the other from the Chinese, and both are good 
 illustrations of the best poesy of those far-off lauds, and of the Unguistic 
 learning and poetic skill of the translator. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 tM^HE author of the beautiful selection entitled "The Fairies," was born 
 at Ballyshannon, Ireland, in 1828. He published one volume 
 entitled "Day and Night Songs," whence "The Fairies," is taken. 
 Other works of his have "been very favorably received, and, in 
 t 1864, a literaiy pension was bestowed upon him. 
 
7]^4 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 J. MICHAEL ALTENBERG. 
 
 MICHAEL ALTENBERG was a German, who was prominent in the 
 Lutheran Church, and active in her most trying experiences. 
 He was born 1583, and died 1640. His " Battle Song " (p. 430) 
 is grand in its noble and reverent spirit of faith and trust. 
 
 , ANACREON. 
 
 i||ii|His famous Greek poet is supposed to have been born about 563 
 pjj^ B. c, and to have died about 478. His native place was Teos, in 
 '^t Ionia. He spent a long time at the court of Poly crates, the tyrant 
 of Saraos, after whose death he removed to Athens, where he 
 remained many years ; then he journeyed in Greece, and finally met 
 his death, by accident, at a good old age. His reputed poems were 
 largely on love and wine, though some were elegies and epigrams, a fair 
 specimen of the latter being seen in " The Grasshopper King," on page 42. 
 Criticism denies many of the so-called Anacreontics to be from Anacreon. 
 
 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 
 
 I HIS most gifted writer was born at Odense, in the island of Fiinen, 
 .^^., April 2, 1805. His father was simply a poor shoemaker, though 
 l^'^ descended from a rich ancestry. Hans loved to dwell on the 
 ^ wealth and splendor of those ancestors and to talk of those 
 
 4; departed glories. It seemed, indeed, to solace his own poverty. The 
 J father of Hans died when the boy was but nine years old, leaving the 
 mother to stagger under a heavy load. She thought of putting Hans at the 
 trade of a tailor, but she was prevailed upon to send him to Copenhagen, 
 where he sought employment on the stage. In this he did not succeed, 
 owing, as the story goes, to his emaciated and generally uninviting appear- 
 ance. But he had a fine voice, and this gained him some employment 
 as a singer. After a brief run of success in this line, his voice failed, and 
 he was again afloat upon the world. 
 
 In this emergency he came under the notice of his subsequent patron, 
 Councillor Collin, who obtained for Hans the privilege of a free education 
 in one of the State academies. Prior to this tiftie the boy had written 
 several short poems and stories. One of these, " The Dying Child," had 
 attracted considerable attention. So conspicuous did his genius soon become, 
 however, that the King of Denmark furnished the means for Hans to travel 
 in Germany, France and Italy. After this tour his reputation grew 
 
EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 715 
 
 rapidly, and in 1834 he produced a very brilliant romance entitled "The 
 Improvisatore." It sets forth, in an inimitable manner, scenery and 
 customs in Southern Europe. Another sketch of life in the North of 
 Europe appeared the next year, and was almost equally successful. He 
 also wrought the story of his own early life into a series of very striking 
 pen pictures, which he entitled " Only a Fiddler." Andersen's genius was 
 most conspicuous in the realm of fairy lore, of which he published several 
 volumes. All these have met with a hearty reception. They are brilliant 
 in imagination, quaint in humor, and ofttimes melting in pathos. 
 
 The works of Hans Christian Andersen have been translated into almost 
 all the languages of Europe. His one story given in this work is "The 
 Little Match Girl," which is a perfect gem. Andersen died in 1875. 
 
 p. ARKWRIGHT. 
 
 IpiilNDER the above nom de pluiiUj or the fuller, Peleg Arkwright, 
 ^^P David L. Proudfit has written much concerning the " gamins," or 
 ^1^ street boys of our large cities. So graphic and tender have these 
 ^1' descriptions been, that the public heart has turned very fondly 
 i toward this much neglected and abused class. " Poor Little 
 J Joe " (p. 358) is full of pathos and vivid description. 
 
 EDWIN ARNOLD. 
 
 J^iS 
 
 ^^DWIN ARNOLD is a native of England, He was born June 10th, 
 1831. As early as 1852 he took a high prize at Oxford for a 
 'l poem. He subsequently became a master in a high school, but 
 f soon after removed to British India, where he became President of 
 
 4; the Sanskrit College at Poonah. He resigned this post in 18C0, and 
 J devoted himself wholly to literary pursuits. He has been a voluminous 
 contributor to periodicals, magazines, etc., and has produced some highly 
 meritorious poems, chief among which i«5 his last extended venture, " The 
 Light of Asia." His translation of the Persian poem, " Call me not Dead," 
 given on page 269, is a rare piece of literary elegance. 
 
 GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 
 JHE author of " The Jolly Old Pedagogue," George Arnold, was 
 born in New York City, June 24th, 1834. and died November 9th, 
 ^^^ 1865. He followed journalism and literature, making a good 
 
716 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 reputation by his poems, stories, reviews, etc. He also attained some 
 distinction as a Immorist. His writings liave not been numerous, however, 
 but their choice character has won and held for them an honorable place. 
 
 WILLIAM E. AYTOUN. 
 
 (AUGUSTUS DUKSHUNNEK.) 
 
 LLiAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN, D.C.L., was a native of Scotland. 
 ||J(^^ He was born at Edinburgh about the year 1813. He died 
 ^""f August 4, 1865. He began his career at the Scottish bar in 
 1840, but so marked was his ability that, in 1845, he was appointed 
 i Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of his 
 J native city. He excelled as a poet and dramatist, and he was also one 
 of the most brilliant contributors of " Blackwood's Magazine." He wrote 
 under the nom de plume of Augustus Dunshunner. His most celebrated 
 poems are " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers " and " Bothwell." These 
 poems are full of the old Scotch martial fire, and they have gone through 
 numerous editions. " The Buried Flower " (p. 272) is one of the most ex- 
 quisitely sweet poems which ever appeared from this gifted writer. 
 
 ANNA BACHE. 
 
 ^^II^RS. ANNA BACHE, was a resident of the city of Philadelphia, where 
 ^m^ she published a volume for juveniles in 1843. She also is- 
 ^^^ sued several humorous descriptive poems, one of the very best and 
 most homelike of which, " The Quilting," is given in this volume. It is a 
 lifelike description of the old-time quilting parties in country places. 
 
 J. M. BAILEY. 
 (danbury news man.) 
 
 IJ^AMES MONTGOMERY BAILEY, was born in the city of Albany, New York, 
 
 September 25th, 1841. In 1865 he commenced journalism on the 
 
 "Danbury Times," afterwards known as the " Danbury News," 
 
 and published at Danbury, Conn. From its constant flow of rich 
 
 I and healthy humor the paper soon gained a national reputation and 
 
 J circulation. Mr. Bailey has published a collection of his papers 
 
 under the title, " Life in Danbury," also " The Danbury News Man's 
 
 Almanac," and other works, all of which are characterized by the same 
 
 admirable veins, which first brought him into so favorable a prominence. 
 
RICHARD BAXTER. 71^ 
 
 EDWARD DICKINSON BAKER. 
 
 ^^OLONEL BAKER, more generally known as Senator Baker, was a 
 ^^ native of England. He was born February 24th, 1811, He came 
 -^^^^ to the United States while but a youth and adopted law as his profes- 
 sion. He was among the early settlers of California, having migrated to 
 that State in 1852. In 1860 he was chosen United States Senator 
 for Oregon, but on the outbreak of the civil war he raised a regiment 
 for the Union service, at the head of which he was killed at Ball's Bluff, 
 October 21st, 1861. The selection from one of his most celebrated 
 speeches, given on page 516, shows his spirit as that terrible struggle 
 began. He was at the very moment of speaking ready to march to the 
 
 front. 
 
 T^ LADY ANNE BARNARD. 
 
 ||j|iHis distinguished Scottish poetess, whose maiden name was Lindsay, 
 
 ^^^ was born at Fifeshire in 1750, She was a daughter of the Earl 
 ^IQ of Balcarres. Her best literary effort, and that which made her 
 *|^ the widest reputation, was the poem given in this volume, " Auld 
 
 Eobin Gray." The history of this poem is related substantially in its few 
 
 introductory lines (p. 193). She died in 1825. 
 
 RICHARD BAXTER. 
 
 "■^feiCHARD BAXTER was an eminent English non-conformist minis- 
 ll^ ter, who was born at Rowdon, in Shropshire, Nov. 12th, 1615. 
 He was a man of very extensive learning, though he was not 
 educated at any college. He was ordained to the ministry in 1638 
 [ and was chosen Vicar of Kidderminster soon after. He was 
 distinguished as a very eloquent preacher. In the civil war of England 
 he sought to be neutral and to mediate between the contesting parties. 
 About 1615 he accepted the post of chaplain to a regiment of Cromwell's 
 army ; but he afterwards became hostile to the government of the 
 Protector, In 1650 he published the " Saints' Everlasting Eest," a work 
 which is generally and justly admired, and from which a selection in 
 " Gems " is taken. In 1685 Baxter was tried before the notoriously 
 unjust Jeffries on a charge of sedition, which was based on a passage in 
 one of his works. He was fined five hundred marks, for the non-payment 
 of which he was imprisoned eighteen months. He died in December, 1691- 
 
718 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 dAMES BEATTIE was a Scottish poet and philosophical writer, who 
 was born in the county of Kincardine in 1735. In 1760 he was 
 f^ appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy and Logic at Marischal 
 i^ College, Aberdeen. In 1767 he brought out his " Essay on Truth," 
 J written in refutation of the doctrines of Hume. It went through 
 five editions in a few years, and was translated into several languages. 
 The first book of " The Minstrel" appeared in 1771, and met with great 
 favor also. Beattie soon after visited London, where he secured the 
 friendship of Dr. Johnson, Goldsmith, and other distinguished literary 
 men. During a second visit, in 1773, he received from the University of 
 Oxford the degree of d.c.l. Soon after this time he published the second 
 part of " The Minstrel," and in a few years followed it with a series of 
 moral and critical essays, and a " Treatise on the Evidences of Christianity." 
 The two extracts given in this volume are fair specimens of Beattie's style. 
 
 HENRY WARD BEECHER. 
 
 REV. HENRY WARD BEECHER, who is One of America's most 
 distinguished clergymen, orators and writers, was born at 
 Litchfield, Conn., January 24th, 1813. His father, Dr. Lyman 
 Beecher, was a man distinguished for his sound theology and his 
 
 J great common sense. Of his boyish character his sister, Mrs. 
 Harriet Beecher Stowe, says : " He had precisely the organization 
 which passes in boyhood for dullness. He had great deficiency in verbal 
 memory ; ... he was excessively sensitive to praise and blame, extremely 
 diffident, and with a power of yearning, undeveloped emotion which he 
 neither understood nor could express. ... In forecasting his horoscope, 
 had any one taken the trouble to do it, the last success that ever would 
 have been predicted for him would have been that of an orator. But even 
 while a boy he proved that, if he did not inherit the eloquence, he inherited 
 at least something of the controversial ability of his father. A forward 
 school-boy among the elder scholars had got hold of Paine's ' Age of 
 Eeason,' and was flourishing largely among the boys with objections to 
 the Bible. Henry privately looked up Watson's ' Apology,' studied up 
 the subject, and challenged a debate with the big boy, in which he came 
 off victorious by the acclamation of his school-fellows." He entered 
 Amherst College in 1834. Soon after he commenced the study of theology 
 under the direction of his father. He began his ministry at Lawrenceburg, 
 
GEORGE BERKELEY. 719 
 
 Ind., but soon removed to Indianapolis. In 1847 he became pastor of 
 Plymouth Congregational Church, of Brooklyn, N. Y. His congregation 
 here is probably the largest in the United States. He is a popular writer 
 and lecturer. In the cause of temperance, anti-slavery, etc., he has long 
 stood in the foremost rank, and been a most efficient champion. 
 
 GEORGE BERKELEY. 
 
 ^^EORGE BERKELEY was an English Bishop, and a metaphysical 
 ^^^ philosopher of rare merit. He was born at Kilcrin, Ireland, on 
 
 2g the 12th of March, 1684. He entered Trinity College, Dublin. 
 
 ^1* His reputation as a philosopher was made about 1707 by " An 
 J Essay towards a New Theory of Vision." In 1710, he first published 
 " The Principles of Human Knowledge," in which he advanced his 
 celebrated theory that there is no proof of the existence of matter anywhere 
 but in our own perceptions. In 1713 he visited London, where he became 
 intimate with Addison, Pope, Swift, Arbuthnot, and other eminent men. 
 He also wrote several essays for the " Guardian." He published in 1725 
 a "Proposal for Converting the Savage Americans to Christianity," and 
 wished to found a college in America for that object. He received a 
 promise of £ 20,000 from the government, and sailed for America, on this 
 mission, in 1728. At this time he wrote those celebrated lines : 
 
 " Westward the course of empire takes its way ; 
 The four first acts already past, 
 A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; 
 Time's noblest offering is the last." 
 
 He preached about two years in Newport, R. I., but abandoned the 
 project of the college because the government failed to send the funds, and 
 he returned to England. He was chosen Bishop of Cloyne in 1734. Among 
 his later works is " The Analyst," addressed to an infidel mathematician. 
 He finally removed to Oxford, and died there in January, 1753. 
 
 .sJL^ BERNARD DE MORLAIX. 
 
 Ijnf^His famous Latin poet was called also the Monk of Cluni. He was 
 ^AJ of. the Benedictine Order, and must be distins:uished from St. 
 ^^^ Bernard of the Romish Calendar. Bernard de Morlaix flourished 
 I in the first half of the twelfth century, but where, and just when 
 he was born and died are insoluble problems. Various places claim the 
 honor of his birth, but Morlaix, in Bretagne, has most in its favor. De 
 
720 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
 
 Contemptu Mundi is esteemed his greatest poem, though " The Celestial 
 Country," which is given on page 650, is doubtless his most pleasing. For 
 its exquisite English rendering, the world is indebted to Dr. John Mason 
 Neall, of Sussex, England. Nothing can be more magnificent. 
 
 EDWARD BICKERSTETH. 
 
 ffnE REV. EDWARD BICKERSTETH a distinguished English divine. 
 He was born in Westmoreland in 1786. In 1814 he published a 
 " Help to the Study of the Scriptures," which became very 
 popular. He visited Africa in 1816 for the purpose of inspecting 
 J the missionary stations of that country. He officiated as Secretary 
 of the Church Missionary Society for some fifteen years. In 1830 he 
 became Kector of Watton, in Hertfordshire, where he was very active in 
 promoting every good cause. His works have been numerous and valuable, 
 and he has issued many charming poems also, one of which, on "The 
 Ministry of Jesus," adorns these pages. He died in 1850. 
 
 ^^, WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 |S|pHE author of "Tlie Tiger" (p. 357) was born in London, November 
 
 pl^ 28th, 1757. His earlier business years were spent as an engraver, 
 
 ^^^ but he had begun the writing of verses when quite a boy. Blake 
 
 Trl attributed his inspirations to disembodied spirits, especially to that 
 
 i of his dead brother. Under this supposed impulse he illustrated 
 
 t as well as wrote his works, some of which are quaint, rare, and 
 
 costly. He believed that the spirits of Homer, Dante, and Milton 
 
 communed habitually with him. He died August 12th, 1827, singing as 
 
 he drew near his end and as he breathed his last. He was known as 
 
 " the poet-painter," and Charles Lamb said : " He paints in water-colors 
 
 marvelous, strange pictures, visions of his brain, which he asserts he 
 
 has seen." The tiger has a strange weirdness in every line. 
 
 . GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 ^^EORGE HENRY BOKER, an American poet, was born in Phila- 
 fe| delphia in 1824. After graduating at Princeton in 1842 he made 
 ^^^-^ an extensive tour of Europe, and has since then resided in his 
 I native city. His first volume, " The Lesson of Life, and other 
 J Poems," appeared in 1841. This was followed in 1848 by 
 " Calaynos," a tragedy, which has been received with marked favor 
 
HORATIUS BONAR. 721 
 
 both in England and America. Among his other dramatic produc- 
 tions are "Anne Boleyn," a tragedy, " Leonore de Guzman," and 
 others. His "War Lyrics," or "Poems of the Civil War," have been 
 much admired and widely published. His " Battle of Lookout Mountain " 
 is given in this volume. Mr. Boker edited " Lippincott's Magazine" for 
 several years, but resigned that post in 1870, since when he has represented 
 the United States at Constantinople and subsequently at St. Petersburg. 
 
 , HORATIUS BONAR. 
 
 pHE author of "Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping," the Rev. 
 ^ Horatius Bonar, will ever live in the hearts of those who love the 
 pure, the good and the true. He was born in Edinburgh, Scot- 
 ia land, in 1808. He began his ministerial work at Kelso in 1831, 
 and at Edinburgh in 1861. Some of his publications have reached an 
 almost fabulous circulation. His " Blood of Christ " has gone into almost 
 every land, and been translated into almost every tongue. He died 1869. 
 
 MARY G. BRAINARD. 
 
 ^^^BOUT the authorship of the poem " Not Knowing " (p. 577) some 
 ^^^ uncertainty arose a few years ago. When P. P. Bliss, the evan- 
 ■^^^f^ gelist singer, went down in the railroad crash at Ashtabula, this 
 I poem was found among his baggage with annotations in his own 
 hand, and the impression went abroad that he was its author. It was, 
 however, written in the winter of 1868-9, by Miss Mary C Brainard, of 
 New London, Conn., a niece of the late G. C. Brainard, whose poem, on 
 "Niagara '' is regarded as the finest on that sublime theme. She came, 
 therfeore, of a poetic family. The poem, which is an exquisite production, 
 was first published in " The Congregationalist " in March, 1869. It was 
 afterwards issued on a leaflet from the Willard Tract Repository, Boston, 
 and included in compilations of poems published severally by the Amer- 
 ican Tract Society, and the Evangelical Knowledge Society. 
 
 .J CHARLES T. BROOKS. 
 
 HlliHE REV. CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS was a Unitarian minister and a 
 g^ poet. He was born at Salem, Mass., June 20th, 1813. He 
 •^^ graduated at Harvard in 1832, and settled as a pastor at Newport, 
 ■^ R. I., in 1831. He is eminent as a translator of "Faust," 
 " Hesperus," " Titan," and many small poems from the German. 
 The little gem on page 596 illustrates the beautiful English into which he 
 conveyed the form and sentiment of German poems. 
 
722 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 CHARLES F. BEOWNE. 
 
 .K (artemus ward.) 
 
 H^HAELES FARRAR BEOWNE, widely known by the nom de plume 
 ^^ Artemus Ward, was a pioneer among American humorists. He 
 /^ was born in 1834, and died in 1861. He travelled extensively, 
 J looking up novelties, which he wove into letters and lectures with 
 admirable skill. His early death was from a pulmonary trouble, which 
 cut him down in the midst of a popular career. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 |his most gifted of the female poets was born at Hope End, Here- 
 fordshire, England, about the year 1801. She was the daughter, 
 of a wealthy merchant of London. She was highly educated 
 and well versed in the Greek and Latin languages. She began to 
 write verse when about ten years of age, and these childish pro- 
 ductions gave proofs of her high poetical genius. One of her first 
 published works was the ''Battle of Marathon." In 1826 she published 
 a volume entitled " Essay on Mind and other Poems." In 1823 she issued 
 " Prometheus Bound," which she translated from the Greek of Ji^schylus, 
 and which was a remarkable performance for one so young. Her reputa- 
 tion was greatly extended by " The Seraphim and other Poems," issued in 
 1838. In 1846 she married the poet Robert Browning, with whom she 
 resided many years in Italy. In 1851 she published " Casa Guidi 
 Windows," a poem which treats of the political condition of Italy. " This," 
 says 'The North British Review,' "is the happiest of Mrs. Browning's 
 performances, because it makes no pretensions to high artistic character, 
 and is really a simple story of personal impressions." " Aurora Leigh " 
 is her largest work. It is a novel in verse. " The Cry of the Children," 
 one of Mrs. Browning's gems, which with two others adorn these pages, is 
 one of the most pathetic showings of the sufferings of the poor of England 
 which ever was mad^. She died at Florence in June, 1861. 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 ^^MERICA has had few sons more widely known, more generally 
 beloved, and more justly honored, than was he whose name heads 
 this paragraph. This eminent poet was born at Cummington, 
 Hampshire county, Mass., on the 3rd of November, 1794. He 
 L wrote poems for newspapers when but ten years old, and when but 
 thirteen he wrote " The Embargo," a political satire, and " The Spanish 
 
GEORGE WILLIAM BUNGAY. 723 
 
 Revolution," both of which were printed by his admiring friends in 
 1808. He entered Williams College in 1810, and there distinguished 
 himself by his marked proficiency in languages. He subsequently became 
 a student of law. Having been admitted to the bar in 1815, he devoted 
 himself to that calling for several years. In 1816 he published " Thana- 
 topsis," which is by many regarded as his finest poem, and which has 
 enjoyed a popularity equal to that of Gray's Elegy. In 1821 his first 
 volume appeared containing a didactic poem called " The Ages," besides 
 some other pieces. Soon after this date he removed to New York city, 
 and in 1826 became one of the editors of the " Evening Post." In this 
 connection he continued to the time of his death. He first visited Europa 
 in 1834, returning in 1836, after which time he made several journeys 
 abroad. In 1849 he travelled in Egypt and Syria. Since 1845, he resided 
 in a beautiful home of his own arrangement, at Roslyn, on Long Island. 
 
 Griswold says of Bryant : " No poet has described with more fidelity 
 the beauties of creation, nor sung in nobler song the greatness of the 
 Creator. He is the translator of the silent language of the universe to 
 the world. His poetry is pervaded by a pure and genial philosophy, a 
 solemn and religious tone, that influence the fancy, the understanding, and 
 the heart." Bryant's death occurred in New York on June 12th, 1878. 
 It was brought about by exposure to the sun while attending the unveiling 
 of the Halleck statue, and by a subsequent fall. He had been spared to 
 a ripe old age, but his powers seemed unabated, and his honors were 
 multiplied to the last. 
 
 I, ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 Ij^pOBEET BUCHANAN was boni iu Scotland, August 18th, 1841, 
 p^l^ and received his college training at the University of Glasgow. 
 <^^ He has written poems, tragedies and comedies. He has given 
 I public readings and contributed to the newspapers, and altogether 
 has been a busy and helpful literary man. His " Nell " (p 393) is a weird, 
 wild piece, which chills the blood while it charms the reader. 
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM BUNGAY. 
 
 ^EORGE w. BUNGAY, journalistic author and lyceum lecturer, was born 
 
 ^Jl in England, came with his parents to this country in his childhood, 
 
 was educated in New York, was on the editorial staff of the New 
 
 York Tribune during the war of the Rebellion, is the author of 
 
 " Crayon Sketches and Off-hand Takings," " Pen Portraits," " Traits 
 
 of Representative Men," " Creeds of the Bells," and many other 
 
724 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 poems, and of various addresses in prose and verse, delivered before 
 colleges and lyceunis. He was the founder and editor of the " Ilion 
 Independent " in Herkimer County, New York ; also of the " Central 
 Independent," published in Utica, New York. For several years 
 past he has held a Government appointment. He devotes his leisure 
 to literary labor. He is [1883] 58 years of age, of stout build and ruddy 
 countenance, is strictly temperate, never having used liquor nor tobacco 
 in any form. We give his " Creed of the Bells." 
 
 . JOHN BUNYAN. 
 
 (ipo book is more widely known than Banyan's " Pilgrim's 
 
 It has been translated into almost every language into which the 
 •^-^"ti Bible itself has been rendered. Its author, John Bunyan, was 
 born at Elstow, near Bedford, England, in the year 1628. He 
 followed the occupation of his father, who was a tinker, and for some time 
 John led a wandering, dissipated life. He married when about twenty 
 years of age. During the civil war of England he served in the army of 
 the Parliament. Having become deeply interested in religious things he 
 joined the Anabaptists of Bedford, about 1664, and soon became distin- 
 guished for his zeal. He finally became a Baptist minister. After the 
 restoration of peace he was sentenced to tran'^portation for life as a 
 promoter of seditious and disorderly assemblies. This sentence was not 
 executed, however, but he was detained in prison more than twelve years. 
 During his imprisonment he wrote the main part of his immortal work, 
 " Pilgrim's Progress." Besides which he wrote many other works, none 
 of which, however, at all compare with his one masterpiece. After his 
 release he ministered to a congregation at Bedford, and became extremely 
 popular. He died in 1688, but he lives through his works, and wields a 
 power such as few men ever exerted. 
 
 ^j EDMUND BURKE. 
 
 mJH^iiis illustrious orator, statesman, and philanthropist, was born in 
 Dublin in 1730, or, according to some authorities, in 1728. Burke 
 was originally the same name as Burgh, De Burgh, De Burgho, 
 
 tor De Bourgo. His father was an attorney of the first rank in 
 his profession in Dublin. Edmund Burke was the second son of a 
 family of fourteen or fifteen children, all of whom died young but three 
 sons and one daughter. Edmund was of a delicate constitution. He 
 studied at Trinity College, Dublin. The range of his work there included 
 
ROBERT BURNS. 725 
 
 the classics, history, philosophy, general literature, and metaphysics. He 
 was accustomed while at college to spend three hours every day in the 
 public library. While he devoted a large part of his time to studies of 
 the most solid character, he did not neglect the lighter reading, including 
 poetry, novels, and other works of imagination. Burke graduated in 
 1748. His destination was the bar, and in 1747 his name was enrolled 
 at the Middle Temple. In 1750 he went to London, but returned to 
 Ireland the next year. In 1755 Burke felt inclined to try his fortune in 
 America. Several of his most valued friends highly approved of it ; but 
 his father strongly opposed the scheme, and so it was abandoned. This 
 decided his life for England, and devoting his splendid talents and high 
 culture to her affairs he made a name of which she is justly proud. As a 
 pleader at the bar in some of her most famous cases, and as a secretary of 
 some of her most important trusts, he rendered services which can never 
 be forgotten. Burke's only son, Eichard, a man of superior talents and 
 great moral worth, died in 1794. The grief occasioned by this irreparable 
 loss contributed, there is reason to believe, materially to shorten his 
 father's life. It was this bereavement that called forth the eulogy on page 
 231 of this volume. Burke himself died in 1794. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 ptiis famous Scottish poet was born at Ayr, January 25, 1759. His 
 ^^ father's home at that time was a hut of clay and straw, which he 
 built with his own hands, on a little tract of ground which he had 
 rented. The life of Robert's father was an unintermittent struggle 
 with adversity, and yet he spared no pains to secure his children 
 good education. He sent them to school, and sometimes after the day's 
 work was done he assisted their studies. " I owed much," says the poet, 
 " to an old woman who resided in the family. . . . She had, I suppose, the 
 largest collection in the country of tales concerning the devils, ghosts, 
 fairies, brownies, witches and warlocks, . . . enchanted towers, dragons, and 
 other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry." Robert 
 possessed a strong intellect and acute sensibilities, a robust and active 
 body, so that when only fifteen he did the work of a man. He was early 
 familiarized with those hardships and sufferings which he has occasionally 
 touched upon in his poems with so much of pnthos and power. A little 
 before Burns reached his sixteenth year he " first committed the sin of 
 rhyme." In later years the fame which Burns had acquired, added to his 
 rare conversational powers, caused him to be eagerly sought in social 
 
726 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 gatherings everywhere. This appears to have laid the foundation of the 
 dissipation which marked the latter part of his life. About 1785 Burns 
 says, " I resolved to publish my poems. I weighed my productions as 
 impartially as it was in my power. I thought they had merit, and it was 
 a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though it 
 should never reach my ears." Scott has left an interesting account of 
 Burns' appearance at tliis time. He says : " His person was strong and 
 robust, his manners rustic, not clownish, with a sort of dignified plainness 
 and simplicity which received part of its effect, perhaps, from one's 
 knowledge of his extraordinary talents. There was a strong expression 
 of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments. The eye, alone, I think, 
 indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large and of a 
 dark cast, which glowed — I say, literally glowed — when he spoke with 
 feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though 
 I have seen the most distinguished men of my time. His conversation 
 expressed perfect self-confidence, without the slightest presumption." 
 Burns died on the 21st of July, 1796. His funeral was attended by 
 thousands of persons, of every rank and station. A costly mausoleum 
 was finally erected in the churchyard at Dumfries, to which his remains 
 were transferred June 5th, 1815, and where they now lie. 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 I^EORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON, best known as Lord Byron, was born in 
 ^^ London, January 22, 1788. The old family name was variously 
 '^'^^ spelled, passing by several gradations from Burun to its final and 
 I best- known form. His grandfather was an English admiral. His 
 father and mother lived unhappily together, and finally separated, she 
 returning to her native Aberdeen, in Scotland, where her son received his 
 schooling, and caught poetic inspiration from the scenery and history of 
 his adopted home. 
 
 When ten years of age, the lad succeeded to the estate and title of his 
 grand-uncle, Lord William Byron, of Newstead Abbey, Nottinghamshire, 
 England. Soon after this the effort was made to relieve him of a deformity 
 in one of his feet, but it proved unavailing and remained a source of 
 mortification and annoyance to him as long as he lived. He entered 
 Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1805, where he remained two years but 
 did not take a degree. During his stay here he published his first volume 
 of poems, entitled " Hours of Idleness," which was not received with 
 much favor, but in defense of which he replied to his critics in valiant 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 727 
 
 Style. In 1809 Byron set out on his travels through Europe, visitinf^ 
 Portugal, Spain, Turkey, and Greece, being absent from England nearlv 
 two years On his return he published the first two cantos of " Childe 
 Harold's Pilgrimage," the success of which was so sudden that, as he tells 
 us, " he awoke one morning and found himself famous." Soon after, he 
 took his seat in the House of Lords. In 1813 he published '• The 
 Giaour," an Oriental tale in verse, which contains some of the most 
 exquisite poetry in the English language. The " Bride of Abydos," a 
 poem of the same general character, added to his already brilliant reputa- 
 tion. In 1814 was published " The Corsair," of which, it is said, nearly 
 14,000 copies were sold in a single day. In 1816 he left England, with 
 the determination of never more returning. He proceeded to Switzerland 
 and made his home near Geneva. He next went to Italy, and lived in 
 Venice. During his sojourn here he wrote several of his most remarkable 
 productions. Having caught a severe cold, he was attacked with fever 
 and inflammation of the brain, which terminated his life April 19th, 1824. 
 Tiie selections given in Gems are among the best Byron ever wrote. 
 
 .,U THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 !his eminent British poet was born at Glasgow, Scotland, in 1777. 
 His father was a merchant of that city. In the University of his 
 <^^ native city Thomas distinguished himself as a classical scholar 
 I while he was yet a mere boy. In 1799 he produced " The 
 Pleasures of Hope," the success of which has perhaps had no parallel in 
 English literature. He visited the continent in 1800, and witnessed the 
 battle of Hohenlinden, which furnished him the subject of one of his 
 grandest lyrics. After his return from the continent he published " The 
 Exile of Erin," " Ye Mariners of England," " Lochiel's Warning," and 
 other short poems. In 1809 he published " Gertrude of Wyoming/' 
 which surpasses " The Pleasures of Hope " in simplicity, and is perhaps 
 not inferior in imaginative power. Ne was elected Lord Eector of the 
 Glasgow University in 1827, and made a journey to Algiers in 1832. He 
 died in 1844 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Sir Walter Scott 
 said to Washington Irving, in speaking of Campbell : " He has wings 
 that could bear him to the skies, and he does now and then spread them 
 grandly, but folds them up again and resumes his perch, as if he were 
 afraid to launch away. The fact is, Campbell is in a manner a bugbear to 
 himself; the brightness of his early success is a detriment to all further 
 efibrts. He is afraid of the shadow which his own fame casts before him.'' 
 
 4\} 
 
728 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ^JU -GEORGE CANNING. 
 
 m^EORGE CANNING was a famous British orator, statesman, and satirical 
 ^^ poet. He was educated at Eton, where he greatly distinguished 
 ■^^^^ himself as a scholar, and where his first literary efforts were made. 
 I His career at Oxford was equally satisfactory. He finally devoted 
 himself to law, and then to politics, in which he made good progress, rising 
 to the position of an under-secretaryship of state. He contributed largely 
 to " The Anti-Jacobin," in which journal, .as one of Canning's biographers 
 says, " the Whigs were wittily, unmercifully, and in some cases unjustifiaHy, 
 held up to popular contempt." Canning's ability to lampoon would be 
 philanthropists and mere pretenders appears strikingly in the poem on 
 " The Needy Knife-Grinder," page 228. Canning died in 1827. 
 
 WILL M. CARLETON. 
 
 ^IIE author of "Betsey and I are Out,'' even had he done no other 
 work of note, would take a high rank as an author of the poetry 
 of every-day life. His full name is William M. Carleton. He 
 was born in Michigan, October 21st, 1815. His earlier years \vere 
 spent at farm work. He attended district school, and while quite young 
 he became a teacher. He subsequently graduated at Hillsdale College in 
 Michigan, and became popular as a writer of popular ballads and as a 
 literary lecturer. The " Toledo Blade " and " Harper's Weekly " have 
 been the chief channels of his literary productions. 
 
 ALICE GARY. 
 
 distinguished American authoress was born near Cincinnati, 
 Ohio, in 1820. She first attracted attention by her contributions 
 ^^^ to the " National Era," for which she wrote under the nom dej^lu'ins 
 I of Patty Lee. She afterwards published several volumes of poems 
 and other works, including three novels — " Hagar, a Story of To-Day," 
 " Married, not Mated," and "Hollywood." Her sketches of Western life, 
 entitled " Clovernook," have gained great popularity in tiiis country and 
 have been widely circulated in Europe. Alice Cary died in 1871. 
 
 ^ PHOEBE CARY. 
 
 ^pt|ilOEBE, younger and only sister of Alice Cary, was born in the Miami 
 
 ^S> Valley, near Cincinnati, Ohio, September 4th, 1824. .She worked 
 
 >^^ busily with her sister, and in 1849 they had a volume of poems 
 
 1 ready for the press, for which they received one hundred dollars. 
 
RUFUS CHOATE. 729 
 
 Subsequently they removed to New York, where they kept house in an 
 unpretentious manner and labored vigorously with their pens. They 
 finally purchased a beautiful home on Twentieth street, where they spent 
 the remainder of their days. Phoebe died in the summer of 1871 at 
 Newport, R. I., whither she had gone for her health. The selections of 
 the two sisters, which are given in " Gems," will be found very charmin^. 
 
 JOHN CHALKHILL. 
 (ISAAK WALTON.) 
 
 — "^HO John Chalkhill was is one of the problems of literature. Isaak 
 Walton, who lived in England 1653-1683, and who, in 1653, 
 published the '' Complete Angler," issued vseveral works in the 
 name of John Chalkhill. Critics believe these were the works 
 of Walton himself, his statements concerning their authorship not being 
 supported by other evidences. The poem on page 205 is certainly very 
 much in the favorite lines of Walton's work, though bearins; Chalkhill's 
 
 EDWIN H. CHAPIN. 
 
 W^ DWIN HUBBELL CHAPIN, D.D., was long regarded as foremost among 
 ^P^ the orators of the American pulpit. He was born in Washington 
 ■^^"^ county, N. Y., in 1814. His denominational connection was with 
 I the Universalists, among whom he was for many years an acknow- 
 ledged and competent leader. His first ministerial labors were at Charles- 
 town, Mass., whence, in 1848, he removed to New York, where he labored 
 unremittingly until 1881, when he died. He was not only an able pulpit 
 orator, but also a most popular platform speaker and lecturer. His pub- 
 lications, beyond several volumes of sermons, have been few, but they all 
 bear the impress of his scholarly and poetic mind. The selection here 
 given from his writings is indicative of his clear and potent style. 
 
 ■^ RUFUS CHOATE. 
 
 ^CJFUS CHOATE was the most distinguished advocate New England 
 1^ ever produced, and perhaps America itself has not surpassed 
 '^"X him. He was born at Ipswich, Mass., October 1st, 1799. As a 
 boy he possessed unusual quickness and vigor, and he was remark- 
 able for his love of reading. When only ten years old he had exhausted 
 the village library, though it contained some heavy works. He entered- 
 
"30 BIOGRArillCAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Dartmouth College in 1815 and took his place at the head of an unusually 
 able and studious class. After graduating he spent a year as tutor, and 
 then entered upon the study of law at Cambridge. He then entered the 
 office of Mr. Wirt, Attorney- General of the United States. At Washington 
 he greatly extended his knowledge of public affairs and fixed his high 
 standard of professional work. After this preparation he entered upon 
 the practice of law at Danvers, Mass., and subsequently settled at Boston. 
 On taking up his residence in this city he devoted himself to his profession 
 and soon gained the highest position. In 1841 he was chosen Senator in 
 place of Daniel Webster. On leaving the Senate in 1845 he returned to 
 his profession, and never after entered into public life. He died suddenly 
 on July 13th, 1858, at Halifax, Nova Scotia, where ill health compelled 
 him to stop after starting on a voyage to Europe. 
 
 ^,j^^ COLLEY GIBBER. 
 
 ^KiipHis witty English dramatic author and actor was born in London 
 p|^ in 1671. He began his stage life as a comic actor in 1689. In 
 ^1^ the same year he produced his first play, " Love's Last Shift, or 
 j; the fool in fashion," which was very successful. " The Careless 
 
 Husband " is considered his best production. It was performed with great 
 applause in 1704, Cibber himself acting the chief part. " The Nonjuror " 
 was so happy a hit that it procured him a pension of £200 from George I. 
 He was manager of Drury Lane for many years. In 1730 he was chosen 
 Poet-Laureate. He wrote an amusing " Apology for the Life of Colley 
 Cibber," which Dr. Johnson pronounced " very well done." His poems 
 were not numerous. The one given in this volume is perhaps the best he 
 produced. He died in 1757. 
 
 SAMUEL L. CLEMENS. 
 ^r|ja^ (mark twain.) 
 
 ^^AMUEL LANGHORNE CLEMENS, better known as " Mark Twain," is a 
 1^ distinguished American humorist. He was born in Monroe county, 
 ^W Mo., November 30th, 1835. He began his work as journalist at 
 ^^ Virginia City, Nev,, in 1862. He subsequently pursued this pro- 
 fession at San Francisco and later at Buffalo, N. Y. His largest works 
 are " The Innocents Abroad," " Roughing It," " The Tramp Abroad," 
 " Gilded Age," etc. His fragmentary writings are very numerous and 
 popular. The four selections given in this volume are good samples of 
 the variety and excellence of his style. 
 
SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE. 731 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 land, in 1819 or 
 and became a 
 
 g^RTHUR HUGH CLOUGH was born in Liverpool, Engla 
 ^g 1820. He was educated at Rugby and Oxford, 
 ^^"T tutor in Oriel College. In 1848 he issued a " Long Vacation 
 J Pastoral," which has been much admired. In 1849 he became 
 
 Professor of English Literature in University College, London. In 1852 
 he visited the United States, and became the friend of Longfellow and 
 other distinguished poets. Among his works are " A Version of Plutarch's 
 Lives" and a collection of poems called " x\mbarvalia." "As Ships 
 Becalmed " (p. 422) is a beautiful production. He died November, 1861. 
 
 ^rU REYNELL COAXES. 
 
 l^iiE gambler's wife " (p. 688) is an intense dramatic poem. Its 
 author still lives (1883) at Camden, N. J., far advanced in years 
 |t^f but enjoying a peaceful old age. He has been active in business, 
 politics and literature, especially in literature of the medical 
 profession, to which he was trained. Born in 1802. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 jHis eminent English poet and critic was born atOttery Saint Marv, 
 Devonshire, England, October 21st, 1772. He was the youngest 
 among many children of John Coleridge, who was vicar of that 
 parish. Before Samuel was fifteen years of age he was deeply 
 interested in metaphysical studies. He entered Jesus College, Cambridge, 
 in 1791, but abruptly left without a degree in 1793. Coleridge had 
 already begun to write poetry. In 1794 he sold to Mr. Cottle, of Bristol, 
 for thirty guineas in advance, the first volume of his poems, which was 
 printed in 1796. He was full of literary projects, among them was " The 
 Watchman," a weekly periodical, of which he issued but ten numbers. 
 In 1798 he visited Germany with Wordsworth, and studied German litera- 
 ture. In 1800 he removed to Keswick in the lake district, where Southey 
 and Wordsworth resided, and from which locality the three received the 
 appellation of " Lake Poets." He died in 1834. 
 
 G,^^^,^ ABRAHAM COLES. 
 
 llj^ANY of the finest translations of Medioeval hymns which the world 
 
 ^^ now enjoys are from the skillful pen of Abraham Coles, M. d., 
 
 for many years a resident of Newark, N. J. Together with a 
 
732 BIOnilAPlIICAL SKETCHES 
 
 very large medical practice, Dr. Coles has long combined laborious 
 literary pursuits. He has produced sevei^al valuable poems of considerable 
 length, chief of which is "The Evangel." Of the " Dies Ira " he has 
 made thirteen separate translations, and competent critics declare that 
 any one of them is sufficiently excellent to establish his reputation as a 
 scholar and a poet. Dr. Coles enjoys his literary leisure at a beautiful 
 country seat at Scotch Plains, N. J. Born in 1813. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 (y^^rJiLLiAM COLLINS made a good name as an English lyric poet. He 
 ^J^Ml w^s ^°^^^ ^^ Chichester in 1720. After graduating at Oxford, he 
 
 r^ went to London about 1744, with little to depend on except his 
 genius. But he became the friend of the great Dr. Johnson. His 
 odes on "The Passions," "To Mercy," "To Evening," etc., all appeared in 
 1747. The latter part of his life was shrouded by melancholy, and he was 
 for a considerable time an inmate of a lunatic asylum. He died in 1756. 
 
 .| ELIZA COOK. 
 
 |his popular English poetess was born in Southwark, London, in 
 1817. At a very early age she became a regular contributor to 
 the " New Monthly Magazine," and to other periodicals. A 
 volume of her poems and songs was published in 1840, and 
 received great favor. In 1849 she began the publication of " Eliza Cook's 
 Journal." Among her most popular productions is " The Old Arm Chair." 
 
 PHILIP p. COOKE. 
 
 |hilip PENDLETON COOKE was an American poet, born at Martins- 
 
 B«a^* burg, Virginia, in 1816. He graduated at Princeton and subse- 
 
 1^ quently studied law. He wrote many poems of marked merit, 
 
 l chief of which are " Florence Vane " and " Ptosa Lee." He 
 
 wrote much for the " Southern Literary Messenger." He died in 1850. 
 
 SUSAN COOLIDGE 
 
 HIS is ihenom de vlui 
 
 ^His is thenovi deplume of a delightful author, resident in Newport, 
 R. I. In answer to an earnest request lor a biographical sketch 
 of herself, she wrote: "A singer of songs, or a teller of tales is 
 after all but a voice to those who listen; and the merits of the 
 
GEORGE CROLY. 733 
 
 \ 
 
 song or the story are not enhanced when the utterer comes into view. 
 Pletise let me therefore remain a voice." So beautiful a plea could not be 
 disregarded. Let the many admirers of the sweet poem "When," say 
 with its author in that beautiful production, " I can wait/"" 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 ^4,_^ (BRYAIS W. PROCTER.) 
 
 ^^RYAN WALLER PROCTER was an English poet, who wrote under the 
 ^^ 710771 de plume of Barry Cornwall. He was born about 1790. He 
 ^jt^ first studied law and began its practice about 1831. He acquired 
 .'; ' some literary distinction by his volume " Dramatic Scenes and 
 
 other Poems," issued in 1819. Among his other works are "The Flood 
 of Thessaly," " English Songs and other Small Poems," " Essays and 
 Tales in Prose," and " Charles Lamb : a Memoir." His songs have 
 obtained much popularity. The poetess, Adelaide Anne Procter, is a 
 daughter of this eminent writer. He died in 1874. 
 
 FREDERICK SWARTWOUT COZZENS. 
 
 IPI^his gentleman was an American writer of considerable repute. He 
 ^1^ was born in New York in 1818. A volume entitled" Prismf 
 
 A volume entitled" Prismatics " 
 ■jp^ was made up of his contributions to the "Knickerbocker Maga- 
 zine." It appeared in 1853. . He published " Sparrowgrass 
 Papers," and many other works in prose and verse. He died in 1869. 
 
 ,;:j^C,, C. p. CRANCH. 
 
 i^HRTSTOPHER PEARCE CRANCH, author of " By the Shore of the River " 
 SSI (p. 517), was born at Alexandria, Va., in 1813. He was a land- 
 ■':^ scape painter, as well as an author and poet, doing very creditable 
 H work in both these departments of Art. 
 
 ^t^ GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 ^^EORGE CROLY was a voluminous author and a poet of considerable 
 §^ power. He was born m Dublin in 1780. He was connected with 
 
 rthe Episcopal Church, and for many years was rector of Saint 
 ^, Stephen's, in Wallbrook. London. He was eminent as a pulpit 
 
 orator. Besides numerous sermons, he published a volume of " Poetical 
 Works." " Personal History of George IV.," etc. His " Catiline," both 
 d& a poem and a drama, is a splendid piece of work. Croly died in 1860. 
 
734 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 JOHN GUMMING. 
 
 pIpoHN GUMMING, D.D., was a popular English preacher and theologian. 
 ^1^ He was born in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, in 1810. In 1832 he 
 '|f^ became pastor of the Scottish church in Crown Court, Covent 
 '^ Garden, London. He distinguished himself as an adversary of 
 Romanism and of the party which under Dr. Chalmers established the 
 Free Church in 1843. He was a very voluminous writer, his works 
 covering the parables, prophecies, etc. He died in 1881. 
 
 ALLAN GUNNINGHAM. 
 
 ^^^LLAN GUNNINGHAM, who was a successful Scottish author and critic, 
 ^1^ was born at Blackwood, Dumfrieshire, 1785. He was apprenticed 
 P^'^ in early age to a stone-mason. When a young man he went to 
 
 London, where he found employment as reporter for the daily 
 newspapers, after which his career in literary pursuits became settled. He 
 published an admirable dramatic poem, " Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," and 
 several popular romances. In 1829 he began the publication of a valuable 
 work entitled " The Lives of British Painters, Sculptors and Architects.'' 
 He composed several good songs, the gem of which, "A AVet Sheet and a 
 Flowing Sea," is given in this volume. He died in 1842. 
 
 ,1, GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 
 S^pHE subject of this sketch was born in Providence, E. I., February 
 ^IM 24th, 1824. His early life was spent at school, on a farm, and 
 "^^^ for a year or more in a counting house. He went abroad in 1846, 
 %" visiting Egypt and Syria, but spending considerable time at 
 
 Berlin. These journeys enriched his stores of knowledge, which were 
 subsequently given to the world in " Nile Notes of a Howadji," and other 
 issues. He contributed richly to the " New York Tribune," was an editor 
 of " Putnam's Magazine," and otherwise distinguished himself in literary 
 work. He has been very popular as a lyceum lecturer and as a public 
 speaker on political and other important issues. 
 
 , GEORGE W. GUTTER. 
 
 i^nis spirited author, generally known as Captain Cutter, has produced 
 many stirring poems. His " Buena Vista and Other Poems" 
 appeared in Cincinnati, 1848, under the inspiration of the Mexican 
 War, then just closing, "The Song of Steam" and '' The Song 
 
THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 735 
 
 of Lightning " were decided hits at a later day. In 1857 he issued 
 "Poems National and Patriotic." 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 |[CHARD HENRY DANA, poet and essayist, was born November 17th, 
 1^^ 1787, at Cambridge, Mass. He was educated at Harvard College, 
 J^ and devoted himself to the law. He abandoned this pursuit how- 
 ^^ ever and applied himself wholly to literature. His first poem 
 [ was "The Dying Kaven," followed quickly by "The Buccaneer and 
 other Poems." He also wrote numerous tales and essays. "The Pleasure 
 Boat," selected for Gems from this author's poems is beautiful in the ex- 
 treme. He died in 1879, in the ninety-second year of his age. He waa 
 the father of Ptichard Henry Dana, Jr., of wide reputation as an author. 
 
 • THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 
 
 ^i|iHOMAS DE QUINCEY was born in Manchester, England, 1785. He 
 pl^ entered the University of Oxford in 1803; he there contracted 
 <W^ the habit of eating opium, to which he remained a slave for many 
 years. After leaving Oxford, he settled at Grasraere, where he resided 
 nearly twenty-seven years. Here he enjoyed the friendship of Words- 
 worth, Southey, Coleridge, Charles Lloyd and other distinguished literary 
 men. He made German literature a special study, and translated Kant, 
 Fichte, Schelling and Richter. In 1823 he went to London, where he 
 published his "Suspiria de Profundis," his "Templar's Dialogues," and 
 other works. In 1843 he settled near Edinburgh. The brief historic 
 sketch given on page 145 is characteristic of De Quincey's bright and 
 beautiful style. He died in Edinburgh, December 8th, 1859. 
 
 GABRIEL ROMANOVITCH DERZHAVIN. 
 
 ^ijipHrs Russian poet was born in Kasan, in 1743. He was distinguished 
 ^1^ both in the military and civil services, and was appointed Secretary 
 ■*^^ of State in 1791, by Catharine II., and Minister of Justice in 
 1802 by Alexander I. His poems are of a very high order, both in sen- 
 timent and imagery, especially his world-renowned " Ode to God," which 
 has been translated into every European language, and even into Persian, 
 Chinese and Japanese. This grand poem received the honor of being hung, 
 embroidered with gold, in the great temple of Jeddo. He died in 1816. 
 
736 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 Sj^HARLES DICKENS stands preeminent among the most distinguished 
 |B novelists of the English school. He was born at Portsmouth^ 
 "^ England, February 7th, 1812. The law was selected as his pro- 
 j fession, and he was placed in an attorney's office. The drudgery 
 of legal business disgusted him, however, and before his twenty-first year, 
 he removed to London, and embarked on a literary career He began as 
 reporter to the "Morning Chronicle," to which he presently contributed a 
 series of papers sketching characteristics of English life as seen in the 
 middle and lower classes of society. In 1836 these papers were published 
 in two volumes. The issue proved a wonderful success both in England 
 and ihe United States, and the " Pickwick Papers," in the year following, 
 conclusively stamped him as a master in fiction, 
 
 Dickens further distinguished himself by the admirable course of lec- 
 tures he delivered in the United States in 1867-68. These were a mine 
 of pecuniary profit to the lecturer, and to thousands of intelligent Ameri- 
 cans a treat of the highest character. He died June 9th, 1870, and his 
 remains were interred in the Poet's corner of Westminster Abbey. 
 
 BENJAMIN DISRAELI. 
 
 "" '" ' 'lor, 
 [e 
 
 f^ early showed great literary taste and talent. In 1825 he caused a 
 f sensation bv his brilliant novel, "Vivian Grey." Other works of 
 
 ^^ENJAMIN DISRAELI, Earl of Beaconsfield, the famous English author, 
 W^M orator, statesman and Premier, was born in London, in 1805. He 
 
 fiction soon followed his virgin effort ; among them " Henrietta Temple," 
 which by many is deemed the finest love story in the English language. 
 In 1837, he entered Parliament. His maiden speech was so complete a 
 failure that it even elicited laughter in the House. Then it was he used 
 the memorable words, " I sit down now, but the time will come when you 
 shall hear me." In 1868, Lord Derby resigned office, when Disraeli 
 reached the summit of his ambition, in becoming first minister of the 
 Crown. Disraeli never abandoned literary pursuits, though so largely ab- 
 sorbed in state affairs. He died in London, April 19th, 1881. 
 
 ^^ SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 I^^HE author of " How's my Boy ? " was born near London, April 5th, 
 ^^ 1824. His father was a man of some literary distinction. Sydney 
 ^"^^^ had little more than a home education, having spent considerable 
 
JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 737 
 
 of his earlier life in business pursuits, but devoting his leisure hours as- 
 siduously to literature. His poetic genius showed itself in boyish verses, 
 which he wrote when but nine years of age. He died August 24th, 
 1874, Several volumes of his works have appeared. 
 
 MARY MAPES DODGE. 
 
 |fi|iHis noted American writer for young folks was born in New York 
 m^ City. She first published " Irvington Stories " in 1864, and after- 
 ^^^^:f wards became well known as the author of " Hans Brinker, or the 
 Silver Skates," a story which has been published many times in this coun- 
 try and in England, and has been translated into many foreign languages. 
 In France, its translator was given a prize by the French Academy. Mrs. 
 Dodge has also written ''Rhymes and Jingles," and several books for 
 grown-up people. Among her magazine articles is a funny sketch called 
 " Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question." Mrs. Dodge was for several 
 years one of the editors of "Hearth and Home," but when the "St. 
 Nicholas Magazine" was started, she became its editor, in which relation 
 she still continues. The two selections from Mrs. Dodge's works, which 
 appear in Gems, are worthy of the distinction so awarded them. 
 
 ^^^^ _ DANIEL DOUGHERTY. 
 
 iROMiNENT among the lawyers of the Philadelphia bar stands the 
 
 gentleman whose name heads this sketch. He has attained a high 
 
 ^ rank by his work as a writer and a speaker. He is a most entertain- 
 J. ing man in story also. Colonel Forney, in his " Sketches of Public 
 
 Men," says of Mr. Dougherty: " People will love him while he lives, and 
 many will regret they never knew him after he is gone. He is a ca.'=?ket 
 of fun, and he scatters his jewels with a lavish hand." No man is more 
 competent to speak on " Pulpit Oratory " than is this superb orator. 
 
 ^T^^ JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 ^^His well known American poet was born in the city of New York, 
 10^^ August, 1795. He was educated at Columbia College. He sub- 
 ■*^^^ fequently studied medicine. In 1819 he wrote many humorous 
 and satirical poems, which were published in the " Evening Post," over the 
 signature of " Croaker." His more extended works are " The Culprit 
 Fay," and the much-admired verses on " The American Flag." given in 
 this volume. He died in September, 1820, in New York City. 
 
738 BIOGRAI'IIICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 LADY DUFFERIN. 
 
 hiE Lament of the Irish Emigrant," has commanded sufficient inter- 
 ^ est in the public heart, to immortalize its talented authoress. Lady 
 DufFerin. Helen Selina Sheridan, was the proper name of this 
 gifted lady. She was a daughter of Thomas Sheridan and a sif- 
 ter of Caroline Norton. She was born in Ireland in 1807, and 
 died June 13th, 1867. The recent Governor-General of Canada, Lord 
 DufFerin, was her son. She was a great favorite everywhere, being greatly 
 admired for her beauty, her wit, and her general accomplishments. 
 
 TIMOTHY DWIGHT. 
 
 ^[Ipiiis eminent American Divine was celebrated as a pulpit orator and 
 'M^ as an expounder of the Scriptures. He was born at Northampton, 
 ^W Mass., in 1752. He studied at Yale College. During the war of 
 i Independence he was chaplain in the American army. In 1783 
 he became pastor of the Congregational church in Greenfield, Conn., where 
 he also conducted an Academy for twelve years. In 1795 he was chosen 
 President of Yale College and Professor of Divinity. He was a clear, 
 forcible and voluminous writer on theology and kindred subjects. He 
 wrote several poems. His description of the Notch of the White Moun- 
 tains is a gem in its line. It is from an extended sketch of travel. 
 
 CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN. 
 
 ?HE author of the beautiful poem entitled "A Snow Storm " (p. 409), 
 was born at Fryeburg, Maine, June 1st, 1816. His parents re- 
 moved to Vermont when he was quite young. In 1837, he grad- 
 '^^ uated at the University of Vermont. Before his graduation he 
 wrote editorials and contributions for many current periodicals, and in 
 1846 he became owner and editor of the " Vermont Patriot," published at 
 Montpelier. He worked somewhat in politics and published a very ac- 
 ceptable volume of poems in 1848. He died in Burlington, Vt., in 1861. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 ^fpHis distinguished author, two of whose graceful productions adorn 
 \Ml^ these pages, was born in 
 
 pages, was born in Boston, Mass., May 25th, 1803. He 
 graduated at Harvard College in 1821. As a boy he wrote verses; 
 as a collegian, he took prizes for composition and declamation ; 
 and on graduating was class-day poet. He taught school ; became 
 
EDWARD EVERETT. 739 
 
 a precicher ; went abroad for several years ; and tlien became a lecturer on 
 literary, scientific and biographical themes. In 1834, he settled at Con- 
 cord, Mass., where he died April 27th, 1882. 
 
 ^■^J^ ROBERT EMMETT. 
 
 M^OBERT EMMETT was a distinguished Irish revolutionist, born in Dub- 
 W^^ lin, in 1780. He was educated for the bar, and was a hi<j-hlv 
 '^^^l gifted and estimable man. He became actively involved in the 
 1' revolutionary troubles of 1802-3, and was consequently arrested, 
 
 tried, and sentenced to death, which he suffered on September 20th, 1803. 
 Emmett was engaged to be married to the daughter of Right Hon. J. P. 
 Curran, who, after the untimely death of her affianced, died of a broken 
 heart. This sad event suggested one of Moore's finest poems, "She is for 
 from the land where her young hero sleeps." Emmett 's "Last Appeal," 
 is one of the most patriotic, and yet pathetic, appeals, ever uttered. 
 
 ..:.^ EDWARD EVERETT. 
 
 gi^l^His eminent orator and scholar was born at Dorchester, Mass., in 
 pj^ 1794. He graduated at Harvard in 1811, and became Tutor of 
 ^jf^ Latin there in 1812. He was ordained as a Unitarian minister in 
 "^ 1814 ; was elected Professor of Greek at Harvard in 1815. On 
 his return from Europe, in 1819, he entered upon the duties of this pro- 
 fessorship, which terminated in 1825. He was editor of the "North 
 American Review " for several years, and contributed to its pages, one 
 hundred and seventeen important papers. He was member of Congress 
 for ten years ; Governor of Massachusetts for four years ; Minister Pleni- 
 potentiary to the Court of St. James three years ; President of Harvard 
 College for three years ; Secretary of State of the United States under 
 President Fillmore ; U. S. Senator for two years ; and candidate for the 
 Vice-Presidency of the United States in 1860. He died at Boston, 
 January loth, 1865. The several selections of Everett given in Gems 
 are fairly illustrative of his superb diction and style. 
 
 ^^^ EDGAR FAWCETT. 
 
 ^^DGAR FAWCETT is a native and resident of New York City. He has 
 p|M devoted himself to literary pursuits from his youth. His poems 
 ^.-. ■'''* are generally of the brief, light, but pure character, such as the 
 I* specimen on page 682. Mr. Fawcett's work has been chiefly for 
 
 the magazines and current periodicals, where it is favorably received. 
 
740 BIOGRAPIIICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 '■''^'^'ames t. fields, a.m., is a well known author and publisher. He 
 was born at Portsmouth, N. H., December 31st, 1817. So marked 
 ,,. was his talent that he read an anniversary poem before the Mer- 
 4' cantile Library Association, of Boston, Mass., when in liis eighteenth 
 year, and again in 1848 he read another poem, "The Post of Honor,'' 
 before the same scholarly society. He was a member of the firms. Tick • 
 nor, Reed & Fields, Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood & Co., for twenty- 
 five years, up to January, 1871. In 1849, 1854 and 1858, respectively, 
 he published volumes of his poems for private distribution. He edited 
 the "Atlantic Monthly " from 1862 to 1870. He has repeatedly visited 
 Europe, and has enjoyed the acquaintance of the leading literary men of 
 the world. " The Tempest " (p. 208) gives a beautiful raid-ocean incident. 
 
 ' BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 
 
 ^^^ENJAMIN FRANKLIN, famous as a statesman and philosopher, was 
 W^m born in Boston, 1706. His discoveries in electricity give him a 
 
 f permanent place in scientific history. He deserves high honor for 
 his services to the cause of liberty also. He began public life in 
 the struggle between the Pennsylvania Assembly and the old proprietary 
 Governors. He proposed to the several States what afterwards became the 
 basis of their confederation. He was sent on a mission to England regarding 
 the obnoxious Stamp Act; afterwards was Ambassador to France, and 
 finally. Minister to England. In his personal bearing Franklin was sedate 
 and benevolent. " Men instinctively felt his worth, and submitted them- 
 selves to his wisdom. Except Washington, whom in many qualities he 
 much resembled, this country yet ranks among her dead nowhere so great 
 a man." He died in Philadelphia, in 1790, and was buried in the old 
 graveyard at 5th and Arch streets, where his sepulchre can be seen by the 
 passers-by. The incident of his arrival in Philadelphia (p. 657), written 
 by his own hand, will be read with interest. 
 
 FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. 
 
 I^ERDINAND FREILIGRATH, a German poet and patriot, was born at 
 i^ Detmold, in 1810. His earlier years were passed in mercantile 
 ^ pursuits, but in 1838 a volume of his poems appeared and quickly 
 %' placed him in the front rank of poets. In 1848 he took part in 
 J the revolution in Germany, and in the same year suffered impris- 
 
JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE. 74;^ 
 
 onraent for publishing his poem, ^'The Dead to the Living." After 
 two months' confinement, he was tried and acquitted. He finally retired 
 to England and engaged again in mercantile pursuits. He died in 1876. 
 "The Lion's Ride" is one of the most spirited of all poems. 
 
 1 PHILIP FRENEAU. 
 
 ^PpHis American poet and journalist was of French descent. He was 
 ^^ born at New York in 1752. During the Eevolutionary War he 
 ^ wrote many satirical and burlesque poems against the Tories. He 
 V also made several voyages as captain of a merchant-vessel. About 
 1790 he became a clerk to Thomas Jefferson, who was then Secretarv of 
 State. Freneau afterwards became editor of the "National Gazette," 
 published at Philadelphia, and notorious for its fierce attacks upon the ad- 
 ministration at Washington. He died near Freehold, New Jersey, Decem- 
 ber, 1832, The Indian's "Death Song'" is one of the best of his poems. 
 
 JAMES ANTHONY FEOUDE. 
 
 'iiis distinguished English author was born at Totness, Devonshire, 
 in 1818. He was educated at the University of Oxford, where, 
 in 1842, he carried off the highest prize for the English Essay. 
 In the same year he was elected Fellow of Exeter College. He 
 published a novel, called "Shadow of Clouds;" also "The Nemesis of 
 Faith," a theologico-philosophical novel, and many other works. He con- 
 tributed to the " Lives of the English Saints," and for a short time edited 
 "Eraser's Magazine." His historical sketches have been especially valued, 
 and one of the choicest of them is given in Gems. 
 
 ' MRS. F. D. gage. 
 
 ggl^RANCES DANA GAGE was bom at Marietta, Ohio, October 12th, 1808, 
 
 ^^1 and became the wife of J. L. Gage, Esq. She was early distin- 
 
 llll guished as a temperance speaker and lecturer on slavery and wo- 
 
 i**4 man's rights. In 1853 she went to St. Louis, where she suffered 
 
 severely for her peculiar opinions and acts. She served without pay in the 
 
 care of sick and wounded soldiers from 1861-1865. She is the author of 
 
 a volume of entertaining "Poems;" also "Elsie Magoon," and of many 
 
 widely known and admirable pieces for the young, written under the nom 
 
 de plume of "Aunt Fanny." "The Housekeeper's Soliloquy " is one of 
 
 her lighter and more facetious efforts. 
 
^42 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 JAMES A. GARFIELD. 
 
 " "'"''Ihe late honored President of the United States, James Abram Garfield, 
 was born in Cuyahoga county, Ohio, November 19th, 1831. Af- 
 ter an early life of a very laborious kind, he graduated at Wil- 
 liams College, Mass., in 1856. He became a teacher, a lawyer, a 
 College President, and, in 1859, a member of the Ohio Senate. 
 He entered the army at the outbreak of the civil war, and distinguished 
 himself in its severest experiences, until he was called from the field to 
 represent his home district in Congress. Here he became an active and 
 influential member, and retained his place there for eighteen years, until he 
 was called to the Presidency of the United States. 
 
 All Garfield's productions, whether speeches or letters, were finished 
 with the most painstaking care. Selections from them, such as are given 
 in this volume, are true and pure gems of thought. Every intelligent 
 reader must enjoy them and be profiled by their reading. The prosper- 
 ous career of Garfield during the brief term of his presidency, and the sad 
 circumstances of his untimely death, are too fresh in the hearts of the 
 whole world to need rehearsal. He died September 19th, 1881. 
 
 EDWARD GARRETT. 
 
 Sigli^ 
 
 'rs. ISABELLA MAYO, Is the personage hidden behind the pseudonym 
 which heads this article. Her writings were gathered under the 
 ^^ general title of "Occupations of a Retired Life." The incident 
 ' "T^ wrought out in " The Unbolted Door/' is said to be founded 
 
 on fact, and aptly illustrates a mother's love. 
 
 CAROLINE GILMAN. 
 
 I^AROLINE HOWARD GILMAN was the daughter of Samuel How^ard, of 
 Hlk Boston, and was born October 8th, 1794. She married the Rev. 
 W Dr. Samuel Gilman, a Unitarian clergyman of Charleston, S. C. 
 7 She edited the first juvenile paper issued in this country, "The 
 Rosebud," which appeared in 1832. She has written many poems. 
 
 . JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE. 
 
 lll^pris distinguished poet was born August 28th, 1749, at Frankfort- 
 
 pl^ on-the-Main. He came of a rich and highly respected family, 
 
 ^1^^ and received a varied and very excellent education. Under his 
 
 '^ father's direction the boy was taught drawing, music, grammar, 
 
I 
 
 JOHN B. GOUGH. 
 
 743 
 
 rhetoric, languages, and natural history. His mother taught him to judge 
 characters as they appeared in social intercourse, to understand life as seen 
 in the streets, and to make frequent excursions into Fairyland. In the 
 nineteenth year of his age, he entered the University of Leipsic. After 
 taking his degree in law, he returned in 1771 to Frankfort, and began to 
 write poems and minor critical essays for periodicals. In 1775, the Duke 
 of Weimar invited Goethe to take up his abode at court, which invitation 
 was accepted, and from 1776 Weimar became his residence. A warm and 
 noble friendship sprang up between the duke and the poet ; and Goethe 
 occupied, at different times, many honorable positions in the Ducal gov- 
 ernment, that of a Minister of State crowning all, for thirteen years. He 
 then resigned all offices, and retired to private life. He died in Weimar, 
 March 22d, 1832, and lies interred in the Ducal burial vault beside the 
 Duke, Charles Augustus, his friend through so many years. The selec- 
 tions from Goethe given in Gems, illustrate in one case the statesman-like 
 mind of the poet, and in the other his lighter vein. 
 
 JOHN B. GOUGH. 
 
 ;ll the English speaking world is femiliar with the name and work 
 of John B. Gough, the famous temperance worker and lecturer. 
 He was born at Sandgate, Kent, England, August 22d, 1817. 
 He came to this country when but a boy, and became a book- 
 He was addicted to intemperance during the years of his early 
 manhood, but in 1843, he threw off this terrible curse and became a tem- 
 perance lecturer ; since which time, his fame as an orator has scarce had 
 a rival. He resides at West Boylston, Mass. " Buying Gape Seed " is 
 one of his most effective stories. It always makes a decided hit. 
 
 JAMES GRAHAME. 
 
 ?^P|his author's reputation rests mainly on his one famous poem, " The 
 ^i^ Sabbath," given on page 610. It is conceded to be one of the 
 
 ¥ finest compositions of its kind. Its author was born in Glasgow, 
 ^ Scotland, in 1765. He studied at the University of Glasgow ; 
 practised law for a time ; entered clerical orders in 1809 ; became curate 
 at Shipton, in Gloucestershire ; and died in 1811. He published " British 
 Georgics," " The Birds of Scotland," etc. When Grahame had completed 
 ''The Sabbath," he published it anonymously. He was very anxious to 
 know his wife's judgment on the work. He therefore gave her the poem 
 to read, he walking the floor nervously as she read. When through, she 
 
 50 
 
744 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 said, "Ah, James, if you could write such a poem as that, it would be 
 worth your while to try." This praise confirmed him as a poetic writer. 
 
 .^ THOMAS GEAY. 
 
 P|^|ad Thomas Gray written nothing more than his immortal " Elegy 
 W^M in a Country Churchyard," his fame would have been permanently 
 
 r% established. Indeed all that he ever did or wrote, borrows lustre 
 from the Elegy, rather than sheds new lustre on it, or its author. 
 Gray was born in London, December 26th, 1716. He had much difficulty 
 in securing his education, but he finally graduated at Cambridge, in 1739. 
 He then traveled extensively, and on his return settled at Cambridge and 
 devoted himself wholly to literary work. His occasional articles on travel, 
 etc., are justly esteemed models of English composition. He began his 
 Elegy about 1742, but did not finish it till 1749, and then it lay unpub- 
 lished till 1752, when it appeared anonymously in the " Magazine of Maga- 
 zines." It won its way to highest favor at once, passing rapidly through 
 several editions. The scene of the poem is the old churchyard at Stoke- 
 Pogis in Buckinghamshire. He is said to have begun the poem while 
 sitting in the burial ground itself. His remains now rest in this place. 
 
 The original manuscript of the Elegy, with many erasures and inter- 
 lineations, and written upon two foolscap sheets, was sold, in 1875, for two 
 hundred and thirty pounds sterling. Gray died July 30th, 1771. 
 
 FRANCIS W. p. GREENWOOD. 
 
 jRANCis WILLIAM PITT GREENWOOD, D.D., was bom in Bostou, Feb- 
 ruary 5th, 1797. On graduating at Harvard College in 1814, he 
 studied theology. He began his ministry in the New South 
 Church in Boston, but remained in it only a single year because of 
 a pulmonary affection. He passed several years abroad, but after 
 his return became colleague pastor with Dr. Freeman of King's Chapel, 
 Boston. Three years later he became sole pastor, and, as far as health 
 would allow, discharged all the duties. He died August 2d, 1843. The 
 one selection of his given in this volume, is a beautiful description of the 
 " Poetry and Mystery of the Sea." 
 
 THOMAS CHANDLER IIALIBURTON. 
 
 |his humorous and popular English author was born in Nova Scotia, 
 WM, about 1802. In early life he practiced law. He obtained great 
 ^ celebrity by his "Clocktnaker, or the Sayings and Doings of Sam 
 
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 745 
 
 Slick of Slickville," which is an amusing delineation of Yankee character. 
 He also wrote "Sam Slick in England," and "Nature, and Human Na- 
 ture," from which the selection on page G4G is taken. He died in 1865. 
 
 oCt2o . 
 
 FRANCIS BEET HARTE. 
 
 ^^RET HARTE, as he is called for brevity, was born in Albany, N. Y., 
 ^^ August 25th, 1839. He went to California when but fifteen years 
 <^^ old, and spent some years digging gold, teaching school, railroad- 
 I ing as express messenger, and finally becoming a compositor on a 
 j daily paper, and thence passing on to the editorial chair. His 
 busy literary life opened up in 1860, and in 1868, he took charge of the 
 " Overland Monthly." In this connection Ilarte began to do his charac- 
 teristic work, which soon made him a national reputation. In 1870 he 
 came east and settled in New York, where he has pushed literary work. 
 The selections in this volume fairly represent his characteristics. 
 
 FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL. 
 
 ^j^prss HAVERGAL was the youngest daughter of an English clergyman, 
 Jj^Ji^ the Rev. W. H. Havergal. She inherited a poetic taste from 
 ^^^ him, he having published about one hundred choice poems. Her 
 T work was in extent about equal to his. Her poems were all of 
 the most chaste and elevating character. Many of them are very choice de- 
 votional hymns, such as "I Give my Life for Thee." "The Lull of Eter- 
 nity " (p. 626) is exquisitely beautiful. Miss Havergal has recently died. 
 
 , NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 
 
 ""'ipHis distinguished American author was born at Salem, Mass., 
 
 i 
 
 l^ July 4th, 1804. He graduated at Bowdoin College, in 1825, 
 ^1^^ Longfellow being one of his classmates. He began the publica- 
 % tion of his works very cautiously, but in 1836, he assumed edito- 
 
 rial charge of a magazine in Boston, which proved very short-lived, how- 
 ever. " Twice-Told Tales " appeared in 1837, after which his issues became 
 more numerous, as their author became more confident. In 1843, he mar- 
 ried and settled at Concord, Mass. His reputation grew rapidly in the 
 years that followed "The Scarlet Letter," "The House of Seven Gables,'' 
 and other works, added greatly to his fame. During the presidency of 
 Franklin Pierce, Hawthorne was sent abroad as consul. Hawthorne died 
 in the spring of 1864, at Plymouth, N. H. "Sights from a Steepk 
 is a bright little effusion from his pen (p. 470). 
 
 le 
 
746 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 W^ JOHN HAY. 
 
 _ ^OHN HAY was born at Salem, III, October 8tli, 1839. He graduated 
 HP at Brown University, and subsequently studied law at Springfield, 
 ^ in his native State. He had just entered upon practice at the 
 i bar when Abraham Lincoln became President, and appointed Mr. 
 Hay his private secretary. He remained in this position during Mr. 
 Lincoln's life. He has since then filled several diplomatic positions, and 
 in 1870, he became connected with the New York Tribune. He is a 
 graceful writer, as "The Law of Death," in this volume, demonstrates. 
 
 HEINRICH HEINE. 
 
 I^JI^His celebrated German poet and author was born at Dusseldorf, in 
 1800. He studied at Bonn, Berlin, and Gcittingen. His first 
 poems appeared in 1822. He removed, in 1831, to Paris, where 
 ^- he married a French lady, and where he resided until his death. 
 
 About 1848 his health became impaired, and he lost his sight ; but he still 
 clung to literary work. After a long and painful illness, he died in Feb- 
 ruary, 1856. The one poem from Heine given in this volume, will be 
 pronounced a gem by all readers. 
 
 FELICIA D. HEMANS. 
 
 ^ELTCiA DOROTHEA BROWNE was bom in Liverpool, September 2oth, 
 1794. Her parentage was Irish on her father's side and Italian 
 
 ^)-^ on her mother's. The child's poetic power was shown very early ; 
 
 1 1^ her first volume, "Early Blossoms," appearing when she was but 
 fourteen years old. She married a soldier. Captain Hemaus, in 1812, but 
 the union was not a happy one. Her later poems were numerous, and 
 were first collected in 1839, since when various complete editions have ap- 
 peared. The selections from her pen given in this volume are good sam- 
 ples of her very excellent work. "The Hour of Death" was part of her 
 last work, which consisted of numerous poems issued under the title 
 "Thoughts During Sickness." She died in 1835. 
 
 , JAMES HERVEY. 
 
 #?!i^AMES HERVEY was an English divine and author, born at Hardingstone, 
 
 ^1^ Northampton, in 1714. He was educated at Oxford, and was a 
 
 ^P thorough scholar. He was noted for his piety and benevolence, 
 
 %^ His " Meditations and Contemplations," from which a selection is 
 
 1, taken for this volume, were very popular, notwithstanding his 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 747 
 
 style, which is too flowery and grandiloquent to please the stricter taste. 
 For these peculiarities of style he became, however, a very marked favorite 
 with the ordinary readers. Hervey died in 1758. 
 
 A^ THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 iijrTri^HOMAS HEYWOOD, author of the little poem, " Sonp- of Birds " (p. 
 ^^ 374), was an English actor and dramatic author, who lived in the 
 ^^- reigns of Elizabeth, James I. and Charles I. He produced numer- 
 ous dramas in verse and prose, which were once popular, and are 
 still admired. He died about 1650. 
 
 J. G. HOLLAND. 
 
 ^§|^R. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND, widely known as a journalist, essayist, 
 ^__,|p poet, etc., was born at Belchertown, Mass., in 1819. He studied 
 ' v= I medicine, and practiced it for a few years, and then turned at- 
 tention wholly to literary work. He was editorially associated 
 with the Springfield Republican, and afterwards with Scribner's Monthly. 
 He was also known widely and favorably as a lecturer. He was popularly 
 known as " Timothy Titcomb." His poems complete were published as 
 " Garnered Sheaves," in 1873. Three selections from Dr. Holland appear 
 in Gems, and they are characteristic of his style. He died Oct. 12th, 1881. 
 
 ^j^^ OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 ^jfil^R. HOLMES was a native of Cambridge, Mass., born August 29th, 
 §1^^ 1809. He graduated at Harvard when twenty years of age, 
 '^^'H studied medicine here and abroad, became Professor of anatomy 
 X in Dartmouth in 1838, and in Harvard, 1847. His first poetic 
 
 offerings appeared in the college paper while he was an undergraduate. 
 Since that time he has continued to issue occasional productions of greater 
 or less extent, and in various channels. Through the columns of the 
 "Atlantic Monthly," started in 1857, he gained his best laurels. A care- 
 fully chosen selection of his poems adorns these pages. 
 
 -4r- THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 ^I^^OOD was born at London, May 23d, 1798. His education was but 
 ^^^ meagre, and his first steps into active life were in the mercantile 
 |jp^ line. While he was still young, his verses attracted some attention, 
 I' and literary pursuits soon opened before him. In this direction 
 
748 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 he found congenial employment, and gathered about himself the leading 
 literary men of his day. He continued at work until early in 1845, 
 when illness laid liiin aside. During these days of suffering he wrote 
 " The Bridge of Sighs," and "The Song of the Shirt," both of which, with 
 several others, have been selected for Gems. Hood died May 3d, 1845. 
 
 T LUDWIG HOLTY. 
 
 fwipHE author of the little winter song on page 596 was Ludwig Hein- 
 
 ^^^ rich Christoph Holty, an excellent German lyric poet. He was 
 
 ^W born near Hanover, in 1748. He studied at Gottingen. His po- 
 
 *|* ems are much admired for tenderness of feeling and artless grace. 
 
 He died at an early age, in 1776, leaving comparatively few mementos. 
 
 , MRS. MAEY HOWITT. 
 
 4''o , 
 
 pHis popular English authoress was born at Uttoxeter, in 1804. Her 
 M maiden name was Botham. She was a member of the Society ol 
 ^1^ Friends, and was married to William Howitt in 1823. They both 
 possessed fine literary taste and published jointly "The Forest 
 Minstrel " and other poems. She translated many works of Frederika 
 Bremer, and several stories of Hans Christian Andersen. " Her language," 
 says Professor Wilson, " is chaste and simple, her feelings tender and pure, 
 and her observation of nature accurate and intense." Her sketch on 
 " Mountains " (p. 427) is a beautiful specimen of pure English. 
 
 m 
 
 RALPH IIOYT. 
 
 ALPH HOYT was an American Episcopal clei'gyman and poet, born 
 in New York City in 1810.- He published "The Chaunt of Life 
 and other Poems," one of the tenderest of which is " Old," given on 
 page 431. Hoyt's personal excellence was as admirable as his poems. 
 
 , VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 [^■ift»r|iCTOR MARIE HUGO, the distinguished French novelist and poet, four 
 mIMB choice productions from whom appear in this volume, was born at 
 ^P Besancon, France, in 1802. His literary ability was shown at a 
 "^l^ very early age. When but fifteen years old, he read before the 
 French Academy a poem on "The Advantages of Study." A volume of 
 "Odes and Ballads," published by him in 1822, created a marked sensa- 
 
JEAN INGELOW. 749 
 
 tion. Other works appeared in rapid succession; every new issue added 
 to his already wide reputation. In 1845, he was made a peer of France 
 by King Louis Philippe. He subsequently became active in the political 
 revolutions and agitations of his native land, becoming a refugee under 
 Napoleon HI., after whose fall he returned to Paris. He continued active 
 in politics as also in literature, some of his books having been issued in 
 eight or ten different languages at once. "The Djinns," from Hugo's 
 pen, and given in this volume, is one of the most remarkable poems in any 
 language. The correspondence of the rhythm to the rising and subsiding 
 of a storm, which is also the thought expressed by the words of the poem, 
 is a masterpiece of composition in its original form, and of translation as 
 it appears in the English. 
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 [Phis popular English poet and author was born near London, in 1784. 
 K^ He left school at fifteen and acted as clerk in the war office until 
 1808, when he arranged with his brother to issue "The Examiner," 
 a journal of liberal politics. In 1812 he became editor of *' The 
 Indicator," a series of periodical essays, much admired for genial hu- 
 mour, easy style and brilliant fancy. Among the many productions of 
 his versatile pen are many popular poems. A pension of £.200 was granted 
 him in 1847. He died August 28th, 1859. "Abou Ben Adhem " is one 
 of Hunt's brightest little poems, and it carries an excellent moral. 
 
 . JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 dEAN INGELOW was born in Boston, England, in the year 1830. She 
 was quite unknown to fame, and unrecognized as a genius, until 
 1863, when she issued her first volume of poems. This was 
 greeted very enthusiastically, and at once made her reputation. 
 Her subsequent works have 'been quite numerous, but have hardly sur- 
 passed the excellence of her first publication. Two beautiful selections 
 have been placed in Gems, to illustrate her style. 
 
 .^L^ EDWARD IRVING. 
 
 §OT/^HE Rev. Edward Irving was born at Annan, Dumfriess-shire, Eng- 
 ^J^ land, August 4th, 1792. He was educated for the Scottish Pres- 
 "^^ byterian ministry at the Edinburgh University. In 1819, he was 
 L chosen assistant to the Hev. Dr. Chalmers. Three years later he 
 accepted charge of a Presbyterian congregation in Loudon, where his elo- 
 
750 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 quence attracted crowds of hearers. In 1832 he was dismissed from the 
 pastorate of this congregation on the charge of heresy. At a later day, 
 he was cast out of the Presbyterian Church. Shortly after, his old con- 
 gregation re-ordained him, and he officiated with them until a little time 
 before his death, which occurred at Glasgow, December 8th, 1834. A 
 sample of his eloquence will be found on page 486. 
 
 J WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 ppJEwnames are more honored, and more justly honored, in the literary 
 
 1^1 annals of America than that of Washington Irving, LL.D. He 
 
 ^t was born in New York City, April 3d, 1783. His parents were 
 
 *4, English and Scotch, and his father was a merchant. He attended 
 school only till the sixteenth year of his age, after which he pursued lite- 
 rary studies at home with great diligence. 
 
 When nineteen years of age, he issued a series of local sketches in the 
 " Morning Chronicle," a paper owned by his brother. He employed the 
 nom de plume of Jonathan Oldstyle in these articles. In 1804, Irving 
 went abroad for his health, and traveled extensively in Europe. Eeturn- 
 ing to New York in 1806, he devoted himself assiduously to literary work, 
 producing "Salmagundi," "Knickerbocker's History of New York," and 
 some other works, but he then entered mercantile pursuits for a short time. 
 He subsequently traveled again, and in 1818 his "Sketch-Book" papers 
 appeared under the nom de plume of "Geoffrey Crayon." This venture 
 made the reputation of Irving on both sides of the Atlantic. At a later 
 period he spent seventeen years abroad, his fame growing with each new 
 work he produced. 
 
 Irving's works were republished in fifteen volumes in 1850, and of this 
 edition no less than 250,000 volumes were sold daring his lifetime. Ir- 
 ving never married. He passed the closing years of his career at Sunny- 
 side, near Tarrytown, on the Hudson, where he died November 28th, 1859. 
 
 In connection with the seven extracts from Irving contained in this vol- 
 ume, Charles Dudley Warner's article on ''Our Debt to Irving" (p. 563), 
 should also be read. High praise is here awarded Irving, but it is deserved. 
 
 ., THOMAS JEFFERSON, 
 
 |||1|homas JEFFERSON, third President of the United States, was born in 
 
 ^ft Virginia, April 13tb, 1743. He entered William and Mary Col- 
 
 ^;[j1'^ lege in 1760, remained two years, began the study of the law un- 
 
 %^ der George Wythe in 1763, and in 1767 was admitted to the bar. 
 
SIR WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 751 
 
 He took his seat in the Continental Congress, June 21st, 1775, the day on 
 which the news of the Battle of Bunker Hill reached Philadelphia, and 
 on which Washington left that city to command the army at Cambridge. 
 JeflFerson was no orator, but he gained great influence by courtesy, readi- 
 ness in composition, knowledge of law, general information, and his warm 
 devotion to his country. He was chosen to draft the Declaration of In- 
 dependence. In 1796, he was elected Vice-President of the United States. 
 In 1800, he was elected to the Presidency, and was inaugurated March 
 4th, 1801. He retired to private life March 4th, 1809, and died at Mon- 
 ticello on the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, a 
 few hours before his friend, John Adams. His tribute to his great 
 contemporary, Washington (p. 559), is worthy of both writer and subject. 
 
 DOUGLAS JERROLD. 
 
 50UGLAS WILLIAM JERROLD was born in London, January 3d, 1803. 
 He entered the navy in 1813, and afterwards became a printer. 
 When quite young he began to write poems and criticisms for the 
 journals, which won for him much attention. His comedy "Black- 
 eyed Susan" established his reputation. "The Caudle Lectures" were 
 first published in "Punch" in 1841. These, with many other sketches and 
 tales, extended his fame as a humorist and a powerful delineator of char- 
 acter. Jerrold died in London, June 8th, 1857. Three of his pieces 
 brighten these pages, one of them being in his more serious vein. 
 
 ^ ^|.^ J. WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 SiipHE author of the little war reminiscence on page 614 was fully com- 
 ^1^ petent to vouch for his incident. He was a Baptist minister, who 
 <^^ went into the war early and stayed long. He was intimately as- 
 
 ?sociated with the famous Stonewall Jackson, of the Confederate 
 service. Chaplain Jones related the scene quoted, at a religious 
 convention held in Atlanta, Ga., in the spring of 1878. Its effect was thrilling. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM JONES. 
 
 §CT|iHis distinguished scholar was born in London, September 28th, 1746. 
 ^X^ He early distinguished himself as a linguist, and finally became 
 •^ master of twenty-eight languages. Within a few weeks of his 
 death he began the study of three new grammars. He published 
 various grammars, translations, dissertations, poems, etc., all of which 
 added to his great reputation as a scholar. He also studied law, entered 
 
752 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 somewhat into politics, was judge of the Supreme Court in Bengal, was 
 knighted for eminent worth. He died April 27th, 1794. The selection 
 on page 367 illustrates both his poetic and his statesmanly ability. 
 
 , ELISHA KENT KANE. 
 
 P^Ilisha KENT KANE, M.D., a distinguished American explorer, was 
 ^g born in Philadelphia, February 20th, 1820. His father was the 
 -^^^ eminent Judge, John K. Kane. He studied medicine, and, in 1843, 
 
 f sailed to China with Commodore Parker, as surgeon to the embassy. 
 
 i He visited India, Ceylon and the Philippine Isles. In 1845, he 
 made an excursion to the Himalayas, ascended the Nile to Nubia, and tra- 
 versed Greece on foot. He served in the Mexican war in 1847. In May, 
 1850, he sailed as surgeon to the De Haven expedition in search of Sir 
 John Franklin. He commanded a second expedition sent out for the same 
 purpose, in May, 1853. He returned home in October, 1855, and pub- 
 lished the adventures of his party in his "Arctic Explorations," whence 
 selections in this volume are taken. To recruit his shattered health he 
 sailed for England, in October, 1856, and thence to the West Indies, where 
 he died, at Havana, February, 1857. 
 
 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. 
 
 ■m^E,Y, the author of our national song, the "Star Spangled Banner" 
 (p. 466), was an American jurist and poet, born in Frederick 
 county, Maryland, in 1779. He became District Attorney of the 
 District of Columbia. When Fort McHenry, in Baltimore Har- 
 bor, was subjected to bombardment in the war of 1812, Key witnessed 
 the scene from the city, and felt all the anxiety the citizens naturally 
 cherished. After a vigorous night's bombardment, he looked in the early 
 morning for the emblem of safety on the walls of the fort, and when he 
 saw the flag "still there," he wrote the song to which the nation has clung 
 ever since. He wrote other poems also. He died in 1843. 
 
 HENRY KING. 
 
 5N page 642, is a little gem, entitled "Life." It is from the pen of 
 Henry King, who was born in England in 1591. All the quaint- 
 ness of those old times in which he lived appears in these lines, 
 J and all the beauty of true poesy sparkles there. King was 
 oessively chaplain to James I. and to Charles I. He died in 1669. 
 
 sue- 
 
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 753 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 |hree selections from Charles Kingsley adorn these pages. Like all 
 else from this author, these productions will abundantly repay every 
 one who reads them. Kingsley was born at Devonshire, England, 
 June 12th, 1819. He graduated at Cambridge in 1842, and took 
 orders in the Church of England. He was always an active helper 
 of the working classes. He published several volumes, including many ser- 
 mons, novels, fairy tales, lectures, poems, and educational works. For ten 
 years he was Professor of Modern History at Cambridge. He occupied 
 various high positions in the English church. In 1873, he visited the 
 United States. He died in London, January, 23d, 1875. 
 
 WILLIAM KNOX. 
 
 iBIpHE poem beginning " Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? " 
 ^1^ was immortalized by the fact that it was a great favorite of Abra- 
 <^^ ham Lincoln's. Its author, William Knox, was born at Firth, 
 I Roxburghshire, Scotland, August 17th, 1789. He wrote verses at 
 an early age and, when about thirty, devoted himself entirely to literary 
 pursuits. He wrote for the papers extensively, and issued several volumes 
 of poems. Knox led a dissipated life, and died November 12th, 1825. 
 
 CHARLES THEODORE KORNER. 
 
 |NE of the most celebrated German poets was he whose name heads 
 this paragraph. He was born in Dresden, in 1791. At an early 
 age he displayed a rare poetical genius. He enlisted in the war 
 j. against Napoleon ; and, inspired with patriotism, he produced some 
 of the most spirited martial poems in the German language. These were 
 published under the title, "The Lyre and the Sword." His "Sword 
 Song" (p. 312), is a rare gem, made all the more charming by the sad 
 fact of his death before the ink of its manuscript was fairly dry. 
 
 ^,l_ ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 
 
 ^HIhis French poet, orator, and historian, was born at Mdcon on the 
 ^M^ Saone, October 21st, 1792, He left college in 1809, and after- 
 ^^J^ wards privately read and studied Dante, Petrarch, Shakspeare, 
 
 (Milton, and Ossian. In 1820, he published a volume of poems 
 entitled " Meditations Poetiques." This excited general admiration, 
 and 45,000 copies were sold in a few years. He displayed a marvellous 
 
754 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 affluence of pure sentiments and beautiful images in many of his poems 
 and other works, especially so in " Jocelyn." After the coup d'etat of De- 
 cember, 1851, he took no part in political affairs, but published "A His. 
 tory of the Ke volution in 1848." Among his later works are several 
 other histories of great value, from one of which the sketch on page 686 
 is taken. His works have been translated into almost every European 
 lano;uao;e. Lamartine died in Februarv, 1869. 
 
 WALTEE SAVAGE LANDON. 
 
 ^ROM this author's graceful pen but one sketch is given (p. 487). He 
 [| was an Englishman, born January 30th, 1775. He was educated 
 at Oxford, and being master of an independent fortune, he devo- 
 ted himself to literary pursuits. He issued several volumes of 
 poems and sketches. He died in Florence, September 1864. 
 
 CHARLES G. LELAND. 
 
 c l^iEiNRiCH HEINE, the German author, owed much to Charles Godfrey 
 ^mm, Leland, for his. excellent translations of " Pictures of Travel," by 
 
 which Heine reached a large circle of admiring English readers. 
 
 Leland was born in Philadelphia in 1824, and published various 
 very excellent volumes of original and translated matter. 
 
 CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 
 
 mitejiHis popular Irish novelist and song writer was born in Dublin, in 
 SS 1806, He practiced medicine for a time, but abandoned that pur- 
 X suit for those of literature. He excelled in delineations of Irish 
 i character, whether in his novels, or in such songs as " Widow Ma- 
 hone" (p. 375). Lever spent many years in government positions. He 
 died in 1872. 
 
 . ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 
 ^M^ FEW sentences only from Abraham Lincoln are given in this volume, 
 but his sentences had a density of meaning seldom found. He 
 was born in Kentucky, February 12th, 1807, but removed to In- 
 diana in 1816. He received only one year of schooling, but, while 
 assisting his father on the frontier farm, he read all the books he could 
 secure, copying into a scrap book whatever best pleased him. In 1830, 
 he removed to Illinois, but his laborious life continued. He always was 
 
I 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 755 
 
 famous as a teller of stories and a maker of stump speeches. He followed 
 the water for a time, kept a store, went into the Black Hawk war, became 
 a postmaster, studied law, entered the legislature for several successive 
 terms, and was elected to Congress in 1846. 
 
 Lincoln soon became the recognized leader of his party in Illinois, and 
 his debates with Stephen A. Douglas gave him a national reputation. In 
 1800, he was nominated for the Presidency of the United States, and was 
 chosen to that post. Then came the war, in which the proclamations, 
 messages, addresses, and pointed sayings of Lincoln became an unceasing 
 source of inspiration. His tragic death on April loth, 1865, is known the 
 ■world over. His remains lie in Oak Ridge cemetery, Sprmgfield, 111. 
 
 , HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 
 
 ^iSERHAPS first of all American poets, is the revered Henry Wads- 
 ^^ worth Longfellow. Twenty choice selections from his works have 
 ^2 iiot been deemed too many for these pages. He was born at Port- 
 ^^ land, Maine, February 27th, 1807, and graduated at Bowdoin Col- 
 lege in 1825, He soon after went abroad for travel and study. He then 
 took a Professorship at Bowdoin, and subsequently at Harvard. In 185-4, 
 he resigned this position, and spent the remainder of his days in a beauti- 
 ful old mansion at Cambridge, Mass., — the house once occupied by Wash- 
 ington as his headquarters. 
 
 "While yet a boy, Longfellow wrote many poems, and while an under- 
 graduate, contributed to the "North American Review." He was exceed- 
 ingly painstaking in all he did. One of his most laborious works was the 
 translation of Dante's "Divina Commedia" into English verse. He was 
 highly honored here and in England, both Oxford and Cambridge con- 
 ferring on him the degree of d.c.l. Many of his poems have been trans- 
 lated into various foreign languages. "The Bridge" was suggested to 
 Longfellow by his many journeys over the old bridge leading from Boston 
 to Cambridge. There is the tide that rushes among those " wooden piers " 
 to the sea beyond. Here can be seen the " church tower," and the 
 bells may be heard striking the hours, all indeed, is true to the facts stated 
 in the poem, and both in youth and old age, the poet " often, how often," 
 passed there, and doubtless lingered there to think. On page 41, the 
 " Old Clock on the Stairs " of Longfellow's mansion is seen. He caught 
 the exact spirit of all he wrote about, and clothed all he wrote in robing 
 strictly harmonious with the facts. The same charming detail might be 
 added to all Longfellow's delightful poems. He died March 24th, 1882. 
 
758 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 der the signature, L. E. L. Thus she won a wide reputation. She 
 produced, anonymously, two novels and several poems. Her poems 
 are chiefly of romantic or sentimental character. In 1838, she married 
 George Maclean, Governor of Cape Coast Castle, Africa, whither they went 
 to reside. She died in 1839. "The Ruined Cottage" (p. 9G) is a gem. 
 
 - I_ JEAN BAPTISTE MASILLON. 
 
 gji^His famous French pulpit orator was born at Heires, in 1663. He 
 pj^ was educated and became a priest. In 1699, he preached the 
 *^^^ Lent Sermon at Paris. The same year he was chosen to preach 
 the Advent at Court, on which occasion Louis XIV. said to him, "1 have 
 heard many great orators and been pleased with them ; but, after hearing 
 you, I am displeased with myself." He was appointed Bishop of Clermont 
 in 1717, and preached before the king the Lent Sermon, which is deemed 
 his masterpiece. Masillon died in 1742. His eloquence is well illustrated 
 in the extract from one of his sermons on ''Immortality" (p. 207). 
 
 CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER. 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 
 OAQUIN MILLER is the best known title of this writer. He was born 
 ^P in Indiana, November 10th, 1841. When but thirteen years old, 
 
 i 
 
 <^^ his parents Vv^ent to Oregon. He afterwards became a miner 
 I and adventurer in California, served in Nicaragua, and lived among 
 the Indiaus. In 1861, he began to edit a paper at Eugene City, Or 
 "Kit Carson's Ride" (p. 472) is characteristic of Miller's style. 
 
 HENRY HART MILMAN. 
 
 |his eminent English poet, historian, and divine, was born in London 
 in 1791. He graduated at Oxford, and in 1821, became Professor 
 •^^^ of Poetry in that University. He wrote extensively, producing 
 poems, tragedies, histories, etc. His "Evening Hymn," on page 502, is a 
 splendid poem. In 1840, he brought out his great work, " The History of 
 Christianity." He died in September, 1868. 
 
 , RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, 
 
 Imlwo poetic beauties from the pen of this author adorns these pages, 
 Sp "The Brookside" (p. 247), and "London Churches" (p. 237). 
 4^^ Milues was born in Yorkshire, England, June 19th, 1809, and 
 
JOHN MILTON. 759 
 
 graduated at Cambridge iu 1831. He was a member of Parliament, and 
 finally became Baron Houghton. He traveled extensively, and wrote 
 much on what he saw abroad, in addition to his many poems. 
 
 ,s JOHN MILTON, 
 
 |)i^iLTON, author of "Paradise Lost," was born in London, December 
 
 9th, 1608. He was thoroughly trained in the classics, enjoyed 
 
 % the advantages of foreign travel, and was a man of remarkable 
 
 '^ personal beauty. He was a diligent student and a voluminous 
 writer on a wide range of subjects. When the Commonwealth was estab- 
 lished, Milton became Latin Secretary, all the diplomatic correspondence 
 being in that language. For twenty years he had been thinking upon a 
 great poem, which was begun finally in 1665, its result, " Paradise Lost," 
 appearing in 1667. It sold for £ 5., an equal sum to be paid its author 
 when each edition of 1500, should sell up to 1300. He did see it pass 
 through several editions. It has passed through many editions since that 
 day, but after all, the best critics deem it a work of questionable merit. 
 The selections from MiltQu given in this volume are from his more severe 
 prose works. He died in London, November 8th, 167-1. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 5MONG England's best poets, James Montgomery has a high rank. 
 
 He was born in Ayrshire, Scotland, in 1771. He was sent at an 
 ^^^ early age to a Moravian school, where his progress was not very 
 
 satisliactory, as he spent the greater part of his time in writing 
 and reading poetry, which was prohibited by the rules of the school. 
 After leaving school, he found employment for a time in a book store, in 
 London, and in 1792, began to contribute political articles to the " Sheffield 
 Register." In 1794, he founded a reform journal, called the " Sheffield 
 Iris," of which he remained editor for about thirty years. He also wrote 
 a large number of very beautiful hymns, which still enjoy extensive popu- 
 larity. Four of his finished works appear on these pages. He died in 1854. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 IpRELAND's favorite poet, Thomas Moore, was born in Dublin, May 28th, 
 ^ 1779, and graduated at Dublin University in 1799. When but 
 kL fourteen years of age poems from his pen appeared in the magazines 
 of the dav. He began the study of law, but soon abandoned it and 
 adopted poesy as his profession. He published one volume under 
 
760 BiOGRAnncAL sketches. 
 
 the name of Thomas Little. His following publications were numerous 
 and very popular, one of them, "The Fudge Family in Paris" running 
 through five editions in two weeks' time. Four choice selections from 
 Moore will be found in this volume. He died February 25th, 1852. 
 
 Each of Moore's poems given in this volume is an exquisite gem. 
 Nothing could be more beautiful and touching than the rural and yet po- 
 etic simplicity of "The Home of Peace" (p. 337). And yet equally 
 charming is that gem of gems on page 484, "The Meeting of the Waters." 
 " The Light-House " (p. 513) is of different vein, but it is superb ; while 
 " Echoes " (p. 645), brief but beautiful, seems an echo of all the others. 
 
 s^' 
 
 GEORGE P. MORRIS. 
 
 Ihts gentleman was a distinguished American poet and journalist. 
 
 § He was born at Philadelphia, in 1802. He removed to New York, 
 and in 1823 became associate editor of the "New York Mirror." 
 In 1844 he became one of the editors of the " Evening Mirror," a purely 
 literary journal. He afterwards founded, conjointly with N. P. Willis, 
 " The Home Journal." Mr. Morris published a number of beautiful and 
 popular songs, and wrote many other poems and a drama. He died in 
 New York City, July 6th, 1864. " My Mother's Bible," which is one of 
 his tenderest and best productions, is given in Gems. 
 
 JOHN MOULTRIE. 
 
 ?oiiN MOULTRIE was an English poet, born about 1804. He was rec- 
 tor at Rugby, and published a volume of poems from which " The 
 Three Sons " (p. 528) is taken, and a poem which, for tenderness 
 and beauty, has few equals in onr language. 
 
 WILLIAM A. MUHLENBERG. 
 
 ^ILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG, D.D., was born in Philadelphia, 
 September 16th, 1796, and graduated at the University of Penn- 
 ^''-: ' i sylvania in 1814. From 1846 to 1858, he was rector of the 
 ^^^ church of the Holy Communion, erected by his sister, on the 
 corner of 6th Ave. and 20th St., New York City. In 1858 he became the 
 superintendent and pastor of St. Luke's Hospital, which owes its estab- 
 lishment to her efforts. He has distinguished himself both as a philan- 
 thropist and a poet. He will ever be remembered as the author of " I 
 would not live alway " (p. 535), and other hymns of the same deep, rich 
 fullness of devotion and poesy. He died in 1877. 
 
CAROLINE E. NORTON. 76I 
 
 ^.I DINAH MARIA MULOCK. 
 
 ;h:is estimable lady, the writer of many novels, tales, and sketches, 
 was the daughter of a clergyman, and was born in England, in 
 ^f:''^ 1825. In 1865 she married Mr. George Lillie Craik. Her 
 " Buried To-Day '* (p. 243) is sad, but beautiful. 
 
 _i_ WILLIAM MUNFORD. 
 
 "%*#-' 
 
 hr^Ris author was born in Virginia, August loth, 1775, and graduated 
 yli^ at William and Mary College. He studied law, but passed his life 
 ^4^ in various political positions. He published a volume of juvenile 
 poems, and devoted much of his leisure to the translation of Homer's 
 Iliad. He published many fine poems, one of which is in Gems (p. 689). 
 He died at Eichmond, June 21st, 1825. 
 
 • LADY CAROLINE NAIRNE. 
 
 ^^AROLINE OLiPHA:frT, who, by marriage with the fifth Lord Nairne, 
 |Pg became Lady Nairne, was born in Perthshire, Scotland, July 16th, 
 p? 1766. She was very beautiful and highly accomplished. She un- 
 '4' dertook to write popular and elevating poems for the common 
 folk about her. Her " Land 0' the Leal " (or " the loyal "), was written in 
 1798, especially to comfort an afflicted friend. It is a world wide favorite, 
 and therefore befits this volume. (See p. 421). It has been set to music, 
 and in this form is a o-reat favorite wherever known. 
 
 ♦ CAROLINE E. NORTON. 
 
 'aroltne ELIZABETH SARAH SHERIDAN, sister to Lady DufFerin, was 
 born in England in 1808. When but ten years old, she and her 
 gifted sister wrote and illustrated a small volume of poems. She 
 issued many poems in rapid succession, her strength being in 
 the line of ballads and songs, " Bingen on the Rhine," however, which 
 this volume gives, is one of her best. She died June 15th, 1866. 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 ;. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD, author of '' Labor is 'Worship " (p. 
 619), was born at Boston, in 1812. She was an early contribu- 
 tor to the current periodicals. Her husband, Mr. S. S. Osgood^ 
 was an artist of considerable eminence. She has published seve- 
 ral volumes of poems. Her death occurred in 1850. 
 
762 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 JOHN W. PALMER. 
 
 'oHN WILLIAMSON PALMER, M. D., was born at Baltimore, April 4th, 
 1825. He studied medicine in Philadelphia ; was city physician 
 in San Francisco in 1849 ; afterwards went to China ; then served 
 as surgeon of the East India Company's service. '' For Charlie's 
 (p. 641), is one of his best poems. 
 
 . MUNGO PARK. 
 
 ^UNGO PARK, the traveler, was born in Scotland, September 10th, 
 1771. He studied surgery at Edinburgh. He journeyed up the 
 '"'? Gambia and visited the Niger in 1795-1797, suffering extreme 
 hardships. In January, 1805, he took command of a military ex- 
 ploring party, despatched by the African Association and the British Gov- 
 ernment to trace the course of the Niger. Most of his party died of fever 
 before the Niger was reached, only five white men being left out of forty- 
 four. They were afterwards treacherously attacked by a party of natives, 
 and Park and all his company perished. His sketch on "African Hospi- 
 tality " (p. 66), gives a peep into the heart of that dark coniinent. 
 
 THEODORE PARKER. 
 
 ^yrfsis divine and author was born at Lexington, Mass., August 24th, 
 1810. He was distinguished for a precocious memory, learning 
 ^^^■^ by heart many pages of poetry, and knowing the names of all the 
 trees and plants familiar to Massachusetts while but a child. He studied 
 Latin, Greek and mental philosophy while a boy working on a farm ; 
 taught school at the age of seventeen, and entered Harvard College in 
 1830. He was proficient in many languages, including Syriac, Arabic, 
 Danish, Swedish, Anglo-Saxon and modern Greek. He settled at Eox- 
 bury, as pastor of a Unitarian Church, in 1837, but soon became the 
 leader of a school of theology, which diff"ered widely from the conservative 
 Unitarians. He continued preaching until January, 1859. He then 
 went abroad for his health, and died at Florence, Italy, May 10th, 1860. 
 " The Beauty of Youth " (p. 697), illustrates his lucid style. 
 
 4, JOHN HOWARD PAYNE, 
 
 ^ipHE author of " Home, Sweet Home," was born in New York, June 
 Sm 9th, 1792. When but thirteen years old he wrote for a weekly 
 ^^^ paper, and two years later published twenty-five numbers of a 
 
WENDELL PHILLIFS. 763 
 
 periodical called " The Pastime." For a time he was an actor in New- 
 York, Boston, and other American cities, also in London. He wrot€ the 
 song " Home, Sweet Home," while he was U. S. Consul at Tunis, Africa, 
 where he died, April 20th, 1852. His remains have lately been brought 
 back to to his native country, and they now rest in his " Home, Sweet 
 Home." A splendid monument now marks their resting place in Wash- 
 ington, D. C, by the munificence of Mr. Corcoran, the great banker. 
 
 -^^ JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 Iti^AMES GATES PERCIVAL, M. D., was bom in Connecticut, September 
 ^^ 15th, 1795. He graduated at Yale in 1815, and took a medical 
 X tlegree, and published several volumes of poetry. At Boston and 
 \ New Haven he engaged in literary and editorial work ; and as- 
 sisted Noah Webster in preparing his great dictionary. He was distin- 
 guished as a linguist and geologist, and wrote much poetry, which was 
 highly popular ; but his poetry is deemed crude, and therefore has been to 
 a great degree forgotten. He was of melancholy disposition, and was 
 hard-pressed by poverty, actually ending his days alone in a wretched 
 garret. His " Coral Grove " is a well finished poem (p. 678). 
 
 _j^_ WENDELL PHILLIPS. 
 
 Ihis distinguished orator was born in Boston, Mass., 1811. He en 
 tered Harvard College, from which he graduated in 1831. He 
 then entered the Cambridge Law School, and was admitted to the 
 i Suffolk Bar in 1834. Mr. Phillips gained his first prominence as 
 
 an orator in 1837, at a meeting in Boston to protest against the murder, 
 at Alton, III, of the Rev. Elijah P. Lovejoy, the editor of an anti-slavery 
 newspaper, who had been killed by a mob in that place. From this time 
 Mr, Phillips devoted himself wholly and with untiring energy to the ad- 
 vocacy of the anti-slavery cause. It may iiiirly be questioned whether 
 such an orator as Wendell Phillips ever spoke in America. The little ex- 
 tract on " Political Agitation," given on p. 506, is a clear, sparkling gem. 
 
 JOHN PIERPONT. 
 
 |oT on the Battle Field " (p. 531), is from the pen of John Piorpont, 
 who was born at Litchfield, Conn., April 6th, 1785. He gradua- 
 ted at Yale College in 1804. He studied law, then theology, be- 
 came a pastor in Boston, was chaplain in the civil war, and died 
 August 27th, 1866. He wrote and published various poems. 
 
764 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 Ig^JEW geniuses more brilliant than Edgar Allan Poe have ever lived. 
 Read the selections from his pen, which appear in this volume, and 
 f'f^ be convinced of his amazing versa tin ty pnd ability. His "Raven," 
 ^^/f- his "Bells," and his prose sketches are peerless in their way. He 
 was born in Boston, February 19th, 1809. Edgar was educated in Eng- 
 land, and in Richmond, Va., but he contracted vicious habits and made no 
 progress. He was appointed to West Point, but was expelled from that 
 institution. In rags and poverty Poe pursued literary work at a later day, 
 till in 1833 he made considerable reputation. His opportunities thereafter 
 were brilliant, but he failed to improve them wisely. " The Raven " ap- 
 peared in 1845. He died in Baltimore, October 7th, 1849. 
 
 „ --'., „ JOSEPHINE POLLAKD. 
 
 WSM^iss POLLARD is a resident of New York City, and has done much 
 p^Kg good work in poems and stories for juveniles. Her " First Party " 
 ^g^ (p. 414) well illustrates her unusually felicitous style of putting 
 '"%' pleasant things. She has written many good hymns. 
 
 JOHN POOLE. 
 
 ^^OHN POOLE, author of "Old Coaching Days" (p. 579), was born in 
 England, in 1785, and died in London February 5th, 1872. The 
 period through which he lived enabled him to speak so graphically 
 on the theme selected for Gems. He was author of a large num- 
 ber of successful dramas and farces, of which the best known are "Paul 
 Pry," "Deaf as a Post," and " Turning the Tables." He also wrote novel?, 
 essays and character sketches, which take high rank for originality and 
 racy humor. Poole enjoyed a pension from the government. 
 
 NOAH PORTER. 
 
 'oAH PORTER, D.D., LL.D., the distinguished President of Yale Col- 
 lege, was born at Farmington, Conn., December 14th, 1811. He 
 graduated at Yale College in 1831 ; was then tutor at Yale for 
 three years, and then became pastor of a Congregational Church. 
 In 1846 he was chosen professor of metaphysics and moral philosophy at 
 Yale College, and was elected president of the same on the resignation of 
 Dr. Woolsey in 1871. He is admitted to be one of the ripest and most 
 scholarly of American metaphysicians, and his " Advice to Young Men " 
 (p. 598), is worthy of profound attention. 
 
NANCY A. TRIEST. 755 
 
 SARGENT SMITH PRENTiaS. 
 
 ^^^ARGENT SMITH PRENTISS, author of the tribute to New England on 
 ^^ page 105, was bora at Portland, Me., September 30tli, 1808, and 
 jg graduated at Bowdoin College in 1826. He practiced law and en- 
 ^^ tered somewhat into politics. He lived for several years at the 
 "Crescent City," of which he speaks in the selection given. He died at 
 Longwood, near Natchez, July 1st, 1850. Senator Crittenden, of Ken- 
 tucky, said of him : " It was impossible to know Mr. Prentiss without 
 feeling for him admiration and love. His genius, so rich, and his manners, 
 30 graceful and genial, could not fail to impress those sentiments on all 
 who approached him. Eloquence was part of his nature, and over his pri- 
 vate conversation, as well as his public speeches, it scattered its sparkling 
 jewels with more than royal profusion." Mr. Prentiss was, in fact, one of 
 those ideal gentlemen of whom we hear much but see comparatively little. 
 
 E. PRENTISS. 
 
 *RS. PRENTISS, who wrote "The Mystery of Life in Christ" (p. 233), 
 has written much of this style of poetry. She is the author of 
 i^^^ "More Love to Thee, Christ," and other devotional hymns. 
 ^^^ She also published " Stepping Heavenward," an excellent book. 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 Margaret junkin preston was born about 1835. She was the 
 daughter of the Rev. George Junkin, and wife of Col. J. T. L. 
 i^^^ Preston, professor in the Virginia Military Institute at Lexing- 
 ^^^ ton, Va. She has published " Silverwood," "A Book of Memo- 
 ries," etc., and many writings in prose and verse, chiefly upon topics con- 
 nected with the civil war. She has given a translation of " Dies Ir?e '' 
 also, which has been highly commended. Her "Hero of the Commune," 
 on page 278, is a bright poem of French life. 
 
 ^.^^ NANCY A. PRIEST. 
 
 "^^|ver the River" (p. 142) is the one poem of this lady. Her full 
 ISjp name was Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest. She was born at 
 ^ Hinsdale, N. H., in 1837. She married Lieutenant A. C. Wake- 
 ^^ field in 1865, and died in 1870. Her poem appeared originally 
 
 in the Springfield Republican, in August, 1857. It was extensively 
 
 copied, and universally admired, as it well deserved to be. It is matter for 
 
 general regret that so marked a genius wrote so little. 
 
7GG BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 t^ WILLIAM C. PRIME. 
 
 §w||^ JUS gentleman is an authority on scientific fishing, as well as on many 
 pi^ other matters, and therefore Gems contains two selections from him 
 iT.;^^ on this bewitching sport. He was born at Cambridge, N. Y., Oc- 
 I tober 31st, 1825, and graduated at Princeton, N. J., in 1843. He 
 studied law, but ran more to journalism, writing much for the "Journal 
 of Commerce," of which, in 1861, he became editor and joint proprietor. 
 
 ^^,j^ ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 
 
 [VE gems from this authoress grace these pages, one of them her 
 
 ^ celebrated "Legend of Bregenz." She was born in London, Octo- 
 V\l ber 30th, 1825, and was the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter, 
 i best known as Barry Cornwall. She showed decided literary 
 ability when quite young, and under the nom de plume of Mary Berwick, 
 wrote for Dickens' " Household Words." She published several volumes 
 of poems, all of which were very well received. Charles Dickens was her 
 special friend and admirer. She died in London, February 2d, 1864. 
 
 f FATHER PROUT. 
 
 jRANCis MAHONEY, who is kuown in literature chiefly as Father Prout, 
 was born in Ireland, about 1805. He took orders in the Catholic 
 Church, but abandoned them for literary pursuits. In " Fraser's 
 Magazine" he published an amusing series of articles, collected 
 finally as the "Beliques of Father Prout." He did much as a newspaper 
 correspondent, but finally retired to a monastery, and died May 19th, 
 1866. His "Bells of Shandon" (p. 573), is a genuine gem. 
 
 ^ SAMUEL PURCHAS. 
 
 ^1 AMUEL PURCHAS was bom at Essex, England, in 1577, and was edu- 
 ^^ cated at St. John's College, Cambridge. He subsequently took 
 p^ orders in the Church of England. He died at London, in Sep- 
 l tember, 1626. His "Praise of the Sea" (p. 75), is a quaint scrap 
 
 in the olden style of the days wherein he lived and wrote. 
 
 .,, SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 pWNT page 381, a little gem of this English statesman and author will be 
 found. He was born in 1552 ; studied at Oxford ; entered the 
 army ; sailed for America ; returned home ; spread his cloak over 
 a muddy place in the street that the queen might pass ; so won 
 
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 767 
 
 her favor; subsequently visited America; had varying experiences in court 
 favor and disfavor, and finally was beheaded, October 29th, 1618. 
 
 REV. W. S. RALPH. 
 
 I^^N page 116, is an odd poem, entitled "Whistling in Heaven." The 
 
 Si 
 
 experience on which it purports to be founded, actually occurred, 
 -*^^i the wife of the author being the one so charmed by the whistling. 
 On his return to their frontier cabin, Mr. Ealph was told of the occur- 
 rence, and soon after he surprised his wife by presenting her with the poem 
 as given in this book. Mr. Ralph now resides at Halifax, Nova Scotia, 
 
 ^j^ THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 ^^F this author's excellent works, three appear in Gems. He was 
 m born in Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. He was a poet, a 
 4^;f sculptor, and painter. In all these spheres he did good work. 
 He published several volumes, and died in New York City, May 11th, 1872. 
 
 .J^ ■ JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER. 
 
 ||^[IE author of the superb gem, "The Two Roads" (p. 109), who was 
 SS commonly called Jean Paul, was a popular, quaint and original 
 ^^^ German author, born in 1763. He made good progress in 
 Latin and Greek, and entered the University of Leipsic in 1780. 
 While a student he wrote a work entitled "Greenland Law-suits." He 
 also wrote "A Selection from the Papers of the Devil." He died in No- 
 vember, 1825. "Except by name," says Carlyle, "Richter is but little 
 known out of Germany. The only thing connected with him, we think, 
 that has reached this country, is his saying imported by Madame de Stael, 
 and thankfully pocketed by most newspaper critics: ' Providence has given 
 to the French the empire of the land, to the English that of the sea, and 
 to the Germans that of the air ! ' Of this last element, indeed, his own 
 genius might easily seem to have been a denizen." 
 
 MRS. J. H. RIDDLE. 
 
 g^f^His lady was an authoress of considerable repute as a juvenile writer. 
 From 1866 onward, she published several volumes, and in 1867, 
 became the editor of the "St. James's Magazine." Her first pub- 
 i lications were in England, with re-issues here. She wrote under 
 
 the name of F. G. Traff'ord also, and thus issued many valuable works. 
 
 " Ghosts of Long Ago " (p. 99) is a thoughtful and valuable address. 
 
768 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 ^T JOHN RUSKIN. 
 
 ^vo choice prose extracts from Ruskin will be found in this volume. 
 Their distinguished author was born in London, in February, 
 M^"T 1819. He was wealthy and studious. At Oxford he distinguished 
 X himself and took a prize for poetry. He studied art, and soon 
 
 became famous by his brilliant discussions of its problems. He traveled 
 extensively ; wrote and re-wrote his volumes ; lectured on art ; and in 
 every direction has been a most assiduous and valuable leader of thought. 
 
 , WILLIAM HOWAED EUSSELL. 
 
 ||||||his gentleman is an Irish writer, noted as correspondent of the Lon- 
 ^1^ don ''Times." He was born in Dublin, in 1821. He accompanied 
 ^t the British army in 1854, and wrote letters on the Crimean war. 
 'I* These attracted great attention, and were finally collected in two 
 volumes. In 1861, he came to the United States as war correspondent 
 for the " Times." The sketch of the charge of the Light Brigade (p. 58), 
 on which Tennyson's famous poem was based, is a splendid commentary 
 on that brilliant dash. It should be read in connection "with the poem. 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 pHE author of six very excellent humorous poems given in Gems 
 ^ John Godfrey Saxe, was born in Vermont, in 1816. He gradua- 
 2|^ ted at Middleburg College, of that State, in 1839, and then became 
 I editor of a paper in Burlington. His first volume of poems ap- 
 peared in 1849. It had an extensive circulation. Other volumes appeared 
 in 1864 and in 1866. Mr. Saxe has practiced somewhat at law also. 
 
 SIR WALTEE SCOTT. 
 
 ^His distinguished author and poet was born in Edinburgh, x\ugust 
 15th, 1771. He was both sickly as a child and lame for life. He 
 was a great reader. He studied at the University of Edinburgh, 
 practiced law for a few years, and then entered wholly into journalism. 
 His first laurels as a poet were won in 1805, by his "Lay of the Last Min- 
 strel." He subsequently gave himself more to history and romance, pro- 
 ducing the famous Waverley series. He became very wealthy ; was crea- 
 ted a baronet in 1820 ; built his residence at Abbotsford ; lost all by the 
 failure of his publishers ; but by assiduous work paid £ 150,000 after he 
 was fifty-five years of age. He died September 21st, 1832. "Patriotism," 
 on page 233, and the prose selection on page 539, illustrate his style. 
 
TERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY. 
 
 '69 
 
 ^.:,^ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 ^j^VERYBODY kiiows more or less of the famous Shakespeare, who was 
 born at Stratford-on-Avon, England, April 23d, 15G4. He re- 
 ceived a grammar school education only. In 1589 he was an actor 
 in London ; he subsequently devoted himself to authorship, pro- 
 plays and poems in great profusion. His plays number thirty- 
 In 1610, he retired to his old home, and spent his last days in ease 
 and enjoyment. He died April 23d, 1616, and was buried in the old 
 church at Stratford. His varied genius is well shown in the selections 
 from his works which are contained in these pages. 
 
 HENRY W. SHAW. 
 
 _ ^f|;^ ^ (josh, billings). 
 
 jHis distinguished humorous moralist was born at Lanesborough, 
 Mass , in 1818. He spent many years in the west, and turned 
 his attention to various pursuits, especially farming and the auc- 
 tion business. In 1858 he settled in Poughkeepsie, N. Y., and 
 began to write sketches for newspapers over the nom de plume of " Josh 
 Billings." He rapidly became popular as a writer and lecturer. He ex- 
 cels in his humorous putting of genuine good sense. 
 
 --1-,. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 i^^His famous English poet was born August 4th, 1792. He came of a 
 '^i^ noble family. He spent several years at Eton, and two at Oxford, 
 ^^^ after which he led a roving, irregular life. He was Byron's com- 
 panion in Italy for considerable time, and there he wrote most of his best 
 works. He was drowned in the Gulf of Spezia in July, 1822. His body 
 was washed ashore, wdien Byron and other friends burned it, and the ashes 
 were buried at Rome. This volume contains three of Shelley's poems. 
 
 BENJAMIN p. SHILLABER'. 
 
 ^X- (>IRS. PARTINGTON). 
 
 fiii^His humorous author was born at Portsmouth, N. H., in 1814. He 
 pj^ entered a printing office at Dover in 1830, and later spent several 
 ^ years in travel. He afterwards entered the office of the Boston 
 ^^ "Post," and became editorially connected with this paper. He 
 acquired great celebrity by his "Sayings of Mrs. Partington." He pub- 
 lished several very successful volumes on this and other subjects. His 
 " Mouse Hunting," on page 217, is a good specimen of his humorous work. 
 
770 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Q,rm<:,Ki LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 Irs. LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY was an American poet and exten- 
 sive miscellaneous writer. She was born at Norwich, Conn., in 
 ^^^ 1791. In 1819 she married Charles Sigourney, a merchant of 
 ^-'' Hartford, in which city she resided until her death, which oc- 
 curred in 1865. She was a writer of chaste and elegant style. Her three 
 poems selected for Gems are eminently worthy of the honorable place 
 accorded them. Her "Niagara" is a standard poem. 
 
 ^^J,^ JAMES SMITH. 
 
 'ames smith, author of "The Soldier's Pardon" (p. 236), was an En- 
 glish humorist and miscellaneous writer, born in London, 1775. 
 ^^ He became extensively known by his contributions to "The Pic- 
 I Nic," "The London Eeview," and "The Monthly Mirror." In 
 1812, ho brought out "Rejected Addresses," which are humorous imita- 
 tions of the poems of Coleridge, Wordsworth, Byron, Scott, and others. 
 They met with a brilliant success. He died in 1839, and his " Memoirs, 
 Letters, ets.," were collected and published in 1840. 
 
 ^(.;,^ SEBA SMITH. 
 
 ^^EBA SMITH was an American writer, born at Buckfield, Maine. In 
 1833, under the nom de plume of " Major Jack Downing," he 
 published a series of humorous letters on political subjects, which 
 became widely popular. His other principal works are " Pow- 
 hatan," a poem, and "Away down East, or Portraitures of Yankee Life." 
 He died in 1868. His " Mother in the Snow Storm " (p, 513) is one of 
 his more serious productions, founded on actual experience. 
 
 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 Ihe author of "Hymn to the Flowers " (p. 255), was born in London, 
 in 1779. He early became a writer for periodicals. He did much 
 literary work with his brother James. He produced novels and 
 poems, all of' a satisfactory kind. He died July 12th, 1849. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 OBERT SOUTHEY was a poct laureate of England. He was born at 
 IHj^ Bristol, August 12th, 1774. He began to write verses before he 
 ^j^^ was ten years old. In 1792, he was expelled from Westminster 
 2 school for writing an essay against corporal punishment He 
 
EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 entered Baliol College, at Oxford, in 1792. In 1793 he wrote " Wat Ty- 
 ler," a drama, and " Joan of Arc," an epic poem. In 1794, he was intro- 
 duced to the poet Coleridge, with whom he enjoyed a life-long friendship. 
 After various adventures, and several changes of occupation and residence, 
 he settled, in 1803, at Greta Hall, near Keswick, with Coleridge, who was 
 his brother-in-law. He then became a contributor to the " Quarterly Re- 
 view," and published various poems. He was appointed poet laureate in 
 1813. In 1835, he received a pension of three hundred pounds a year 
 from the government. Soon after this time his faculties became enfeebled, 
 and he sank into a state of mental imbecility. He died March 21st, 18-13. 
 Two of Southey's choicest poems adorn these pages. 
 
 • MRS. CAROLINE B. SOUTHEY. 
 
 ^AROLTNE ANNE BOWLES was born in England in 1787. She led a re- 
 Wk tired literary life until 1839, when she mar: 
 
 ■y life until 1839, when she married the poet laureate, 
 ^F Robert Southey. She had previously issued several volumes of 
 \^ poems, and had long been an intimate friend of Southey's. Seve- 
 ral poems bear the initials of both these gifted writers. She died in 1854. 
 " The Pauper's Death-Bed " (p. 216) is one of her best productions. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 ^^DMUND SPENSER, or Spencer, was one of England's most celebrated 
 ^a? poets. He was born in London in 1552, and died January 16th, 
 X 1599. He was a college-bred man, and had the ideal experience 
 V of poets with love and poverty in early life, crowned in old age 
 with plenty and peace. The "Faerie Queene" is Spenser's great work. 
 He was buried in Westminster, his monument, erected in 1620, being re- 
 stored in 1778. His "Ministry of xlngels" (p. 702) is very fine. 
 
 ^,^ WILLIAM B. SPRAGUE. 
 
 §^p[LLiAM BUEL SPRAGUE, D.D., was an eminent American Presbyterian 
 ^Jjji divine, born at Andover, Conn., in 1795. His ministerial life 
 ^.■^^ was spent, in the main, at Albany, N. Y. , where he did a large 
 i amount of literary work in addition to his regular employments. 
 
 His comparison of Voltaire and Wilberforce (p. 661) is in the general 
 style of his literary works. He died in 1876. 
 
EIOGRArillCAL SKETCHES. 
 
 , CHARLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 |iiARLES SPRAGUE, autlior of " I See Thee Still " (p. 144), was born 
 ^ at Bosion, Mass., October 26th, 1791 ; he became a mercantile clerk 
 at the age of thirteen, and rose rapidly in business. He early 
 displayed a fine talent for poetry, and devoted his spare time for 
 many years to the study of old English classics. He was the civic orator 
 at Boston, July 4th, 1825. He died January 14th, 1875. 
 
 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. 
 
 ; Eev. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, better known as Dean Stanley, 
 was born in 1815. He studied at Rugby under the famous Dr. 
 Arnold, and subsequently graduated at Oxford. He was appointed 
 chaplain to Prince Albert, and in 1856 became Regius professor of 
 ecclesiastical history at Oxford. He visited the Holy Land in company 
 with the Prince of Wales, and wrote a very valuable volume on the subject, 
 whence an extract is taken for this collection. He became Dean of West- 
 minster in 1864, and died in 1882, greatly lamented by the Queen of 
 England, and by all the learned and religious world. 
 
 ROBERT STORY. 
 
 Ihe author of the bright little poem, "The Whistle," on page 283, 
 I was Robert Story, born in Northumberland, England, about 1790. 
 
 He was a clergyman of eminent worth, and a poet of considerable 
 
 ability. His death occurred in 1859. 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 9^ 
 
 'rs. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE is one of the most distinguished lady 
 authors of America. She was born at Litchfield, Conn., June 
 14th, 1812. While but a child she was passionately fond of such 
 ' "^^ books as Scott's novels, "Arabian Nights," and " Don Quixote." 
 Before she was twelve years of age she wrote a composition, maintaining 
 the negative of the question, " Can the immortality of the soul be proved 
 by the light of nature ? " At the age of thirteen she became a pupil of 
 her sister Catharine, then principal of the Female Seminary at Hartford. 
 In 1836 she was married to Professor Calvin E. Stowe. In 1850 she ac- 
 companied her husband to Brunswick, Maine, where she wrote her famous 
 " Uncle Tom's Cabin." The success of this work has been without a par- 
 allel. It is thought that half a million copies have been sold in this country. 
 
CHARLES SUMNER. 773 
 
 and probably more than that number in the British dominions. It has 
 been translated also into all the principal European languages, and into 
 several of Asia, including, it is said, the Chiaese and Japanese. Two dif- 
 ferent translations of it have been made into Russian, three into the Mag- 
 yar language, and thirteen or fourteen into German. One selection given 
 in Gems, " The Little Evangelist," is from this wonderful book. 
 
 . SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 ^^IR JOHN SUCKLING, author of one poem in Gems, " The Bride," was 
 ^^ born at Middlesex, England, in 1609, and was educated at Cam- 
 pf bridge. In 1631, he offered his services to Gustavus Adolphus, of 
 I Sweden, who was then waging war against Germany. Subse- 
 
 quently he was attached to the Court of Charles I., and in 1639 he 
 equipped a troop of horse for service against the Scotch. His works in- 
 clude plays, songs, poems, and metaphysics. He died about 1642. 
 
 CHARLES SUMNER. 
 
 IminE great Senator, Charles Sumner, was born in Boston, January 6th, 
 1811. He was educated at the Boston Public, Latin School and 
 
 f^ Harvard College, where he graduated in 1830. He was conspicu- 
 ously studious. In 1831 he entered the Harvard Law School, 
 then under the charge of Judge Story, and gave himself, without relaxa- 
 tion, to profound study. His leisure was devoted to preparing a catalogue 
 of the Law Library, and to work on the "American Jurist," of which he 
 became editor-in-chief. In 1837 he went to Europe, and was received 
 with most flattering attention. His days were passed in society and in 
 the galleries, but his nights were spent in diligent study. 
 
 He had purposed a lawyer's life, and his ambition was to reach the Su- 
 preme bench. But, in 1845, he turned to politics, speaking and working 
 against the admission of Texas and the war with Mexico. In 1851, he 
 was elected United States Senator for Massachusetts, the first civil office, 
 and the only one, he ever held. In 1852, he began his Congressional as- 
 sault on slavery by a masterly argument for the repeal of the Fugitive 
 Slave Law, entitled "Freedom National-Slavery Sectional." This phrase 
 became the watchword of his party, and gave the key to most of his later 
 arguments. 
 
 In 1857, he was again chosen to the Senatorship ; again, in 1863, and 
 subsequently in 1869, thus passing the last twenty-three years of his life 
 in that body. An attack of severe illness in the Senate chamber, on 
 
774 Biographical sketches. 
 
 March 10th, 1874, proved fatal in his own house in Washington on the 
 day following. Almost his last words were addressed to Judge Hoar, 
 "Take care of my Civil Eights Bill." His remains lie at Mount Auburn, 
 near Boston. The extract on page 453 is a fair specimen of his style. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 M|||a^His author was born near London, April 5th, 1837. His education 
 Sim was obtained partly at Eaton, partly in France, and partly at Ox- 
 ford. He spent some time subsequently in Italy. He has pub- 
 lished several dramas and many poems. " Kissing her Hair " (p. 
 52) is one of his peculiar yet pleasing productions. 
 
 ^^ T. DEWITT TALMAGE. 
 
 ' " ' |HE Eev. Thomas De Witt Talmage, d.d., was born in Boundbrook, 
 
 li 
 
 ^^^^^ Somerset Co., IST. J., January 7th, 1832. He entered New York 
 ^^T University and graduated in 1853. He graduated also from the 
 ^2 New Brunswick Theological Seminary in 1856, and in the same 
 
 year became minister of the Beformed Church. In 1S69 he accepted the 
 call of his present charge, the Central Congregational Church in Brooklyn. 
 He has done much newspaper editorial work. He has also published five 
 volumes of sermons, besides several books in lighter vein, and has always 
 been an active pastor, a diligent lecturer, and a man of great general activity. 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOE. 
 
 ^^Iayaed TAYLOR was bom at Kennett Square, Chester County, Penn- 
 ^^ sylvania, January 11th, 1825. He began life as a printer, then 
 iW appeared as a poet, then as a traveler and newspaper correspon- 
 ^^ dent and proprietor, in connection with the New York Tribune. 
 As a traveler he visited all parts of the world. He finally became con- 
 nected with consular appointments abroad, becoming Minister to Germany 
 in 1878, where he died, after a short residence, in December of the same 
 year. He was a most popular lecturer and author. " The Quaker 
 Widow" (p. 110) is one of Bayard Taylor's earlier gems. 
 
 BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. 
 
 |wo exquisite gems from Benjamin Franklin Taylor brighten these 
 pages. He was born in New York State in 1822. He was edu- 
 cated at Madison University, where his father was the honored 
 I president. He published poems and fragmentary papers in 1845, 
 
ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 and from that time became an active journalist. His railway sketches, 
 under the title " The World on Wheels," were peerless. All his works 
 were immensely popular. He is a popular lyceum lecturer also. 
 
 JEFFERYS TAYLOR. 
 
 BRIGHT little juvenile poem, an improvement of the old story of 
 the milkmaid who counted her chickens before they were hatched, 
 is given on page 199. It is from ihe pen of JefFerys Taylor, an 
 English writer, who was born in 1792, and who wrot-e chiefly for 
 
 the young, being distinguished for his quaint, practical manner of putting 
 
 his thoughts. He died August 8th, 1853. 
 
 JEREMY TAYLOR. 
 
 JEREMY TAY'LOR, D.D , was born in Cambridge, England, in 1613. 
 He entered Caius College in 1826, and waited at the public tables 
 for support. After graduating he gained the friendship of Bishop 
 Laud, and in 1636, obtained a fellowship at Oxford. In 1642 his 
 rectory was sequestered by Parliament, and he was forced to take refuge 
 in Wales, where he supported himself by teaching, and wrote some of his 
 best works. As a preacher and as a writer, he occupies a high place. 
 " Useful Studies " (p. 292) is a characteristic effusion from his pen. He 
 died at Lisburne, Ireland, August 13th, 1667. 
 
 ALLRED TENNY'SON. 
 
 H^ngland's present poet laureate was born in 1809 in Lincolnshire. He 
 ^IMj^ grnduated at Cambridge, and was early distinguished for poetic 
 ■*^^^ ability, gaining the Chancellor's Medal in 1829. His reputation 
 ' as a poet grew slowly, however, and it was not until 1842 that he 
 really became famous. Since that time he has stood confessedly as the 
 world's first poet. Every one of the ten selections given in Gems, from 
 his poems, is exquisitely beautiful in its line. On the death of Words- 
 worth in 1850, Tennyson was appointed poet laureate. 
 
 THOMAS OF CELANO. 
 
 ^NE of the grandest hymns ever written is the old Latin Dh.'^ Tree, a 
 translation of which is given on page 456. Its author was Thomas, 
 a Franciscan monk, born near the beginning of the thirteenth 
 century, at Celano, a Neapolitan village. This wonderful poem 
 
 52 
 
776 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 Las had the highest encomiums from such critics and scholars as Mozart, 
 Haydn, Goethe, Schlegel, Dryden, Scott, Milman, etc. Dr. W. K, Wil- 
 hams, of New York, perhaps the first scholar of America, critically de- 
 scribes this hymn as "combining somewhat of the rhythm of classic Latin, 
 with the rhymes of the mediaeval Latin, treating of a theme full of awful 
 sublimity, and grouping together the most startling imagery of Scripture 
 as to the last judgment, and throwing this into yet stronger relief by the 
 barbaric simplicity of the style in which it is set, and adding to all these 
 its full and trumpet-like cadences, and uniting with the impassioned feel- 
 ings of the South, whence it emanated, the gravity of the North, whose 
 severer style it adopted." It is a poem that may be studied and dwelt 
 upon, with ever increasing profit and delight. 
 
 LORD EDWARD THURLOW. 
 
 iJpfoRD THURLOW was an eminent English lawyer, born in Norfolk, in 
 
 1732. He was sent to Cambridge, but he was compelled to leave 
 -*^^" without a degree on account of his refractory conduct. He after- 
 
 i wards studied law. In early life he was an intimate friend of the 
 poet Cowper. He rose rapidly in his profession, and obtained the 
 rank of king's counsel in 1761. He died September, 1806. His legal 
 eminence was deemed by many to be due to happy accidents, rather than 
 to real ability. His "Patient Stork " (p. 450) is a good poem. 
 
 , ^ JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 ^gHE author of "The Vagabonds" (p. 130) is well known through that 
 11^ poem, as well as by the other two from his pen given in this vol- 
 ume. He was born in Monroe county, N. Y., in 1827. He wrote 
 considerably for the "Atlantic Monthly," and has been much en- 
 joyed as a writer of light literature. 
 
 JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND. 
 
 EHLAND was a celebrated German poet, born in 1787. He studied 
 law and took the degree of ll.d. He was a member of the rep- 
 '^^^ resentative assembly of Wurtemburg in 1819, and in 1830 was 
 X appointed professor of the German language and literature at 
 
 Tubingen. He published a rich collection of patriotic songs. As a poet, 
 he was characterized by simplicity, tenderness, and deep religious feeling, 
 m "The Lost Church " (p. 622) shows. He -died, November, 1862. 
 
GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 
 777 
 
 ^\^ ^ CHAELE3 DUDLEY WARKER. 
 
 ?rn|His gentleman, author of three extracts in Gems, was born in Plain- 
 ^1^ field, Mass., September 12th, 1829. Ho graduated at Hamilton 
 <>^-^ College, practiced law in Chicago, and became a journalist in 
 J Hartford, where he now resides. His publications meet with 
 very general favor. 
 
 ..,1.^ GEORGE WASHINGTON. 
 
 |Sfj|pASHiNGTON, the first President of the United States, was born in 
 fjlpft|1 AVestmoreland county, Va., February 22d, 1732. He was left an 
 P^'^t orphan when but twelve years of age and inherited 'a large estate. 
 His early education was defective. He had some rough frontier 
 experiences, in the early Indian wars, but he abandoned the army for civil 
 pursuits. On the opejiing of hostilities in the Eevolutionary War, he was 
 unanimously chosen to command the American forces. He accepted it on 
 the condition that he was to receive no salary. At the close of the war 
 he laid down his commission. Then it was he issued his address to his 
 troops, given on page 408. He was unanimously chosen first President of 
 the newly-organized Federal government. The organization started on 
 March 4th, 1789, but the inauguration of Washington was delayed till 
 April 30th, when it took place, in New York City, and he delivered the 
 address from which the selection on page 603 is taken. 
 
 Washington was strongly urged to serve a third term in the presidency, 
 but he refused, and retired to private life at Mount Vernon. Here he 
 enjoyed the repose and the many honors he had so nobly earned. He died 
 at Mount Vernon, Va., from a short illness, December 14, 1799. 
 
 DAXIEL WEBSTER. 
 
 jHE great Daniel Webster was born at Salisbury (now Franklin), N. 
 H., January 18th, 1782. He received only a limited education, 
 and was greatly indebted for his early instruction to his mother. 
 He completed his preparation for college in the family of Kev. 
 Samuel Wood, of Boscawen, and entered Dartmouth College in 1797. He 
 was considered the foremost scholar of his class. He was decidedly pro- 
 ficient in the classics and English literature, and was distinguished con- 
 spicuously in the debates of the college societies. Several of his collegiate 
 addresses found their way into print. He graduated in 1801 and began 
 the study of law. He soon rose to eminence at the bar where Samuel 
 Dexter, Joseph Story and Jeremiah Mason were at the height of their 
 fame. He was nominated and elected to Congress by the Federalists in 
 
778 
 
 BIOGRAnilCAL SKETCHES. 
 
 1812, Taking his seat in the special session of May, 1813, he was ap- 
 pointed to the committee on foreign alTairs, and- made his maiden Con- 
 gressional speech June 10th, 1813. 
 
 Webster was afterwards admitted to practice in the Supreme Court at 
 Washington. He then devoted himself with great zeal to the practice ot 
 his profession, and gained rank among the most distinguished jurists of 
 this country. He added to his world-wide fame as an orator by his ad- 
 dress at the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, 
 June 17th, 1825, and by his eulogy of Adams and Jefferson, delivered at 
 Faneuil Hall, Boston, August, 1826. He served as Secretary of State 
 under President Harrison, and was continued in office by President Tyler. 
 He died at Marshfield, October 24th, 1852, and was buried in his fomily 
 vault in the cemetery of that town. "Crime Self-Bevealed," from one ol 
 his pleas in a murder case (p. 632), is a matchless piece of oratory. 
 
 THOMAS WESTWOOD. 
 
 ICES AT THE THRONE " (p. 527) was Written by Thomas Westwood, 
 who was born at Enfield, England, November 26th, 1814. He 
 ^^^i led an active business life, and was, for twenty-five years, direc- 
 } tor of a railway company in Belgium. He has been a frequent 
 
 contributor of verses to the London "Athenaeum and Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine," and is author of several volumes of very excellent poems. 
 
 EDWIN PEECY WHIPPLE. 
 
 IfgDWiN PERCY WHIPPLE was boru at Gloucester, Mass., March 8th' 
 1819. He received his early education in the public schools of 
 Salem, and at the age of fourteen, he began to write for a news- 
 paper. He then applied himself to banking for many years. 
 Since 1860, he has devoted himself to literature, being a frequent contribu- 
 tor to current periodicals, and a popular lyceum lecturer. He also enjoys 
 considerable reputation as a critic, his skill in this department being illus- 
 trated by his clear analysis in "The Power of AVords" (p. 665.) 
 
 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 
 
 i^l^His author is better known simply as Kirke White. He was an 
 ^^ English poet, born in 1785. As a child he was remarkable for 
 
 f precocity, and he soon distinguished himself in ancient and mod- 
 ern languages, music and natural philosophy. Having made seve- 
 
JOHN G. WHITTIER. 779 
 
 rcil random contributions to the "Monthly Mirror," he ventured to publish 
 a collection of poems, which attracted the notice of Southey, who became 
 his warm friend and generous patron. White entered St. John's College, 
 Cambridge, in 1804. Severe application to study was too much for his 
 constitution, and he fell into a rapid decline, and died October, 1806. His 
 works were published by Southey, with a very interesting biography. 
 "The Star of Bethlehem" (p. 469) is one of the finest gems of poetry. 
 
 ;,-(i>V«> MRS. A. D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 Ihe little rid hin" (p. 482) is as bright and well told an Irisii 
 1^ legend, of the fabulous order, as can readily be found. It was 
 A written by Mrs. Adeline D. Train Whitney, who was born at 
 Boston, Mass., in 1824. Her husband is Seth D. Whitney, of 
 Milton, Mass. She has long been a favorite contributor to the current 
 magazines, especially those for the younger readers. 
 
 ♦ JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 "?W|pHE QUAKER POET," as John Grccnleaf Whitter has been familiarly 
 
 ^1^ called, is a native of Haverhill, Mass., where he was born in 1807. 
 
 •^^^ After an academic education he devoted himself to journalism. 
 
 I He also had some political experience, but in 1840 he settled at 
 
 Amesbury, Mass., where he still resides. He has written extensively, 
 
 both in prose and poetry. Sixteen splendid selections from Whittier are 
 
 given in Gems. Like Washington Irving, Whittier never married. 
 
 CARLOS WILCOX. 
 
 siLCOX was an American poet, born at Newport, N. H., October, 
 1794. He studied theology and began to preach. In 1822, he 
 published the first book of a poem called "The Age of Benevo- 
 lence." He gained a high reputation for eloquence. He died in 
 1827. His poem on page 219 is beautiful in sentiment and structure. 
 
 -fe 
 
 J. A. WILEY. 
 
 ^ir^AMES A. WILEY, D.D., is an eminent divine of the Free Church of 
 
 m^ Scotland. He published the "History of Protestantism," " Edom 
 
 2|! in Prophecy," and other valuable works. His sketch, given on 
 
 %^ page 690, illustrates the charming style in which he deals with 
 
 historic detail, investino; his narrative with the attractiveness of romance. 
 
78U BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 
 
 . N. P. WILLIS. 
 
 LTHANIEL PARKER WILLIS, author of three of the selections of this 
 volume, was a native of Portland, Maine. He was born January 
 jj/' 20th, 1807. He was graduated at Yale in 1827, before which hu 
 %^ took a prize for a poem. He devoted himself to journalism at 
 once after completing his college course, and adhered to it closely till his 
 death, which occurred January 20th, 1867. He made several journeys 
 abroad, and wrote voluminously, both in prose and verse. 
 
 WILLIAM WIRT. 
 
 ^j^jMiLLiAM WIRT, LL.D., was boru at Bladensbu^g, Md., November 8th, 
 ^^J^l^^ 1772. He was left an orphan at the age of eight years, but was 
 ll^^f brought up by an uncle. He studied law, and commenced prac- 
 X tice in Culpepper and Albemarle counties, Va. He was appointed 
 
 United States Attorney for the District of Virginia in 1816, and was At- 
 torney-General of the United States for three full terms under the admin- 
 istrations of Monroe and John Quincy Adams. He delivered, at Wash- 
 ington, on October 19th, 1826, a discourse commemorative of the deaths 
 of Adams and Jefferson. His sketch of "The Blind Preacher" (p. 185) 
 is a good illustration of his ability as a word painter. He died at Wash- 
 ington, D. C, February 18th, 1834, deeply lamented by all. 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 :^2^ 
 
 Iouthey's successor as poet laureate, and Tennyson's immediate pre- 
 decessor, was William Wordsworth, born April 7th, 1770, in Cum- 
 berland, England. His alma mater was Cambridge, where he 
 excelled in the classics. At thirteen his poesy began to appear, 
 and he began to make it his chief study. After much foreign 
 travel and little success as a poet, he began to loom up in the public favor 
 about 1814, and he was sixty years old when he really became popular. 
 He then began to live comfortably, received a pension and an honorary 
 D. c. L. from Oxford, and in 1843, when seventy-three years of ago, be- 
 came the royal poet. He died in 1850. Three of his poems are in Gems. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE WORLD'S GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 ACTION. 
 
 Speak out in acts; the time for words has 
 passed, and deeds alone suffice. 
 
 ( Whittier. 
 
 Everywhere in life, the true question is, not 
 what we gain, but what we do. [Carlyle. 
 
 A slender acquaintance with the world must 
 convince every man, that actions, not 
 words, are the true criterion of the at- 
 tachment of friends. Washington. 
 
 He hath no power that hath not power to 
 use. (Bailey. 
 
 Oar deeds determine us, as much as we de- 
 termine our deeds. {Oeorge Eliot. 
 
 It is better to wear out than to rust out. 
 
 (Bishop Home. 
 Men must be decided on what they will not 
 do, and then they are able to act with 
 vigor in what they ought to do. 
 
 (Mencius. 
 Our acts, our angels are, or good or ill, 
 Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. 
 
 (John Fletcher. 
 
 Our grand busine.s8 is, not to see what lies 
 
 dimly at a distance, but to do what lies 
 
 clearly at hand. {Carlyle. 
 
 Push on — keep moving. ( Thomas Morton. 
 
 Heaven never helps the men who will not 
 act. (Sophocles. 
 
 No man lives without jostling and being jos- 
 tled; in all ways he has to elbow himself 
 through the world, giving and receiving 
 offence. {Carlyle. 
 
 The only cure for grief is action.(G.jy.Zcw)es 
 
 A stirring dwarf we do allowance give 
 Before a sleeping giant. (Shakespeare. 
 
 Better to sink beneath the shock 
 Than moulder piecemeal on the rock. 
 
 (Byron. 
 
 1 have lived to know that the secret of hap- 
 piness is never to allow your energies 
 to stagnate. (Adam Clarke. 
 
 God be thank'd that the dead have left still 
 Good undone for the living to do — 
 
 Still some aim for the heart and the will 
 And the soul of a man to pursue. 
 
 (Owen Meredith. 
 
 ADVERSITY. 
 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity ; 
 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 
 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
 Cicero has said of men : "They are like wine ; 
 age sours the bad, and betters the good." 
 We can say that misfortune has the 
 same effect upon them. {Ricker. 
 
 Calamity is man's true touch-stone. 
 
 (Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Trials teach us what we are ; they dig up the 
 soil, and let us see what we are made of; 
 they just turn up some of the ill weeds 
 on to the surface. (Spurgeon. 
 
 For gold is tried in the fire, and acceptable 
 men in the furnace of adversity. (SiracJi 
 781 
 
782 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Afflictions fall, not like the lightning strokes 
 upon the tree, to blast and shatter it the 
 more, but like the blows of the sculptor 
 which shape the marble into a thing of 
 beauty. {Howard Malcom. 
 
 It is often better to have a great deal of harm 
 happen to one than a little; a great deal 
 may rouse you to remove what a little 
 will only accustom you to endure. 
 
 ( Greville. 
 
 The greater our dread of crosses, the more 
 necessary they are for us. {Fenelon. 
 
 We know not of what we are capable till the 
 trial comes; — till it comes, perhaps, in a 
 form which makes the strong man quail, 
 and turns the gentler woman into a her- 
 oine. {Mrs. Jameson. 
 
 Prosperity is no just scale; adversity is the 
 only balance to weigh friends. (P^wtorc/i. 
 
 He that wrestles with us strengthens our 
 nerves and sharpens our skill. Our 
 antagonist is our helper. {Burke. 
 
 Men think God is destroying them because 
 he is tuning them. The violinist screws 
 up the key till the tense cord sounds the 
 concert pitch ; but it is not to break it, 
 but to use it tunefully, that he stretches 
 the string upon the musical rack. 
 
 {Beecher. 
 
 Adversity is sometimes hard upon a man ; 
 but for one man who can stand prosper- 
 ity, there are a hundred that will stand 
 adversity. {Carhjle. 
 
 His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; 
 For then, and not till then, he felt himself. 
 And found the blessedness of being little. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 There are no crown weareis in heaven who 
 were not cross-bearers here below. 
 
 But noble souls, through dust and heat. 
 Rise from disaster and defeat 
 
 The stronger. {Longfellow. 
 
 The eternal stars shine out 
 dark enough. 
 
 soon as it is 
 ( Carlyle. 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 Ambition has but one reward for all : 
 A little power, a little transient fame, 
 A grave to rest in, and a fading name ! 
 
 ( William Winter. 
 Oh, sons of earth ! attempt ye still to rise. 
 By mountains pil'd on mountains to the 
 
 skies ? 
 lleav'n still with laughter the vain toil sur- 
 veys, 
 And buries madmen in the heaps they raise. 
 
 [Pope. 
 Most people would succeed in small things if 
 they were not troubled with great ambi- 
 tions. {Longfellow. 
 
 Remember Milo's end. 
 Wedged in that timber which he strove to 
 rend. ( Wentworth Dillon. 
 
 Who knows but he, whose hand the light- 
 ning forms, 
 
 Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the 
 storms ; 
 
 Pours fierce Ambition in a Csesar's mind. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 One contented with what he has done, stands 
 but small chance of becoming famous 
 for what he will do. He has lain down 
 to die. The grass is already growing 
 over him. {Bovce. 
 
 They that stand high have many blasts to 
 
 shake them ; 
 And if they fall they dash themselves to 
 
 pieces. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Who shoots at the midday sun, though he be 
 sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as 
 sure he is that he shall shoot higher than 
 he who aims but at a bush. 
 
 {Sir P. Sidneij. 
 Fling away ambition ; by that sin fell tlie 
 angels : how can man then, the image 
 of his Maker hope to win by it? 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Men would be angels, angols would be god.-; 
 
 {Pope. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 783 
 
 Say what we will, you may be sure that am- Art is Nature made by Man 
 
 bition IS an error ; its wear and tear of | To Man the interpreter of God. 
 
 heart are never recompensed, —it steals 
 away the freshness of life, — it deadens 
 Its vivid and social enjoyments, — it shots 
 our souls to our own youth,— and we are 
 old ere we remember that we have made 
 a fever and a labor of our raciest years. 
 (Bulwer. 
 
 (Owen Meredith. 
 
 His heart was in his work, and the heart 
 
 Giveth grace unto every Art. {Longellow. 
 
 The one thing that marks the true artist is a 
 clear perception and a firm, bold hand, 
 in distinction from that imperfect mental 
 vision and uncertain touch which give 
 us the feeble pictures and the lumpy 
 statues of the mcie artisans on canvas 
 or in stone. (Holmes. 
 
 Dead he is not, "but departed,— for the artist 
 never dies. (Longfellow. 
 
 He best can paint them who shall feel them 
 most. (Pope. 
 
 In sculpture did ever any body call the 
 Apollo a fancy piece? Or say of the 
 Laocoon how it might be made different ? 
 A master-piece of art has in the mind a 
 fixed place in the chain of being, as 
 much as a plant or a crystal. (Emerson. 
 
 Nature is a revelation of God ; 
 
 Art a revelation of man. (Longfellow. 
 
 The Gothic cathedral is a blossoming in stone 
 subdued by the insatiable demand of 
 harmony in man. The mountain of 
 granite blooms into an eternal flower, 
 with the lightness and delicate finish, as 
 well as the aerial proportions and per- 
 spective of vegetable beauty. (Emerson. 
 
 The stone unhewn and cold. 
 
 Becomes a living mould, 
 
 The more the marble wastes 
 
 The more the statue grows. (Michael Angelo. 
 
 Doubtless the human face is the grandest of 
 all mysteries ; yet fixed on canvas, it can 
 hardly tell of more than one sensation : 
 no struggle, no successive contrasts ac- 
 cessible to dramatic art, can painting 
 give, as neither time nor motion exists 
 for her. (Madame de Stael. 
 
 "light in petal and in limb that move ; -^°d ^^^ cold marble leapt to life a god. 
 
 you, then the spirit is upon you, and the ] (Milman. 
 
 earth is yours, and the fullness thereof, i Were builded, with his own, into the walls, 
 (Buskin, i As offerings unto God. (Longfellow. 
 
 ART. 
 
 Art is the child of Nature : yes, 
 
 Her darling child in whom we trace 
 
 The features of the mother's face ; 
 
 Her aspect and her attitude. (Longfellow. 
 
 Seraphs share with thee 
 
 Knowledge ; But Art, Man, is thine alone ! 
 
 {Schiller. 
 
 I think I love and reverence all arts equally, 
 
 only putting my own just above the 
 
 others ; because in it I recognize the 
 
 union and culmination of them all. To 
 
 me it seems as if when God conceived the 
 
 world, that was Poetry ; He formed it, 
 
 and that was Sculpture ; He colored it, 
 
 and that was Painting; He peopled it 
 
 with living beings, and that was the 
 
 grand, divine, eternal Drama. 
 
 ( Charlotte Cushnian. 
 
 He that seeks popularity in art closes the 
 door on his own genius ; as he must 
 needs paint for other minds, and not for 
 his own. (Mrs. Jameson. 
 
 The art of a thing is. first, its aim, and next, 
 its manner of accomplishment. (Bovee. 
 
 If it is the love of that which your work rep- 
 resents — if, being a landscape painter, it 
 is love of hills and trees that moves you 
 — if, being a figure painter, it is love of 
 human beauty, and human soul that 
 moves you — if, being a flower or animal 
 painter, it is love, and wonder, and de- 
 
784 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Nature is not at variance with art, nor art 
 with nature; they being both the ser- 
 vants of his providence. Art is the per- 
 fection of nature. Were the world now 
 as it was the sixth day, there were yet a 
 chaos. Nature hath made one world, 
 and art another. In brief, all things 
 are artificial; for nature is the art of 
 God. [Sir Thomas Browne. 
 
 The architect 
 
 Built his great heart into these sculptured 
 stones. 
 
 And with him toiled his children, — and their 
 lives. 
 
 I once asked a distinguished artist what place 
 he gave to labor in art. " Labor,'' he in 
 effect said, "is the beginning, the middle, 
 and the end of art.'' Turning then to 
 another — "And you," I inquired, "what 
 do you consider the great force in art?" 
 "Love,'' he replied. In 'their two an- 
 swers I found but one truth. (Bovee. 
 
 BEAUTY. 
 
 The most beautiful object in the world, it 
 will be allowed, is a beautiful woman. 
 
 (^Macaulay. 
 
 A thing of beauty is a joy for ever; 
 
 Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
 
 Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 
 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet 
 breathing. (Keats. 
 
 "We do love beauty at first sight ; and we do 
 cease to love it, if it is not accompanied 
 by amiable qualities. 
 
 (Lydia Maria Child. 
 
 "What as Beauty here is won 
 We shall as Truth in some hereafter know. 
 
 {Schiller. 
 
 If to her share some female errors fall 
 Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. 
 
 [Pope. 
 Beauty with a bloodless conquest, finds 
 A welcome sov'reignty m rudest minds. 
 
 ( Waller. 
 
 Thoughtless of beauty, she was beauty's self. 
 ( Thomson. 
 I pray thee, God, that I may be beautiful 
 within. (Socrates. 
 
 Loveliness 
 Needs not the foreign aid of ornament, 
 But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most. 
 
 (Tliomson. 
 If the nose of Cleopatra had been a little 
 shorter, it would have changed the his- 
 tory of the world. {Pascal. 
 
 BLESSINGS. 
 
 Like birds, whose beauties languish half con- 
 cealed. 
 
 Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy 
 plumes 
 
 Expanded, shine with azure, green and gold ; 
 
 How blessings brighten as they take their 
 flight ! ( Young. 
 
 Blessings star forth forever ; but a curse 
 
 Is like a cloud — it passes. {Bailey. 
 
 For blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds. 
 
 And though a late, a sure reward succeeds. 
 {Congreve. 
 
 What is remote and difficult of success we 
 are apt to overrate; what is really best 
 for us lies always within our reach, 
 though often overlooked. {Longfellow. 
 
 Forever from the hand that takes 
 One blessing from us, others fall; 
 
 And soon or late, our Father makes 
 
 His perfect recompense to all ! ( Whittier. 
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 'Tis pleasant sure to see one's name in print; 
 A book's a book, although there's nothing 
 
 in't. (Byron. 
 
 Pray thee, take care, that tak'st my book in 
 
 hand. 
 To read it well ; that is to understand. 
 
 (Ben. Jonson. 
 Books cannot always please, however good ; 
 Minds are not ever craving for their food. 
 
 ( Cro.hhe. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 785 
 
 I love to lose myself iu other men's minds. 
 
 When I am not walking, I am reading ; 
 
 I cannot sit and think. Books think lor me. 
 
 {Lamb. 
 
 There is no Past, so long as Books shall live ! 
 
 (Bulwer. 
 
 A good book is the precious lifeblood of a 
 
 master spirit, embalmed and treasured up 
 
 on purpose to a life beyond. {Milton. 
 
 Books are friends, and what friends they 
 are! Their love is deep and unchang- 
 ing'; their patience inexhaustible ; their 
 gentleness perennial, their forbearance 
 unbounded ; and their sympathy with- 
 out selfishness. Strong as man, and 
 tender as woman, they welcome you in 
 every mood, and never turn from you'in 
 distress. (Langford- 
 
 Look, then, into thine heart and write. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 Books should to one of these four ends con- 
 duce. 
 For wisdom, piety, delight, or use. 
 
 {Sir John Denham. 
 We get no good 
 By being ungenerous, even to a book. 
 And calculating profits— so much help 
 By so much reading. It is rather when 
 We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge 
 Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's pro- 
 found. 
 Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of 
 
 truth— 
 'Tis then we get the right good from a book, 
 {E. B. Browning. 
 If a book come from the heart, it will con- 
 trive to reach other hearts ; all art and 
 authorcraft are of small amount to that. 
 {Carlyk. 
 Books are the best things, well used : abused, 
 among the worst. C Emerson. 
 
 Books are life-long friends whom we come 
 
 to love and know as we do our children. 
 
 {S. L. Boardman. 
 
 If time is precious, no book that will not im- 
 prove by repeated readings deserves to 
 be read at all, {Carlyle. 
 
 They are true friends, that will neither flat- 
 ter nor dissemble: be you but true to 
 yourself, applying that which they 
 teach unto the party grieved, and you 
 shall need no other comfort nor counsel. 
 {Bacon. 
 Worthy books 
 
 Are not companions — they are solitudes : 
 
 We lose ourselves in them and all our cares. 
 ( Bailey. 
 
 Some books are to be tasted, others to be 
 swallowed, and some few to be chewed 
 and digested ; that is, some books are to 
 be read only in parts; others to be read, 
 but not seriously ; and some few to be 
 read wholly, and with diligence and 
 attention. {Bacon. 
 
 Ono cannot celebrate books sufficiently. Af- 
 ter saying his best, still something better 
 remains to be spoken in their praise. 
 
 {Alcott. 
 
 In literature, quotation is good only when 
 the writer whom I follow goes my way, 
 and, being better mounted than I, gives 
 me a cast as we say ; but if I like the 
 gay equipage so well as to go out of my 
 road, I had better have gone afoot. 
 
 {Emerson. 
 
 The true University of these days is a Col- 
 lection of Books. ( Carlyle. 
 
 I have ever gained the most profit, and the 
 most pleasure also, from the books which 
 have made me think the most: and, 
 when the difficulties have once been 
 overcome, these are the books which 
 have struck the deepest root, not only 
 in my memory and understanding, but 
 likewise in my affections. 
 
 ( W. A. Hare. 
 
 Write to the mind and heart, and let the ear 
 I Glean after what it can. {Bailey. 
 
 That is a good book which is opened with 
 expectation and closed with profit. 
 
 {Alcott. 
 
 If you once understand an author's charac- 
 ter, the comprehension of his writing 
 becomes easy. {Longfellow 
 
r86 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Of all those arts in which the wise excel, 
 Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well. 
 
 {Sheffield. 
 
 It is generally supposed that where there is 
 no Quotation, there will be found most 
 
 originality The greater 
 
 part of our writers, in consequence, have 
 become so original, that no one cares to 
 imitate them ; and those who never 
 quote, in return are seldom quoted. 
 
 {Isaac Disraeli. 
 
 Beneath the rule of men entirely great 
 
 The pen is mightier than the sword. {Bulwer. 
 
 Let your literary compositions be kept from 
 the public eye for nine years at least. 
 
 {Horace. 
 
 A man may write at any time if he set him- 
 self doggedly at it. (Bam'l Johnson. 
 
 But words are things, and a small drop of 
 ink, 
 Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces 
 
 That which makes thousands, perhaps mil- 
 lions think. {Byron. 
 
 The most original modern authors are not so 
 because they advance what is new, but 
 simply because they know how to put 
 what they have to say, as if it had never 
 been said before. ( Goethe. 
 
 Readers may be classed into an infinite num- 
 ber of divisions ; but an author is a soli- 
 tary being, who, for the same reason he 
 pleases one, must consequently displease 
 another. {Isaac Disraeli. 
 
 None but an author knows an author's cares. 
 Or Fancy's fondness for the child she bears. 
 ( Cowper. 
 Hear, land o' cakes, and brither Scots, 
 Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's, 
 If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
 
 I rede ye tent it; 
 A chiel's amang you taking notes. 
 
 And, faith, he'll prent it. {Burns. 
 
 Every author, in some degree, portrays him- 
 self in his works even be it against his 
 will. {Goethe. 
 
 When a book raises your spirit, and inspires 
 you with noble and courageous feelings, 
 seek for no other rule to judge the work 
 by ; it is good, and made by a good work- 
 man. {Bruycre- 
 
 That writer does the most, who gives his 
 reader the most knowledge and takes 
 from him the least time. ( C. C. Colton_ 
 
 A library may be regarded as the solemn 
 chamber in which a man may take 
 counsel with all that have been wise and 
 great and good and glorious amongst 
 the men that have gone before them. 
 
 {Dawson. 
 
 Whatever hath been written shall remain. 
 Nor be erased nor written o'er again ; 
 The unwritten only still belongs to thee : 
 Take heed, and ponder well what that shall 
 be. {Longfellow. 
 
 God be thanked for books. They are the 
 voices of the distant and the dead, and 
 make us heirs of the spiritual life of past 
 ages. Books are the true levellers. 
 They give to all, who will faithfully use 
 them, the society, the spiritual presence 
 of the best and greatest of our race. No 
 matter how poor I am, no matter though 
 the prosperous of my own time will not 
 enter my obscure dwelling. If the sa- 
 cred writers will enter and take up their 
 abode under my roof, if Milton will 
 cross my threshold to sing to me of 
 Paradise, and Shakespeare, to open to 
 me the worlds of imagination and the 
 workings of the human heart, and 
 Franklin to enrich me with his practical 
 wisdom, I shall not pine for want of in- 
 tellectual companionship, and I may 
 become a cultivated man though excluded 
 from what is called the best society, in 
 the place where I live. {Channing. 
 
 polished perturbation! golden care that 
 keepest the ports of slumber open wide 
 to many a watchful night! {Shakespeare. 
 
 I 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS 
 
 787 
 
 Hang sorrow, care '11 kill a cat. [Ben Joiison. 
 
 Care, admitted as guest, quickly turns to be 
 master. {Bovce. 
 
 Care to our coffia adds a nail no doubt; 
 And every grin, so merry, draws one out. 
 
 (John Wolcot. 
 Care is no care, but rather a corrosive. 
 For things that are not to be remedied. 
 
 ( Shakespeare. 
 A crown! what is it? 
 It is to bear the miseries of a people ! 
 To hear their murmurs, feel their discontents. 
 And sink beneath a load of splendid care. 
 
 {Hannah More. 
 I am sure, care's an enemy to life. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Care that is entered once into the breast, 
 Will have the whole possession ere it rest. 
 
 {Johnso7i. 
 Care keeps his watch in every old man's oye. 
 And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; 
 But where unbruised youth with unstufFd 
 
 brain 
 Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth 
 reign. {Shakespeare. 
 
 I am persuaded, that every time a man 
 laughs, it adds something to the frag- 
 ments of life. {Sterne 
 
 CHARACTER. 
 
 Talenta are nurtured best in solitude, but 
 character in life's tempestuous sea. 
 
 {Godhe. 
 Character, good or bad, has a tendency to \ 
 perpetuate itself {Dr. A. A. Hodge. ' 
 
 not lose his 
 {Mencius. j 
 
 Take my word for this, reader, and say a fool 
 told it you, if you please, that he who 
 hath not a dram of folly in his mixture 
 hath pounds of much worse matter in his ' 
 composition. {Lamb. 
 
 All men are alike in their lower natures; it ' 
 is in their higher characters that they 
 differ. {Bovce. I 
 
 The great man is he who dc 
 child's heart. 
 
 He makes no friend who never made a foe. 
 ( Tennyson. 
 
 He was not merely a chip of the old block, 
 but the old block itself [Burke. 
 
 When a man puts on a Character he is a 
 stranger to, there's as much difference 
 between what he appears, and what he 
 is really in himself, as there is between 
 a Vizor and a Face. {Bruyhre. 
 
 He is truly great that is little in himself, and 
 that maketh no account of any height of 
 honors. ( Thomas cl Kempis. 
 
 This is that which we call character, — a re- 
 served force which acts directly by pres- 
 ence, and without means. {Emerson. 
 
 Tlie man that makes a character, makes foes. 
 ( Young. 
 
 Reputation is what men and women think of 
 us. Character is what God and angels 
 know of us. ( Thomas Faine. 
 
 I will be lord over myself. No one who can- 
 not master himself is worthy to rule, 
 and only he can rule. {Goethe. 
 
 No circumstances can repair a defect of char- 
 acter. {Emerson. 
 
 Strong characters are brought out by change 
 of situation, and gentle ones by perma- 
 nence. {Richter. 
 
 Suffering becomes beautiful when any one 
 bears great calamities with cheerfulness, 
 not through insensibility, but through 
 greatness of mind. {Aristotle. 
 
 The True Grandeur of Nations is in those i 
 qualities which constitute the true great- / 
 ness of the individual. {Charles Sumner.^ 
 
 lie only is a well-made man whq has a good 
 determination. {Eincrson. 
 
 In this world a man must either be anvil or 
 hammer. {LonrifeUoxo. 
 
 Circumstances form the character ; but, like 
 
 petrifying matters, they harden while 
 
 they form. {Landor. 
 
 What the superior man seeks is in himself; 
 
 what the small man seeks is in others. 
 
 {Confucius. 
 
* 
 
 788 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Self-distrust is the Ccause of most . of our 
 failures. In the assurance of strength 
 there is strength, and they are the weak- 
 est, however strong, who have no faith 
 in themselves or their powers. [Bovee. 
 
 Character ia higher than intellect. . . . 
 A great soul will be strong to live, as 
 well as to think. {Emerson. 
 
 I hope I shall always possess firmness and 
 virtue enough, to maintain, what I con- 
 sider the most enviable of all titles, that 
 of an " Honest Man." {Geo. Washington. 
 
 Conflict, which rouses up the best and highest 
 powers in some characters, in others not 
 only jars the whole being, but paralyzes 
 the faculties. {Mrs. Jameson. 
 
 Not in the clamor of the crowded street. 
 Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng. 
 But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 Alany men build as cathedrals were built, the 
 part nearest the ground finished ; but 
 that part which soars toward heaven, the 
 turrets and the spires, forever incomplete. 
 {Henry Ward Beecher. 
 We must have a weak spot or two in a char- 
 acter before we can love it much. Peo- 
 ple that do not laugh or cry, or take 
 more of anything than is good for them, 
 or use anything but dictionary-words, 
 are admirable subjects for biographies. 
 But we don't care most for those flat- 
 pattern flowers that press best in the 
 herbarium. {Holmes. 
 
 That man is great, and he alone, 
 Who serves a greatness not his own, 
 
 For neither praise nor pelf : 
 Content to know and be unknown : 
 
 Whole in himself. {Oxuen Meredith. 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 Conscience, true as the needle to the pole, 
 points steadily to the pole-star of God's 
 eternal justice, reminding the soul of the 
 fearful realities of the life to come. 
 
 {Rev. E. H. Gillctt. 
 
 Labor to keep alive in your breast that little 
 
 spark of celestial fire, called Conscience. 
 
 ( George Washington. 
 
 I know myself now ; and I feel within me 
 
 A peace above all earthly dignities ; 
 
 A still and quiet conscience. {Shakespeare. 
 
 'Tis the first constant punishment of sin, 
 That no bad man absolves himself within. 
 ( Juvenal. 
 Conscience is harder than our enemies. 
 Knows more, accuses with more nicety. 
 
 {George Eliot. 
 There is no future pang 
 Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
 He deals on his own soul. {Byron. 
 
 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. 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 Why should not conscience have vacation 
 
 As well as other courts o' th' nation ? 
 
 Have equal power to adjourn. 
 
 Appoint appearance and return. {Butler. 
 
 Some persons follow the dictates of their con 
 science only in the same sense in which 
 a coachman may be said to follow the 
 horses he is driving. ( Whately. 
 
 He that has light within his own clear breast 
 May sit i' th' centre and enjoy bright day ; 
 But he that hides a dark soul and foul 
 
 thoughts 
 Benighted walks under the mid-daj sun. 
 
 {Milton. 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Happy the man, of mortals happiest he 
 Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free ; 
 Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears tor- 
 ment. 
 But lives at peace, within himself content, 
 In thought or act accountable to none 
 But to himself and to the gods alone. 
 
 {Geo. Oranville. 
 Content with poverty, my soul I arm ; 
 And virtue, though in rags, will keep me 
 warm. {Dry den. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 •89 
 
 Contentmeut furnishes constant joy. Much 
 covetousness, constant grief. To the 
 contented, even poverty is joy. To the 
 discontented, even wealth is a vexation. 
 [Ming Sam Paou Keen. 
 If it were now to die, 
 'Twere to be most happy ; for, I fear 
 My soul hath her content so absolute. 
 That not another comfort like to this 
 Succeeds in unknown fate. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 {Sir Henry Wotton. 
 
 No one can bring you peace but yourself 
 
 Nothing can bring you peace but the 
 
 triumph of principle. {Emerson. 
 
 My God, give me neither poverty nor riches ; 
 but whatsoever it may be thy will to 
 give, give me with it a heart which 
 knows humbly to acquiesce in what is 
 thy will. {Qotthold. 
 
 Enjoy your own life without comparing it 
 with that of another. {Condorcet. 
 
 Poor and content is rich, and rich enough ; 
 but riches, fineless, is as poor as winter 
 to him that ever fears he shall be poor. 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 Sweet are the thoughts that savour of con- 
 tent; 
 
 The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 
 
 Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent ; 
 
 The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown : 
 
 Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 
 such bliss, 
 
 Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 
 
 {Robert Greene. 
 
 He is well paid that is well satisfied. 
 
 {Shakeq->eare. 
 This floating life hath but this port of rest 
 A heart prepared, that fears no ill to come. 
 
 {Samuel Daniel. 
 Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or 
 
 pelf 
 Not one will change his neighbor with him- 
 self {Foj^e. 
 
 The noblest mind the best contentment has. 
 
 {Spenser. 
 My crown is in my heart, not on my head, 
 Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones, 
 Nor to be seen : my crown is called content ; 
 A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. 
 
 ( Shakespeare. 
 With equal minds what happens let us bear, 
 Nor joy, nor grieve too much for things be- 
 yond our care. {Dryden. 
 
 what a glory doth this world put on. 
 For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth. 
 Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
 On duties well performed and days well spent. 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 CONVERSATION. 
 I profess not talking; only this — Let each 
 man do his best. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Speak not at all, in any wise, till you have 
 somewhat to speak ; care not for the re- 
 ward of your speaking, but simply and 
 with undivided mind for the truth of 
 your speaking. { Carlyle. 
 
 The next best thing to being witty one's self, 
 is to be able to quote another's wit. 
 
 {Bovee. 
 
 Under all speech that is good for anything 
 there lies a silence that is better. Si- 
 lence is deep as eternity ; speech is shal- 
 low as time. {Carlyle. 
 
 Oh ! many a shaft, at random sent. 
 
 Finds mark the archer little meant ! 
 
 And many a word, at random spoken, 
 
 May soothe or wound a heart that's broken ! 
 {Scott. 
 
 Words once spoke can never be recalled. 
 
 (^ Wentworth Dillon. 
 
 The best Society and Conversation is that in 
 which the Heart has a greater share than 
 the head. {Bruyirc- 
 
 There is a gift beyond the reach of art, of 
 being eloquently silent. {Bovee. 
 
 You heat your pate, and fancy wit will come; 
 
 Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
790 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Iq the commerce of speech 
 gold and silver. 
 
 Discourse may want an animated " No,'' 
 To brush the surface, and to make it flow ; 
 But still remember, if you mean to please, 
 To press your point with modesty and ease. 
 
 [Cowper. 
 
 It is as easy to draw back a stone thrown 
 
 with force from the hand, as to recall a 
 
 word once spoken. {Menander. 
 
 Society is like a large piece of frozen water ; 
 and skating well is the great art of social 
 life. {Letitia Elizabeth Landon. 
 
 Wit is the salt of conversation, not the food. 
 [Hazlitt. 
 
 Some folk's tongues are like the clocks as run 
 on strikin', not to tell you the time o' the 
 day, but because there's summat wrong 
 i' their own inside. [Oeorge Eliot. 
 
 only coin of 
 {Jouhert. 
 
 Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, 
 But talking is not always to converse ; 
 JS'ot more distinct from harmony divine, 
 The constant I'reaking of a country sign. 
 
 {Coivper. 
 Repartee is perfect, when it effects its purpose 
 with a double edge. Repartee is the 
 highest order of wit, as it bespeaks the 
 coolest yet quickest exercise of genius at 
 a moment when the passions are roused. 
 (C. a Colton. 
 True Wit is Nature to advantage dress'd. 
 What oft was thought, but, ne'er so well ex- 
 pressed. (Pope. 
 My tongue within my lips I rein, 
 For who talks much, must talk in vain. 
 
 {Gay. 
 
 Were we as eloquent as angels, we should 
 
 please some men, some women, and some 
 
 children much more by listening than by 
 
 talking. (C. C. Colton. 
 
 But far more numerous was the herd of such. 
 Who think too little, and who talk too much. 
 {Dry den. 
 It is with narrow-souled people as with nar- 
 row-necked bottles ; the less they have 
 in them, the more noise they make in 
 pouring it out. {Pupe. 
 
 There are moments when silence, prolong'd 
 
 and unbroken, 
 More expressive may be than all words ever 
 
 spoken, 
 It is when the heart has an instinct of what 
 In the heart of another is passing. 
 
 {Owen Meredith. 
 
 Think all you speak ; but speak not all you 
 
 think : 
 Thoughts are your own ; your words are so 
 
 no more. 
 Where Wisdom steers, wind cannot make you 
 
 sink : 
 Lips never err, when she does keep the door. 
 {Henry Delaune. 
 
 COURAGE. 
 
 friends, be men, and let your hearts be 
 
 strong, 
 And let no warrior in the heat of fight 
 Do what may bring him shame in others' 
 
 eyes ; 
 For more of those who shrink from shame 
 
 are safe 
 Than fall in battle, while with- those who flee 
 Is neither glory nor reprieve from death. 
 
 {Bryant. 
 The direst foe of courage is the fear itself, not 
 the object of it; and the man who can 
 overcome his own terror is a hero and 
 more. ( George MacDonald. 
 
 Dream not helm and harness 
 
 The sign of valor true ; 
 Peace hath higher tests of manhood 
 Than battle ever knew. ( Whittier. 
 Our doubts are traitors. 
 And make us lose the good we oft might win, 
 By fearing to attempt. {Shakespeare. 
 
 'Tis more brave 
 To live, than to die. {Owen Meredith. 
 
 Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
 
 Your truth and valor wearing : 
 The bravest are the tenderest, — 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 {Bayard Taylor. 
 Courage in danger is half the battle. 
 
 {Plaut}is. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 791 
 
 No man can answer for his own valor or \ 
 courage, till he has been in danger. 
 
 (Eochefoucaidd. 
 I dare do all that may become a man : 
 Who dares do more is none. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Tender handed stroke a nettle, 
 
 And it stings you for your pains ; 
 Grasp it like a man of mettle, 
 And it soft as silk remains. 
 
 {Aaron mil. 
 Courage is, on all hands, considered as an 
 essential of high character. {Froude. 
 When desp'rate ills demand a speedy cure, 
 Distrust is cowardice, and prudence folly. 
 
 {Cam'l Johnson. 
 Cowards (may) fear to die ; but courage 
 
 stout 
 Rather than live in snuff, will be put out. 
 
 {Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 He that fights and runs away 
 May turn and fight another day ; 
 But he that is in battle slain 
 Will never rise to fight again. {Ray. 
 
 At the bottom of a good deal of the bravery 
 that appears in the world there lurks a 
 miserable cowardice. Men will face pow- 
 der and steel because they cannot face 
 public opinion. {Chapin. 
 
 Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
 From its firm base, as soon as I. {Scott. 
 
 What! shall one monk, scarce known beyond 
 his cell, 
 
 Front Rome's far-reaching bolts, and scorn 
 her frown ? 
 
 Brave Luther answered, " Yes '' ; that thun- 
 der swell 
 
 Rocked Europe, and discharged the triple 
 crown. {Lowell. 
 
 There are some critics so with spleen diseased. 
 They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: 
 And sure he must have more than mortal 
 
 skill. 
 Who pleases one against his will. {Congreve. 
 53 
 
 For I am nothing if not critical. 
 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer. 
 
 And without sneering, teach the rest to sneer. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 The strength of criticism lies only in the 
 
 weakness of the thing criticised. 
 
 {Kavanagh. 
 For, poems read without a name 
 We justly praise, or justly blame ; 
 And critics have no partial views. 
 Except they know whom they abuse. 
 And since you ne'er provoke their spite. 
 Depend upon't their judgment's right. 
 
 (Jonathan Swift. 
 How commentators each dark passage shun, 
 And hold their farthing candle to the sun. 
 
 ( Young. 
 
 Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true; 
 
 But are not Critics to their judgment too? 
 
 (Pope. 
 
 Attack is the reaction ; I never think I have 
 
 hit hard unless it rebounds. 
 
 (Sam' I Johnson. 
 In every work regard the writer's End, 
 Since none can compass more than they in- 
 tend; 
 And if the means be just, the conduct true, 
 Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 Abuse is often of service. There is nothing 
 so dangerous to an author as silence. 
 His name, like a shuttle-cock, must be 
 beat backward and forward, or it falls to 
 the ground. {Johnson. 
 
 With pleasure own your errors past, 
 And make each day a critic on the last. 
 {Pope. 
 Reviewers are forever telling authors, they 
 can't understand them. The author 
 might often reply: Is that my fault? 
 
 (A. W.Hare. 
 The readers and the hearers like my books. 
 But yet Pome writers cannot them digest ; 
 But what care I ? for when I make a feast, 
 I would my guests should praise it, not the 
 cooks. (Sir John Harrington. 
 
792 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 It is much easier to be critical than to be cor- 
 rect. (Disraeli. 
 
 Critics are sentinels in the grand army of 
 letters, stationed at the corners of news- 
 papers and reviews, to challenge every 
 new author. {Longfellow. 
 
 He was in Logic a great critic, 
 
 Profoundly skill'd in Analytic ; 
 
 He could distinguish, and divide 
 
 A hair 'twixt south and south-west side. 
 
 {Butler. 
 
 A man must serve liis time to every trade, 
 Save censure— critics all are ready made. 
 Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by 
 
 rote, 
 With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
 A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault, 
 A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
 To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet. 
 His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet, 
 Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit ; 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for 
 
 wit; 
 Care not for feeling— pass your proper jest, 
 And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 
 
 {Byron. 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT. 
 But yonder comes the powerful King of Day 
 Rejoicing in the east. ( Thomson. 
 
 Whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy everlast- 
 ing light? Thou comest forth in thy 
 awful beauty ; the stars hide themselves 
 in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, 
 sinks in the western wave ; but thou 
 thyself movest alone. {Macpherson. 
 
 The rising sun complies with our weak sight, 
 First gilds the clouds, then, shows his globe of 
 
 light 
 At such a distance from our eyes, as though 
 He knew what harm his hasty beams would 
 
 do. ( Waller. 
 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful. 
 That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 
 
 (Bi/ron. 
 
 The day was dying, and with feeble hands 
 Caressed the mountain-tops ; the vales be- 
 tween 
 Darkened ; the river in the meadow-lands 
 Sheathed itself as a sword, and was not seen. 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 Hail, twilight ! sovereign of one peaceful 
 hour ! ( Wordsworth. 
 
 The sun is set ; and in his latest beams 
 Yon little cloud of ashen gray and gold. 
 Slowly upon the amber air unrolled, 
 The falling mantle of the Prophet seems. 
 ( Longfellow. 
 the wierd northern twilight, which is nei- 
 ther night or day. 
 When the amber wake of the long-set sun 
 still marks his western way. 
 
 ( D. M. Mulock. 
 A cloud lay cradled near the setting-sun, 
 A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow . 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow ! 
 
 Even in its motion there was rest ; 
 While every breath of eve that chanced to 
 blow 
 Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west. 
 {John Wilson. 
 
 Sweet shadows of twilight ! how calm their 
 
 repose, 
 While the dew drops fall soft in the breast of 
 
 the rose ! 
 How blest to the toiler his hour of release 
 When the vesper is heard with its whisper of 
 
 peace! {Holmes. 
 
 The day is done : and slowly from the scene 
 
 The stooping sun up-gathers liis spent shafts, 
 
 And puts them back into his golden quiver ! 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 Now in his Palace of the West, 
 
 Sinking to slumber the bright Day, 
 Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest, 
 
 'Mid the cool airs of evening lay ; 
 While round his couch's golden rim 
 
 The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept — 
 Struggling each other's light to dim, 
 
 And catch his last smile ere he slept. 
 
 ( Moore. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 793 
 
 The evening came. The setting sun stretched 
 his celestial rods of light across the level 
 landscape, and, like the Hebrews in 
 Egypt, smote the rivers, the brooks, and 
 the ponds, and they became as blood. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary 
 
 way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 (Gray. 
 Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast. 
 Let fall the curtain, wheel the sofa round. 
 And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn 
 Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
 That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each. 
 So let us welcome peaceful evening in.' 
 
 ( Cowper. 
 
 Nature hath appointed the twilight as a 
 bridge to pass us out of day into night. 
 {Fuller. 
 Eve's silent footfall steals 
 Along the eastern sky, 
 And one by one to earth reveals 
 
 Those purer fires on high. {Keble. 
 
 'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went 
 down 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil 
 Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the 
 frown 
 Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 
 {Byron 
 How lovely are the portals of the night, 
 When stars come out to watch the daylight 
 die. {TJiomas Cole. 
 
 The Night is come, but not too soon; 
 
 And sinking silently, 
 All silently, the little moon 
 
 Drops down behind the sky. 
 There is no light in earth or heaven, 
 
 But the cold light of stars ; 
 And the first watch of night is given 
 
 To the red planet Mars. {Longfellow. 
 
 Night drew her sable curtain down 
 And pinned it with a star. 
 
 {Jr Donald Clarke. 
 
 See yonder fire ! It is the moon 
 
 Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. 
 
 It glimmers on the forest tips 
 
 And through the dewy foliage drips 
 
 In little rivulets of light. 
 
 And majies the heart in love with night. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 Night! that great shadow and profile of the 
 
 day. {Richter. 
 
 The night is calm and cloudless. 
 
 And still as still can be. 
 
 And the stars come forth to listen 
 
 To the music of the sea. 
 
 They gather, and gather, and gather. 
 
 Until they crowd the sky. 
 
 And listen, in breathless silence. 
 
 To the solemn litany. {Longfellow. 
 
 When I gaze into the stars, they look down 
 upon me with pity from their serene and 
 silent spaces, like eyes glistening with 
 tears over the little lot of man. Thou- 
 sands of generations, all as noisy as our 
 own, have been swallowed up by time, 
 and there remains no record of them any 
 more. Yet Arcturus and Orion, Sirius 
 and Pleiades, are still shining in their 
 courses, clear and young, as when the 
 shepherd first noted them in the plain of 
 Shinar! {Carlylc. 
 
 The moon was pallid, but not faint; 
 
 And beautiful as some fair saint. 
 
 Serenely moving on her way 
 
 In hours of trial and dismay. 
 
 As if she heard the voice of God, 
 
 Unharmed with naked feet she trod 
 
 Upon the hot and burning stars, 
 
 As on the glowing coals and bars, 
 
 That were to prove her strength, and try 
 
 Her holiness and her purity. {Longfellow. 
 
 If the stars should appear one night in a 
 thousand years, how would men believe 
 and adore : and preserve for many gen- 
 erations the remembrance of the city of 
 God which had been shown But every 
 night come out these envoys of beauty, 
 and light the universe with their ad- 
 monishing smile. {Emerson. 
 
794 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 How beautiful the silent hour, when morning 
 and, evening thus sit together, hand in 
 hand, beneath the starless sky of mid- 
 night. {Longfellow. 
 
 Midnight,— strange, mystic hoar, — when the 
 veil between the frail present and the 
 eternal future grows thin. {Mrs. Stowe. 
 
 Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! 
 The frontier town and citadel of night ! 
 The watershed of Time, from which the 
 streams 
 Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way, 
 One to the land of promise and of light. 
 One to the land of darkness and of dreams. 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 DEATH. 
 How wonderful is death, death and his bro- 
 ther, sleep ! {Shelley. 
 
 There is no Death ! What seems eo is tran- 
 sition ; 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses 
 
 are blending, 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. 
 {James Beattie. 
 Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home : 
 Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. 
 {Emerso7i. 
 In this dim world of clouding cares. 
 
 We rarely know, till 'wildering eyes 
 See white wings lessening up the skies, 
 The Angels with us unawares. 
 
 ( Oerald Massey. 
 Death hath so many doors to let out life. 
 
 {Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 Then 'tis our best, since thus ordained to die, 
 To make a virtue of necessity. {Dry den. 
 
 I have been dying for years, now I shall bo- 
 gin to live. 
 {Last words of Jas. Drummond Burns. 
 
 Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 
 In any shape, in any mood. [Byron. 
 
 And, as she looked around, she saw how 
 
 Death, the consoler, 
 Laying his hand upon many a heart, had 
 
 healed it forever. {Longfellow. 
 
 Thou know'st 'tis common ; all that live must 
 
 die, 
 Passing through nature to eternity. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north wind's 
 breath, 
 And stars to set — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh ! 
 Death. {Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow. 
 
 ( Young. 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ^ 
 Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of 
 death? {Gray. 
 
 We count it death to falter, not to die. 
 
 {Slmomdes. 
 
 There are slave drivers quietly whipt under- 
 ground. 
 There bookbinders, done up in boards are 
 
 fast bound. 
 There card-players wait till the last trump 
 
 be played, 
 There all the choice spirits get finally laid. 
 There the babe, that's unborn is supplied 
 
 with a berth. 
 There men without legs get their six feet of 
 
 earth. 
 There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in hi-s 
 
 case, 
 There seekers of office are sure of a place, 
 There defendant and plaintiff get equally 
 
 cast, 
 There shoemakers quietly stick to the last. 
 
 [Lowell. 
 To die is landing on some silent shore. 
 Where billows never break nor tempests 
 
 roar : 
 Ere well we feel the friendly stroke 'tis o'er. 
 ( Oarth. 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 {Gray. 
 
 « 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 795 
 
 Cowards die many times before their death ; 
 The valiant never taste of death but once. 
 Of all the wonders that I yet have heard. 
 It seems to me most strange that men should 
 
 fear ; 
 Seeing that death, a necessary end, 
 Will come, when it will come. {Shakespeare. 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and 
 tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there. 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended. 
 
 But has one vacant chair. {Longfellow. 
 
 One short sleep past, we wake eternally. 
 And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou 
 shalt die. (Donne. 
 
 The trumpet ! the trumpet ! the dead have 
 
 all heard ; 
 Lo the depths of the stone-cover'd charnels 
 
 are stirr'd ; 
 From the sea, from the land, from the south 
 
 and the north, 
 The vast generations of man are come forth. 
 {Milman. 
 
 How sleep the brave, who sink to rest. 
 By all their country's wishes blest ! 
 
 ****** 
 By fairy hands their knell is sung, 
 By forms unseen their dirge is rung. 
 
 (Collins. 
 God's finger touched him and he slept. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom. 
 
 A shadow on those features fair and thin ; 
 
 And softly, from that hushed and darkened 
 
 room. 
 
 Two angels issued, where but one went in. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 
 After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well ; 
 Treason has done his worst ; nor steel, nor 
 
 poison, 
 Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing. 
 Can touch him further. (Shakespeare. 
 
 Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er. 
 Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. 
 Morn of toil, nor night of waking. (Scott. 
 
 So live that when thy summons comes to 
 
 join 
 The innumerable caravan which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall 
 
 take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
 Scourged to his dungeon ; but, eustain'd and 
 
 sooth'd 
 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 
 Like one that draws the drapery of his couch 
 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 (Bryant. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 " Do you believe in dreams?'' ''Why, yes 
 
 and no. 
 When they come true, then I believe in 
 
 them ; 
 When they come false, I don't believe in 
 
 them." (Longfellow. 
 
 Dream after dream ensues ; 
 And still they dream that they shall still 
 
 succeed. 
 And still are disappointed. (Cowper. 
 
 Dreams are but interludes, which fancy 
 
 makes ; 
 When monarch Reason sleeps, this mimic 
 
 wakes. (Dryden. 
 
 'Twas but a dream, — let it pass, — let it vanish 
 
 like so many others ! 
 What I thought was a flower, is only a weed, 
 
 and is worthless. (Longfellow. 
 
 Oh ! I have pass'd a miserable night. 
 So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, 
 That, as I am a Christian faithful man, 
 I would not spend another such a night. 
 Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days. 
 (Shakespeare. 
 The fisher droppeth his net in the stream. 
 And a hundred streams are the same as 
 one ; 
 And the maiden dreameth her love-lit dream ; 
 
 And what is it all, when all is done ? 
 The net of the fi.^her the burden breaks, 
 And always the dreaming the dreamer wakes. 
 (Alice Gary. 
 
796 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 My eyes make pictures when tliey are shut. 
 (Coleridge. 
 
 Sweet sleep be with us, one and all ! 
 And if upon its stillness fall 
 The visions of a busy brain, 
 We'll have our pleasure o'er again, 
 To warm the heart, to charm the sight, 
 Gay dreams to all ! good night good night! 
 [Joanna Baillie. 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 Education is the only interest worthy the 
 deep, controlling anxiety of the thought- 
 ful man. ( Wendell Phillips. 
 
 Every person has two educations — one which 
 he receives from others, and one more 
 important which he gives himself. 
 
 ( Gibbon. 
 
 Education commences at the mother's knee, 
 and every word spoken within the hear- 
 say of little children tends towards the 
 formation of character. {Hosea Ballou. 
 
 True ease in writing comes from art, not 
 
 chance. 
 As those move easiest who have learn'd to 
 dance. {Po2:)e. 
 
 Instruction ends in the schoolroom, but edu- 
 cation ends only with life. A child is 
 given to the universe to educate. 
 
 ( Robertson. 
 
 Do not ask if a man has been through college. 
 
 Ask if a college has been through him. 
 
 ( Chapin. 
 
 There is nothing more frightful than for a 
 
 teacher to know only what his scholars 
 
 are intended to know. {Goethe. 
 
 Histories make men wise ; poets, witty; the 
 mathematics, subtile ; natural philoso- 
 phy, deep; morals, grave; logic and 
 rhetoric, able to contend. (Bacon. 
 
 Give a boy address and accomplishments, and 
 you give him the mastery of palaces and 
 fortunes where he goes. lie has not the 
 trouble of earning or owning them ; they 
 Bolicit him to enter and possess. 
 
 ( Emerson. 
 
 The Self-Educated are marked by stubborn 
 peculiarities. Isaac Disraeli. 
 
 How much a dunce, that has been sent to 
 roam, 
 
 Excels a dunce, that has been kept at home. 
 ( Cowper. 
 
 Instruction does not prevent waste of time 
 or mistakes ; and mistakes themselves 
 are often the best teachers of all. 
 
 ( Froude. 
 
 Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, 
 
 His worst of all whose kingdom is a school. 
 (Holmes. 
 When I am forgotten, as I shall be. 
 And sleep in dull cold marble, 
 
 Say, I taught thee. (Shakespeare. 
 
 The mother's heart is the child's sch-oolroom. 
 
 (Beecher. 
 
 Learn to live, and live to learn, 
 
 Ignorance like a fire doth burn. 
 
 Little tasks make large returns. 
 
 (Bayard Taylor. 
 'Tis education forms the common mind, 
 Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. 
 
 (Pope. 
 
 Better a little chiding than a great deal of 
 
 heartbreak. (Shakespeare. 
 
 Education is the cheap defence of nations. 
 
 (Edmund Burke. 
 Educate men without religion and you make 
 them but clever devils. 
 
 (Duke of Wellington. 
 And say to mothers what a holy charge 
 Is theirs — with what a kingly power their 
 
 love 
 Might rule the fountains of the newborn 
 mind. (Mrs. Sigournei/. 
 
 EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Experience keeps a dear school, but fools 
 will learn in no other. (Erankliyi. 
 
 To Truth's house there is a single door. 
 Which is Experience He teaches best. 
 Who feels the hearts of all men in his breast, 
 And knows their strength or weakness 
 through his own. (Bayard Taylor. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 797 
 
 To most men experience is like the stern 
 lights of a ship, which illumine only the 
 track it has passed. {Coleridge. 
 
 All is but lip wisdom which wants experi- 
 ence. {Sir P. Sidney. 
 
 Nor deem the irrevocable Past, 
 As wholly wasted, wholly vain, 
 
 If, rising on its wrecks, at last 
 To something nobler we attain. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 We read the past by the light of the present, 
 and the forms vary as the shadows fall, 
 or as the point of vision alters. {Froude. 
 
 In her experience all her friends relied, 
 Heaven was her help and nature was her 
 guide. {Orabbe. 
 
 The finest poetry was first experience. 
 
 {Emerson. 
 
 What man would be wise, let him drink of 
 the river 
 
 That bears on its waters the record of 
 Time; 
 A message to him every wave can deliver 
 To teach him to creep till he knows how 
 to climb. {John Boyle O'Reilly. 
 
 It is some compensation for great evils that 
 they enforce great lessons. {Bovee. 
 
 I think there are stores laid up in our hu- 
 man nature that our understandings can 
 make no complete inventory of 
 
 {George Eliot. 
 We gain 
 Justice, judgment, with years, or el'^e years 
 are in vain. {Owen Meredith. 
 
 Time will teach thee soon the truth. 
 There are no birds in last year's nest. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 The child, through stumbling, learns to walk 
 erect Every fall is a fall upward. 
 
 ( Theodore Parker. 
 Only so much do I know, as I have lived. 
 
 {Emerson. 
 
 Experience is no more transferable in morals 
 
 than in art. {Froude. 
 
 Do not cheat thy Heart, and tell her, 
 
 " Grief will pass away, 
 Hope for fairer times in future, 
 
 And forget to-day." 
 Tell her, if you will, that sorrow 
 
 Need not come in vain ; 
 Tell her that the lesson taught her 
 Far outweighs the pain. 
 
 {Adelaide A. Proctor. 
 Behold, we live through all things,— famine, 
 thirst. 
 Bereavement, pain ; all grief and misery. 
 All woe and sorrow ; life inflicts its worst 
 
 On soul and body,— but we cannot die 
 Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and 
 
 worn, — 
 Lo, all things ()an be borne ! 
 
 {Elizabeth Akers. 
 Making all futures fruits of all the pasts. 
 
 {Edwin Arnold. 
 A face that had a story to tell. How dififer- 
 ent faces are in this particular ! Some 
 of them speak not. They are books in 
 which not a line is written, save perhaps 
 a date. {Longfellow. 
 
 Walls must get the weather stain 
 
 Before they grow the ivy. {E. B. Browning. 
 
 And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, 
 
 That readest this brief psalm. 
 As one by one thy hopes depart, 
 
 Be resolute and calm. 
 fear not in a world like this. 
 
 And thou shalt know ere long — 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 
 To suffer and be strong. {Longfellow. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 Faith builds a bridge across the gulf of death, 
 
 To break the shock blind nature cannot shun 
 
 And lands thought smoothly on the farther 
 
 shore. ( Yonug. 
 
 There is no strength in unbelief Even the 
 unbelief of what is false is no source of 
 might. It is the truth shining from be- 
 hind that gives the strength to disbelieve. 
 {Oeorge MacDonald. 
 
^98 
 
 GEM8 FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Faith is not reason's labor, but repose. 
 
 { Young. 
 What good I see humbly I seek to do, 
 And live obedient to the law, in trust 
 That what will come, and must come, shall 
 come well. {Edwin Arnold. 
 
 But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast 
 To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. 
 
 {Moore. 
 
 The practical effect of a belief is the real test 
 
 of its soundness. {Fronde. 
 
 When in God thou believest, near God thou 
 wilt certainly be ! {Leland. 
 
 thou, whose days are yet all spring, 
 Faith, blighted once is past retrieving; 
 
 Experience is a dumb, dead thing; 
 
 The victory's in believing. {Lowell. 
 
 For forms of government let fools contest; 
 
 Whate'er is best administer'd is best; 
 
 For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight. 
 
 His can't be wrong whose life is in the right, 
 
 In faith and hope, the world will disagree, 
 
 But all mankind's concern is charity; 
 
 All must be false, that thwarts this one great 
 
 end; 
 And all of God that bless mankind, or mend. 
 {Pope. 
 "Orthodoxy, my Lord," said Bishop War- 
 burton, in a whisper, — "orthodoxy is 
 my doxy, — heterodoxy is another man's 
 doxy.'' {Joseph Priestly. 
 
 Dare to look up to God and say, Deal with 
 me in the future as Thou wilt ; I am of 
 the same mind as Thou art ; I am Thine ; 
 I refuse nothing that pleases Thee ; lead 
 me where Thou wilt; clothe me in any 
 dress Thou choosest. {Epictetus. 
 
 There lives more faith in honest doubt, 
 Believe rae, than in half the creeds. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 
 Every one cleaves to the doctrine he has 
 
 happened upon, as to a rock against 
 
 which he has been thrown by tempest 
 
 [Oicero. 
 
 Faith is a higher faculty than reason. 
 
 {Bailey. 
 
 To add greater honours to his age 
 Than man could give him, he died fearing 
 God. {Shakespeare. 
 
 To-morrow I the mysterious unknown guest, 
 
 Who cries to me : " Remember Barmecide, 
 
 And tremble to be happy with the rest." 
 
 And I make answer : " I am satisfied ; 
 
 I dare not ask; I know not what is best ; 
 
 God hath already said what shall betide." 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 
 There is one inevitable criterion of judgment 
 
 touching religious faith in doctrinal 
 
 matters. Can you reduce it to practice ? 
 
 If not, have none of it. {Hosea Ballon. 
 
 Faith is the subtle chain 
 Which binds us to the Infinite : the voice 
 Of a deep life within, that will remain 
 Until we crowd it thence. 
 
 {Elizabeth Oakes Smith. 
 Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers : 
 Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 To will what God doth will, that is the only 
 science 
 That gives us any rest. {Malherbe. 
 
 They that deny a God destroy man's nobility, 
 for certainly man is of kin to the beasts 
 by his body ; and if he be not of kin to 
 God by his spirit, he is a base and igno- 
 ble creature. {Bacon. 
 
 Better had they ne'er been born, 
 Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. 
 
 {Scott. 
 
 Through this dark and stormy night 
 Faith beholds a feeble light 
 
 Up the blackness streaking ; 
 Knowing God's own time is best, 
 In a patient hope I rest 
 
 For the full day-breaking ! 
 
 ( Whittier. 
 
 We shall be made truly wise if we be made 
 content ; content, too, not only with 
 what we can understand, but content 
 with what we do not understand — the 
 habit of mind which theologians call — 
 and rightly— faith in God. 
 
 ( Chas. Klngsley. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 799 
 
 "Patience!" . . . have faith, and thy 
 prayer will be answered ! {Longfellow. 
 
 Surely at last, far off, sometimes, somewhere, 
 The veil would lift for his deep-searching 
 
 eyes, 
 The road would open for his painful feet, 
 That should be won for which he lost the 
 
 world, 
 And Death might find him conqueror of 
 
 death. {Edwin Arnold. 
 
 Behind the dim unknown, 
 Standeth God within the shadow, keeping 
 watch above his own. {Lowell. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill 
 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper: 
 Some liken it to climbing up a hill, ■ 
 
 Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in 
 vapor ; 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes 
 kill, 
 And bards burn what they call their " mid- 
 night taper," 
 To have, when the original is dust, 
 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse 
 bust. [Byron. 
 
 Fame, we may understand, is no sure test of ' 
 
 merit, but only a probability of such : it 
 
 is an accident, not a property of a man. 
 
 {Carlyle. 
 
 The mightier man, the mightier is the thing 
 
 That makes him honor'd, or begets him hate ; 
 
 For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in 
 spouts the swallows huild. [Longfellow. 
 
 I awoke one morning and found myself fa- 
 mous. {Byron. 
 
 Applause is the spur of noble minds, the end 
 and aim of weak ones. ( C. C. Colton. 
 
 And though the warrior's sun has set. 
 Its light shall linger round us yet, — 
 Bright, radiant, blest. {Don Jorge Manrique. 
 
 The world knows the worst of me, and I can 
 say that I am better than my fame. 
 
 {Schiller. 
 Who fears not to do ill yet fears the name, 
 And, free from conscience, is a slave to fame. 
 {Denham. 
 Nor fame I slight, nor for her favors call ; 
 She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all. 
 
 {Pope. 
 He lives in fame, that died in virtue's cause. 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Reputation being essentially contemporane- 
 ous, is always at the mercy of the Envi- 
 ous and the Ignorant. But Fame, whose 
 very birth is posthumous, aud which is 
 only known to exist by the echo of its 
 footsteps through congenial minds, can 
 neither be increased nor diminished by 
 any degree of wilfulness. {Mrs. Jameson. 
 
 He left the name, at which the world grew 
 
 pale, 
 To point a moral, or adorn a tale. 
 
 {Sam'l Johnson. 
 Money will buy money's worth, but the thing 
 
 men call fame what is it ? {Carlyle. 
 
 Were not this desire of fame very strong, the 
 difficulty of obtaining it, and the danger 
 of losing it when obtained, would be suf- 
 ficient to deter a man from so vain a 
 pursuit. {Addison. 
 
 Seven cities warr'd for Homer being dead. 
 Who living had no roofe to shroud his head. 
 { Thos. Hey wood. 
 Reputation is a most idle and most false im- 
 position ; oft got without merit, and lost 
 without deserving. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Good-will, like a good name, is got by many 
 actions, and lost by one. {Jeffrey. 
 
 Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown ; 
 Oh grant an honest fame, or grant me none! 
 {Pope. 
 The silent organ loudest chants 
 
 The master's requiem. {Emefson. 
 
 Fame is the echo of actions, resounding them 
 to the world, save that the echo repeats 
 only the last part, but fame relates all, 
 and often more than all. {Fuller. 
 
800 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 The sweetest of all sounds is praise. 
 
 ( Xenophon. 
 
 Who pants for glory, finds but short repose ; 
 A breath revives him, or a breath o'erthrows. 
 
 {Fope. 
 Glory is like a circle in the water. 
 Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, 
 Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught. 
 (Shakespeare. 
 The sweet remembrance of the just 
 Shall flourish when he sleeps in dust. 
 
 ( Tate and Brady. 
 The man is vain who writes for praise ; 
 Praise no man e'er deserved who sought no 
 more. ( Young. 
 
 Oh Fame !— if I e'er took delight in thy 
 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high sounding 
 
 phrases. 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one 
 
 discover 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to love 
 
 her. {Byron. 
 
 Scarcely two hundred years back can Fame 
 recollect articulately at all; and there 
 she but maunders and mnmhles.^Carlyle. 
 
 After your death you were better have a bad 
 epitaph, than their ill report while you 
 lived. [Shakespeare. 
 
 Good men will yield thee praise ; then slight 
 
 the rest; 
 'Tis best, praise-worthy, to have pleased the 
 
 best. {Capt. John Smith. 
 
 The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd hy art. 
 Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart. 
 ( Young. 
 Great men die and are forgotten, 
 Wise men speak ; their words of wisdom 
 Perish in the ears that hear them. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 FASHION. 
 New customs. 
 Though they be never so ridiculous, 
 Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are followed. 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 Every generation laughs at the old fashions, 
 but follows religiously the new. 
 
 ( Tfioreau. 
 
 Your supper ia like the Hidalgo's dinner: 
 very little meat, and a great deal of ta- 
 ble-cloth. {Longfellow. 
 
 I see; that the fashion wears out 
 
 more apparel than the man. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Every fancy you consult, consult your purse. 
 {Franklin. 
 Nothing is thought rare 
 Which is not new, and follow'd; yet we know 
 That what was worn some twenty years ago 
 Comes into grace again. 
 
 {Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 Be not the first by whom the new are tryd, 
 Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. {Fopc_ 
 
 There can be no kernel in this light nut; the 
 soul of this man is in his clothes. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 FATE AND FORTUNE. 
 
 Fate is the friend of the good, the guide of 
 the wise, the tyrant of the foolish, the 
 enemy of the bad. ( W. R. Alger. 
 
 There is a tide in the affairs of men. 
 Which, taken at the flood, leads onto fortune, 
 Omitted, all the voyage of their life 
 Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 Heaven from all creatures hides the book of 
 
 Fate. {Pope. 
 
 Except wind stands as never it stood. 
 
 It is an ill wind turns none to good. ( Tusser. 
 
 A woman's lot is made for her by the love 
 she accepts. {George Eliot. 
 
 I have touch'd the highest point of all my 
 
 greatness: 
 And, from that full meridian of my glory, 
 I haste now to my setting. {Shakespeare. 
 
 What a glorious thing human life is 
 
 and how glorious man's destiny. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 801 
 
 The future works out great men's destinies; 
 The present is enough for common souls, 
 Who, never looking forward, are indeed 
 Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age 
 Are petrified forever. {Lowell. 
 
 For fortune's wheel is on the turn, 
 And some go up and some go down. 
 
 {Mary F. Tucker. 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene. 
 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear. 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen 
 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 {Gray. 
 
 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate. 
 
 {Pope. 
 There's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
 Rough-hew them how we will. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Pitch a lucky man into the Nile, says the 
 Arabian proverb, and he will come up 
 with a fish in his mouth. ( Willis. 
 
 On the pinnacle of fortune man does not long 
 stand firm. {Goethe. 
 
 Who shall shut out Fate ? {Edwin Arnold. 
 
 Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
 The circumstances seem the sport of men. 
 
 {Byron, 
 
 All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd ; 
 
 Fortune brings in some boats, that are not 
 
 steer'd. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Some day, some day of days, threading the 
 street, 
 With idle, heedless pace, 
 Unlooking for such grace, 
 I shall behold your face ! 
 Some day, some day of days, thus may we 
 meet. {Nora Perry. 
 
 Blind to former, as to future fate. 
 What mortal knows his pre-existent state? 
 
 {Pope. 
 The irrevocable Hand 
 That opes the year's fair gate, doth ope and 
 
 shut 
 The portals of our earthly destinies ; 
 We walk through blindfold, and the noiseless 
 
 doors 
 Close after us, forever. {D. M. Mulock. 
 
 A man may fish with the worm that hath eat 
 of a king ; and eat of the fish that hath 
 fed of that worm. {Shakespeare. 
 
 With equal pace, impartial fate 
 Knocks at the palace as the cottage gate. 
 
 {Francis. 
 
 And out of darkness came the hands 
 That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 Fate has carried me 
 'Mid the thick arrows: I will keep my stand. 
 Not shrink and let the shaft pass by my 
 
 breast 
 To pierce another. ( George Eliot. 
 
 But yesterday, the word of Caesar might 
 Have stood against the world ; now lies he 
 
 there, 
 And none so poor to do him reverence. 
 
 ( Shakespeare. 
 Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to im- 
 portune ; 
 He had not the method of making a fortune. 
 
 Gray. 
 Fortune, men say, doth give too much to 
 
 many, 
 But yet she never gave enough to any. 
 
 {Sir John Harrington. 
 
 Fortune comes well to all that comes not late. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet 
 
 they grind exceeding small ; 
 Though with patience He stands waiting, 
 
 with exactness grinds He all. 
 
 {Friederich von Logau. 
 
 But, vain boast. 
 Who can control his fate. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Turn, turn my wheel ! turn round and round 
 Without a pause, without a sound ; 
 
 So spins the flying world away ! 
 This clay, well mixed with marl and sand. 
 Follows the motion of my hand ; 
 For some must follow, and some command. 
 
 Though all are made of clay ! 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 I am not now in fortune's power, 
 He that is down can fall no lower. {Butler, 
 
802 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n, 
 Tliat each may till the circle niark'd by 
 heaven. (Pope. 
 
 Let Hercules himself do what he may, 
 The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. 
 [Shakespeare. 
 No living man can send me to the shades 
 Before my time ; no man of woman born, 
 Coward or brave, can shun his destiny. 
 
 (Bryant. 
 The heart is its own fate. (Bailey. 
 
 Sometimes an hour of Fate's serenest weather, 
 Strikes through our changeful sky its com- 
 ing beams ; 
 Somewhere above us, in elusive ether, 
 
 Waits the fulfilment of our dearest dreams. 
 (Bayard Taylor- 
 Man proposes, but God disposes. 
 
 ( Thomas cl Kempis. 
 
 Ships that pass in the night, and speak each 
 
 other in passing, 
 Only a signal shown and a distant voice in 
 
 the darkness : 
 So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one 
 
 another, 
 Only a look and a voice, then darkness again 
 
 and a silence. (Longfellow 
 
 Some are born great, some achieve greatness, 
 And some have greatness thrust upon them. 
 (Shakespeare. 
 We walk amid the currents of actions left 
 
 undone, 
 The germs of deeds that wither before they 
 
 see the sun. 
 For every sentence uttered a million more 
 
 are dumb : 
 Men's lives are chains of chances, and History 
 
 their sun. (Bayard Taylor. 
 
 Who thinks that Fortune cannot change her 
 
 mind. 
 Prepares a dreadful jest for all mankind, 
 And who stands safest? tell me, is it he 
 That spreads and swells in puff'd prosperity, 
 Or blest with little, whose preventing care 
 In peace provides fit arms against a War. 
 
 (Pope. 
 
 Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, 
 Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate. 
 
 (Sam I Johnson. 
 'Tis writ on Paradise's gate, 
 " Woe to the dupe that yields to Fate!" 
 
 (Hafiz. 
 The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men, 
 
 Gang aft a-gley. 
 And leave us nought but grief and pain. 
 
 For promised joy. (Burns. 
 
 Two lives that once part, are as ships that 
 
 divide 
 When, moment on moment, there rushes be- 
 tween 
 The one and the other, a sea ; — 
 Ah, never can fall from the days that have 
 been 
 A gleam on the years that shall be ! 
 
 (Bulwer. 
 All are architects of Fate 
 
 Working in these walls of Time ; 
 
 Some with massive deeds and great, 
 
 Some with ornaments of rhyme. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 
 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 blos- 
 soms, 
 
 And bears his blushing honors thick upon 
 him: 
 
 The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ; 
 
 And, when he thinks, good easy man, full 
 surely 
 
 His greatness is a ripening, — nips his root, 
 
 And then he falls, as I do. (Shakespeare. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Friendship is the holiest of gifts ; 
 
 God can bestow nothing more sacred upon 
 
 us ! 
 It enhances every joy, mitigates every pain. 
 Everyone can have a friend, 
 Who himself knows how to be a friend. 
 
 ( Tiedge. 
 
 Life is to be fortified by many friendships. 
 To love and to be loved is the greatest 
 happiness of existence. (Sydney Smith. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 803 
 
 Every friend is to the other a sun, and a 
 sunflower also. He attracts and follows. 
 {Richter. 
 
 If we would build on a sure foundation in 
 friendship, we must love our friends for 
 their sakes rather than for our own. 
 
 {Charlotte Bronte. 
 
 Friendship is constant in all other things. 
 Save in the office and affairs of love ; 
 Therefore, all hearts in love use their own 
 
 tongues ; 
 Let every eye negotiate for itself. 
 And trust no agent. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Friendship, of itself an holy tie. 
 
 Is made more sacred by adversity. {Dryden. 
 
 Give me the avowed, the erect, and manly foe ; 
 Bold I can meet — perhaps may turn his 
 
 blow ; 
 But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath 
 
 can send. 
 Save, save, oh ! save me from the candid 
 
 friend. {George Canning. 
 
 No friend's a friend till he shall prove a 
 friend. {Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 Dear is my friend — yet from my foe, as from 
 
 my friend, comes good ; 
 My friend shows what I can do, and my foe 
 
 what I should. (Schiller. 
 
 A true friend is forever a friend. 
 
 {George MacDonald. 
 Friends are like melons. Shall I tell you 
 
 why? 
 To find one good, you must a hundred try. 
 
 {Claude Menuet. 
 
 He who has a thousand friends has not a 
 
 friend to spare, 
 And he who has one enemy shall meet him 
 
 everywhere. {Ali Ben Abu Taleb. 
 
 For my boyhood's friend hath fallen, the pil- 
 lar of my trust, 
 
 The true, the wise, the beautiful, is sleeping 
 in the dust. {Hillard. 
 
 What good man is not his own friend ' 
 
 {Sophocles. 
 
 There are plenty of acquaintances in the 
 world, but very few real friends. 
 
 ( Chinese Moral Maxims. 
 A foe to God was ne'er true friend to man, 
 Some sinister intent taints all he does. 
 
 ( Young. 
 Sweeter none than voice of fiiithful friend ; 
 Sweet always, sweetest beard in loudest storm. 
 Some I remember, and will ne'er forget. 
 
 {Pollok. 
 Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first prin- 
 ciples. Have no friends not equal to 
 
 yourself. 
 
 ( Confucius. 
 
 Who heart-whole, pure in faith, once written 
 
 friend, 
 In life and death are true, unto the end! 
 
 {John Eslcn Cooke 
 Friendship above all ties does bind the heart 
 And faith in friendship is the noblest part. 
 
 ( Earle. 
 Friendship, like love, is but a name, 
 Unless to one you stint the flame. 
 The child, whom many fathers share, 
 Haih seldom known a father's care. 
 'Tis thus in friendships: who depend 
 On many, rarely find a friend. {Gay. 
 
 For tho' the faults were thick as dust in va- 
 cant chambers, I could trust your kind- 
 ness. {Tennyson. 
 
 He that will lose his friend for a jest, de- 
 serves to die a beggar by the bargain. 
 {Fuller. 
 True friendship is like sound health, the val- 
 ue of it is seldom known until it be lost. 
 (C. C. Colton. 
 All are friends in heaven, all faithful friends ; 
 And many friendships in the days of time 
 Begun, are lasting here, and growing still. 
 {Pollok. 
 True happiness 
 Consists not in the multitude of friends. 
 But in the worth and choice. Nor would I 
 
 have 
 Virtue a popular regard pursue : 
 Let them be good that love me, though but 
 few. {Ben Jonson. 
 
804 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 f 
 
 'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose 
 
 Friends out of sight, in faith to muse 
 
 How grows in Paradise our store. {Keble. 
 
 Friendship is a wide portal, and sometimes 
 admits love. (Anna Katharine Oreen. 
 
 "Wal'r, my boy," replied the captain, "in 
 the Proverbs of Solomon you will find 
 the following words, ' May we never want 
 a friend in need, nor a bottle to give 
 him!' When found, make a note of." 
 
 {Dickens. 
 
 An open foe may prove a curse. 
 
 But a pretended friend is worse. {Go,y- 
 
 One faithful Friend is enough for a man's 
 self; 'tis much to meet with such an one, 
 yet we can't have too many for the sake 
 of others. {Bruyere. 
 
 First, on thy friend, deliberate with thyself; 
 Pause, ponder, sift ; not eager in the choice, 
 Nor jealous of the chosen ; fixing, fix ; 
 Judge before friendship, then confide till 
 death. ( Young. 
 
 No one is so accursed by fate. 
 No one so utterly desolate. 
 
 But some heart, though unknown, 
 
 unto his own. {Longfellow 
 
 Whatever the number of a man's friends, 
 there will be times in his life when he 
 has one too few ; but if he has only one 
 enemy, he is lucky indeed if he has not 
 one too many. {Bulivcr. 
 
 Great souls by instinct to each other turn, 
 Demand alliance, and in friendship burn. 
 
 {Addison. 
 
 Defend me from my friends, I can defend 
 
 myself from my enemies. [Shakespeare. 
 
 Whoever knows how to return a kindness he 
 has received, must be a friend above all 
 price. [Buckley. 
 
 Friends, if we be honest with ourselves. 
 We shall be honest, with each other. 
 
 [George MacDonald. 
 I have loved my friends, a" I do virtue, 
 My soul, my God. [Sir Thomas Browne. 
 
 The highest compact we can make with our 
 fellow, is,— Let there be truth between 
 
 us two forevermore It is 
 
 sublime to feel and say of another, I 
 need never meet, or speak, or write to 
 him ; we need not reinforce ourselves, or 
 send tokens of remembrance ; I rely on 
 him as on myself; if he did thus or thus, 
 I know it was right. [Emerson. 
 
 False friends are like our shadows, keeping 
 close to us while we walk in the sun- 
 shine, but leaving us the instant we cross 
 into the shade. [Bovee. 
 
 Our chief want in life, is, somebody who 
 shall make us do what we can. This is 
 the service of a friend. With him we are 
 easily great." There is a sublime attrac- 
 tion in him to whatever virtue is in us. 
 How he flings wide the doors of exist- 
 ence ! What questions, we ask of him ! 
 what an understanding we have ! how 
 few words are needed ! It is the only 
 real society. [Emerson. 
 
 There is no man so friendless but what he can 
 find a friend sincere enough to tell him 
 disagreeable truths. [Bulwer. 
 
 Come back ! ye friendships long departed ! 
 That like o'erflowing streamlets started, 
 And now are dwindled, one by one, 
 To stony channels in the sun ! 
 Come back ! ye friends, whose lives are ended, 
 Come back, with all that light attended. 
 Which seemed to darken and decay 
 When ye arose and went away ! 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 
 All the means of action — 
 The shapeless mass, the materials — 
 Lie everywhere about us. What we need 
 j Is the celestial fire to change the flint 
 Into transparent crystal, bright and clear. 
 That fire is genius. [Longfellow. 
 
 Talent is some one faculty unusually devel- 
 oped; genius commands all the faculties. 
 {F. H. Hedge. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 805 
 
 Genius can never despise labor. 
 
 {Abel Stevens. 
 
 Humor has justly been regarded as the finest 
 
 perfection of poetic genius. {Carlyle. 
 
 Genius is essentially creative; it bears the 
 character of the individual who pos- 
 { Madame de Stael. 
 
 Genius must be born, and never can be taught. 
 {Dry den. 
 Genius and its rewards are briefly told : 
 A liberal nature and a niggard doom, 
 A difficult journey to a splendid tomb. 
 
 {Forster. 
 Genius, like humanity, rusts for want of use. 
 {Hazlitt. 
 As diamond cuts diamond, and one hone 
 smooths a second, all the parts of in- 
 tellect are whetstones to each other ; and 
 genius, which is but the result of their 
 mutual sharpening is character too. 
 
 {Bartol. 
 
 Fortune has rarely condescended to be the 
 companion of genius. {Isaac Disraeli. 
 
 Genius inspires this thirst for fame ; there is 
 no blessing undesired by those to whom 
 Heaven gave the means of winning it. 
 
 {Madame de Stael. 
 
 Genius finds its own road and carries its own 
 lamp. ( Wilmot. 
 
 Every man who observes vigilantly and re- 
 solves steadfastly grows unconsciously 
 into genius. {Bulwcr Lytton. 
 
 {Buffon. 
 
 G-nius is only great patience. 
 
 Father of All ! in ev'ry Age, 
 
 In ev'ry clime ador'd, 
 By Saint, by Savage, and by Sage, 
 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! {Pope. 
 
 Open, ye heavens, your living doors ! let in 
 The great Creator, from his work returned 
 Magnificent, his sis days' work, a world. } 
 {Milton, j 
 
 Thou, my all ! 
 
 My theme ! my inspiration ! and my crown I 
 
 My strength in age ! my rise in low estate ! 
 
 My soul's ambition, pleasure, wealth ! my 
 world ! 
 
 My light in darkness ! and my life in death ! 
 
 My boast through time ! bliss through eter- 
 nity ! 
 
 Eternity, too short to speak thy praise ! 
 
 Or fathom thy profound love to man ! 
 
 ( Young. 
 
 Twas much, that man was made like God 
 before ; 
 
 But, that God should be made like man, much 
 more. {Donne. 
 
 Heaven is above all yet ; there sits a Judge, 
 
 That no King can corrupt. {Shakespeare. 
 
 All are but parts of one stupendous whole. 
 Whose body Nature is, and God the soul. 
 
 {Pope. 
 God moves in a mysterious way 
 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea 
 
 And rides upon the storm. {Cowper. 
 
 " God !" sing, ye meadow-streams, with glad- 
 some voice ! 
 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 
 sounds ! 
 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow. 
 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder 
 "God!" {Coleridge. 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 To be strong 
 Is to be happy. {Longfellow. 
 
 No longer I follow a sound, 
 
 No longei; a dream I pursue ; 
 happiness not to be found, 
 
 Unattainable treasure. Adieu. {Qnuper. 
 
 The long days are no happier than the short 
 ones. {Bailey. 
 
 A light heart lives long. {Shakespeare. 
 
 No eye to watch and no tongue to wound us. 
 All earth forgot, and all heaven around us. 
 {Moore. 
 
80G 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Fix'd to no spot is Happiness sincere; 
 'Tis nowhere to be found, or ev'rywhere ; 
 'Tis never to be bought, but always free. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 To be happy is not the purpose for which you 
 
 were placed in this world. [Froude. 
 
 The rays of happiness, like those of light, are 
 colorless when unbroken. [Longfellow. 
 
 Mankind are always happier for having been 
 happy ; so that,if you make them happy 
 now, you make them happy twenty 
 years hence by the memory of it. 
 
 (Sydney Smith. 
 
 Bliss in possession will not last ; 
 
 Remember'd joys are never past ; 
 
 At once the fountain, stream, and sea. 
 
 They were, — they are, — they yet shall be. 
 
 (Montgomery. 
 
 The joy late coming la 
 
 (Lewis J. Bates. 
 
 A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any 
 
 market. (Lamb. 
 
 How bitter a thing it is to look into happi- 
 ness through another man's eyes. 
 
 Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
 That bliss which only centres in the mind. 
 
 ( Goldsmith. 
 The most happy man is he who knows how 
 to bring into relation the end and begin- 
 ning of his life. {Goethe. 
 
 Joys too exquisite to last, 
 And yet more exquisite when past. 
 
 (Montgomery. 
 From the crown of his head to the sole of 
 his foot, he is all mirth ; he hath twice 
 or thrice cut Cupid's bow string, and the 
 little hangman dare not*shoot at him; 
 he hath a heart as sound as a bell, and 
 his tongue is the clapper ; for what his 
 heart thinks, his tongue speaks. 
 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
 Pleasure can be supported by illusion, but 
 
 happiness rests upon truth. (Chamfort. 
 
 Happiness is a ball after which we run 
 wherever it rolls, and we push it with 
 our feet when it stops. ( Goethe. 
 
 Jog on, jog on the foot-path way 
 
 And merrily hent the stile-a ; 
 A merry heart goes all the day, 
 Your sad tires in a mile-a. 
 
 (Shakespeare. 
 Happy the man, and happy he alone, 
 He, who can call to-day his own ; 
 He, who secure within, can say. 
 To. morrow do thy worst, for 1 have lived to- 
 day. (Dryden. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 Earth may be darkness; Heaven will give 
 thee light. (Alice Bradley Neal. 
 
 World ! if to thee, sin-stained, such lavish 
 
 charms are given. 
 How can a human thought conceive the 
 
 spirit joys of heaven ! 
 
 (Elizabeth F. Swift. 
 
 When the shore is won at last. 
 
 Who will count the billows past ? (Keble. 
 
 The hasty multitude 
 Admiring enter'd ; and the work some praise 
 And some the architect: his hand was known 
 In heaven by many a tower'd structure high, 
 Where scepter'd angels held their residence, 
 And sat as princes. (Milton. 
 
 Attempt not to fathom the secrets of heaven. 
 But gratefully use what to thee is here given : 
 For none have returned from that realm of 
 
 bliss, 
 To tell how those fared who have prayed 
 
 much in this. ( Omar Khayyam, 
 
 No man saw the building of the New Jeru- 
 salem, the workmen crowded together, 
 the unfinished walls and unpaved street ; 
 no man heard the clink of trowel and 
 pickaxe; it descended out of heaven 
 from God. (Seeley. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and 
 vapors ; 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 May be Heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GliEAT THINKERS. 
 
 807 
 
 A broad and ample road, whose dust is cold 
 And pavement stars, as stars to thee appear, 
 Sfiem in the galaxy, that milky way. 
 
 {Milton. 
 Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ; 
 Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; 
 Dreams can not 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 ! 
 
 (Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 On every mountain height 
 
 Is rest. (Goethe. 
 
 Oh, some seek bread— no more — life's mere 
 subsistence. 
 
 And some seek wealth and ease— the common 
 quest ; 
 
 And some seek fame, that hovers in the dis- 
 tance ; 
 But all are seeking rest. (Langbridge. 
 
 The commander says Rest ! and the weary 
 soldier stacks his arms ; so will God give 
 his people eternal rest, and they shall 
 stack their arms in Heaven. 
 
 (Niblock. 
 
 The strength of a nation, especially of a re- 
 publican nation, is in the intelligent and 
 well-ordered homes of the people. 
 
 (Afrs. Sigourney. 
 At night returning, every labor sped. 
 He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 
 Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round survej's 
 His children's looks that brighten at the 
 
 blaze ; 
 While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, | 
 Displays her cleanly platter on the board. | 
 ( Goldsmith. { 
 The house of every one is to him as his cas- i 
 tie and fortress, as well for his defence 
 against injury and violence, as for his 
 repose. (Sir Edward Coke. 
 
 He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who 
 finds peace in his home. (Goethe. 
 
 54 
 
 Home is the resort 
 Of love, of joy, of peace, and plenty; where, 
 Supporting and supported, polished friends 
 And dear relations mingle into bliss. 
 
 ( Thomson. 
 By the fireside still the light is shining. 
 The children's arms round the paienta twin- 
 ing. 
 From love so sweet, who would roam ? 
 Be it ever so homely, home is home. 
 
 (B. M. Mulock. 
 There is no place like homo. 
 
 (/. Howard Payne. 
 
 HONOR. 
 Take honor from me, and my life is done. 
 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
 Glory is sweet when our heart says to us that 
 
 the wreath of honor ought to grace our 
 
 head. ( Krummacher. 
 
 The sense of honor is of so fine and delicate 
 a nature, that it is only to be met with 
 in minds which are naturally noble, or 
 in such as have been cultivated by great 
 examples, or a refined education. 
 
 (Addison. 
 
 Our own heart, and not other men's opinions, 
 forms our true honor. (Coleridge. 
 
 A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good 
 livery of honor, (Shakespeare. 
 
 Honor and fortune exist for him who always 
 recognizes the neighborhood of the great, 
 always feels himself in the presence of 
 high causes. (Emerson. 
 
 His honor rooted in dishonor stood, 
 
 And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 
 When honor comes to you be ready to take 
 it; 
 
 But reach not to seize it before it is near. 
 
 (John Boyle O'Reilly. 
 
 Honors soften fatigue. It is easier riding in a 
 gilded and embossed saddle. Atlas, while 
 he sustains the world upon his shoulders, 
 IS himself sustained by the admiration 
 his feat excites. (Bovee. 
 
GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Better to die ten thousand deaths, 
 
 Than wound my honor. {Addison. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 He who hath health, hath hope, and he who 
 hath hope hath everything. 
 
 Despondency is ingratitude. Hope is God's 
 worship. {Beecher. 
 
 The setting of a great hope is like the set- 
 ting of the sun. The brightness of our 
 life is gone. The shadows of the evening 
 fall around us, and the world seems but 
 a dim reflection, itself a broader sha- 
 dow, {Longfellow. 
 
 Hope against hope, and ask till ye receive. 
 
 {Montgomery. 
 
 Where there is no hope there can be no en- 
 deavor. [Samuel Johnson. 
 
 Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day, 
 Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away. 
 {Cowper. 
 In all my wanderings through this world of 
 
 care, 
 In all my griefs— and God has given my 
 
 share — 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. 
 Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down. 
 {Goldsmith. 
 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
 Man never is but always to be blest. ( Fope. 
 Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 
 Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe. 
 {Campbell. 
 
 Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
 And hope without an object cannot live. 
 
 ( Coleridge. 
 
 No hope so bright but is the beginning of its 
 
 own fulfilment. {Emerso7i. 
 
 'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear ; 
 Heaven were not heaven, if we knew what 
 it were. {Suckling. 
 
 Races, better than we, have leaned on her 
 
 wavering promise, 
 Having naught eke but Hope. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 For hope is but the dream of those that wake. 
 {Prior. 
 Behold, we know not anything ; 
 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 At la?t — far off— at last, to all — 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all, 
 Into each life some rain must fall. 
 Some days must be dark and dreary. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 IMMORTALITY. 
 
 It must be so — Plato thou reasonest well ! — 
 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 oul an hereafter 
 And intimates Eternity to man. [Addison. 
 
 We are born for a higher destiny than that of 
 earth ; there is a realm where the rain- 
 bow never fades, where the stars will be 
 spread before us like islands that slumber 
 on the ocean, and where the beings that 
 pass before us like shadows will stay in 
 our presence forever. {Bulwer. 
 
 There is nothing strictly immortal, but immor- 
 tality. Whatever hath no beginning 
 may be confident of no end. 
 
 {Sir Tliomas Browne. 
 
 Thy eternal summer shall not fade. 
 
 [Shakespeare. 
 Ah Christ, that it were possible 
 For one short hour to see 
 The souls we loved, tliat they might tell us 
 What and where they be. ( Tennyson. 
 
 If there was no future life, our souls would 
 not thirst for it. (lachter- 
 
LIVlNCr THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 809 
 
 The stars shall fade away, the snn himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in 
 
 years ; 
 But thou shall flourish in immortal youth, 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 {Addison. 
 I feel my immortality oversweep all pains, 
 all tears, all time, all fears, — and peal, 
 like the eternal thunders of the deep, 
 into my ears this truth, — thou livest for- 
 ever ! (Byron. 
 
 INFLUENCE. 
 
 So when a great man dies, 
 
 For years beyond our ken, 
 The light he leaves behind him lies 
 
 Upon the paths of men. {Longfellow. 
 
 I want to help you to grow as beautiful as 
 God meant you to be when he thought 
 of you first. {George Mac Donald. 
 
 Example has more followers than reason. 
 We unconsciously imitate what pleases 
 us, and insensibly approximate to the 
 characters we most admire. In this way, 
 a generous habit of thought and of action 
 carries with it an incalculable influence. 
 {Bovee. 
 
 Blessed influence, of one true loving human 
 soul on another. {George Eliot. 
 
 Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away. 
 
 {Byron. 
 
 The work an unknown good man has done is 
 like a vein of water flowing hidden 
 underground, secretly making the ground 
 green. {Carlyle. 
 
 Each man is a hero and an oracle to some- 
 body, and to that person whatever he 
 says has an enhanced value. {Emerson. 
 
 No nobler feeling than this, of admiration for 
 one higher than himself, dwells in the 
 breast of man. It is to this hour, and 
 at all hours, the vivifying influence in 
 man's life. ( Carlyle. 
 
 I am a part of all that I have met. 
 
 {Tennyson. 
 
 §0 
 
 Those that think must govern those that toil. 
 ( Goldsmith. 
 No action, whether foul or fair, ^.^ , 
 
 Is ever done, but it leaves somewhere Y^ ry y-^^ 
 A record, written by fingers ghostly, J I o ' ' 
 As a blessing or a curse, and mostly i^.j! — ^^"7"^^ 
 In the greater weakness or greater strength" ' ^^ — ^ 
 Of the acts which follow it. {Longfellow. 
 
 may I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence ; live 
 
 In pulses stirred to generosity, 
 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 
 For miserable aims that end with self. 
 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the night 
 
 like stars. 
 And with their mild persistence urge man's 
 
 search 
 To vaster issues. {George Eliot. 
 
 INTELLECT. 
 
 'lis with our judgments as our watches ; none 
 Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 The hand that follows intellect can achieve. 
 {Michael Angela. 
 
 It is no proof of a man's understanding to be 
 able to confirm whatever he pleases ; but 
 to be able to discern that what is true is 
 true, and that what is false is false ; this 
 is the mark and character of intelligence. 
 ( Emerson. 
 
 The more we know of any one ground of 
 knowledge, the farther we see into the 
 general domains of intellect. 
 
 {Leigh Hunt. 
 
 There are some mind? of which we can say, 
 they make light; and for others only, 
 they are warm. {Joubert. 
 
 Mind unemployed is mind unenjoyed.(£ove€. 
 
 Not Hercules 
 Could have knock'd out his brains, for he 
 had none. (Shakespeare. 
 
 Works of the intellect are great only by com- 
 parison with each other. (Emerson. 
 
810 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 The mind is its own place, and in itself 
 Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. 
 (Milton. 
 Minds which never rest are subject to many- 
 digressions. {Joubert. 
 
 The very might of the human intellect re- 
 veals its limits. [Madame Swetchine. 
 
 Each mind has its own method. (Emerson. 
 
 It requires a surgical opeiation to get a joke 
 well into a Scotch understanding 
 
 (Sidney Smith. 
 He that will not reason is a bigot ; he that 
 can not reason is a fool, and he that 
 dares not reason is a slave. 
 
 (Sir W. Drummond. 
 
 Glorious indeed is the world of God around 
 
 us, hut more glorious the world of God 
 
 within us. There lies the Land of Song ; 
 
 there lies the poet's native land. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 
 JUSTICE. 
 
 Justice is the key-note of the world, and all 
 else is ever out of tune 
 
 ( Theodore Parker. 
 The gods 
 Grow angry with your patience. 'Tis their 
 
 care, 
 And must be yours, that guilty men escape 
 
 not: 
 
 As crimes do grow, justice should rouse itself. 
 
 (Ben Jonson. 
 
 Be just in all thy actions; and if join'd with 
 
 those that are not, never change thy 
 
 mind. (Denham 
 
 Give the devil his due. (Dryden. 
 
 One of the Seven was wont to say : " That 
 laws were like cobwebs ; where the 
 small flies were caught, and the great 
 break through. (Bacon. 
 
 Our human laws are but the copies, more or 
 less imperfect, of the eternal laws, so far 
 as we can read them. (Froude. 
 
 "Where law ends, tyranny b^crins. 
 
 (Earl of Chatham. 
 
 This even handed justice 
 
 Commends the ingredients of our jioisoned 
 chalice 
 
 To our own lips. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Whatever is, is in its causes just. (Dry den. 
 
 Just laws are no restraint upon the freedom 
 of the good, for the good man desires 
 nothing which ajust law will interfere 
 with. (Froude. 
 
 Man is unjust, but God is just; and finally 
 justice triumphs. (Longfellow. 
 
 The law is a sort of hocus-pocus science, that 
 smiles in yer face while it picks yer 
 pocket ; and the glorious uncertainty of 
 it is of mair use to the professors than 
 the justice of it. (Macklin. 
 
 When the state is most corrupt, then the laws 
 are most multiplied. ( Tacitus. 
 
 What stronger breast-plate than a heart un- 
 tainted? 
 Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just ; 
 And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, 
 Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 Kindness is the golden chain by which society 
 is bound together. ( Ooethe. 
 
 There is nothing so kingly as kindness and 
 nothing so noble as truth. (Alice Cary. 
 
 The greatest pleasure I know is to do a good 
 action by stealth, ajid to have it foimd 
 out by accident. (Lamb. 
 
 As "unkindness has no remedy at law," 
 let its avoidance be with you a point of 
 honor. (Hosca Ballou. 
 
 Swift kindnesses are best ; a long delay 
 In kindness takes the kindness all away, 
 
 ( Greek Anthology. 
 There's no dearth of kindness 
 
 In this world of ours ; 
 Only in our blindness 
 We gather thorns for flowers. (Masscv. 
 
 Feet that run on willing errands! 
 
 (Longfciiow. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 811 
 
 Kindness — a language which the dumb can 
 speak, and the deaf can understand. 
 
 {Bovee. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side. 
 ( Goldsmith. 
 
 'Tis a little thing 
 To give a cup of water ; yet its draught 
 Of cool refreshment, drain'd by feverish lips 
 May give a thrill of pleasure to the frame 
 More exquisite than when nectarian juice 
 Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. 
 
 ( Taljourd. 
 The cheapest of all things is kindness, its ex- 
 ercise requiring the least possible trouble 
 and self-sacrifice. " Win hearts,'' said 
 Burleigh to Queen Elizabeth, " and you 
 have all men's hearts and purses." 
 
 {Samuel Smiles. 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 No man is born into the world, whose work 
 Is not born with him ; there is always work. 
 And tools to work withal, for those who will ; 
 And blessed are the horny hands of toil ! 
 
 (Lowell. 
 
 " To be employed," said the poet Gray, " is to 
 be happy." " It is better to wear out 
 than rust out," said Bishop Cumberland. 
 " Have we not all eternity to rest in ?" 
 exclaimed Arnauld. {Samuel Smiles. 
 
 God helps them that help themselves. 
 
 {Sir Philip Sidney. 
 
 From labor there shall come forth rest. 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 Let no one till his death 
 Be called unhappy. Measure not the work 
 Until the day's out and the labor done. 
 
 {E. B. Browning. 
 
 Without Labor there were no Ease, no Rest, 
 so much as conceivable. ( Carlyle. 
 
 Such hath it been— shall be— beneath the sun 
 The many still must labor for the one. 
 
 ( Byron. 
 Toil is the lot of all, and bitter woe 
 The fate of many. (Bryant. 
 
 When we build, let us think that wo build 
 (public edifices) for ever. Let it not be 
 for the present delight, nor for present 
 use alone, let it be such work as our de- 
 scendants will thank us for, and let us 
 think, as we lay stone on stone, that a 
 time is to come when those stones will 
 be held sacred because our hands have 
 touched them, and that men will say as 
 they look upon the labor and wrought 
 substan.es of them, " See ! this our fath- 
 ers did for us." (Ruskin. 
 
 Taste the joy 
 That springs from labor. (Longfellow. 
 
 Blessed is he who has found his work ; let 
 him ask no other blessedness. He has a 
 work, a life-purpose ; he has found it 
 and will follow it. (Carlyle. 
 
 And many strokes, though with a litile axe. 
 
 Hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak. 
 (Shakespeare. 
 I worked with patience' whicli is almost pow- 
 er. (E. B. Browning. 
 
 The heights by great men reached and kept 
 
 Were not attained by sudden flight. 
 
 But they, while their companions slept. 
 
 Were toiling upward in the night. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 Light 18 the task when many share the toil. 
 (Bryant. 
 
 All true Work is sacred ; in all true Work, 
 were it but true hand-labor, there is 
 something of divinenoss. (Carlyle. 
 
 Whatever is worth doing at all is worth do- 
 ing well. (Earl of Chesterfield. 
 
 It is no man's business whether he has genius 
 or not ; work he must, whatever he is, 
 but quietly and steadily ; and the nat- 
 ural and unforced results of .«uch work 
 will be always the thing God meant him 
 to do, and will be his best. (Ruskin. 
 
 How far that little candle throws his beams 
 So shines a good deed in a naughty world. 
 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
812 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 It is not work that kills men; it is worry. 
 Work IS healthy; you can hardly put 
 more upon a man than he can bear. 
 Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not 
 the revolution that destroys the machin- 
 ery, but the friction. {Beccher. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be 
 purchased at the price of chains and 
 slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I 
 know not what course others may take ; 
 but, as for me, give me liberty, or give 
 me death ! {Patrick Henry. 
 
 Freedom has a thousand charms to show, 
 That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. 
 ( Cowper. 
 Know ye why the Cypress tree as freedom's 
 
 tree is known ? 
 Know ye why the Lily fair as freedom's 
 
 flower is shown ? 
 Hundred arms the Cypress has, yet never 
 
 plunder seeks ; 
 With ten well-developed tongues, the Lily 
 
 never speaks, {Omar Khayyam. 
 
 Freedom is only in the land of Dreams ; 
 And only blooms the Beautiful in Song ! 
 
 {Schiller. 
 The love of liberty with life is given, 
 And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven. 
 
 {Dryclen. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England : if their 
 
 lungs 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles 
 
 fall. {Coivper. 
 
 Corrupted freemen are the worst of slaves. 
 
 ( GarricJc. 
 
 liberty ! liberty ! how many crimes are 
 
 committed in thy name ! 
 
 {Madame Roland. 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea; 
 And musing there an hour alone. 
 
 1 dreamed that Greece might still be free. 
 
 {Byron. 
 
 Tlie human race is in the best condition, 
 
 when it has the greatest degree of liberty. 
 
 {Dante. 
 
 Millions for defence, but not one cent, for 
 tribute. {Pinhiey. 
 
 He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free. 
 And all are slaves besides. ( Cowper. 
 
 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals 
 
 hold 
 Which Milton held. ( Wordsworth. 
 
 This nation, under God, shall have a new 
 
 birth of freedom, and that government 
 
 of the people, by the people, for the 
 
 people shall not perish from the earth, 
 
 {Lincoln. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not who 
 would be free themselves must strike the 
 blow ? {Byron. 
 
 My angel— his name is Freedom — 
 
 Choose to be your king ; 
 
 He shall cut pathways, east and west. 
 
 And find you with this wing. {Emerson. 
 
 What is life ? 'Tis a delicate shell 
 
 Thrown up by Eternity's flow, 
 On Time's bank of quicksand to dwell 
 
 And a moment its loveliness show. 
 
 Gone back to its element grand 
 
 Is the billow that brought it on shore. 
 
 See ! another is washing the strand 
 
 And the beautiful shell is no more. {Anon. 
 
 Life is a pure flame, and we live by an in- 
 visible sun within us. 
 
 {Sir TJiomas Broivne. 
 
 We sleep, but the loom of life never stops ; 
 and the pattern which was weaving when 
 the sun went down is weaving when it 
 comes up to-morrow. 
 
 {Henry Ward Beccher. 
 
 So that my life be brave, what though not 
 long? {Drummond. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 813 
 
 A sacred burden is this life ye bear, 
 Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, 
 Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly, 
 Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, 
 But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. 
 
 {Francis Anne Kenihle. 
 
 That man lives twice that lives the first life 
 well. {Herrick. 
 
 There are two worlds ; the world that we can 
 measure with line and rule, and the 
 world that we feel with our hearts and 
 imaginations. {Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Sooner or later that which is now life shall 
 be poetry, and every fair and manly 
 trait shall add a richer strain to the 
 song. [Emerson. 
 
 At thirty, man suspects himself a fool, 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
 At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve. 
 In all the magnanimity of thought; 
 Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 
 And why ? because he thinks himself im- 
 mortal. 
 All men think all men mortal but them- 
 selves. ( Young. 
 
 That life is long which answers life's great 
 end. ( Young. 
 
 Life lives only in success. {Bayard Taylor. 
 
 Thank God for life: life is not sweet always. 
 Hands may be heavy-laden, hearts care full. 
 
 Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days, 
 And dreams divine end in wakening dull. 
 
 Still it is life, and life is cause for jiraise. 
 
 {Susan Coolidge. 
 
 'Tis not the whole of life to live; 
 
 Nor all of death to die. {Montgomery. 
 
 Life is a waste of wearisome hours, 
 
 Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns, 
 
 And the heart that is soonest awake to the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 Is always the first to be touch'd by the 
 
 thorns. {Moore. 
 
 Life let us cherish. {Nagelis. \ 
 
 We have lived without poetry, music and art; 
 We may live without conscience, and live 
 
 without heart; 
 We may live without friends ; we may live 
 
 without books; 
 But civilized man cannot live without cooks 
 He may live without books,— what is knowl- 
 edge but grieving ? 
 Pie may live without hope,— what is hope but 
 
 deceiving? 
 He may live without love, — what is passion 
 
 but pining ? 
 But where is the man that can live without 
 
 dining? {Owen Meredith. 
 
 Life is a comedy to him who thinks, and a 
 
 tragedy to him who feels. 
 
 [Horace Walpole. 
 My life is like a stroll upon the beach. 
 
 [ Thoreau. 
 
 Life is the gift of God, and is divine. 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 
 The shaping our own life is our own work. 
 It IS a thing of beauty, it is a thing of 
 shame, as we ourselves make it. We 
 lay the corner and add joint to joint, we 
 give the proportion, we set the finish. 
 It may be a thing of beauty and of joy 
 forever. God forgive us if we prevent 
 our life from putting on its appointed 
 g^ory. ( Ware. 
 
 I know I am — that simple.st bliss 
 The millions of my brothers miss. 
 I know the fortune to be born. 
 Even to the meanest wretch thev scorn. 
 
 (Bayard Taylor. 
 Our life contains a thousand springs, and dies 
 
 if one be gone ; 
 Strnnge that a harp of thousand strings 
 Should keep in tune so long. ( Watts. 
 
 I came at morn — 'twas spring, I smiled, 
 
 The fields with green were clad ; 
 I walked abroad at noon,— and lo! 
 
 'Twas summer, — I was glad ; 
 I sate me down ; 'was autumn eve. 
 
 And I with sadnesi? wept ; 
 I laid me down at night, and then 
 
 'Twaa winter,— and I slept. 
 
 [Mary Pyper 
 
812 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 It is not work that kills men ; it is worry. 
 Work IS healthy; you can hardly put 
 more upon a man than he can bear. 
 Worry is rust upon the blade. It is not 
 the revolution that destroys the machin- 
 ery, but the friction. {Beccher. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be 
 purchased at the price of chains and 
 slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I 
 know not what course others may take ; 
 but, as for me, give me liberty, or give 
 me death ! {Patrick Henry. 
 
 Freedom has a thousand charms to show. 
 That slaves, howe'er contented, never know. 
 ( Cowper. 
 Know ye why the Cypress tree as freedom's 
 
 tree is known ? 
 Know ye why the Lily fair as freedom's 
 
 flower is shown ? 
 Hundred arms the Cypress has, yet never 
 
 plunder seeks ; 
 With ten well-developed tongues, the Lily 
 
 never speaks. [Omar Khayyam. 
 
 Freedom is only in the land of Dreams ; 
 And only blooms the Beautiful in Song ! 
 
 [Schiller. 
 The love of liberty with life is given, 
 And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven. 
 
 {Dry den. 
 Slaves cannot breathe in England : if their 
 
 lungs 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
 They touch our country, and their shackles 
 
 full. [Cowper. 
 
 Corrupted freemen are the worst of slaves. 
 
 ( Garrick. 
 
 liberty ! liberty ! how many crimes are 
 
 committed in thy name! 
 
 {Madame Roland. 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 And Marathon looks on the sea; 
 And musing there an hour alone. 
 
 1 dreamed that Greece might still be free. 
 
 [Byron. 
 
 Tlie human race is in the best condition, 
 
 when it has the greatest degree of liberty. 
 
 [Dante. 
 
 Millions for defence, but not one cent, for 
 tribute. [Pinhicy. 
 
 He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free. 
 And all are slaves besides. [Cowper. 
 
 We must be free or die, who sjteak the tongue 
 That Shakespeare spake ; the faith and morals 
 
 hold 
 Which Milton held. ( Wordsworth. 
 
 This nation, under God, shall have a new 
 
 birlh of freedom, and that government 
 
 of the people, by the people, for the 
 
 people shall not perish from the earth. 
 
 [Lincoln. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not who 
 would be free themselves must strike the 
 blow? [Byron. 
 
 My angel— his name is Freedom- 
 Choose to be your king ; 
 He shall cut pathways, east and west. 
 And find you with this wing. [Emerson. 
 
 What is life ? 'Tis a delicate shell 
 
 Thrown up by Eternity's flow. 
 On Time's bank of quicksand to dwell 
 
 And a moment its loveliness show. 
 
 Gone back to its element grand 
 
 Is the billow that brought it on shore. 
 
 See! another is washing the strand 
 
 And the beautiful shell is no more. (Anon. 
 
 Life is a pure flame, and we live by an in- 
 visible sun within us. 
 
 [Sir Tlwmas Browne. 
 
 We sleep, but the loom of life never stops ; 
 and the pattern which was weaving when 
 the sun went down is weaving when it 
 comes up to-morrow. 
 
 [Henry Ward Beecher. 
 
 So that my life be brave, what though not 
 long? [Drummond. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 813 
 
 A sacred burden is this life ye bear, 
 Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, 
 Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly. 
 Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, 
 But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. 
 
 {Francis Anne Kemble. 
 
 That man lives twice that lives the first life 
 well. {Herrick. 
 
 There are two worlds ; the world that we can 
 measure with line and rule, and the 
 world that we feel with our hearts and 
 imaginations. {Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Sooner or later that which is now life shall 
 be poetry, and every fair and manly 
 trait shall add a richer strain to the 
 song. {Emerson. 
 
 At thirty, man suspects himself a fool. 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
 At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve. 
 In all the magnanimity of thought; 
 Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 
 And why? because he thinks himself im- 
 mortal. 
 All men think all men mortal but them- 
 selves. ( Young. 
 
 That life ia long which 
 end. 
 
 life's great 
 ( Young. 
 
 Life lives only in success. {Bayard Taylor. 
 
 Thank God for life-, life is not sweet always. 
 Hands may be heavy-laden, hearts care full. 
 
 Unwelcome nights follow unwelcome days, 
 And dreams divine end in wakening dull, 
 
 Still it is life, and life is cause for jiraise. 
 
 {Susan Coolidge. 
 
 'Tis not the whole of life to live; 
 
 Nor all of death to die. (Montgomery. 
 
 Life is a waste of wearisome hours. 
 
 Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns, 
 
 And the heart that is soonest awake to the 
 
 flowers, 
 
 Is always the first to be touch'd by the 
 
 thorns. {Afoore. 
 
 Life let us cherish . {Nagelis. 
 
 We have lived without poetry, music and art; 
 We may live without conscience, and live 
 
 without heart; 
 We may live without friends ; we may live 
 
 without books; 
 But civilized man cannot live without cooks 
 He may live without books,— what is knowl- 
 edge but grieving ? 
 He may live without hope,— what is hope but 
 
 deceiving? 
 He may live without love, — what is passion 
 
 but pining ? 
 But where is the man that can live without 
 
 dining ? ( Owen Meredith. 
 
 Life is a comedy to him who thinks, and a 
 
 tragedy to him who feels. 
 
 {Horace Walpole. 
 My life is like a stroll upon the beach. 
 
 ( Thoreau. 
 
 Life is the gift of God, and is divine. 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 
 The shaping our own life is our own work. 
 It IS a thing of beauty, it is a thing of 
 shame, as we ourselves make it. We 
 lay the corner and add joint to joint, we 
 give the proportion, we set the finish. 
 It may be a thing of beauty and of joy 
 forever. God forgive us if we prevent 
 our life from putting on its appointed 
 glor}'. ( Ware. 
 
 I know I am— that simplest bliss 
 The millions of my brothers miss. 
 I know the fortune to be born. 
 Even to the meanest wretch thcv scorn. 
 
 {Bayard Taylor. 
 Our life contains a thousand springs, and dies 
 
 if one be gone ; 
 Strange that a harp of thousand strings 
 Should keep in tune so long. ( Watts. 
 
 I came at morn — 'twas spring. I smiled. 
 
 The fields with green were clad ; 
 I walked abroad at noon,— and lo ! 
 
 'Twas summer, — I wa.i glad ; 
 I sate me down ; 'was autumn eve. 
 
 And I with Badness wept ; 
 I laid me down at night, and then 
 
 'Twas winter, — and I slept. 
 
 {Mary Pyper 
 
814 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 A life in which nothing happens. [Auerbach. 
 
 We live in deeds, not years, 
 
 In thoughts, not breaths ; 
 In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
 We should count time by heart-throbs. 
 He most loves who thinks most, 
 Feels the noblest, acts the best. ( Bailey. 
 
 Our brains are seventy-year clocks. The 
 angel of life winds them up at once for 
 all, then closes the cases, and gives the I 
 key into the hand of the angel of resur- 
 rection. " Tic-tac, tic tac I '' go the wheels I 
 of thought ; our will cannot stop them ; 
 madness only makes them go faster. 
 Death alone can break into the case, 
 and, seizing the ever- swinging pen- 
 dulum which we call the heart, silence 
 at last the clicking of the terrible escape- 
 ment we have carried so long beneath 
 our aching foreheads. {Holmes. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes ; — 
 
 The day but one ; 
 Yet the light of the whole world dies 
 
 With the setting sun. 
 The mind has a thousand eyes — 
 
 The day but one ; 
 Yet the light of the whole world dies 
 
 When love is done. {Anon. 
 
 I love thee, and I feel 
 That on the fountain of my heart a seal 
 Is set to keep its waters pure and bright 
 For thee. {Shelley. 
 
 There is none, 
 In all this cold and hollow world, no fount 
 Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that 
 
 within 
 A mothers heart. {Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 If he be not in love with some woman, there 
 
 is no believing old signs : He brushes his 
 
 hat o' mornings ; What should that bode ? 
 
 {Shakesj^eare. 
 
 He that climbs the tall tree has won right to 
 
 the fruit; 
 He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail in 
 
 his suit. (•'^^^'''■ 
 
 A woman always feels herself complimented 
 by love , though it may be from a man 
 incapable of winning her heart, or per- 
 haps even her esteem. {Abel Stevens. 
 
 If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am 
 not worth the winning. (Longfellow. 
 
 Silence in love betrays more woe 
 
 Than words, though ne'er so witty ; 
 
 A beggar that is dumb you know, 
 May challenge double pity. 
 
 {Sir Waller Raleigh. 
 
 Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 
 'Tis woman's whole existence. {Byron. 
 
 When a man loves a woman, it is of nature : 
 when a woman loves a woman, it is of 
 grace — of the grace that woman makes 
 by her loveliness. {Charles F. Deems. 
 
 They love least, that let men know their 
 love. {Shakespeare. 
 
 A woman cannot love a man she feels to be 
 her inferior; love without veneration 
 and enthusiasm is only friendship. 
 
 {Madame Dudevant. 
 
 The motto of chivalry is also the motto of 
 wisdom ; to serve all and love but one. 
 {Balzac. 
 Alas ! how light a cause may move 
 Dissension between hearts that love ! 
 Hearts that the world in vain had tried, 
 And sorrow but more closely tied ; — 
 That stood the storm when waves were rough. 
 Yet in a sunny hour fall off, — 
 Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
 When heaven was all tranquillity. {Moore. 
 
 Ah, Fool ! faint heart fair lady ne'er could 
 win. [Spenser. 
 
 Pity is akin to love. {Southern 
 
 Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 
 Not the light gossamer stirs with less ; 
 But never a cable that holds so fast 
 Through all the battles of wave and blast. 
 
 [Holmes. 
 All mankind love a lover. {Emerson. 
 
 The presence of those we love makes us com- 
 passionate and generous {Longfellow. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 816 
 
 A pressing lover seldom wants success, 
 Whilst the respectful, like the Greek, sits 
 down 
 
 And wastes a ten years' siege before one 
 town. {liowe. 
 
 Blessed through love are the gods — through 
 love 
 Their bliss to ourselves is given ; 
 Heavenlier through love is the heaven above 
 And love makes the earth a heaven. 
 
 (Schiller. 
 
 jealousy is said to be the offspring of Love. 
 
 Yet, unless the parent makes haste to 
 
 strangle the child, the child will not rest 
 
 till it has poisoned the parent. 
 
 [A. W. Hare. 
 She is coming my own. my sweet ; 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tread, 
 My heart would hear her and beat, 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed : 
 My dust would hear her and beat, 
 
 Had I lain for a century dead; 
 Would start and tremble under her feet. 
 Ana blossom in purple and red. 
 
 { Tennyson. 
 
 Life outweighs all things if Love lies within 
 
 it. [Goethe. 
 
 Love is the emblem of eternity : it confounds 
 all notion of time : effaces all memory of 
 a beginning, all fear of an end. 
 
 {Madame de Sta'el. 
 I do not love thee less for what is done. 
 And cannot be undone Thy very weakness 
 Hath brought thee nearer to me, and hence- 
 forth 
 My love will have a sense of pity in it. 
 Making it less a worship than before. 
 
 (Lonqfellow 
 The fruit that can fall without shaking. 
 Indeed is too mellow for me 
 
 {Lady Montague 
 But he who stems a stream with sand. 
 And fetters flame with flaxen band, 
 Has yet a harder task to prove — 
 By firm resolve to conquer love ! [Scott 
 
 Love is like fire. Wounds of fire are hard to 
 Ota. ; harder still are those of love. \ 
 
 Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. t 
 
 Love is master of all arts. 
 And puts it into human hearts 
 j The strangest things to say and do. 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 Of all the paths that lead to woman's love 
 Pity's the straightest. [Beaumont. 
 
 The strongest, love will instantly make weak ; 
 
 Strike the wise dumb ; and teach the fool to 
 
 speak. [Shakespeare. 
 
 I hold it true, whate'er befall; 
 
 I feel it, when I sorrow most; 
 
 'Tis better to have loved and lost, 
 
 Than never to have loved at all. ( Tennyson. 
 
 We love only partially till we know thor- 
 oughl3^ Grant that a closer acquaint- 
 ance reveals weakness; — it will also dis- 
 close strength. ( Bovee. 
 
 Mysterious love, uncertain treasure. 
 Hast thou more of pain or pleasure ! 
 
 * * * * -x- * * 
 Endless torments dwell about thee : 
 Yet who would live, and live without thee ! 
 
 [Addison. 
 But to see her was to love her. 
 Love but her, and love for ever. ( Burns. 
 
 The heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close. 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he 
 sets. 
 The same look which she turn'd when be 
 rose. [Moore. 
 
 Your love in a cottage is hungry. 
 
 Your vine is a nest for flies— 
 Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, 
 
 And simplicity talks of pies ! 
 You lie down to your shady slumber 
 
 And wake with a bug in your ear, 
 And your damsel that walks in the morning. 
 
 Is shod like a mountaineer. ( ^Fillis. 
 
 Talk not of wasted affection, affection never 
 was wasted ; 
 
 If it enrich not the heart of another, its wa- 
 ters, returning 
 
 Back to their springs, like the rain, shall fill 
 them full of refreshment ; 
 
 That which the fountain sends forth returns 
 again to the fountain. [Longfellow. 
 
816 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Love is a boy by poets styl'd ; 
 
 Then spare the rod and spoil the child. 
 
 [Butler. 
 
 Rugged strength and radiant beauty — 
 These were one in nature's plan ; 
 
 Humble toil and heavenward duty— 
 These will form the perfect man. 
 
 {Sarah J. Hale. 
 
 Men, in general, are but great children. 
 
 {Napoleon. 
 
 He is a man who knows bow to die for his 
 God and his country ; his heart, his lips, 
 his arms, are faithful unto death. 
 
 {Ernest Arndt. 
 
 Lord, we know what we are, but know not 
 what we may be. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Know then thyself, presume not God to scan, 
 The proper study of mankind is man. {Pope. 
 
 No sadder proof can be given by a man of 
 his own littleness than disbelief in great 
 men. {Carlyle. 
 
 Unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ! 
 
 {Daniel. 
 Man is his own star, and that soul that can 
 Be honest is the only perfect man. 
 
 {John Fletcher. 
 It matters not what men assume to be ; 
 Or "ood, or bad, they are but what they are. 
 ( Bailey. 
 heaven ! were man 
 But constant, he were perfect; that one error 
 Fills him with faults. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Before man made us citizens, great 
 Nature made us men. {Lowell. 
 
 A man will be what his most cherished feel- 
 ings are. If he encourage a noble gen- 
 erosity, every feeling will be enriched 
 by it; if he nurse bitter and envenomed 
 thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the 
 poison. {Anon. 
 
 He who hunts for flowers, will find flowers ; 
 and he who loves weeds, may find weeds. 
 {Beecher. 
 
 Men in great place are thrice servants: 
 servants of the sovereign or state; serv- 
 ants of fame ; and servants of business. 
 {Bacon. 
 
 Worth makes the man, and want of it the 
 
 fellow. 
 The rest is all but leather or prunella. (Pope. 
 
 The only competition worthy a wise man, is 
 with himself. {Mrs. Jameson. 
 
 God made him, and therefore let him pass for 
 a man. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Be a philosopher ; but amidst all your phil- 
 osophy — be still a man. {Hume. 
 
 I hold every man a debtor to his profession ; 
 from the which as men of course do seek 
 to receive countenance and profit, so 
 ought they of duty to endeavor them- 
 selves by way of amends to be a help 
 and ornament thereunto. {Bacon. 
 
 The scientific study of man is the most difficult 
 of all branches of knowledge. {Holmes. 
 
 An honest man's the noblest work of God. 
 
 (Pope. 
 
 Man is but a reed, the weakest in nature ; 
 but he is a reed which thinks. The uni- 
 verse need not rise in arms to crush him ; 
 a vapor, a drop of water, suffices to kill 
 him. But were the universe to crush 
 him, man would still be greater than the 
 power which killed him ; for he knows 
 that he dies, and of the advantage which 
 the universe has over him, the universe 
 knows nothing. {Pascal. 
 
 MATRIMONY. 
 As unto the bow the cord is, 
 So unto the man is woman : 
 Though she bends him, she obeys him : 
 Though she draws him, yet she follows ; 
 Useless each without the other ! {Longjcllow. 
 
 God, tlie best maker of all marriages. 
 Combine your hearts in one. {Shakespeare. 
 How much the wife is dearer than the bride. 
 (Lord Lyttlcton. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 817 
 
 Their souls are enlarged forevermore by that 
 union, and they bear one another about 
 in their thoughts continually as it were 
 a new strength. {George Eliot. 
 
 What is there in the vale of life 
 Half so delightful as a wife ; 
 When friendship, love, and peace combine 
 To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? 
 
 ( Cowper. 
 In the election of a wife, as in 
 A project of war, to err but once is 
 To be undone forever. {Middleton. 
 
 But, ye lords of ladies intellectual ! 
 Inform us truly, have they not henpecked 
 
 you all ? {Byron. 
 
 Then come the wild weather, — come sleet or 
 
 come snow. 
 We will stand by each other, however it 
 
 blow ; 
 Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain. 
 Shall be to our true love as links in the chain. 
 {Longfellow. 
 She is mine own ; 
 And I as rich in having such a jewel 
 As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
 The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch in life. 
 The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife. 
 Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
 Who has not sixpence but in her possession ; 
 Who mu.st to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
 Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
 Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
 I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart. 
 
 {Bums. 
 All other goods by Fortune's hand are given. 
 A wife is the peculiar gift of Heaven. {Pope. 
 A wife, domestic, good and pure. 
 Like snail should keep within her door : 
 But not, like snail, with silver track. 
 Place all her wealth upon her back. 
 
 ( W. W. How. 
 
 As the husband is the wife is ; thou art mated 
 
 with a clown. 
 And the grossness of his nature will have 
 
 weight to drag thee down, 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 
 I chose my wife, as she did the wedding 
 gown, for qualities that wear well. 
 
 ( Goldsmith- 
 
 Never marry but for love ; but see that thou 
 lovest what is lovely. ( William Penn. 
 
 She who ne'er answers till a Husband cools, 
 Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules ;' 
 Charms by accepting, by submitting sways, 
 Yet has her humor most, when she obeys. 
 
 (Pope. 
 
 With thee goes 
 
 Thy husband ; him to follow thou art bound ; 
 
 Where he abides, think there thy native soil. 
 
 {Milton. 
 
 The man at the head of the house can mar the 
 
 pleasure of the household ; but he cannot 
 
 make it. That must rest with the woman, 
 
 and it is her greatest privilege. ( Helps. 
 
 Sail forth into the sea of life, 
 gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
 And safe from all adversity 
 Upon the bosom of that sea 
 Thy comings and thy goings be ! 
 For gentleness and love and trust 
 Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 
 And in the wreck of noble lives 
 Something immortal still survives. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 Hail, memory, hail ! in thy exhaustless mine, 
 From age to ageunnumber'd treasures shine! 
 Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, 
 And Place and Time are subject to thy sway! 
 {liogers. 
 Blest 
 Is he whose heart is the home of the great 
 
 dead. 
 And their great thoughts. {Bailey. 
 
 Recollection is the only paradise from which 
 we cannot be turned out. {JRichter. 
 
 Memory, like a purse, if it be over-full that 
 it cannot shut, all will drop out of it; 
 take heed of a gluttonous curiosity to 
 feed on many things, lest the greediness 
 of the appetite of thy memory spoil the 
 digestion thereof. {Fuller. 
 
818 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 The leaves of memory seemed to make 
 
 A mournful rustle in the dark. [Longfellow- 
 
 Tho' lost to sight to mem'ry dear 
 
 Thou ever wilt remain. {Oeo. Linlcy. 
 
 Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, 
 Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden 
 
 chain. 
 Awake but one, and lo ! what myriads rise ! 
 Each stamps its image as the other flies ! 
 
 ( Rogers. 
 To live in hearts we leave behind is not to 
 
 die. ( Thomas Campbell. 
 
 There is a voice from the tomb sweeter than 
 
 song ; there is a remembrance of the 
 
 dead, to which we tu"Vn even from the 
 
 charms of the living. These we would 
 
 not exchange for the song of pleasure or 
 
 the bursts of revelry. 
 
 [Irving. 
 I have a room whereinto no one enters 
 
 Save I myself alone ; 
 There sits a blessed memory on a throne, 
 
 There my life centres. 
 
 [Christina O. Rosetti. 
 The heart hath its own memory, like the 
 
 mind, 
 And in it are enshrined 
 The precious keepsakes into which is wrought 
 The giver's loving thought. [Longfellow. 
 
 Long, long be my heart with sweet memories 
 
 fiU'd ! 
 Like the vase in which roses have once been 
 
 distill'd ; 
 You may break, you may shatter the vase if 
 
 you will, 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it 
 
 still. [Moore. 
 
 MERCY. 
 The quality of mercy is not strained ; 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven. 
 Upon the place beneath ; it is twice bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 
 [Shakespeare. 
 He that cannot forgive others, breaks the 
 bridge over which he must pass himself; 
 for every man has need to be forgiven. 
 
 {Lbrd Herbert. | 
 
 The greatest attribute of Heaven is mercy. 
 
 [Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 A merely fallen enemy may rise again, but 
 the reconciled one is truly vanquished. 
 [Schiller. 
 Forgiveness to the injured does belong. 
 But they ne'er pardon who have done the 
 wrong. [Dry den. 
 
 Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? 
 Draw near tliem then in being merciful 
 Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge. 
 
 [Shakespeare. 
 Good-nature and good-sense must ever join; 
 To err is human, to forgive, divine. [Pope. 
 
 For 'tis sweet to stammer one letter 
 Of the Eternal's language; — on earth it is 
 called Forgiveness! [Longfellow. 
 
 His heart was as great as the world, but there 
 was no room in it to hold the memory 
 of a wrong. [Emerson. 
 
 The more we know, the better we forgive. 
 Whoe'er feels deejilj-, feels for all who live. 
 
 [Madame de Stael. 
 God ! how beautiful the thought. 
 How merciful the blessed decree, 
 That grace can e'er be found, when sought. 
 And naught shut out the soul from Thee ! 
 [Eliza Cook. 
 Then, everlasting Love, restrain thy will : 
 'Tis god-like to have power, but not to kill. 
 
 [Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, 
 Let us be merciful as well as just ! 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 Teach me to feel another's woe, 
 
 To hide the fault I see ; 
 That mercy I to others show. 
 That mercy show to me. [Pope. 
 
 MUSIC. 
 Music is the inarticulate speech of the heart, 
 which cannot be compressed into words, 
 because it is infinite. ( Wagner. 
 
 Of all the arts, great music is the art 
 To raise the soul above all earthly storms. 
 
 [Leland. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 819 
 
 Music sweeps by me as a messenger carrying 
 a message that is not for me. 
 
 (George Eliot. 
 God is its author, and not man ; he laid 
 The key-note of all harmonies ; he planned 
 All perfect combinations, and he made 
 Us so that we could hear and understand. 
 
 (i/. O. Brainard. 
 Music is the universal language of mankind. 
 (Longfellow. 
 Soft is the music that would charm forever. 
 
 ( Wordiworth. 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes look d love to eyes which spake 
 
 again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage bell. 
 
 (Byron. 
 The man that hath no music in his soul, 
 Nor is not moved by concord of sweet sounds, 
 Is fit for treason, stratagem and spoils. 
 Let no such man be trusted. (Shakespeare. 
 
 The song on its mighty pinions 
 Took every living soul, and lifted it gently 
 to heaven. (Longfellow. 
 
 See deep enough, and you see musically ; the 
 heart of Nature being everywhere music, 
 if you can only reach it. (Carlyle. 
 
 There is no feeling, perhaps, except the ex- 
 tremes of fear and grief, that does not 
 find relief in music — that does not make 
 a man sing or play the better. 
 
 ( Oeorge Eliot. 
 The Father spake! In grand reverberations 
 Through space rolled on the mighty music 
 tide, 
 While to its low, majestic modulations. 
 The clouds of chaos slowly swept aside. 
 ***** 
 And wheresoever, in his rich creation, 
 
 Sweet music breathes — in wave, or bird, or 
 soul — 
 'Tis but the faint and far reverberation 
 Of that great tune to which the planets roll! 
 (Frances S. Osgood. 
 What martial music is to marching men, 
 Should song be to humanity. 
 
 (Alexander Smith. 
 
 I am never merry when I hear sweet music. 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
 I have a passion for ballads They 
 
 are the gypsy-children of song, born 
 under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes 
 and by-paths of literature — in the genial 
 Summer-time. (Longfellow. 
 
 The gift of song was chiefly lent. 
 To give consoling music for the joys 
 We lack, and not for those which we possess. 
 (Bayard Taylor. 
 
 Better to have the poet's heart than brain, 
 Feeling than song ; but better far than both, 
 To be a song, a music of God's making. 
 
 ( George MacBonald. 
 God sent bis Singers upon earth 
 With songs of sadness and of mirth. 
 That they might touch the hearts of men, 
 And bring them back to Heaven again. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 Let me die to the sounds of delicious mu.«ic. 
 (Last words of AEraheau. 
 
 Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, 
 to soften rocks, and bend the knotted 
 oak. [Congreve 
 
 He is dead, the sweet musician! 
 ***** 
 He has moved a little nearer 
 To the Master of all music. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 
 Sentimentally, I am disposed to harmony, 
 But organically I am incapable of a tune. 
 
 (Lamh. 
 Such music (as, 'tis said,) 
 Before was never made. 
 
 But when of old tlie sons of morning sung. 
 While the Creator great 
 His constellations set, 
 
 And the well-balanc'd world on hingps 
 hung. (Milton. 
 
 Sweetest the strain when in the song 
 The singer has been lost. 
 
 (Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. 
 
 Dischord ofte in musick makes the sweeter 
 lay. (Spenser. 
 
820 
 
 GEAIS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 'Tis God gives skill, 
 But not without men's hands : He could not 
 
 make 
 Antonio Stradivari's violins 
 Without Antonio. {George Eliot. 
 
 Heaven's thunders melt 
 In music ! {John Hookham Frere. 
 
 Music washes away from the soul the dust of 
 every-day life. {Auerbach. 
 
 Yea, music is the Prophet's art ; 
 Among the gifts that God hath sent, 
 One of the most magnificent ! 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 Rich celestial music thrilled the air 
 From hosts on hosts of shining ones, who 
 
 thronged 
 Eastward and westward, making bright the 
 night. {Edwin Arnold. 
 
 Music tells no truths. {Bailey. 
 
 Music resembles Poetry ; in each 
 
 Are nameless graces which no methods teach. 
 
 And which a master-hand alone can reach. 
 
 {Pope. 
 Song forbids victorious deeds to die. 
 
 {Schiller. 
 
 Music is the art of the prophets, the only art 
 that can calm the agitations of the soul ; 
 it is one of the most magnificent and de- 
 lightful presents God has given us. 
 
 {Luther. 
 
 There is music in all things, if men had ears. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 The meaning of song goes deep. Who is 
 
 there that, in logical words, can express 
 
 the effect music has on us? A kind of 
 
 inarticulate, unfathomable speech, which 
 
 leads us to the edge of the infinite, and 
 
 lets us for moments gaze into that 
 
 {Carlyle. 
 
 Nature, the vicar of the almightie Lord. 
 
 ( Chaucer. 
 Go forth under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings. {Bryant. 
 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 ( Coleridge. 
 
 Earth has built the great watch-towers of the 
 mountains, amd they lift their heads far 
 up into the sky, and gaze ever upward 
 and around to see if the Judge of the 
 World comes not ! .{Longfellow. 
 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains ; 
 
 They crown'd him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. 
 
 With a diadem of snow. {Byron. 
 
 Nothing in nature is unbeautiful. {Tennyson. 
 
 Art may err, but nature cannot miss. 
 
 {Dry den. 
 
 One touch of nature makes the whole world 
 
 kin. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Two voices are there ; one is of the sea. 
 One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice. 
 ( Wordsworth. 
 Accuse not Nature, she hath done her part ; 
 Do thou but thine ! {Milton. 
 
 Nature's great law, and law of all men's 
 
 minds ? — 
 To its own impulse every creature stirs ; 
 Live by thy light, and earth will live by her's? 
 {Matthew Arnold. 
 The course of nature is the art of God. 
 
 ( Young. 
 To him who in the love of nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she 
 
 A various language. {Bryant. 
 
 So nature deals with us, and takes away 
 
 Our playthings one by one, and by the 
 
 hand 
 Leads us to rest so gently, that we go, 
 Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 
 Being too full of sleep to understand 
 How far the unknown transcends the 
 what we know. {Longfellow. 
 
 OCEAN. 
 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. {Byron. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 821 
 
 I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
 But I loved the great sea more and more. 
 
 {Barry Cornwall. 
 Distinct as the billows, yet one as the sea 
 
 [Montgomery. 
 The sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! 
 The blue, the fre?h, the ever free ! 
 
 {Barry Cornwall. 
 The sea is flowing ever, 
 The land retains it never. {Goethe. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society where none intrudes, 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar. 
 
 {Byron. 
 Praise the sea, but keep on land. {Herbert. 
 
 The sea is silent, the sea is discreet, 
 
 Deep it lies at thy very feet. {Longfellow. 
 
 Mystery of waters, — never slumbering sea ! 
 
 {Montgomery. 
 Why does the sea moan evermore ? 
 Shut out from heaven it makes its moan, 
 It frets against the boundary shore ; 
 All earth's full rivers cannot fill 
 The sea, that drinking thirsteth still. 
 
 {Christina O. Eosetti. 
 
 Love the sea? I dote upon it — from the 
 
 beach. {Douglas Jerrold. 
 
 The ocean's surfy, slow, deep, mellow voice, 
 full of mystery and awe, moaning over 
 the dead it holds in its bosom, or lulling 
 them to unbroken slumbers in the cham- 
 bers of its vasty depths {Halihurton. 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
 Who never to himself hath said , 
 This is my own, my native land ! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turn'd. 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
 
 {Scott. 
 America ! half-brother of the world ! 
 With something good and bad of every land ! 
 {Bailey. 
 
 Where the coward that would not dare to 
 fight for such a land ! [Scott. 
 
 England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, 
 My country ! and, while yet a nook is left 
 Where English mind and manners may be 
 
 found. 
 Shall be constraint to love thee. {Cowper. 
 
 Our country ! In her intercourse with foreign 
 nations, may she always be in the right ! 
 but our country, right or wrong. 
 
 {Stephen Decatur. 
 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
 
 Immortal, though no more; though fallen, 
 great ! {Byron. 
 
 We join ourselves to no party that does not 
 carry the flag and keep step to the music 
 of the Union. {Eufus Choate_ 
 
 Wake in our breasts the living fires. 
 The holy faith that warmed our sires; 
 Thy hand hath made our Nation free ; 
 To die for her is serving Thee. {Holmes. 
 
 The patriot boasts, where'er he roam. 
 
 His first, best country, ever is at home. 
 
 {Goldsmith. 
 Sweet the memory is to me 
 Of a land beyond the sea, 
 Where the waves and mountains meet 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 
 Our countrj'— whether bounded by the St. 
 John's and the Sabine, or however other- 
 wise bounded or described, and be the 
 measurements more or less ; — still our 
 country, to be cherished in all our hearts, 
 to be defended by all our hands. 
 
 [Bobt. C. Winthrop. 
 
 National enthusiasm is the gi eat nursery of 
 genius. ( Tuckermnn. 
 
 Had I a dozen sons, — each in my love alike, 
 
 — I had rather have eleven die nobly for 
 
 their countr}', than one voluptuously 
 
 surfeit out of action. ( Shaln^pcare. 
 
 Be England what she will, 
 
 With all her faults she is my country still, 
 
 [Churchill. 
 I was born in America ; I live an American ; 
 I shall die an American. 
 
 {Daniel Webster. 
 
822 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 My dear, my native soil ! 
 For whom my warmest wish to lleav'n is 
 
 sent ! 
 Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
 Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
 
 content. {Burns. 
 
 America is a fortunate country. She grows 
 by the follies of our European nations. 
 
 ( Napoleon. 
 Thus, too, sail on, ship of State ! 
 Sail on, Union, strong and great! 
 Humanity with all its fears. 
 With all the hopes of future years, 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 Let our object be, our country, our whole 
 country, and nothing but our country. 
 (Daniel Webster. 
 My country, 'tis of thee. 
 Sweet land of liberty, — 
 
 Of thee I sing: 
 Land where my fathers died, 
 Land of the pilgrim's pride, 
 From every mountain's side 
 
 Let freedom ring. [Saml. F. Smith. 
 
 PEACE AND WAR. 
 Peace hath her victories 
 No less renowned than war. (Milton. 
 How calm, how beautiful comes on 
 The stilly hour, when storms are gone. 
 
 (Moore. 
 O for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
 Some boundless contiguity of shade; 
 Where rumor of oppression and deceit 
 Of unsuccessful or successful war 
 Might never reach me more. (Cowper. 
 
 War! that mad game the world so loves to 
 play. (Swift. 
 
 Let the bugles sound the Truce of God to the 
 whole world forever. (Charles Sumner. 
 
 Peace the offspring is of Power. 
 
 (Bayard Taylor. 
 
 War, War is still the cry, " War to the knife." 
 
 (Byroji. 
 
 The combat deepens. On ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory or the grave ! 
 Wave Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
 And charge with all thy chivalry. 
 
 ( Campbell. 
 What though the field be lost ! 
 All is not lost — the unconquerable will. 
 And study of revenge, immortal hate. 
 And courage never to submitbr yield : 
 And what is else not to be overcome. 
 
 ( Milton. 
 'Tis a principle of war that when you can use 
 the lightning, 'tis better than cannon. 
 
 (Napoleon. 
 
 Peace is the happy, natural state of man ; war 
 his corruption, his disgrace. { Thomson. 
 
 I am a man of peace. God knows how I love 
 peace. But I hope I shall never be such 
 a coward as to mistake oppression for 
 peace. (Kossuth- 
 
 All delays are dangerous in war. (Dry den. 
 
 To be prepared for war is one of the most 
 effectual ways of preserving peace. 
 
 (George Washington. 
 Nothing except a battle lost can be half so 
 melancholy as a battle won. 
 
 (Duke of Wellington, 
 One to destroy, is murder hy the law ; 
 And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe ; 
 To murder thousands, takes a specious name, 
 War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame. 
 ( Young. 
 As on the sea of Galilee, 
 The Christ is whispering "Peace." 
 
 ( Whittier. 
 
 A song for our banner ? The watchword re- 
 call 
 
 Which gave the Republic her station ; 
 
 " United we stand — divided we fall !'' 
 
 It made and preserves us a nation ! ' 
 
 (George P. Morris. 
 
 We love peace as we abhor pusillanimity ; 
 but not peace at any price. There is a 
 peace more destructive of the manhood 
 of living man than war is destructive of 
 his material body. Chains are worse 
 than bayonets. (Douglas Jerrold. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 823 
 
 Buried was the bloody hatchet ; 
 Buried was the dreadful war-club ; 
 Buried were all warlike weapons, 
 And the war-cry was forgotten ; 
 Then was peace among the nations. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 For voices pursue hira by day 
 And haunt him by night, — 
 And he listens, and needs must obey, 
 When the angel says — " Write ! " 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 
 And, when a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
 The Thing became a trumpet ; whence he 
 
 blew 
 Soul-animating strains, — alas ! too few. 
 
 ( Wordsworth. 
 Poesy is of so,subtle a spirit, that in the pour- 
 ing out of one language into another it 
 will evaporate. {Denham. 
 
 Poetry is something to make us wiser and 
 better, by continually revealing those 
 types of beauty and truth which God 
 has set in all men's souls. (Lowell. 
 
 It does not need that a poem should be long. 
 Every word was once a poem. {Emerson. 
 
 A poet not in love is out at sea ; 
 
 He must have a lay-figure. {Bailey. 
 
 Like the river, swift and clear. 
 Flows his song through many a heart, 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 Poetry is itself a thing of God ; 
 He made His prophets poets ; and the more 
 We feel of poesie do we become 
 Like God in love and power, — under-makers. 
 {Bailey. 
 Superstition is the poesy of life, so that it does 
 not injure a poet to be superstitious. 
 
 ( Ooethe. 
 Poetry is music in words, and music is poetry j 
 in sound ; both excellent sauce, but they ' 
 have lived and died poor that made ihem 
 their moat. {FulUr. 
 
 Poetrv is the music of the soul, and above 
 all of groat and feeling souls. ( Voltaire. 
 5n 
 
 " Give me a theme," a little poet cried, 
 
 " And I will do my pari," 
 " 'Tis not a theme you need," the world re- 
 plied ; 
 " You need a heart." {Gilder. 
 
 There is no such thing as a dumb poet or a 
 handless painter. The ei<sence of an 
 artist is that he should be articulate. 
 
 {Swinburne. 
 Three poets in three distant ages born, 
 Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. 
 The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd, 
 The next, in majesty, in borh, the last. 
 The force of nature could no further go : 
 To make a third, she join'd the former two. 
 
 {Dry den. 
 Next to being a great poet is the power of 
 understanding one! {Longfellow. 
 
 Never did Poesy appear 
 So full of heaven to me, as when 
 I saw how it would pierce through pride and 
 fear 
 To the lives of coarsest men. {Lowell. 
 
 I do loves poetry, sir, 'specially the sacred. 
 For there be summut in it 
 . which smooths a man's heart 
 like a clothes brush, wipes away the dust 
 and dirt, and sets all the nap right. 
 
 {Bulwer-Lytton. 
 All that is best in the great poets of all coun- 
 tries is not what is national in them, but 
 what is universal. {Longfellow. 
 
 Why did I write? what sin to me unknown 
 Dipt' me in ink, my parents' or my own? 
 As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, 
 I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 . PRAYER. 
 Father of life and light ! Thou Good Supreme ! 
 
 Save me from folly, vanity and vice. 
 From every low pursuit! and feed my soul 
 With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue 
 
 pure: 
 Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss ! 
 
 ( Thomson. 
 
824 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 The greatest prayer is patience. {Buddha. 
 
 Let prayer be the key of the morning, and 
 the bolt of the eyemng.{ Matthew Henry. 
 
 Every wish 
 Is like a prayer— with God. {E. B. Browning. 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, 
 
 Uttered or unexpressed, 
 
 The motion of a hidden fire 
 
 That trembles in the breast. {Montgomery. 
 
 The saints will aid if men will call : 
 
 For the blue sky bends over all. {Coleridge. 
 
 And Satan trembles when he sees 
 
 The weakest saint upon his knees. {Cowper. 
 
 Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 
 But a sinner must pray for himself. 
 
 {Charles M. Dickinson. 
 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 world is every way 
 Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
 ( Tennyson. 
 Be not afraid to pray — to pray is right. 
 Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever 
 
 pray, 
 Though hope be weak or sick with long delay ; 
 Pray in the darkness, if there be no light. 
 
 {Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 They never sought in vain that sought the 
 
 Lord aright! {Bums. 
 
 So have I dreamed !— Oh, may the dream be 
 
 true ! — 
 That praying souls are purged from mortal 
 
 hue. 
 And grow as pure as He to whom they pray, 
 {Hartley Coleridge. 
 He prayeth best who loveth best 
 All creatures great and small, 
 For the dear God who loveth us, 
 
 He made and loveth all. {Coleridge. 
 
 Prayer moves the hand which moves the 
 world. {John Aikman Wallace. 
 
 READING. 
 'Tis the good reader that makes the good 
 book ; a good head cannot read amiss ; in 
 every book he finds passages which seem 
 confidences or asides hidden from all else, 
 and unmistakably meant for his ear. 
 
 {Emerson. 
 
 The man who is fond of books is usually a 
 man of lofty thought and of elevated 
 opinions. {Dawson. 
 
 We should accustom the mind to keep the 
 best company by introducing it only to 
 the best books. {Sydney Smith. 
 
 Resolve to edge in a little reading every day, 
 if it is but a single sentence. If you gain 
 fifteen minutes a day, it will make itself 
 felt at the end of the year. 
 
 {Horace Mann. 
 
 Read not to contradict and confute, nor to 
 believe and take for granted, nor to find 
 talk and discourse, but to weigh and con- 
 sider. {Bacon. 
 
 The first time I read an excellent book, it is 
 to me just as if I had gained a new 
 friend: when I read over a book I have 
 perused before, it resembles the meeting 
 with an old one. {Goldsmith. 
 
 Learn to read slow ; all other graces 
 
 Will follow in their proper places. 
 
 {Wm. Walker. 
 
 If we encountered a man of rare intellect, we 
 should ask him what books he read. 
 
 {Emerson. 
 
 If I were to pray for a taste which would 
 stand by me under every variety of 
 circumstances, and be a source of hap- 
 piness and cheerfulness to me through 
 life it would be a taste for reading. 
 
 {Hcrschcl. 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 They serve God well 
 Who serve his creatures. 
 
 {Xorton. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GIIEAT THINKERS. 
 
 825 
 
 All the glory and beauty of Christ are mani- 
 fested within, and there he delights to 
 dwell ; his visits there are frequent, his 
 condescension amazing, his conversations 
 sweet, his comforts refreshing ; and the 
 peace that he brings passelh all under- 
 standing. ( Thomas d Kempis. 
 
 The consciousness of faith, of sins forgiven, 
 Of wrath appeased, of heavy guilt thrown off, 
 Sheds on my breast its long forgotten peace, 
 And shining steadfast as the noonday sun, 
 Lights me along the path that duty marks. 
 
 (L. J. Hall. 
 Who falls for love of God, shall rise a star. 
 
 {Ben Jonson. 
 A religious life is a struggle and not a hymn. 
 {Madame de Sta'el. 
 Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal 
 I serv'd my king, he would not in my age 
 Have left me naked to mine enemies. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Man always worships something ; always he 
 sees the Infinite shadowed forth in some- 
 thing finite; and indeed can and must so 
 see it in any finite thing, once tempt him 
 well to keep his eyes thereon. {Carlyle. 
 What greater calamity can fall upon a nation 
 than the loss of worship. {Emerson. 
 
 Persecution is a bad and indirect Way to plant 
 religion. {Sir TJiomas Browne. 
 
 Eeligious contention is the devil's harvest. 
 
 {La Fontaine. 
 
 If men are so wicked with religion, what 
 
 would they be without it ? {Franklin. 
 
 Keligion rests on its own majesty. {Goethe. 
 
 Christians have burned each other, quite per- 
 suaded 
 
 That all the Apostles would have done as 
 they did. {Byron. 
 
 The higher a man is in grace, the lower he 
 will be in his own esteem. {Spurgeon. 
 
 Religion is the best armor in the world, but 
 the worst cloak. {Bunyan. 
 
 Men will wrangle for religion ; write for it ; 
 fight for it ; die for it ; anything but — 
 live for it. (C. C. Colton. 
 
 The body of all true religion consists, to be 
 sure, in obedience to the will of the 
 Sovereign of the world, in a confidence 
 in His declarations, and in imitation of 
 His perfections. {Burke. 
 
 Who best 
 Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. 
 
 His state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest. 
 They also serve who only stand and wait. 
 
 {Mlton. 
 
 Who builds a church to God, and not to 
 
 Fame 
 Will never mark the marble with his Name. 
 
 {Pope. 
 She (the Roman Catholic Church) may still 
 exist in undiminished vigor, when some 
 traveler from New Zealand shall, in the 
 midst of a vast solitude, take his stand 
 on a broken arch of London Bridge to 
 sketch the ruins of St. Paul's. 
 
 {ilacaulay. 
 
 Wherever God erects a house of prayer. 
 The devil always builds a chapel there. 
 
 {De/oe. 
 
 G— knows I'm no the thing I should be, 
 Nor am I even the thing I could be 
 But twenty times I rather would be 
 
 An atheist clean. 
 Than under gospel colors hid be 
 
 Just for a screen. {Bums. 
 
 God never gave man a Ihing to do concern- 
 ing which it were irreverent to ponder 
 how the Son of God would have done it. 
 ( George MacDonald. 
 
 A little philosopliy inclineth a man's mind 
 to atheism, but depth in philosophy 
 bringeth men's minds about to religion. 
 ( Bacon. 
 
 Morality without religion is only a kind of 
 dead reckoning,— an endeavor to find 
 our place on a cloudy sea by measuring 
 the distance we have run, but without 
 any observation of the heavenly bodies. 
 {Longfellow. 
 
826 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Rather let my head stoop to the block than 
 these knees bow to any save the God of 
 heaven. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Then come, O fresh spring airs, once more 
 
 Create the old delightful things, 
 And woo the frozen world again 
 
 With hints of heaven upon your wings ! 
 
 {Harriett Prescott Spofford. 
 
 I come, I come ! ye have call'd me long, 
 
 I come o'er the mountain with light and song : 
 
 Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening 
 
 earth, 
 By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, 
 By the primrose stars in the shadowy gra.'^s, 
 By the green leaves, opening as I pass. 
 
 [Mrs. Hemans. 
 Spring is a beautiful piece of work, and not 
 to be in the country to see it done is the 
 not realizing what glorious masters we 
 are, and how cheerfully, minutely, and 
 uuflaggingly the fair fingers of the sea- 
 son broider the world for us. ( Willis. 
 
 In the wood, the verdure'.s shooting, 
 
 Joy-oppress'd, like some fair maiden ; 
 Yet the sun laughs sweetly downward : 
 
 "Welcome, young spring, rapture-laden!" 
 {Heine. 
 Came the spring with all its splendor. 
 All its birds and all its blossoms. 
 All its flowers and leaves and grasses. 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 Youth of the year ! celestial spring ! 
 
 Again descend thy silent showers ; 
 New loves, new pleasures dost thou bring. 
 
 And earth again looks gay with flowers. 
 
 ( Thomas Love Peacock. 
 
 Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the 
 
 laughing soil. (Heber. 
 
 Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, 
 Bock'd in the cradle of the western breeze. 
 
 ( Cowper. 
 
 Thus came the lovely spring with a rush of 
 
 blossoms and music ; 
 Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air 
 
 with melodies vernal. [Longfellow. 
 
 Starred forget-me-nots smile sweetly. 
 
 Ring, blue-bells, ring ! 
 Winning eye and heart completely, 
 
 Sing, robin, sing ! 
 All among the reeds and rushes, 
 Where the brook its music hushes, 
 Bright the calopogon blushes, — 
 
 Laugh, murmuring Spring. 
 
 [Sara'h F. Davis. 
 
 Every tear is answered by a blossom. 
 
 Every sigh with songs and laughter blent 
 
 Apple-blooms upon the breezes toss them. 
 April knows her own, and is content. 
 
 [Susan Coolidge. 
 
 They'll come again to the apple tree — 
 
 Robin and all the rest — 
 When the orchard branches are fair to see 
 
 In the snow of the blossoms dressed, 
 And the prettiest thing in the world will be 
 
 The building of the nest. 
 
 [Margaret E. Sangster. 
 
 In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon 
 the robin's breast ; 
 
 In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets him- 
 self another crest ; 
 
 In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the 
 burnish'd dove ; 
 
 In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly 
 turns to thoughts of love. ( Tennyson. 
 
 Sweet is the air with the budrling haws. 
 
 And the valley stretching for miles below 
 
 Is white with blossoming cherry-trees. 
 As if covered with the lightest snow. 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 
 All green and fair the Summer lies, 
 
 Just budded from the bud of Spring, 
 
 With tender blue of wistful skies, 
 And winds which softly sing. 
 
 ( Susan Coolidge. 
 
 From brightening fields of ether, fair dis- 
 closed, 
 
 Child of the Sun, refulgent Summer comes ; 
 
 In pride of youth, and felt through nature's 
 depth, 
 
 He comes, attended by the sultry Hours, 
 
 And ever-fanning breezes, on his way. 
 
 [ Thomson. 
 
LlVINPr THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 827 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 
 Then, if ever, come perfect days; 
 Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, 
 And over it softly her warm ear lays. 
 
 {Lowell. 
 summer day beside the joyous sea ! 
 summer day so wonderful and white, 
 So full of gladness and so full of pain ! 
 Forever and forever shalt thou be 
 To some the gravestone of a dead delight, 
 To some the landmark of a new domain. 
 
 (Lonf/Jellou:. 
 The full ripe corn is bending 
 
 In waves of golden light; 
 The new-mown hay is sending 
 
 Its sweets upon the night; 
 The breeze is softly sighing, 
 
 Too cool the parched flowers ; 
 The rain, to see them dying, 
 
 Weeps forth its gentle showers; 
 The merry fish are playing, 
 
 Adown yon crystal stream ; 
 
 And night from day is straying, 
 
 As twilight gives its gleam. 
 
 {Thovias J. Ouseley. 
 It's surely summer, for there's a swallow : 
 Come one swallow, his mate will follow, 
 The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken. 
 [Christina G- Rosetti. 
 
 The sky 
 Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder. 
 In clouds that seem approaching fast, and 
 
 show 
 In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
 
 {Byron. 
 
 Heat, ma'am ! it was so dreadful here that I 
 
 found there was nothing left for it but 
 
 to take oflf my flesh and sit in my bones. 
 
 {Sydney Smith. 
 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 After the dust and heat, 
 In the broad and fiery street, 
 How beautiful is the rain ! 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 The lands are lit 
 With all the autumn blaze of Golden Rod ; 
 And everywhere the Purple Asters nod 
 And bend and wave and flit. {Helen Hunt. 
 
 From all the misty morning air, there comes 
 
 a summer sound, 
 A murmur as of waters from skies, and trees 
 
 and ground. 
 The birds they sing upon the wing, the 
 pigeons bill and coo. (E. W. G%lder. 
 Grieve, ye autumn winds! 
 
 Summer lies low ; 
 The rose's trembling leaves will soon be shed, 
 For she that loved her so, alas ! is dead, 
 And one by one her loving children go. 
 
 {Adelaide A. Procter. 
 I love to wander through the woodlands 
 hoary 
 In the soft light of an autumnal day, 
 When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, 
 And like a dream of beauty glides away. 
 {Sarah Helen Whitman. 
 The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it 
 brought to the fields the prodigality of 
 the golden harvest,— to the forest, reve- 
 lations of light, and to the sky, the sharp 
 air, the morning mist, the red clouds of 
 evening. {Longfellow. 
 
 Now Autumn's fire burns slow along the 
 
 woods, 
 And day by day the dead leaves fall and 
 
 melt, 
 And night by night the monitory blast 
 Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd 
 O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, 
 Or grim wide wave ; and now the power is 
 
 felt 
 Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods 
 Than any joy indulgent summer dealt. 
 
 ( William Allingham. 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest 
 
 of the year, 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
 meadows brown and sear. {Bryant. 
 There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
 Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
 And, from a beaker full of richest dyes. 
 Pouring new glory on the autumn woods. 
 And dripping in warm light the pillared 
 clouds. (Longfellow. 
 
 The trees in the autnmn wind rustle. 
 The night is humid and cold. {Heine. 
 
828 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 The morrow was a bright September morn; 
 The earth was beautiful as if new-born ; 
 There was that nameless splendor everywhere, 
 That wild exhilaration in the air, 
 Which makes the passers in the city street 
 Congratulate each other as they meet. 
 
 ( Longfellow- 
 
 The wind moans like a long wail from some 
 
 despairing soul shut out in the awful 
 
 storm ! ( W. Hamilton Oibson. 
 
 I love that moaning music which I hear 
 
 In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul 
 
 Seems gathering tidmgs from another sphere. 
 
 [Barry Cornwall. 
 
 "When shrieked 
 The bleak November winds, and smote the 
 
 woods, 
 And the brown fields were herbless, and the 
 
 shades 
 That met above the merry rivulet. 
 Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still ; 
 
 they seemed 
 Like old companions in adversity. [Bryant. 
 
 Dry leaves upon the wall, 
 
 Which flap like rustling wings and seek 
 escape, 
 
 A single frosted cluster on the grape 
 Still hangs — and that is all. [Susan Coolidge. 
 
 Lastly came Winter, cloathed all in frize. 
 Chattering his teeth for cold that did him 
 
 chill ; 
 Whils't on his hoary beard his breath did 
 
 And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill 
 As from a limebeck did adown distill : 
 In his right hand a tipped staffe he held. 
 With which his feeble steps he stayed still : 
 For he was faint with cold, and weak with 
 
 eld; 
 That scarce his loosed limbes he hable was to 
 
 weld. [Spenser. 
 
 Where, twisted round the barren oak. 
 The summer vine in beauty clung, 
 
 And summer winds the stillness broke, 
 
 The crystal icicle is hung. (Longfellow. 
 
 The frost looked forth one still clear night. 
 
 (Hannah F. Gould. 
 
 His breath like silver arrows pierced the air, 
 The naked earth crouched shuddering at his 
 
 feet. 
 His finger on all flowing waters sweet 
 Forbidding lay— motion nor sound was 
 
 there : — 
 Nature was frozen dead, -and still and slow, 
 A winding sheet fell o'er her body fair. 
 Flaky and soft, from his wide wings oi snow. 
 [Frances Anne Kemhle. 
 
 Winter! ruler of th' inverted year, 
 
 1 crown thee king of intimate delights; 
 Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness. 
 And all the comforts that the lowly roof 
 C>f undisturb'd Retirement, and the hours 
 Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know. 
 
 ( Cowpcr. 
 Oh poverty is disconsolate! — 
 Its pains are many, its foes are strong; 
 The rich man in his jovial cheer, 
 Wishes 'twas winter through the year; 
 The poor man 'mid his wants profound, 
 With all his little children round. 
 
 Prays God that winter be not long ! 
 
 [Mary Howitt. 
 Shout now ! The months with loud acclaim. 
 Take up the cry and send it forth ; 
 May, breathing sweet her Spring perfumes, 
 November thundering from the North, 
 With hands upraised, as with one voice, 
 They join their notes in grand accord; 
 Hail to December! say they all. [Hoyt. 
 
 I heard the bells on Christmas Day 
 Their old, familiar carols play. 
 
 And wild and sweet 
 
 The words repeat 
 Of peace on earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
 The bird of dawning singeth all night long: 
 And then, they say, no spirit can walk abroad ; 
 The nights are wholesome ; then no planets 
 
 strike. 
 No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to 
 
 charm, 
 j So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. 
 
 (Shakespeare. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 829 
 
 England was merry England, when 
 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale ; 
 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
 A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
 The poor man's heart through half the year. 
 
 {Scott. 
 
 We ring the bells and we raise the strain, 
 We hang up garlands everywhere 
 And bid the tapers twinkle fair, 
 ' And feast and frolic — and then we go 
 Back to the same old lives again. 
 
 {Susan Coolidge. 
 Out of the bosom of the air, 
 
 Out of the cloud-folds of her garments 
 shaken, 
 Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
 Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
 Silent, and soft and slow 
 Descends the snow. {Longfellow. 
 
 Through the hushed air the whitening shower 
 
 descends, 
 At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes 
 Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the 
 
 day 
 With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
 Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
 'Tis brightness all ; save where the new snow 
 
 melts 
 Along the mazy current. ( Thomson. 
 
 Silently, like thoughts that come and go, the 
 snow flakes fall, each one a gem. 
 
 ( W. Hamilton Gibson. 
 
 How beautiful it was, falling so silently, all 
 day long, all night long, on the moun- 
 tains, on the meadows, on the roofs of 
 the living, on the graves of the dead. 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 Stand here by ray side ami tnrn, I pray, 
 
 On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; 
 The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 
 
 And dark and silent the water lies ; 
 And out ol that frozen mist the snow 
 In wavering flakes begins to flow. 
 Flake after flake 
 They sink in the dark and silent lake. 
 
 {Bryant. 
 
 Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
 Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, 
 Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air 
 Hides hills and woods, the river, and the 
 
 heaven, 
 And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end^ 
 {Emerson. 
 The silent falling of the snow is to me one 
 of the most solemn things in nature. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 Up rose the wild old winter-king, 
 
 And shook his beard of snow ; 
 " I hear the first young hare-bell ring, 
 'Tis time for nie to go ! 
 
 Northward o'er the icy rocks, 
 Northward o'er the sea. 
 My daughter comes with sunny locks: 
 
 This land's too warm for me !'' {Leland. 
 
 SIN. 
 
 I could not live in peace if I put the shadow 
 of a wilful sin between myself and God. 
 {George Eliot. 
 Man-like is it to fall into sin. 
 Fiend-like is it to dwell therein, 
 Christ-like is it for sin to grieve, 
 God-like is it all sin to leave. {Longfellow. 
 
 Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind ; 
 The thief doth fear each bush an officer. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 He who does evil that good may come, pays 
 
 a toll to the devil to let him into heaven. 
 
 (.1. W. Hare. 
 
 Duly advis'd, the coming evil shun : 
 Better not do the deed, than weep it done. 
 
 {Prior. 
 Vice is a monster of .<;o frightful mien. 
 As, to be hated, needs but to be seen ; 
 Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face. 
 We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 We do not despise all those who have Vices, 
 but we despise all those who have not a 
 single Virtue. ( Rochefoucauld. 
 
 Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of 
 light {Shakespeare. 
 
iO 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 That is the bitterest of all, — to wear the yoke 
 of our own wrong-doing. [George Eliot. 
 
 Where lives the man that has not tried, 
 How mirth can into folly glide, 
 
 And folly into sin ? {Scott. 
 
 ■ How guilt once harbor'd in the conscious 
 breast. 
 Intimidates the brave, degrades the great. 
 
 {Sam I Johnson. 
 Some temptations come to the industrious, but 
 all temptations attack the idle. 
 
 {Spur g eon _ 
 Sometimes we are devils to ourselves, 
 When we will tempt the frailty of our powers. 
 Presuming on their changeful potency. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 Many a man's vices have at first been nothing 
 worse than good qualities run wild. 
 
 {Hare. 
 The devil tempts us not — 'tis we tempt iim. 
 Beckoning his skill with opportunity. 
 
 {George Eliot. 
 " He shall not die, by God," cried he. 
 The Accusing Spirit which flew up to heaven's 
 chancery with the oath blushed as he 
 gave it in : and the Recording Angel as 
 he wrote it down, dropped a tear upon 
 the word and blotted it out forever. 
 
 { Sterne. 
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Sleep, thou repose of all things ; Sleep, thou 
 gentlest of the deities ; thou peace of the 
 mind, from which care flies ; who dost 
 soothe the hearts of men wearied with 
 the toils of the day, and refittest them 
 for labor. {Ovid. 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 
 
 Borne inward unto souls afar. 
 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
 
 Now tell me if that any is, 
 
 For gift or grace, suryiassing this — 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 {E. B. Browning. 
 
 Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep ! 
 
 He, like the world, his ready visit pays 
 
 Where fortune smiles ; the wretched he for- 
 sakes. ( Young. 
 
 Our life is two-fold ; Sleep hath its own 
 
 world, 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence : Sleep hath its own 
 
 world, 
 And a wide realm of wild reality, 
 And dreams in their development have 
 
 breath. 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy. 
 ( Byron. 
 
 Blessings light on him who first invented 
 sleep ! it covers a man all over, thoughts 
 and all, like a cloak ; it is meat for the 
 hungry, drink for the thirsty, heat for 
 the cold, and cold for the hot ; in short, 
 money that buys everything, balance and 
 weight that makes the shepherd equal to 
 the monarch, and the fool to the wise ; 
 there is only one evil in sleep, as I have 
 heard, and it is that it resembles death, 
 since between a dead and a sleeping man 
 there is but little difference. {Cervantes. 
 
 Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, 
 The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath. 
 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second 
 
 course, 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast. {Shakespeare. 
 
 I am weary, and am overwrought 
 With too much toil, with too much care dis- 
 traught. 
 And with the iron crown of anguish crowned. 
 Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek, 
 peaceful Sleep ! {Longfellow. 
 
 She sleeps, her breathings are not heard 
 
 In palace chambers far apart. 
 The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd 
 
 That lie upon her charmed heart. 
 She sleeps : on either hand up swells 
 
 The gold fringed pillow lightly prest : 
 She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells 
 
 A perfect form in perfect rest. ( Tennyson. 
 
 Dreams of the summer night! 
 
 Tell her, her lover keeps 
 Watch ! while in slumbers light 
 She sleeps ! 
 My lady sleeps ! 
 
 Sleeps! {Longfellow. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 831 
 
 Thou driftest gently down the tides of sleep. 
 [Longfellow. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 Little do men perceive what solitude is, and 
 how far it extendeth ; for a crowd is not 
 company, and faces are but a gallery of 
 pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, 
 where there is no love. [Bacon. 
 
 He enter'd in his house— his home no more. 
 For without hearts there is no home ; — 
 and felt 
 
 The solitude of passing his own door 
 
 Without a welcome. [Byron. 
 
 For solitude sometimes is best society. 
 And short retirement urges sweet return. 
 
 [Mdton. 
 Nature has presented us with a large faculty 
 of entertaining ourselves alone, and often 
 calls us to it, to teach us that we owe 
 ourselves in part to society, but chiefly 
 and mostly to ourselves. [Montaigne. 
 
 Eagles we see fly alone ; and they are but 
 sheep which always herd together. 
 
 [Sir P. Sidney. 
 Among them, but not of them. [Byron. 
 
 Where should the scholar live ? In solitude, 
 or in society? in the green stillness of 
 the country, where he can hear the heart 
 of Nature beat, or in the dark gray town ? 
 
 0, they do greatly err who think that 
 the stars are all the poetry which cities 
 have ; and therefore that the poet's only 
 dwelling should be in sylvan solitudes, 
 under the green roof of trees. 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 
 So lonely 'twas that God himself 
 
 Scarce seemed there to be. Coleridge. 
 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it peace. 
 
 [Byron. 
 
 No doubt solitude is wholesome, but so is 
 abstinence after a surfeit. The true life 
 of man is in society. [Simms. 
 
 They are never alone who are accompanied 
 with noble thoughts. [Sir P. Sidney. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea, 
 And not a saint took pity 
 On my soul in agony. [Coleridge. 
 I was never less alone than when with myself. 
 ( Gibbon. 
 blest retirement, friend to life's decline. 
 Retreat from care, that never must be mine, 
 How blest is he who crowns, in shades like 
 
 these, 
 A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
 Who quits a world where strong temptations 
 
 try. 
 And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
 ( Goldsmith. 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 This life of ours is a wild aeolian harp of many 
 a joyous strain, 
 
 But under them all there runs a loud per- 
 petual wail, as of souls in pain. 
 
 [Longfellow. 
 
 A Saviour's crown of sorrow is remembering 
 happier things. [Tennyson. 
 
 He who hath most of heart knows most of 
 sorrow. [Bailey. 
 
 To live beneath sorrow one mast yield to it. 
 [Madame de Stael. 
 
 On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh ; 
 The rocks moan wildly as it passes by : 
 Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand. 
 And not a flower adorns the dreary land. 
 
 [Bryant. 
 Thou speakest truly, poet! and methinks 
 More hearts are breaking in this world of 
 
 ours 
 Than one would say. [Longfellow. 
 
 There are a good many real miseries in life 
 that we cannot help smiling at, but they 
 are the smiles that make wrinkhs and 
 not dimples. [Holmes. 
 
 Over all things brooding slept 
 The quiet sense of something lost. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 No greater grief than to remember day? 
 Of joy wheu misery is at hand. [Dante. 
 
832 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Night brings out stars as sorrow shows us 
 truths. {Bailey. 
 
 weary hearts ! slumbering eyes ! 
 
 drooping souls, whose destinies 
 Are fraught with fear and pain, 
 Ye shall be loved again. (Longfellow. 
 
 In this world, full often our joys are only the 
 tender shadows which our sorrows cast. 
 {Beecher. 
 Each time we love, 
 We turn a nearer, and a broader mark 
 To that keen archer, Sorrow, and he strikes. 
 {Alexander Smith. 
 
 The first bringer of unwelcome news 
 Hath but a losing office, and his tongue 
 Sounds ever after as a sullen bell, 
 Remember'd knoUing a departed friend. 
 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 Small griefs find tongues; full casques are 
 
 ever found 
 To give, if any, very little sound. 
 Deep waters noyselesse are ; and this we know, 
 That chiding streams betray small depth 
 
 below. {Herrick. 
 
 lost days of delight, that are wasted in 
 
 doubting and waiting! 
 O lost hours and days in which we might 
 
 have been happy ! {Longfellow. 
 
 Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. 
 
 {Pollok. 
 
 Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a 
 
 life has been breathed into no human ear. 
 
 {Oeorge Eliot. 
 
 That loss is common would not make 
 My own less bitter, rather more : 
 Too common ! Never morning wore 
 To evening, but some heart did break. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 
 Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not 
 More gnef than ye can weep for. That is 
 
 well — 
 That is light grieving ! {K B. Browning. 
 
 With silence only as their benediction, 
 
 God's angels come 
 Where in ihe shadow of a great affliction. 
 
 The soul sits dumb ! ( Whittier. 
 
 What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
 The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
 That which disfigures it. {Byron. 
 
 0, well has it been said, that there is no grief 
 like the grief which does not speak ! 
 
 {Lotigfellow. 
 
 The day drags through, though storms keep 
 
 out the sun; 
 And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly 
 
 live on. {Byron. 
 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 Oh the fetterless mind ! how it wandereth free 
 Through the wildering maze of Eternity ! 
 
 {Henry Smith. 
 
 Thought is the property of him who can 
 entertain it ; and of him who can ade- 
 quately place it. A certain awkwardness 
 marks the use of borrowed thoughts ; but 
 as soon as we have learned what to do 
 with them, they become our own. 
 
 {Emerson. 
 
 Learning without thought is labor lost, 
 thought without learning is perilous. 
 
 ( Confucius. 
 
 Thought once awakened does not again 
 slumber. ( Carlyle. 
 
 What Exile from himself can flee ? 
 
 To zones though more and more remote. 
 
 Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 
 
 The blight of life — the demon Thought. 
 
 {Byron. 
 
 The thoughts that come often unsought, and, 
 as it were, drop into the mind, are com- 
 monly the most valuable of any we have, 
 and therefore should be secured, because 
 they seldom return again {Locke. 
 
 Among mortals second thoughts are wisest. 
 {Euripides. 
 
 A good thought is indeed a great boon for 
 which God is to be first thanked ; next 
 he who is the first to utter it, and then, 
 in the lesser, but still in a considerable 
 degree, the friend who is the first to quote 
 it to us. (Bovee. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 833 
 
 Great thoughts, like great deeds, need no 
 trumpet. {Bailey. 
 
 Men's thoughts are much according to their 
 inclination. [Bacon. 
 
 Let our thoughts meet in heaven ? 
 
 (Madame de Stael. 
 
 As you grow ready for it, somewhere or other 
 you will find what is needful for you in 
 a book or a friend, or, best of all, in your 
 own thoughts — the eternal thought 
 speaking in your thought. 
 
 (George MacDonald. 
 
 It is not always the depth or the novelty of 
 a thought which constitutes its value to 
 ourselves, but the fitness of its applica- 
 tion to our circumstances. (Sewell. 
 
 A thought is often original, though you have 
 uttered it a hundred times. It has come 
 to you over a new route, by a new and 
 express train of association. (Holmes. 
 
 Thought discovered is the more possessed. 
 
 ( Young. 
 
 God delights in true, earnest thinkers. 
 
 (Dwight. 
 
 In the end thought rules the world. There 
 are times when impulses and passions 
 are more powerful, but they soon ex- 
 pend themselves ; while mind, acting 
 constantly, is ever ready to drive them 
 back and work when their energy is ex- 
 hausted. (McCosh. 
 
 Thinking is the talking of the soul with it- 
 self. (Plato. 
 
 TIME AND ETERNITY. 
 
 A wonderful stream is the River Time, 
 
 As it runs through the realms of Tears, 
 With a faultless rhythm, and a musical 
 
 rhyme, 
 And a broader sweep, and a surge sublime 
 As it blends with the ocean of Years. 
 
 (Benjamin F. Tui/lor. 
 
 Therefore well does Agathon say, " Of this 
 
 alone is even God deprived, the power of 
 
 making that which is past never to have 
 
 been." (Aristotle. 
 
 That great mystery of Time, were there no 
 other ; the illimitable, silent, never- 
 resting thing called Time, rolling, rush- 
 ing on, swift, silent, like an all-embrac- 
 ing ocean-tide, on which we and all the 
 Universe swim like exhalations, like ap- 
 paritions which are, and then are not: 
 this is forever very literally a miracle ; 
 a thing to strike us dumb — for we have 
 no word to speak about it. (Carlyle. 
 
 " I've lost a day " — the prince who nobly 
 
 cried, 
 
 Had been an emperor without his crown. 
 
 ( Young. 
 
 All is created and goes after order ; yet o'er 
 
 the mankind's Life time, the precious 
 
 gift, rules an uncertain fate. '(Goethe. 
 
 Know the true value of time ; snatch, seize, 
 and enjoy every moment of it. No idle- 
 ness, no laziness, no procrastination : 
 never put off till to-morrow what you 
 can do to-day. (Earl of Chesterfield. 
 
 I hear the mufiled tramp of years 
 
 Come stealing up the slope of Time, 
 They bear a train of smiles and tears. 
 Of burning hopes and dreams .sublime. 
 
 (James G. Clarke. 
 Write it on your heart that every day is the 
 best day in the year. No man has learned 
 anything rightly, until he knows that 
 every day is Doomsday. (Emerson. 
 
 Time conquers all, and we must Time obey. 
 (Pope. 
 Day and night, 
 Seed-time and harvest, heat and hoary frost 
 Shall hold their course, till fire purge all 
 things- (Mhon. 
 
 What is Time? The shadow on the dial,— 
 the striking of the clock,— the running 
 of the sand, — day and night, — summer 
 and winter, — months, years, centuries; 
 — these are but arbitrary and outward 
 signs, the measure of Time, not Time it- 
 self. Time is the Life of the Soul. 
 
 (Longfellow. 
 
 He who knows most, grieves most for wasted 
 
 time. (BanU. 
 
834 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 This day was j^esterday to-morrow nam'd: 
 To-morrow shall be yesterday proclaimed : 
 To-morrow not yet come, not far away, 
 What shall to-morrow then be call'd? To- 
 day. {Owen. 
 
 For the next win he spurs amain. 
 In haste alights, and scuds away, — 
 But time and tide for no man stay. 
 
 ( Wm. Somerville. 
 Defer not till to-morrow to be wise. 
 To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise; 
 Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy 
 
 sight 
 With her enlivening and unlook'd for light, 
 How grateful will appear her dawning rays. 
 As favors unexpected doubly please. 
 
 ( Congreve. 
 The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yester- 
 day out of our recollection ; and will in 
 turn be supplanted by his successor of 
 to-morrow. ( Washington Irving. 
 
 God has commanded time to console the un- 
 happy. (Joubert. 
 
 Too late I stayed, — forgive the crime; 
 
 Unheeded flew the hours, 
 How noiseless falls the foot of time 
 
 That only treads on flowers ! {Spencer. 
 
 I see that time divided is never long, and 
 that regularity abridges all things. 
 
 {Madame de StaH. 
 Some say " to-morrow " never comes, 
 A saying oft thought right ; 
 But if " to-morrow " never came, 
 No end were of to-night. 
 The fact is this, time flies so fast, 
 That e'er we've time to say 
 " To-morrow's come," presto ! behold ! 
 " To-morrow " proves " To-day." 
 
 {Author Unknoiun. 
 
 The end crowns all ; 
 And that old common arbitrator. Time, 
 Will one day end it. {Shakespeare. 
 
 However we pass Time, he passes still, 
 Passing away whatever the pastime. 
 And, whether we use him well or ill. 
 Some day he gives us the slip for the last 
 time. {Owen Meredith. 
 
 Time flies on restless pinions— constant never. 
 Be constant — and thou chainest time forever. 
 {Schiller. 
 Nought treads so silent as the foot of time ; 
 Hence we mistake our Autumn for our prime. 
 ( Young 
 
 Nothing that is can pause or stay ; 
 The moon will wax, the moon will wane. 
 The mist and cloud will turn to rain. 
 The rain to mist and cloud again, 
 
 To-morrow be to-day. [Longfellow. 
 
 Expect, but fear not Death : Death cannot 
 
 kill, 
 Till Time (that first must seal his patent) 
 
 will, 
 Wouldst thou live long? keep Time in high 
 
 esteem ; 
 Whom gone, if thou canst not recall, redeem. 
 ( Quarles. 
 Whence is the stream of Time ? What source 
 
 supplies 
 Its everlasting flow ? What gifted hand 
 Shall raise the veil by dark Oblivion spread. 
 And trace it to its spring ? What searching 
 
 eye 
 Shall pierce the mists that veil its onward 
 
 course. 
 And read the future destiny of man ? 
 
 ( Tfiomas Love Peacock. 
 
 How short our happy days appear ! 
 
 How long the sorrovvful ! {Jean Ingelow. 
 
 Time wasted is existence ; used, is life. 
 
 ( Young. 
 The present hour alone is man's. 
 
 {Saml Johnson. 
 
 Beneath me flows the Rhine, and, like the 
 
 stream of Time, it flows amid the ruins 
 
 of the past. {Longfellow. 
 
 Forever haltless hurries Time, the Durable to 
 
 gain. 
 Be true, and thou shalt fetter Time with ever- 
 lasting chain. {Schiller. 
 Come, gone, — gone forever, — 
 Gone as an unreturning river, — 
 Gone as to death the merriest liver, — 
 Gone as the year at the dying fall,— 
 To-morrow, to-day, yesterday, never, — 
 Gone once for all. {Christina O. liosetti. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 835 
 
 No hand can make the clock strike for me 
 the hours that are passed. {Byron. 
 
 Who shall contend with time, — unvanquished 
 time, the conqueror of conquerors and 
 lord of desolation. [H. K. White. 
 
 One always has time enough, if one will 
 apply it well. ( Goethe. 
 
 When all else is lost, the future still remains. 
 
 (Bovee. 
 
 By the street of " By-and-by " one arrives 
 
 at the house of " Never." {Cervantes. 
 
 The every-day cares and duties, which men 
 call drudgery, are the weights and 
 counterpoises of the clock of time, giv- 
 ing its pendulum a true vibration, and 
 its hands a regular motion ; and when 
 they cease to hang upon the wheels, the 
 pendulum no longer swings, the hands 
 no longer move, the clock stands still. 
 
 {Longfellow. 
 
 Threefold the stride of Time, from first to 
 last! 
 
 Loitering slow, the Future creepeth— 
 
 Arrow-swift, the Present sweepeth — 
 
 And motionless for ever stands the Past. 
 
 {Schiller. 
 
 Time is the chrysalis of eternity. {Richter. 
 
 Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought. 
 
 {Addison. 
 
 TREES AND FLOWERS. 
 A large, branching, aged oak is perhaps the 
 most venerable of all inanimate objects. 
 {Shenstone. 
 The highest and most lofty trees have the 
 most reason to dread the thunder. 
 
 ( Rollin.. 
 
 Trees, that like the poplar, lift upward all 
 
 their boughs, give no shade and no 
 
 shelter, whatever their height. Trees 
 
 the most lovingly shelter and shade us, 
 
 when, like the willow, the higher soar 
 
 their summits, the lower droop their 
 
 boughs. {Bulwer- Lytton. 
 
 Ivy clings to wood or stone. 
 
 And hides the ruin that it feeds upon. 
 
 ( Cowper. 
 
 Flowers have an expression of countenance 
 as much as men or animals. Some seem 
 to smile ; some have a sad expression ; 
 some are pensive and diffident; others 
 again are plain, honest and upright, like 
 the broad-faced sunflower and the holly- 
 hock. {Henry Ward Beccher. 
 Loveliest of lovely things are they, 
 On earth that soonest pass away. 
 The rose that lives its little hour 
 Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 
 
 ( Bryant. 
 Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, 
 
 One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, 
 When he called the flowers, so blue and gold- 
 en, 
 Stars, that in the earth's firmament do 
 shine. {Longfellow. 
 
 Hope smiled when your nativity was cast. 
 Children of Summer ! ( Wordsworth. 
 
 Daisies infinite 
 Uplift in praise their little glowing hands 
 O'er every hill that under heaven expands. 
 {Ebenezer Elliott. 
 Daisies quaint, with savor none. 
 But golden eyes of great delight, 
 That all men love, they be so bright. 
 
 {Owen Meredith. 
 Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste. 
 {Shakespeare, 
 We bring daisies, little starry daisies, 
 The angels have planted to remind us of 
 the sky. 
 When the stars have vanished they twinkle 
 their mute praises, 
 Telling, in the dewy grass, of brighter 
 fields on high. {Read. 
 
 All flowers will droop in absence of the sun 
 that waked their sweets. {Dryden. 
 
 And lilies are still lilies, pulled 
 By smutty hands, though spotted from their 
 white. {E. B. Browning. 
 
 " Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thv glory, 
 Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like 
 ours ; 
 How vain your grandeur ! Ah, how transi- 
 tory 
 Are human flowers I '' {Horace Smith. 
 
836 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Is there not a soul beyond utterance, half 
 nymph, half child, in those delicate 
 petals which glow and breathe about the 
 centres of deep color ? ( George Eliot. 
 
 Art thou a type of beauty, or of power, 
 Of sweet enjoyment, or disastrous sin ? 
 For each thy name denoteth. Passion-flower! 
 
 no ! thy pure corolla's depth within 
 "We trace a holier symbol ; yea, a sign 
 
 'Twixt God and man ; a record of that hour 
 When the expiatory act divine 
 
 Cancelled that curse which was our mortal 
 dower. 
 It is the Cross ! (Sir Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 It never rains roses ; when we want 
 To have more roses we must plant more trees. 
 ( George Eliot. 
 Aromatic plants bestow 
 No spicy fragrance while they grow. 
 But crush'd or trodden to the ground, 
 Difluse their balmy sweets around. 
 
 ( Goldsmith. 
 Woo on, with odor wooing me, 
 Faint rose, with fading core ; 
 For God's rose-thought, that blooms in thee, 
 Will bloom for evermore. 
 
 ( George MacDonald. 
 
 TRUST. 
 ■ To be trusted is a greater compliment than to 
 be loved. {George MacDonald. 
 
 Confidence is a plant of slow growth. 
 
 [Earl of Chatham. 
 Better trust all and be deceived, 
 
 And weep that trust and that deceiving. 
 Than doubt one heart which, if believed 
 Had blessed one's life with true believing. 
 (Frances Anne Kemhle. 
 He who betrays the secret of his friend be- 
 cause he has quarreled with him, was 
 never worthy the name of friend. No 
 breach of friendship can ever justify a 
 breach of trust. (Anon. 
 
 No soul is desolate as long as there is a hu- 
 man being for whom it can feel trust and 
 reverence. {George Eliot. 
 
 Trust not him that hath once broken faith. 
 {Shakespeare. 
 
 I have play'd the fool, the gro.ss fool, to be- 
 lieve 
 The bo.som of a friend will hold a secret, 
 Mine own could not contain. {Massinger. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 O, while you live, tell truth ; and shame the 
 devil. (Shakespeare. 
 
 Get but the truth once uttered, and 'tis like 
 A star new-born that drops into its place. 
 And which, once circling in its placid round, 
 Not all the tumult of the earth can shake. 
 
 (Lowell. 
 'Tis strange — but true; for truth is always 
 
 strange. 
 Stranger than fiction. (Byron. 
 
 But what is truth ? 'Twas Pilate's question 
 
 put 
 To Truth itself, that deign'd him no reply. 
 
 ( Cowper. 
 Truth is truth, though from an enemy, and 
 
 spoken in malice. (G. Lille. 
 
 Truth is easy, and the light shines clear 
 In hearts kept open, honest and sincere! 
 
 (Abraham Coles. 
 
 The deepest truths are best read between the 
 
 lines, and, for the most part, refuse to be 
 
 written. (Alcott. 
 
 True as the dial to the sun. 
 
 Although it be not shined upon. (Butler. 
 
 To God, thy country, and thy friend be true. 
 
 ( Vaughan. 
 
 The dignity of truth is lost 
 
 With much protesting. (Ben Jonson. 
 
 Who never doubted, never half believed. 
 
 Where doubt, there truth is — 'tis her shadow. 
 (Bailey. 
 
 Truth comes to us from the past, as gold is 
 washed down from the mountains of Si- 
 erra Nevada, in minute but precious par- 
 ticles, and intermixed with infinite alloy, 
 the debris of centuries. (Bovce. 
 
 Once to every man and nation, comes the mo- 
 ment to decide. 
 
 In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the 
 good or evil side. {Lowell. 
 
LIVING THOUGHTS OF GREAT THINKERS. 
 
 837 
 
 He is the free-man whom the truth makes 
 
 free, 
 And all are slaves besides. {Cowper. 
 
 Truth crushed to earth shall rise again : 
 The eternal years of God are hers ; 
 
 But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
 
 And dies among his worshippers. {Bryant. 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 There have been men who could play delight- 
 ful music on one string of the violin, but 
 there never was a man who could produce 
 the harmonies of heaven in his soul by a 
 one-stringed virtue. [Chapin. 
 
 Recommend to your children virtue ; that 
 alone can make happy ; not gold. 
 
 {Beethoven. 
 
 Virtue maketh men on the earth famous, in 
 their graves illustrious, in the heavens 
 immortal. {Child. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 A little learning is a dangerous thing ; 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring ; 
 Their shallow draughts intoxicate the brain. 
 And drinking largely sobers us again. {Pope. 
 
 Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a 
 subject ourselves, or we know where we 
 can find information upon it. 
 
 {Sam'l Johnson. 
 
 When you know a thing, to hold that you 
 know it ; and when you do not know a 
 thing, to allow that you do not know it ; 
 this is knowledge. {Confucius. 
 
 Knowledge and Wisdom, far from being one, 
 
 Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge 
 dwells 
 
 In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; 
 
 Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
 
 {Cowper. 
 
 Knowledge is, indeed, that which, next to 
 virtue, truly and essentially raises one 
 man above another. {Addison. 
 
 Learning passes for wisdom among those who 
 want both. {Sir W. Temple. 
 
 The fool is happy that he knows no more. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 He might be a very clever man by nature, 
 for all I know, but he laid so many books 
 upon his head that his brains could not 
 move. {Robert Hall. 
 
 The maxim ' Know thyself does not suffice ; 
 
 Know others ! — know them well — that's my 
 
 advice. ^{Menander. 
 
 If a man empties his purse into his head, uq 
 
 one can take it from him. {Franklin. 
 
 Where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 'Tis folly to be wise. {Oray. 
 
 A life of knowledge is not often a life of in- 
 jury and crime. {Sydney Smith. 
 
 Tell (if you can) what is it to be wise? 
 'Tis but to know how little can be known, 
 To see all other's faults, and feel our own. 
 
 {Pope. 
 To know thyself — in others self discern; 
 Would'st thou know others? read thyself— 
 and learn ! {Schiller. 
 
 Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume ; 
 The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. 
 Sense is the diamond weighty, solid, sound ; 
 When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam ; 
 Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still. ( Young. 
 
 Nothing is more terrible than active igno- 
 rance. ( Goethe. 
 
 Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 0, 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 ! {Scott. 
 
 Not she with trait' rous kiss her Saviour stung, 
 Not she denied him with unholy tongue; 
 She, while apostles shrank, could danger 
 
 brave, 
 Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave. 
 
 {Barrett. 
 
838 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 But one upon Earth is more beautiful and 
 
 better than the wife — that is the mother. 
 
 [L. Schefer. 
 
 The foundation of domestic happiness is faith 
 in the virtue of woman. {Landor. 
 
 The future destiny of the child is always the 
 work of the mother. {Napoleon. 
 
 And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dig- 
 nify, 
 
 A woman, so she's good, what does it signify? 
 (Byron. 
 
 Her voice was ever soft, gentle and low ; an 
 excellent thing in woman. {Shakespeare. 
 
 Like a lovely tree 
 She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 How to accept a better in his turn. {Byron. 
 
 Earth's noblest thing, a woman perfected. 
 
 {Lowell. 
 Happy he 
 With such a mother ! faith in womankind 
 Beats with his blood, and trust in all things 
 
 hi^h 
 Comes easy to him, and though he trip and 
 
 fall, 
 He shall not blind his soul with clay. 
 
 ( Tennyson. 
 And nature swears, the lovely dears 
 Her noblest work she classes, ; 
 Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
 An' then she made the lasses, 0. {Burns. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 child ! new-born denizen 
 Of life's great city ! on thy head 
 The glory of the morn is shed 
 Like a celestial benison ? 
 Here at the portal thou dost stand, 
 And with thy little hand 
 Thou openest the mysterious gate 
 Into the future's undiscovered land. 
 
 {Longfellow 
 How beautiful is youth ! how bright it gleams 
 With its illusions, aspirations, dreams ! 
 Book of Beginnings, Story without End, 
 Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend ! 
 {Lonrjfdlow. 
 
 A babe in a house is a well-spring of plea- 
 sure. ( Tapper. 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 
 ( Wordsworth. 
 Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say. 
 When the rich casket shone in bright array, 
 " These are my jewels ! " Well of such as he, 
 When Jesus spake, well might the language 
 
 be, 
 " Suffer these little ones to come to me ' '' 
 
 {Rogers. 
 Standing with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet, 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 ( Longfellow. 
 
 Be wise with speed, 
 
 A fool at forty is a fool indeed. ( Young. 
 
 Years follow'ng years, steal something ev'ry 
 
 day ; 
 At last they steal us from ourselves away, 
 
 ( Pope. 
 Dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, 
 But man cannot cover what God would re- 
 veal : 
 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
 And coming events cast their shadows before. 
 ( Campbell. 
 It is difficult to grow old gracefully. 
 
 {Madame de Stael. 
 The youth of the soul is everlasting and 
 eternity is youth. {Richter. 
 
 Old age is courteous — no one more : 
 For time after time he knocks at the door, 
 But nobody says, " Walk in, sir, pray ! '' 
 Yet turns he not from the door away. 
 But lifts the latch, and enters with speed. 
 And then they cry, " A cool one, indeed." 
 
 ( Goethe. 
 Age is not all decay; it is the ripening, the 
 swelling of the fresh life within, that 
 withers and bursts the brusk. 
 
 ( Oeorge McDonald. 
 Life's shadows are meeting Eternity's day. 
 
 {James O. Clarke. 
 
 Time has laid his hand upon my heart gently, 
 
 I not smiting it, but as a harper lays his 
 
 open palm upon his harp, to deaden us 
 
 vibrations. {Longfellow. 
 
SENTIMENTS 
 
 AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS. 
 
 "When sunny memories round thy path 
 Their magic fancies gaily bind, 
 
 When retrospection bears its part 
 
 And brings the forms of friends to mind, 
 
 The hand that traced these lines would clair 
 
 A thought adorned in Friendship's name. 
 
 Count that day lost, whose low descending sun 
 Views from thy hand no worthy action done. 
 
 Gladly I give thee my token — 
 'Tis a prayer that thy future may be 
 
 A pathway of peace all unbroken, 
 Naught bringing sadness to thee. 
 
 Accompany your own flag through the 
 world under the protection of your own 
 cannon. 
 
 Attempt the end and never stand in doubt, 
 Nothing's so hard but search will find it out. 
 
 Be what your friends think you are ; 
 Avoid what your enemies say you are. 
 
 To those who know thee not, no words can 
 
 paint ! 
 And those who know thee, know all words 
 
 are faint ! 
 
 Finish all thy work, then rest — 
 
 Till then, rest never ; 
 The rest, prepared for thee by God, 
 
 Is rest forever. 
 
 Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
 Cherib^h some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
 Labor,— all labor is noble and holv. 
 
 Whene'er the clouds of sorrow roll, and 
 
 trials whelm the mind. 
 When faint with grief thy wearied soul no 
 
 joys on earth can find, 
 Then lift thy voice to God on high, dry up 
 
 the trembling tear. 
 And hush the low complaining sigh. Fear 
 
 not, thy God is near. 
 
 Act well at the moment, and you have per- 
 formed a good action to all eternity. 
 
 Silently one by one, in the infinite meadows 
 of heaven. 
 
 Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me- 
 nots of the angels. 
 
 May your joys be as deep as the ocean. 
 Your sorrows as light as its foam. 
 
 These little souvenirs po.ssess not their 
 greatest value when first written; but 
 as time, with scythe in hand, passes 
 along, and we are left standing, we are 
 not the same, but these lines remain. 
 Some, to cheer the saddened by awak- 
 ening slumbering memories of better 
 things; and others serving as guide- 
 boards on the road to eternity. 
 
 Death cannot sever 
 The ties that bind our souls through mortal 
 years — 
 
 They last forever I 
 
 May the Angels twine for thee 
 A wreath oi immortality. 
 
 839 
 
840 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 To thine own self be true ; 
 And it must follow, as the night the day, 
 Thou canst not then be false to any man. 
 
 The man who seeks one thing in life, and but 
 
 one 
 May hope to achieve it before life is done ; 
 But he who seeks all things wherever he goes, 
 Only reaps from the hopes which around him 
 
 he sows 
 A harvest of barren regrets. 
 
 The proudest motto for the young — 
 
 Write it in lines of gold 
 Upon thy heart, and in thy mind 
 
 The stirring words enfold ; 
 And in misfortune's dreary hour, 
 
 Or fortune's prosperous gale, 
 'Twill have a holy, cheering power— 
 
 " There's no such word a,sfail." 
 
 Our lives are songs ; God writes the words, 
 
 And we set them to music at pleasure, 
 
 And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad 
 
 As we choose to fashion the measure. 
 
 We must write the music, whatever the song, 
 
 Whatever its rhyme or metre. 
 
 And if it is glad we may make it sad, 
 
 Or if sweet we may make it sweeter. 
 
 As gold more splendid from fire appears. 
 So friendship strengthens with the lapse 
 years. 
 
 Heaven is not gained by a single bound, 
 But we climb the ladder by which we rise ; 
 From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. 
 And we mount to the summit, round and 
 round. 
 
 May all that is brightest and fairest 
 In life, be thy portion and share ; 
 
 Be happy, God's blessing attend thee. 
 Is ever my wish and my prayer. 
 
 The heights by great men reached and kept. 
 Were not attained by sudden flight ; 
 
 But they, while their companions slept. 
 Were toiling upwards in the night. 
 
 For every ill beneath the sun 
 
 There is a remedy, or none ; 
 If there be one, resolve to find it. 
 If none, submit and never mind it. 
 
 Nothing great was ever achieved without 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Use what talents you possess ; the woods 
 would be very silent if no birds sang 
 there but those which sang the best. 
 
 Hope for the best, get ready for the worst, 
 and then take what God sends. 
 
 Though the day be ever so long, 
 It bringeth at last to even song," 
 
 When the roses of life are faded. 
 
 And our steps are sad and slow. 
 May we think with tender longing 
 
 Of the days of long ago ; 
 When our girlish aspirations 
 
 Were so innocent and bright, 
 Ere on our lives had fallen 
 
 The shadow of the night. 
 
 So should we live that every hour, 
 May die as dies the natural flower ; 
 That every word and every deed 
 May bear within itself the seed 
 
 Of future good, for future need. 
 
 Look forward, not backward. 
 
 Not inward but outward, 
 Not downward but upward. 
 
 When memory with her jeweled hand, 
 Counts o'er her gems by life's bright sea, 
 
 Drop not my pearl upon the strand. 
 But keep it and remember me. 
 
 Blest be thy passage o'er the changing sea 
 Oi life; the clouds be few that intercept 
 Thy light of joy ; the waves roll gently on 
 Beneath thy bark of hope and bear thee safe 
 To meet in peace, thy Father— God. 
 
 Humble we must be, if to Heaven we go, 
 High is the roof there, but the gate is lew. 
 
SENTIMENTS FOR ALBUMS. 
 
 841 
 
 May ev'ry page of this fair book 
 
 On its smooth surface bear 
 Some kindly wish, some generous thought, 
 
 Or wit-gem sparkling fair. 
 Each autograph the signet be 
 
 Of some true-hearted friend ; 
 The memory of whose genial soul 
 
 Will ever sunshine lend. 
 
 Oh, let my friendship in the wreath, 
 Though but a bud among the flowers. 
 
 Its sweetest fragrance round thee breathe,- 
 'Twill serve to soothe thy weary hours. 
 
 These few lines which here I trace 
 Tears may not change nor age efface. 
 They may be read, though valued not 
 When he who penned them is forgot. 
 
 A life without a purpose is like a ship at sea 
 without a destination ; the course of eacli 
 will be uncertain, but the sad end sure. 
 
 Were it not for the clouds that darken upon 
 us, there would be no rainbows in our 
 lives. 
 
 If vou would be loved, be lovable. 
 
 We shape, ourselves, the joy or fear 
 Of which the coming life is made, 
 
 And fill our future's atmosphere 
 With sunshine or with shade. 
 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
 
 'Tis only noble to be good. 
 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets. 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. 
 
 Every man's life is 
 God's fingers. 
 
 fairy-tale written by 
 
 ships meet at sea, a moment together, 
 when words of greeting must be spoken, 
 and then away into the deep, so men 
 meet in this world; and I think we 
 should cross no man's path without hail- 
 ing him, and, if he needs, giving him 
 supplies. 
 
 The tissue of the life to be 
 
 We weave with colors all our own 
 And in the field of Destiny 
 
 We reap as we have sown. 
 He doeth well who doth his best — 
 
 lie doeth well who strives. 
 Noblest efforts sometimes fail 
 
 But never noble lives. 
 
 Friendship is no plant of hasty growth, 
 Though planted in esteem's deep fixed soil 
 The gradual culture of kind intercourse 
 Must bring it to perfection. 
 
 Run if you like, but try to keep your breath, 
 Work earnustly, but don't be worked to death. 
 
 My friend, if ever fondest prayer 
 For other's weal availed on high, 
 
 Mine will not all be lost in air 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
 
 Our actions are like the terminations of verses 
 which we rhyme as we please. 
 
 Be true to your word and your work and 
 your friend. 
 
 Trust men, and they will be true to you : treat 
 them greatly, and they will show them- 
 selves great. 
 
 Here's a lesson that he who runs may read. 
 Though I fear but few iiave won it. 
 
 The be.«t reward of a kindly deed 
 Is the knowledge of having done it. 
 
 What you can do or dream you can begin it; 
 Boldness has genius, power and magic in it; 
 Only engage and then the mind grows heated ; 
 Begin, and the work will be completed. 
 
 Look not at life by that dim light 
 Which through thy curtained window creeps. 
 What can a soul discern that weeps ? 
 Go, share the fight, leave self behind; 
 Give others joy, and thou .ehalt find, 
 Even in affliction, peace of mind ; 
 
 In weakness, heavenly might. 
 
842 
 
 GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 I will not wish thee grandeur, 
 
 Nor do I wish thee wealth ; 
 But only a contented mind, 
 
 Peace, happiness and health ; 
 Fond friends to love thee dearly 
 
 And honest friends to chide, 
 And faithful ones to cleave to thee. 
 
 Whatever may betide. 
 
 Wouldst thou be a happy liver, 
 
 Let the past be past forever ! 
 
 Fret not, when prigs and pedants bore you ; 
 
 Enjoy the good that's set before you ; 
 
 But chiefly hate no man : the rest 
 
 Leave thou to God, who knows what's best. 
 
 Either never attempt, or persevere to the 
 end. 
 
 Each gift that God bestows on thee 
 With others freely share ; 
 
 And let each act of sacrifice 
 Be hallowed by a prayer. 
 
 Of all earthly music, that which reaches the 
 farthest into heaven is the beating of a 
 loving heart. 
 
 From tempests rough, and storm winds wild, 
 Would thy parent shield her child. 
 And. upon her bosom bear 
 All thy coming load of care. 
 But the Father says, " Tis best 
 Thou shouldst find thro' toil thy rest, 
 And the blooming of thy life 
 Yield its perfume to the strife." 
 
 Hours are golden links, God's token 
 Reaching heaven ; but, one by one, 
 
 Take them, lest the chain be broken, 
 Ere thy pilgrimage be done. 
 
 The skylark and the nightingale 
 
 Though small and light of wing, 
 Yet warbles blither than all birds 
 
 That in the wildwoods sing. 
 And so a little maiden fair. 
 
 Though but a bird- like thing, 
 Is sweater than all other sweets, 
 
 E'en flowers that blow in spring 
 
 Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be 
 
 clever ; 
 Do noble things, not dream them, all day 
 
 long; 
 And so make life, death, and the vast forever 
 One grand, sweet song. 
 
 To bear is to conquer our fate. 
 
 I slept and" dreamed that life was Beauty ; 
 I woke and found that life was Duty ; — 
 Was my dream then a shadowy lie? 
 
 Toil on, faint heart, courageously 
 Follow the one, and thou shalt see 
 The other still will follow thee. 
 
 Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame. 
 
 Prosperity attend thee, my loved and gentle 
 
 friend. 
 May fortune still befriend thee, and all its 
 
 pleasures lend ; 
 Through life as thou dost wend thee, may 
 
 Heaven its blessing send, 
 Like seraphs to attend thee, forever more my 
 
 friend. 
 
 We see not a steji before us 
 As we tread on another year, 
 But the past is in God's keeping 
 The future His mercy shall clear. 
 
 We must know that in this theatre of life, 
 It remaineth only to God and the angels to be 
 lookers on. 
 
 Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but 
 in rising every time we fall. 
 
 Who does the best his circumstance allows. 
 Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more. 
 
 Be noble ! and the nobleness that lies 
 In other men, sleeping, but never dead. 
 Will rise in majesty to meet thine own. 
 
 May your ways be ways of pleasantness, 
 And all your paths be peace. 
 
SENTIMENTS FOR ALBUMS. 
 
 843 
 
 Be noble in every thought 
 And in every deed ! 
 
 May the cliains of friendship formed by the 
 linki^ which are dropped here, serve to 
 unite you more closely in spirit with the 
 friends who have worked it. May each , 
 link be brought to a white heat in i 
 the fires of Love ; and, forged on the 
 anvils of Truth, may they be strong as 
 iron, yet light as air ; keeping you 
 bravely to the duties of Life. And when 
 the chain of human bondage shall be 
 broken, may they become flowers of 
 eternal brightness in the gardens from 
 whence cometh exceeding yieace. 
 
 He who is false to present duty breaks a 
 thread in the loom, and will find tlie 
 flaw when he may have forgotten its 
 cause. 
 
 Guard well thy thoughts ; our thoughts are 
 heard in heaven. 
 
 The mould of a man's fortune is in his own 
 hands. 
 
 Our lives are albums, written through 
 With good or ill — with false or true — 
 And, as the blessed angels turn 
 The pages of our years, 
 God grant they read the good with smiles, 
 And blot the bad with tears. 
 
 May there be just clouds enough o'er your life 
 to cause a glorious sunset. 
 
 I pray the prayer of Plato old ; 
 
 God make thee beautiful within ; 
 And let thine eye the good behold 
 
 In everything, save sin. 
 
 Methinks long years have flown, 
 
 And, sitting in her old arm-chair, 
 has older grown. 
 
 With silver sprinkled in her hair. 
 Her album thus she holds, 
 
 And turns its many pages o'er. 
 And wonders if it still contains 
 
 The memories of yore. 
 As o'er these pages thus she runs, 
 
 With many a sigh and kis^, 
 Then suddenly she stops and says, 
 
 " Who could have written this ? " 
 
 Get thy spindle and thy di 
 God will send thee flax. 
 
 =taff rcadv, and 
 
 We may write our names in Albums, 
 We may trace them in the sand ; 
 We may chisel them in marble, 
 With a firm and skillful liand : 
 But the pages soon are sullied. 
 Soon each name will fade away ; 
 Every monument will crumble, 
 Like all earthly hopes, decay. 
 But, dear friend, 'there is an Album, 
 Full of leaves of snowy white, 
 Where no name is ever tarnished, 
 But forever pure and bright. 
 In that Book of life, God's Album, 
 May your name be penned with care : 
 And may all who here have written, 
 Have their names forever there. 
 
 Every person is responsible for all the good 
 within the scope of his abilities, and for 
 no more, and none can tell whose sphere 
 
 is the largest. 
 
 Honor is the hill wliich few may hopo to 
 
 climb ; 
 Duty is the path that all may tread. 
 
 Greatly begin ! though ihou have time 
 But for a line, bi- that sublime — 
 Not failure, but low aim, is crime. 
 
 I ask not a life for the dear one 
 All sunshine, as others have done. 
 But that life may liave just enough shadr 
 To temper the glare of the sun. 
 
 Every one is the son of his own works. 
 
 I everywhere am thinking 
 Of thy blue eyes' sweet smile ; 
 
 A sea of blue thoughts spreading 
 Over mv heart the wliile 
 
8U 
 
 GEM? FOR THE FTRESIDft. 
 
 Be what nature intended you for and you will 
 succeed, be anything else and you will 
 be ten thousand times worse than nothing. 
 
 Our ac-ts make or mar us, — we are the children 
 
 of our own deeds. 
 
 Victory belongs to the most persevering. 
 
 Let us, then, be what we are, and speak what 
 
 we think, and in all things 
 Keep ourselves loyal to truth, and the sacred 
 
 professions of friendship. 
 
 Earth, then heaven, 
 
 But friendship through all. 
 
 All may do what has by man been done. 
 
 No sun ever rose and set but had influence 
 
 somewhere. 
 No stream ever flowed seaward but some land 
 
 was gladdened. 
 No life can be pure in its purpose and strong 
 
 in its strife, and all life not be purer 
 
 and stronger thereby. 
 
 As we sail through life towards death. 
 Bound unto the same port — Heaven,— 
 Friend, what years could us divide ? 
 
 I wish you all the joy that you can wish. 
 
 Yes, we must ever be friends ; and of all who 
 offer you friendship 
 
 Let me be ever the first, the truest, the near- 
 est and dearest ! 
 
 Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the 
 soul. 
 
 Moderation is the silken string running 
 through the pearl-chain of all virtues. 
 
 The only amaranthine flower on earth 
 Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. 
 
 Truth in the end shall shine divinely clear. 
 But sad the darkness till those times appear. 
 
 Honor and shame from no condition rise; 
 Act well your part, there all the honor lies. 
 
 Don't be " consistent," but be simply true. 
 
 Let your life be like a snowflake, which 
 leaves a mark, but not a stain. 
 
 May the hinges of our Friendship never rust. 
 
 Devote each day to the object then in time, 
 and every evening will find something 
 done. 
 
 great in act, as you have been in tbought. 
 
 Look not mournfully into the past, — it comes 
 not back again ; wisely improve the 
 present, — it is thine ; go forth to meet 
 the shadowy future without fear, and 
 with a manly heart. 
 
 How often is our path 
 Crossed by some being whose bright spirit 
 
 sheds 
 A passing gladness o'er it; but whose course 
 Leads down another current, never more 
 To blend with ours ! yet far within our soul 
 Amidst the rushing of the busy world, 
 Dwells many a secret thought, which lingers 
 
 still 
 Around that image. 
 
 Truth is as impossible to be soiled by any 
 outward touch as the sunbeam. 
 
 When to the flowers so beautiful 
 
 The Father gave a name, 
 Back came a little blue-eyed one 
 
 (All timidly it came) , 
 And standing at its Father's feet 
 
 And gazing in His face 
 It said, in low and trembling tones : 
 
 " Dear God, the name thou gavest me, 
 Alas ! I have forgot," 
 
 Kindly the Father looked him down 
 And said : Forget-me-not. 
 
 He who is firm in will moulds the world to 
 himself. 
 
INDEX OF PROSE. 
 
 SUBJECT. 
 
 A Child's Dream of a Star Charles Dickens 34.i 
 
 Advice to Young Men . Noah Porter 598 
 
 African Hospitality ,...,. Mungo Park 66 
 
 A Glass of Cold Water John B. Gough 332 
 
 A Husband's Experience IN Cooking . . . .Anonymous 519 
 
 A Mariner's Description OF a Piano . . . . Anonymom 495 
 
 A Patriot's Last Appeal Robert Emmet 646 
 
 Arctic Life Elisha Kent Kane 652 
 
 Artemus Ward at Shakspeare's Tomb .... Charles F. Brown 152 
 
 Artemus Ward Visits the Shakers Charles F. Brown 420 
 
 A Time of Unexampled Prosperity Washington Irving • . 448 
 
 Baltus Van Tassel's Farm Washington Irving 49 
 
 'BiAH Cathcart's Proposal Henry Ward Beecher 293 
 
 Book-Buyers John Ruskin 660 
 
 Buck Fanshaw's Funeral S. C. Clemens 
 
 Burke on the Death of his Son Edmund Burke .... 
 
 Buying Gape-Seed John B. Oough .... 
 
 Catching the Morning Train Max Adelcr 
 
 Caught in the Maelstrom Charles A. Wiley . . . 
 
 Caught in the Quicksand Victor Hugo . . 
 
 Charity Dinner, The Litchfield Mosely . . . 
 
 Children of the Desert Arthur Penrhyn Stanley 
 
 Clock Work of the Skies Edward Everett .... 
 
 Coming of Thanksgiving Charles Dudley Warner 
 
 671 
 231 
 57 
 61 
 412 
 223 
 326 
 385 
 630 
 14^ 
 
 815 
 
846 TITLE&.OF PROSE. 
 
 CoNSTANTius AND THE LiON Oeorge Croly 239 
 
 Coronation of Anne Boletn J. A. Froude • 194 
 
 Crime Self-Revealed Daniel Webster 632 
 
 David, King of Israel Edward Irving ........... 486 
 
 Death of Little Joe Charles Dickens 134 
 
 Death of Little Nell Charles Dickens 256 
 
 Death of President Lincoln Henry Ward Beecher 598 
 
 Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery .... Abraham Lincoln . 141 
 
 Defence of Pra Del Tor ......... J. A. Wylie 690 
 
 De Pint wid Ole Pete ........... Anonymous 143 
 
 Diamond Dust Selections 521 
 
 Domain of Aenheim ., Edgar A. Poe 433 
 
 Dress Reform T. De Witt Talmage 550 
 
 Drunkard's Death, The Charles Dickens . . . . 189 
 
 Dumb-Waiter, The Frederick Cozzens . 279 
 
 European Guides Mark Twain 211 
 
 Execution of Joan of Arc ......... Thomas De Quincey ......... 145 
 
 Fingal's Cave Anonymous 648 
 
 Formation of Icebergs Elisha Kent Kane ... 627 
 
 Franklin's Arrival in Philadelphia . . . Benjamin Franklin 657 
 
 Freedom of the Press John Milton 172 
 
 From Washington's Inaugural George Washington 603 
 
 Gamin, The Victor Hugo 275 
 
 Gathered Gold Dust Selections 48 
 
 Genius of Milton, The Walter Savage Landor 487 
 
 Ghosts of Long Ago Mrs. J. H. Riddell 99 
 
 Golden Grains James A. Oarfield 640 
 
 Good-Night, Papa Anonymous 118 
 
 Grandmother's Spectacles J". DeWitt Talmage. 675 
 
 Grotto of Antiparos . . , . Anonymous . 636 
 
 Habits of Trout William 0. Prime 643 
 
 Hebrew Race, The . . • Benjamin Disraeli 67 
 
 Hypochondriac, The Anonymous 403 
 
 Ideas the Life of a People George W. Curtis 440 
 
 Images T. B. Macaulay 264 
 
 Immortality • J. B. Massillon 207 
 
 Improving on Nature John Ruskin 503 
 
 Industry the only Source of Wealth . . . Dr. George Berkeley , . . . 180 
 
 Jenkins Goes to A Picnic Anonymous . 163 
 
 Jerusalem by Moonlight Benjamin P. Disraeli . 568 
 
 Jimmy Butler and the Owl Anonymous 101 
 
 Jim Smiley's Frog S. C. Clemens 510 
 
 Last Hours of Webster Edward Everett 153 
 
 Life of a Child Fairy Anonymous ............. 529 
 
 Light Brigade at Balaklava, The William H. Russell 58 
 
 Little Evangelist, The Harriet Beecher Stowe 359 
 
 Little Rid Hin Mrs. Whitney 482 
 
 Lord Dundreary at Brighton Anonymous . . 363 
 
TITLES OF PROSE. 847 
 
 SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE. 
 
 Loss OF THE Arctic Henry Ward Beecher 683 
 
 Making Love in a Balloon Litchfield Mosdey 590 
 
 Manifest Destiny Ju&h Billings 457 
 
 Meditation at an Infant's Tomb James Hervey 321 
 
 Milton T. B. Macaulay 232 
 
 Morality of Angling William C. Prime 39 
 
 Morning Edward Everett 355 
 
 Mother's Vacant Chair T. De Witt Talmage 555 
 
 Mountains Alary Howitt 427 
 
 Mouse-Hunting B. P. Shillaber 217 
 
 Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma Charles Dickens 71 
 
 Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room Charles Dickens 375 
 
 Mrs. Caudle Needs Spring Clothing .... Douglas Jerrold 478 
 
 Mrs. Caudle's Lecture on Shirt Buttons . . Douglas Jerrold 499 
 
 Mr. Stiver's Horse /. M.Bailey 112 
 
 My Mother's Bible Anonymous 611 
 
 New England S. S- Prentiss 105 
 
 Nicholas Nickleby Leaves Dotheboy's Hall Charles Dickens 399 
 
 Notch of the White Mountains, The .... Timothy Dwight 423 
 
 Old Coaching Days John Poole 579 
 
 Organ of Westminster Abbey Waiihington Irving 474 
 
 Our Debt to Irving Charles Dudley Warner 563 
 
 Pauper's Funeral, The Charles Dickens 365 
 
 Pilgrim Fathers, The Edward Everett 524 
 
 Pip's Fight Charles Dickens 287 
 
 Pledge with Wine Anonymous 166 
 
 Poetry and Mystery of the Sea Dr. Greenwood 175 
 
 Political Agitation Wendell Phillips 506 
 
 Praise of the Sea Samuel Purchas 75 
 
 Progress of Humanity Charles Sumner 453 
 
 Pulpit Oratory Daniel Dougherty 81 
 
 Puritans, The T. B. Macaulay 182 
 
 Rebecca Describes the Siege to Ivanhoe . . Sir Walter Scott 539 
 
 Recollections of my Christmas Tree . • . . Charles Dickens 307 
 
 Regulus to the Roman Senate Anonymous 370 
 
 Rest of the Just, The Richard Baxter 545 
 
 Retribution Abraham Lincoln 162 
 
 Rome and Carthage Victor Hugo 350 
 
 Ruined Cottage, The Mrs. Letitia E. Maclean 96 
 
 Rural Life in England Washington Irving 284 
 
 Sam Welleb's Valentine ■ Charles Dickens 532 
 
 Scene at Niagara Falls Charles Tarson .... • 234 
 
 Schooling a Husband Anonymous 313 
 
 Sea-Shore AND Mountains Oliver Wendell Holmes 415 
 
 Self-Reliance Ralph Waldo Emerson 607 
 
 Selling a Coat Anonymous 535 
 
 Sewing on a Button J. M. Bailey 169 
 
 Shooting Porpoises I. De Witt Talmage 704 
 
848 TITLES OF PROSE. 
 
 SiGHiB FROM A Steeple Nathaniel Hawthorne 470 
 
 Sights on the Sea Washington Irving 574 
 
 Soft Sawder and Human Natur Thomas C. Haliburton 646 
 
 Sorrow for the Dead Washington Irving. . , 88 
 
 Sunrise at Sea William V. Kelly 337 
 
 Tacitus T. Babington Macaulay 390 
 
 The Ballot-Box , . . . E. H. Chapin 617 
 
 The Beauty of Youth Theodore Parker 697 
 
 The Blind Preacher ........... William Wirt 185 
 
 The Divinity OF Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley ......... 394 
 
 The Execution of Madame Roland Lamariine , 686 
 
 The Front and Side Doors Oliver Wendell Holmes 43 
 
 The Generous Soldier Saved ........ Anonymous 91 
 
 The Golden City John Bunyan 303 
 
 The Indian to the Settler Edward Everett 463 
 
 The Last Station Anonymous 271 
 
 The Little Match Girl Hans Christian Andersen 156 
 
 The Noble Revenge Anonymous 624 
 
 The Old Wife's Kiss Anonymous 244 
 
 The Order of Nobility Edmund Burke 227 
 
 The Power of Words Edwin P. Whipple 665 
 
 The Responsive Chord /. Williain Jones . 614 
 
 The Two Roads Jean Paul Eichter 109 
 
 Tombs of Westminster Washington Irving 621 
 
 Too Late for the Train Anonymous 125 
 
 Tramp, Tramp, Tramp . . . J. G. Holland . . • • • 201 
 
 Truth John Milton 198 
 
 Uncle Dan'l's Apparition AND Prayer . . . Clemens and Warner 121 
 
 United in Death Anonymous 137 
 
 Useful Studies Jeremy Taylor 292 
 
 Voices of the Dead John Cumming 298 
 
 Voltaire and Wilberporce William B. Sprague 661 
 
 Washington, The Birthday of Pufus Choate 444 
 
 Washington, Character of Thomas Jefferson 559 
 
 Washington's Address to His Troops .... George Washington 408 
 
 What is a Minority ? John B. Gough 270 
 
 Widow Bedott's Poetry F. M. Whitcher 82 
 
 Winter Douglas Jerrold 55 
 
 Winter Sports • Anonymous 667 
 
 Worse THAN Civil War Senator Baker 516 
 
 Yankee and the Dutchman's Dog, The . . . Anonymous 131 
 
 Zeph Kiqgins' Confession Harriet Beecher Stowe 24?' 
 
INDEX OF POEMS 
 
 (TITLES ) 
 
 SUBJECT. 
 
 Abou Be:s Adhem Leigh Hunt 
 
 A First Sorrow Adelaide Anne Proctor . . . 
 
 A Hundred Years from Now Mary A. Ford 
 
 Airy Nothings Shakespeare 
 
 A Kiss at the Door Anonymous 
 
 "A Lion's Head" O. Weatherly 
 
 American Aristocracy John O. Saxe 
 
 American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake . . . 
 
 A Mother's Love Anonymous 
 
 Annabel Lee Edijar Allan Poe 
 
 Annie Laurie Anonymous 
 
 Annie and Willie's Prayer Sophia P. Snow 
 
 Answer to THE " Hour of Death " Mrs. Cornwall Baron Wilson 
 
 A Portrait Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 
 
 A Prayer for my Little One Edgar Fawcett 
 
 Arsenal at Springfield H. W. Longfellow 
 
 A Snow-Storm Charles O. Eastman . . . . 
 
 As Ships Becalmed Arthur H. Clough 
 
 A Sufi Saint Translated from the Persian . 
 
 226 
 179 
 187 
 325 
 401 
 ISl 
 71 
 467 
 703 
 553 
 385 
 395 
 675 
 388 
 682 
 424 
 409 
 422 
 284 
 
 840 
 
850 TITLES OF POEMS. 
 
 A. Tailor's Poem of Evening Oliver Wendell Holmes 445 
 
 AuLD Robin Gray Amie Barnard 173 
 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea Allan Cunningham 587 
 
 A Woman's Love Anonymous 702 
 
 A Woman's Question Adelaide A. Proctor 356 
 
 Baby Oeorge Macdonald 82 
 
 Baggage-Fiend Anonymous 300 
 
 Barbara Frietchie John G. Whittier 317 
 
 Barefoot Boy John G. Whittier 416 
 
 Battle of Lookout Mountain George H. Boker 570 
 
 Battle Song of Gustavus Adolphus Michael Alternburg 430 
 
 Beautiful Snow James W. Watson 443 
 
 Belfry Pigeon Nathaniel Parker Willis 61,^ 
 
 Bell of " The Atlantic " . .' Mrs. Lydia Sigourney 184 
 
 Bells of Shandon Father Prout 573 
 
 Bells Edgar A. Poe 593 
 
 Benedicite , . John Greenleaf Whittier 350 
 
 Betsy and I are out Will M. Carleton 381 
 
 Betsy Destroys the Paper Will M. Carleton 383 
 
 Betty and the Bear Anonymous 171 
 
 Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping .... Horatius Bonar ■ . 268 
 
 Bill and Joe Oliver Wendell Holmes 458 
 
 Bill Mason's Bride F. Bret Harte 518 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine Caroline E. Norton 86 
 
 "Blessed are They THAT Mourn" William Oullen Bryant 242 
 
 Blind Boy, The Colley Gibber 365 
 
 Blind Men and the Elephant . .• John G. Saxe 398 
 
 Borrioboola Gha Orrin Goodrich 525 
 
 Bread on THE Waters George L. Catlin 612 
 
 Break, break, break Alfred Tennyson 348 
 
 Bridge OF Sighs Thomas Hood 354 
 
 Bugle, The Alfred Tennyson 436 
 
 Burial of Moses Mrs. C. F. Alexander 289 
 
 Buried Flower W. Edmonstone Aytoune 272 
 
 Buried To-Day Dinah Maria Mulock 243 
 
 Byron's Latest Verses Lord Byron 485 
 
 By the Shore of the River Christopher Pearse Cranch 517 
 
 Call me not Dead T-anslated from the Persian 269 
 
 Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey 248 
 
 Cato on Immortality Joseph Addison 391 
 
 Cave of Silver Fitz James O'Brien 362 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Tennyson 59 
 
 Charley's Opinion of the Baby Anonymous 120 
 
 Charcoal Man John Townsend Trawbridge 425 
 
 Chemist to His Love Anonymous 469 
 
 Chinese Excelsior From the " Boy Travelers " 324 
 
 Church Window Johann Wolfgang Goethe 358 
 
 Civil War Anonymous 318 
 
TITLES OF POEMS. 85] 
 
 Clear the Way Charles Mackay 623 
 
 Cleon and I Charles Mackay 597 
 
 Clerical Wit Anonymous 401 
 
 Closing Scene T. Buchanan Read 556 
 
 Cloud, The Percy Bysshe Shelley 437 
 
 Cobbler Keezar's Vision John G. Whittier 44 
 
 Cockney, The ^ John G. Saxe 193 
 
 Comet, The Thomas Hood 2G0 
 
 Coral Insect Mrs. Sigoumey 146 
 
 Cradle Song Josiah Gilbert Holland 277 
 
 Creed of the Bells George W. Bungay 309 
 
 Day Dawn Henry W. Longfellow 661 
 
 Day-Dream Alfred Tennyson 480 
 
 David's Lament for Absalom Nathaniel Parker Willis 305 
 
 Deacon's Prayer William 0. Stoddart 320 
 
 Death-Bed Thomas Hood 199 
 
 Death of the Flowers William Cullcn Bryant 349 
 
 Death OF THE Old Year Alfred Tennyson 316 
 
 Der Drummer Charles F. Adams 297 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib Lord Byron 296 
 
 Dies Irve Thomas of Celano 456 
 
 Djinns Victor Hugo 468 
 
 Doing Good True Happiness Carlos Wilcox 219 
 
 Door-Step, The Edmund Clarence Stedman 368 
 
 Dorothy Sullivan Anonymous 685 
 
 Dot Lambs what Maby haf got Anonymous 567 
 
 Dove-Cote Aunt Efjie 232 
 
 Dow's Flat F. Bret Harte 426 
 
 Dreams and Realities Phcebe Gary 485 
 
 Drifting T. Buchanan Bead 210 
 
 Drummer Boy Anonymous 616 
 
 Duncan Gray cam' here to Woo Robert Bums 336 
 
 Dust on Her Bible Robert Lowry 666 
 
 Dying Alchemist Nathaniel Parker Wdlis 497 
 
 Eagle, The Alfred Tennyson 364 
 
 Early Rising John G. Saxe 341 
 
 Ebb Tide Robert Southcy 418 
 
 Echoes Thomas Moore 645 
 
 Embarkation of the Exiles Henry Wadsworlh Longfellow .... 90 
 
 Engineer's Story Anonymous 295 
 
 Enoch Arden at the Window Alfred Tennyson 252 
 
 Evangeline on the Prairie H. W. Longfellow 505 
 
 Evening Brings vs Home Anonymous 502 
 
 Excelsior Henry W. Longfellow 322 
 
 Extract from Gray's Elegy Thomas Gray 203 
 
 Fairies William Arlington 515 
 
 Fate ^- Bret Harte 258 
 
 " Father, take MY Hand" Henry N. Cobb 333 
 
852 TITLES OF POEMS. 
 
 SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE. 
 
 Faithless Nelly Geay .......... c Thomas Hood . 405 
 
 Farm-Yard Song John Townsend Trowbridge 352 
 
 Farmer and the Counsellor Anonymous 100 
 
 Father Time's Changeling Anonymous 324 
 
 Fire-Bell's Story, The George L. Catlin 554 
 
 Fire-Fiend CD. Oardette 160 
 
 First Party Jose^ine Pollard 414 
 
 First Snow-Fall James R. Lowell . 137 
 
 Fisher's Cottage Henry Heine . 253 
 
 Florence Vane , Philip P., Cooke 281 
 
 Foe Charlie's Sake John W. Palmer 641 
 
 Forest Hymn William Oullen Bryant 37 
 
 Frenchman and the Rats Anonymous 335 
 
 Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder . Oeorge Canning 228 
 
 Funeral of Lincoln Richard Henry Stoddard 600 
 
 Gems from Shakespeare Shakespeare 634 
 
 German Trust Song Lampertius 589 
 
 Gladiator J. A. Jones 565 
 
 God From the Russian of Derzhaven . . . 537 
 
 God in the Seas Wilham Oullen Bryant . 694 
 
 God's Acre Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 498 
 
 Go, Feel what 1 have Felt Anonymous 319 
 
 Goin' Home To-Day Will. M. Carleton 265 
 
 GoNW with a Handsomer Man . Will. M. Carlton 139 
 
 Gracious Answer, The. Henry N. Cobb 334 
 
 Gradatim John O. Holland 558 
 
 Gouty Merchant and the Stranger Horace Smith 216 
 
 Hans and Fritz Charles F. Adams 311 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark Shakespeare 319 
 
 He Knows Mary O. Brainard 577 
 
 Hermit James Beattie 595 
 
 Hero of the Commune Margaret J. Preston 278 
 
 Hiawatha's Journey Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 342 
 
 Hiawatha's Return Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 345 
 
 Hiawatha's Wooing Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 344 
 
 Hide and Seek Julia Goddard 454 
 
 Highland Mary • Robert Burns 262 
 
 Homes of England Felicia D. Hemans 64 
 
 Home, Sweet Home John Howard Payne 628 
 
 Hour of Death Mrs. F. Hemans 674 
 
 Housekeeper's Soliloquy Mrs. F. D. Gage 78 
 
 How's my Boy ? . . Sydney Dobell 353 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers Horace Smith 255 
 
 I Love the Morning Sunshine Robert Lowry 276 
 
 I'm Growing Old John O. Saxe 438 
 
 Indian Death-Song Philip Freneau 518 
 
 Intimations of Immortality William Wordsworth 206 
 
 I Would not Live Alway William A. Muhlenberg 353 
 
TITLES OF POEMS. 85.- 
 
 I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 273 
 
 I See Thee Still Charles Sprague 114 
 
 Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem Henry Hart Mlman 502 
 
 Jim F. Bret Harte 339 
 
 Joe Alice Rabbins 514 
 
 John Anderson, My Jo Robert Burns 466 
 
 John and Tibbie Davison's Dispute Robert Ldghton 572 
 
 John Jankin's Sermon Anonymous 543 
 
 John Maynard H. Alger, Jr 406 
 
 Jolly Old Pedagogue George Arnold 258 
 
 Kate Ketchem Phoebe Cary 461 
 
 King of Denmark's Ride Caroline E. Norton 379 
 
 Kissing her Hair Algernon Charles Swinburne .... 52 
 
 Kit Carson's Ride Joaquin Miller 472 
 
 Korner's Sword Song Charles Theodore Earner 312 
 
 Labor is Worship Frances S. Osgood 619 
 
 Lady Clare Alfred Tennyson 631 
 
 Lament of the Irish Emigraitt Lady JDufferin 62 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrims Felicia Hemans 205 
 
 Land o' the Leal Lady Carolina Nairne 421 
 
 Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes 542 
 
 Laugh of a Child Anonymous 549 
 
 Launching of the Ship Henry W. Longfellow 389 
 
 Law James Bcattie 649 
 
 Law of Death John Hay 547 
 
 Learning to Pray Mary M. Dodge 331 
 
 Left alone at Eighty Alice Rabbins 372 
 
 Legend of Bregenz Adelaide Anne Proctor 52 
 
 Life Lines selected from thirty-eight authors 496 
 
 Life Henry King . 642 
 
 Life From Death Horatius Bonar 170 
 
 Light-House Thomas Moore 513 
 
 Lines on a Skeleton Anonymous 417 
 
 Lion's Ride Ferdinand Freiligrath 455 
 
 Little and Great Charles Mackay 441 
 
 Little Conqueror Charles F. Adavis 165 
 
 Little Margery -Afrs Sallie J. White 330 
 
 London Churches Richard Moncktan Milnes 237 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter Thomas Campbell 551 
 
 Lost Doll C- Emgsley 341 
 
 Love Lightens Labor Anonymous 182 
 
 Love me Little, Love me Long Anonymous 191 
 
 Mabel Martin John G. Whittier 488 
 
 Maidenhood Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 246 
 
 Mary Garvin John G. Whittier 560 
 
 Maud Muller John O. Whittier 459 
 
 Measuring the Baby Emma Alice Brown 520 
 
 Meeting of the Ships Felicia Hemans 230 
 
854 TITLES OF POEMS. 
 
 SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE. 
 
 Meeting of the Waters Thomas Moore 484 
 
 Mercy Shakespeare 379 
 
 Merry Lark Charles Kingsley 463 
 
 Milkmaid Jeffreys Taylor 199 
 
 Minuet, The Mrs. Mary M. Dodge 340 
 
 Miser, The Oeorge W. Gutter 226 
 
 Miss Edith Helps Things Along F. Bret Harte 254 
 
 Model Church John H. Yates 544 
 
 Moravian Requiem Harriet B. MKeever 225 
 
 Mother in the Snow-Storm Seha Smith 513 
 
 Motherhood Anonymous 229 
 
 Mountain and Squirrel . Ralph Waldo Emerson 590 
 
 Mrs. Lofty and I Anonymous 596 
 
 Murdered Traveler William Cullen Bryant ....... 402 
 
 My Childhood Home B. P. Shillaber 196 
 
 My Country James Montgomery 179 
 
 My Creed Alice Cary 266 
 
 My Mother's Bible Geo. P. Morris 523 
 
 My Playmate John Q. Whittier 582 
 
 Mystery of Life in Christ Mrs E. Prentiss 233 
 
 Mystic Weaver Anonymous 587 
 
 Nation's Dead, The Anonymous 266 
 
 Nell • Robert Buchanan 393 
 
 New Church Organ Will. M. Carleton 588 
 
 New Year's Eve Alfred Tennyson 387 
 
 Niagara Lydia Huntley Sigoumey 647 
 
 Night James Montgomery 301 
 
 No Thomas Hood 506 
 
 Nobody's Child Phila H Case 302 
 
 Nocturnal Sketch Tfiomas Hood 609 
 
 " No more Sea " William H. Henderson 644 
 
 No Sects in Heaven Ano?iymous 500 
 
 Not on the Battle-Field John Pierpont 531 
 
 " Now I Lay ME Down to Sleep '' Anonymous 332 
 
 Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd Sir Walter Raleigh . 381 
 
 Old Ralph Hoyt 431 
 
 Old Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 285 
 
 Old Oaken Bucket Samuel Woodworth 549 
 
 Old School Punishment Anonymous 209 
 
 Old Times and New A. C. Spooner 429 
 
 Old Ways and the New John H Yates 104 
 
 Orient, The Lord Byron 224 
 
 Out of the Old House, Nancy Will. M. Carleton 697 
 
 Our Lambs Anonymous 629 
 
 Our Skater Belle Anonymous 597 
 
 Over the Hill to the Poor-House Will. M. Carleton 679 
 
 Over the Hills from the Poor-House .... May Mignonette 681 
 
 Over the River Nancy A. W. Priest 142 
 
TITLES OF POEMS. 355 
 
 Owl, The Barry Cornwall .... 422 
 
 Paddy's Excelsior Anonymous 323 
 
 Palace 0', the King William Mitchell 286 
 
 Papa's Letter Anonymous 168 
 
 Parting Lovers Translated from the Chinese So'j 
 
 Patient Stork Lord Thurlow 450 
 
 Patriotism Sir Walter Scott 233 
 
 Pat's Criticism Charles F. Adams 154 
 
 Pauper's Death-Bed C. B. Southey 216 
 
 Paying her Way Anonymous 452 
 
 Pelican, The James Montgomery 446 
 
 " Penny YE Meant TO GiE " Anonymous 581 
 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem Adelaide Anne Proctor 553 
 
 Pleasure Boat, The Richard Henry Dana 60 
 
 Poet's Reward John G. Whittier 402 
 
 Poet's Song to his Wife Barry Cornwall 63 
 
 Poor Indian, The Anonymous 227 
 
 Poor Little Joe P. Arkwright 358 
 
 Prayers of Children Anonymous 329 
 
 Psalm of Life Henry Wadsworth Longj'cUow .... 241 
 
 Potting up o' the Stove Anonymous 290 
 
 Puzzled Dutchman Charles F. Adams 151 
 
 Quaker Widow Bayard Taylor 110 
 
 Quarrel of Brutus and Cassios Shahpcare 476 
 
 Quilting, The Anne Baclie 56 
 
 Rainy Day Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 88 
 
 Ramblings in Greece Rossiter W. Raymond 696 
 
 Ranger, The John G. Whittier 507 
 
 Raven, The Edgar A. Poe 158 
 
 Reaper, The William Wordsworth 368 
 
 Resignation Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 251 
 
 .Reveille T. B. Hart 618 
 
 Ring the Bell Softly Dexter Smith 282 
 
 River Path John G. Wiitticr 5('.6 
 
 River Time, The Benjamin F. Taylor 64 
 
 Robert of Lincoln Wm. Cullen Bryant 387 
 
 Rock me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers 274 
 
 Roll on. Thou Sun Anonymous 234 
 
 Ruined Merchant Cora M. Eager 197 
 
 Ruth '. Thomas Hood 367 
 
 Sabbath, The .• James Grahame 610 
 
 Sands 0' Dee Charles Kingsley 392 
 
 Scatter the Gems of the Beautiful Anonymous 195 
 
 Searching for the Slain Anonymous 602 
 
 Sea, The Lord Byron 262 
 
 Sea, The Barry Cornwall 362 
 
 Servant of God, well done James Montgomery 254 
 
 57 
 
850 TITLES OF POEMS. 
 
 Seven Times Two Jean Imjduw 619 
 
 Shall we know each other there / . . . . Anonymous -. 69 
 
 Shibboleth E. A. J. Cleveland 583 
 
 Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read 536 
 
 Skipper Ieeson's Ride John G. WJiittier 79 
 
 Sleep of the Brave William Collins 605 
 
 "Sleighing Song G. W. Fettee 338 
 
 Snow-Flakes Harriet B. M'Keever 243 
 
 Show-Storm, The Ealph Waldo Emerson 63 
 
 Socrates Snooks Anonymous 124 
 
 Soldier's Dream Thomas Campbell 578 
 
 Soldier's Pardon James Smith 236 
 
 Sometime Mary Riley Smith 373 
 
 Song for Hearth and Home William R. Duryea 548 
 
 Song op Birds Thomas Heywood 374 
 
 Song of Marion's Men Wm. Cullen Bryayit 133 
 
 Song of Saratoga • • . . John G. Saxe 95 
 
 Song of Spring • Edward Youl 98 
 
 Song of the Brook Alfred Tennyson 222 
 
 Song of the Decanter Anomjmous 87 
 
 Song of the Forge Anonymous 304 
 
 Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood 282 
 
 Song of the Stormy Petrel Anonymous 440 
 
 Sonnet from the Portuguese Elizabeth B. Browning 370 
 
 Soul of Eloquence Johann W. Goethe 97 
 
 Stabat Mater Translation of Dr. Abraham Coles . . 504 
 
 Star of Bethlehem Henry Kirk White 469 
 
 ^ Stae-Spangled Banner Francis Scott Key 466 
 
 'St. John the Aged Anonymous 575 
 
 Stormy Petrel, The Barry Cornwall 439 
 
 Sunrise in the Valley of Chamounix .... Samuel Taylor Coleridge 663 
 
 Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant 214 
 
 The American Boy Caroline Gilman 268 
 
 The Angel's Story Adelaide A. Froctor 637 
 
 The Angel's Whisper Samuel Lover 277 
 
 The Angler • ■ John Chalkhill 205 
 
 The Bald-Headed Tyrant May E. VanDyhe 687 
 
 The Bride Sir John Suckling 642 
 
 The Bridge . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 51 
 
 The Blood Horse Barry Cornwall 42 
 
 The Brook Side Richard Monckton Milnes 247 
 
 The Celestial Country Bernard De Morlaix 650 
 
 The Chamber over the Gate H W. Longfellow 693 
 
 The Changeling John G. Whittier 654 
 
 The Children's Church From the German of Faul Gerot ... 692 
 
 The Children's Hour H. W. Longfellow 656 
 
 The Coral Grove James G. Fercival 678 
 
TITLES OF POEMS. 357 
 
 The Countess John G. Wiitticr GOo 
 
 The Crowded Streets WUUatn Cullen Bryant o07 
 
 The Cry of the Children Elizabeth Barrett Browning GU9 
 
 The Day is Done H. W. LomjfeWm 706 
 
 The Eggs and the Horses Anonymous fj04 
 
 The Gambler's Wife Reynell Coates 688 
 
 The Grasshopper King From the Greek of Anacreon 42 
 
 The Home of Peace Thomas Moore 337 
 
 The Lost Church Johann Ludwig Wiland 622 
 
 The Lost Love William Wordsworth 670 
 
 The Lull of Eternity Francis Ridley Havergal 626 
 
 The Maple Tree Anonymous 099 
 
 The Ministry of Angels Edmund Spenser 702 
 
 The Ministry of Jesus Edward Bickersteth 703 
 
 The Old Clock on the Stairs Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .... 40 
 
 The Old Village Choir Benjamin F. Taylor 677 
 
 The One-hoss Shay Oliver Wendell Holmes 69 
 
 There is no Death Lord Lytton 451 
 
 The Rose James R. Lowell 6G9 
 
 The Sun is Warm, the Sky is Clear Percy Bysshc Shelley 601 
 
 The Tempest James T. Fields . . -X 20S 
 
 The Three Sons John Moultrie 528 
 
 The Tiger Wdliam Blake 357 
 
 The True Temple Anonymous 615 
 
 The Unbolted Door Edward Garrett 129 
 
 The Vagabonds J. T. Trowbridge 130 
 
 The Water-Mill D. C.M'Callum 200 
 
 The Whistle Robert Story 283 
 
 Through Trials Roscngarten 658 
 
 Tim Twinkleton's Twins Charles A. Bell 106 
 
 To a Friend in Affliction Wdliam Munford 689 
 
 To a Water Fowl W. C. Bryant 526 
 
 To Night ■> Percy Bysshe Shdlcy 242 
 
 To THE Silent PiIVEH Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 220 
 
 Trust John G. Whittier 230 
 
 Twenty Years Ago Anonymous 261 
 
 Two Little Kittens Anonymous 229 
 
 Two Views Anonymous t>25 
 
 Under the Violet? Oliver Wendell Holmes 267 
 
 Union and Liberty Oliver Wendell Holmes 273 
 
 Vaudois Teacher John G. Whittier 405 
 
 Vision of Monk Gabriel Eleanor C. Donnelly 659 
 
 Voices at the Throne T Westwood 527 
 
 Waiting by the Gate . William Cidlen Bryant 77 
 
 What Constitutes a State ? • Sir William Jones 367 
 
 When Susan Coolidge 450 
 
 When Sparrows Build Jean Ligclow 471 
 
858 
 
 TITLES OF rOEMS. 
 
 Where Shall the Baby's Dimple be ? . . . . J. Q. Holland 689 
 
 Whistling IN Heaven W.S.Ralph 116 
 
 Why? Ethel Lynn , 655 
 
 Why should THE Spirit OF Mortal BE Proud ? . William Knox 411 
 
 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles F. M. Whitcher 548 
 
 Widow M alone Charles James Lever 375 
 
 Wind and Rain Richard H. Stoddard 414 
 
 Winter Song Ludwig Holty 596 
 
 Wounded William E. Miller 188 
 
 Yawcob Strauss Charles F. Adams 418 
 
 You Put no Flowebs on my Papa's Grave . . C. E. L. Holmes 192 
 
INDEX OF POEMS 
 
 (FIRST LINES) 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 A BABY was sleeping 277 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem — may his tribe . . 225 
 
 A care-worn widow sat alone 129 
 
 A chieftain to the highlands bound . . 551 
 
 A cottage home with sloping lawn . . , 197 
 
 A counsel in the "Common Pleas " . . 100 
 
 Across the level table-land 488 
 
 A Frenchman once 335 
 
 A good wife rose from her bed one morn 182 
 
 A little child 527 
 
 All is finished and at length 389 
 
 Alone, in the dreary, pitiless street . . 302 
 
 Along the frozen lake she comes . . . 597 
 
 A milkmaid who poised a full pail . . 199 
 
 Among professors of astronomy .... 260 
 
 A mother's love ! Oh, soft and low . . 703 
 
 And is there care in heaven '! 702 
 
 Announced by all the trumpets ... 63 
 
 An old farm home with meadows wide 625 [ 
 
 An ol<i man sat by a fireless hearth . . 226 I 
 
 A parson who a missionary had been . 401 
 
 PAOE. 
 
 A picture memory brings to me . . . . 230 
 
 Arise ! this day shall shine 179 
 
 A soldier of the Legion lay dying . . 86 
 
 As ships becalmed at eve, that lay . . . 422 
 
 A stranger preached last Sunday . . . 525 
 
 As unto the bow the cord is 342 
 
 At early dawn I marked them in the sky 446 
 
 At heaven approached a Sufi Saint . . 284 
 
 A thousand miles from land are we . . 439 
 
 A traveler through a dusty road . . . 441 
 
 At the close of the day when the . . , 595 
 
 At the feet of Laughing Water .... 344 
 
 At twilight hour, when memory's power 225 
 
 Awake my soul ! >'ot only paseive . . 663 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea .... 587 
 
 A wind came up out of the sea .... 661 
 
 Backward, turn backward, Time . 274 
 
 Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! . . 243 
 
 Beautiful was the night 505 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee 356 
 
 8o9 
 
860 
 
 FIRST LINES OF POEMS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Behold her single in the field 368 
 
 Behold this ruin ! 'tis a skull 417 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold 405 
 
 Beside the massive gateway built up . 77 
 
 Between the dark and the daylight . . G56 
 
 Beyond the smiling and the weeping.. . 268 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man 416 
 
 Break, break, break 348 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead 233 
 
 Buried to-day 243 
 
 But Enoch yearned to see her face again 252 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain . . . • . 289 
 
 By the wayside on a mossy stone ... 431 
 
 Captain Graham, the men were sayin' 616 
 
 Calmly see the mystic weaver 587 
 
 Clang, clang ! the massive anvils rang . 304 
 
 Cleon hath a million acres — not a one 597 
 
 Come, dear old comrade, you and I . . 458 
 
 Come hoist the sail, the fast let go . , . 60 
 
 Dark is the night, and fitful 548 
 
 Dark is the night ! How dark ! .... 688 
 Day hath put on his jacket, and around 445 
 
 Day of wrath ! that day of burning . . 456 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes ait morn. 255 
 
 Deep in the wave is a coral grove- . .. . 678 
 
 Did you hear of the Widow Malon« . . 375 
 
 Dong, dong ! — the bells rang out . . . 554 
 
 Down on the stream they flying go . . 583 
 
 Dow's Flat, That's its name 426 
 
 Do ye hear the children weeping . . . 699 
 
 Draw up the papers, lawyer 381 
 
 Duncan Gray cam' here to woo .... 336 
 
 Even is come ; and from the dark Park, 609 
 
 Fear not, little flock ! the foe . . . 430 
 
 First time he kissed me 370 
 
 -J'lag of the heroes who left us their gloiy 273 
 
 Flow on forever, in thy glorious robe . 647 
 
 For thee, dear, dear country .... 650 
 
 For the fairest maid in Hampton . . . 654 
 
 Four hundred thousand men 266 
 
 From the heart of Waumbek Methna . 560 
 
 From his lips . 703 
 
 Full knee-deep lies the winter snow . . 316 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene . 203 
 
 Gamarra is a dainty steed 42 
 
 Garcon ! — you, you 278 
 
 Girt round with rugged mountains . . 52 
 
 " Give me but two brigades !" . . . . 570 
 
 God bless my little one. How fair . . 682 
 
 God bless the man who first invented 341 
 
 God of the thunder 502 
 
 God's love and peace be with thee . . . 350 
 
 Go, feel what I have felt 319 
 
 Golden head so lowly bending .... 332 
 
 Grandma told me all about it 340 
 
 Half a league, half a league 59 
 
 Half an hour till train-time, sir ... . 518 
 
 Hans and Fritz were two Deutschers 311 
 
 Hark, hark! the lark 319 
 
 Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands . 618 
 
 Happy insect, what can be 42 
 
 Have you heard of the . . . one-boss shay ? 69 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells .... 593 
 
 Heaven is not reached at a single bound 558 
 
 He clasps the crag with hooked hands . 364 
 
 Here's a big washing to be done ... 78 
 ' Her hands are cold ; her face is white . . 267 
 
 I He who dies at Azim sends 269 
 
 j Hide and seek ! Two children at play . 454 
 
 ! Hold the lantern aside, and shudder 602 
 
 Ho, sailor of the sea ! 353 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes . 549 
 
 How does the water come down .... 248 
 
 How kind Reuben Esmond is growing. 655 
 
 How many summers, love ? 68 
 
 How shall we learn to sway the minds » 97 
 
 How sleep the brave who 605 
 
 How still the morning of the hallowed 610 
 
 How sweet the chime of the Sabbath 309 
 
 How sweet the answer Echo makes . . 645 
 
 I BRING fresh showers 437 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hern . 222 
 
 I do not ask, Lord ! that life may be 553 
 
 I haf von funny leedle poy 418 
 
 I have a son, a little son 528 
 
 I have fancied sometimes the Bethel . 677 
 
 I hold that Christian grace abounds . . 266 
 
 I knew by the smoke 337 
 
 I know not what will befall me ! . . . 577 
 
 If 1 were told that I must die ... . 450 
 
FIRST LINES OF POEMS. 
 
 861 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 If that the world and love were young . 381 
 
 I know in grief like yours 689 
 
 I know him by his falcon eye 227 
 
 I like that ancient Saxon phrase . . . 498 
 
 I love it, I love it, the laugh of a child . 549 
 
 I love it, I love it, and who shall dare . 285 
 
 I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me . 469 
 
 I love the morning sunshine 276 
 
 I loved thee long and dearly 281 
 
 I loved them so 629 
 
 I'm a proken-hearted Deutscher .... 151 
 
 I met her where • folly was queen of the 666 
 
 I'm growing very old. This weary head 575 
 
 I'm sitting on the stile, Mary 62 
 
 I'm wearin' awa', Jean 421 
 
 In a pioneer's cabin out West .... 171 
 
 In Broad Street buildings . . • . - . 216 
 
 In his tower sat the poet 669 
 
 In PLBStum's ancient fanes I stood . . . 696 
 
 In the deepest dearth of midnight . . . 160 
 
 In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower 422 
 
 In the quiet nursery chambers .... 329 
 
 In the regular evening meeting .... 320 
 
 In the silence of my chamber 272 
 
 In yon dense wood full oft a boll . . . 622 
 
 I once had a sweet little doll, dear . . 341 
 
 I remember, I remember 273 
 
 I rock'd her in the cradle 144 
 
 I saw him once before 542 
 
 Is it so far from thee 693 
 
 I stood one Sunday morning 237 
 
 I stood on the bridge at midnight ... 51 
 
 It must be so— Plato 391 
 
 It's a bonnie, bonnie warl' ..... 286 
 
 It was the time when lilies blow . . . 631 
 
 It was many and many a year ago . . 553 
 
 It was in my foreign travel 193 
 
 It was six men of Indostan 398 
 
 I've brought back the paper, lawyer 383 
 
 I've just come in from the meadow, wife 104 
 
 I've wandered to the village, Tom . . . 261 
 
 I've worked in the field all day .... 139 
 
 I walk along the crowded streets . . 233 
 
 I wandered by the brook side 247 
 
 I was sitting in my study 168 
 
 I will paint her as I see her : . . . . 388 
 
 I would not live alway ; I ask not to stay 353 
 
 Jingle, jingle, clear the way 338 
 
 John Anderson, ray jo, John 466 
 
 John Davison and Tibbie, his wife . . 572 
 
 John Dobbins was so captivated .... 694 
 
 Just as God leads me I would go . . . 589 
 
 Kate Ketchem, on a winter's night . . 461 
 
 Kissing her hair, I sat against her feet . 52 
 
 Kneeling fair in the twilight gray . . 331 
 
 Kneeling, white-robed, sleepy eyes . . 330 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress . . 224 
 
 Laud the first spring daisies 98 
 
 Laws, as we read in ancient sages . . . 679 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall 674 
 
 Let me lie down 188 
 
 Let me move slowly through the street 567 
 
 Like the falling of a star 642 
 
 Look up, ray young Araerican .... 268 
 
 Love me little, love me long ! 191 
 
 Maiden! witn the meek, brown eyes . . 
 Man knows not love — such love as . . 
 Many a voice has echoed the cry . . . 
 Mary haf got a leetle lambs already . . 
 Maud MuUer, on a summer's day . . . 
 
 Maxwelton braes are bonnie 
 
 Men of thought be up and stirring . . 
 Merrily swinging on brier and weed . . 
 Mid pleasures and palaces though we . 
 
 Miss Annabel McCarty 
 
 Mister Socrates Snooks 
 
 " Mister," the little fellow said .... 
 
 Mrs. Lofty keeps a carriage 
 
 Muzzer's bought a baby 
 
 My business on the jury's done . . . 
 My days pass pleasantly away .... 
 My neighbor's house is not so high . . 
 My sister '11 be down in a minute . . . 
 My soul to-day 
 
 I Needt knife-grinder ! 
 
 ' Night is the time for rest .... 
 
 No bird-song floated down the hill 
 
 No, children, my trips arc over . . 
 
 No sun — no moon ! 
 
 Not where high towers rear . . . 
 
 246 
 702 
 626 
 567 
 459 
 385 
 623 
 387 
 628 
 414 
 124 
 012 
 596 
 120 
 265 
 438 
 229 
 254 
 210 
 
 301 
 566 
 
 506 
 615 
 
 O deem not they are blest alone 
 Of all the noUble things on earth 
 
 242 
 71 
 
862 
 
 FIRST LINES OF POEMS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Of all the rides since the birth of time . 79 
 
 Oh ! a wedding ring's pretty to wear . . 685 
 
 Oh ! a wonderful stream is the river . 64 
 
 Oh, lady fair, these silks of mine . . . 405 
 
 Oh ! listen to the water-mill 200 
 
 Oh ! say, can you see 466 
 
 Oh ! the quietest home on earth had I . 687 
 
 Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal . . 411 
 
 Old master Brown brought his ferule . 209 
 
 0, lonely, exiled one 644 
 
 Mary go and call the cattle home . . 392 
 
 melancholy bird, the long, long day . 450 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary 158 
 
 One day in summer's glow 324 
 
 One more unfortunate 354 
 
 no, no — let me lie 531 
 
 On the cross-beam under the old South 613 
 
 reverend sir, I do declare 548 
 
 Rosamond, thou fair and good . . . 485 
 
 say, what is that thing called light . 365 
 
 the gallant fisher's life 205 
 
 the snow, the beautiful snow .... 443 
 
 Thou Eternal One ! whose presence 537 
 
 Our band is few, but true and tried . . . 133 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting 209 
 
 Our bugles sang truce 578 
 
 Our revels now are ended 325 
 
 but of the old house, Nancy 697 
 
 Over the cradle the mother hung . . . 689 
 
 Over the hill the farm-boy goes .... 352 
 
 Over the hill to the poor-house .... 679 
 
 Over the hills to the poor-house .... 681 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me . . . 142 
 
 Over the wooded northern ridge. . . . 605 
 
 Pack clouds, away! and welcome, day! 374 
 
 Pause not to dream of the future before us 619 
 
 Peace! let the long procession come . 600 
 
 Pleasant was the journey homeward . 345 
 
 Pray what do they do at the Springs ? . 95 
 
 Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey .... 358 
 
 Rattle tlie window, winds 414 
 
 Rifleman, shoot me a fancy shot . . . 318 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky . . 387 
 
 River that in silence windest 220 
 
 Robert Rawlin ! Frosts were falling . 507 
 
 Roll on, thou Sun, forever roll .... 234 
 
 Run? Now you bet you 472 
 
 page. 
 
 Say, there ! P'r'aps 339 
 
 Scatter the gems of the beautiful . . . 195 
 
 Seek me the cave of silver 362 
 
 Servant of God, well done 254 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways . 670 
 
 She says, " the cock crows, — hark !" . . 356 
 
 She stood breast high amid the corn . . 367 
 
 Slowly thy flowing tide 418 
 
 Some one has gone 282 
 
 Sometime, when all life's lessons . . . 373 
 
 Somewhat back from the village street. 40 
 
 Stood the afflicted mother weeping . . 504 
 
 Summer joys are over 596 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave . . 242 
 
 Sword at my left side gleaming .... 312 
 
 Talking of sects till late one eve . . . 500 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers . . 241 
 
 Thanks untraced to lips unknown . . . 402 
 
 That nightee teem he come chop-chop . 324 
 
 That you have wronged me 476 
 
 The Assyrian came down like a wolf 296 
 
 The beaver cut his timber 44 
 
 The bells of the church are ringing . . 692 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high . . . 205 
 
 The cold wind swept 513 
 
 The conference meeting through at last 368 
 
 The day is cold, and dark, and dreary . 88 
 
 The day is done 706 
 
 The day is set, the ladies met 56 
 
 Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah . 110 
 
 The groves were God's first temples . . 37 
 
 The lark sings for joy 440 
 
 The lion is the desert's king . . . . • 455 
 
 The maid, and thereby hangs a tale! . . 642 
 
 The melancholy days have com© . . . 290 
 
 The melancholy days are come .... 349 
 
 The merry, merry lark was up . . . . 463 
 
 The minster window, richly glowing . 358 
 
 The minister says last night, says he . 543 
 
 The mountain and the squirrel .... 590 
 
 Then disorder prevailed, and the tumult 90 
 
 The night wind with a desolate moan 497 
 
 The night is Tate, the house is still . . 641 
 
 The pines were dark on Ramoth Hill . 582 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strained . . 379 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride 179 
 
 There is a j^leasure in the pathless woods 262 
 
 There is no death I The stars go down . 451 
 
FIRST LINES OF POiiMS 
 
 868^ 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 There is no flock, however watched . . 251 
 
 There is not in this wide world . . . 484 
 
 There's a little low hut by the river side 196 
 
 There's a story that's old 154 
 
 There's a funny tale of a stingy man . 581 
 
 There was an old decanter 87 
 
 The scene was more beautiful 513 
 
 The sea! the sea ! the open sea! . . . 362 
 
 These restless surges eat away .... 694 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast . . 322 
 
 The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare . 258 
 
 The snow had begun in the gloaming . 137 
 
 The song of Kilvany. Fairest she . . 547 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls . . • 436 
 
 The star is not extinguished when it sets 170 
 
 The stately homes of England 64 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear . . . 601 
 
 The sun sets at night, and the stars shun 518 
 
 The surging sea of human life .... 187 
 
 The varying year with 480 
 
 The waters slept. Night's silvery veil 305 
 
 The way is dark, my child 334 
 
 The way is dark, my Father 333 
 
 They led a lion from his den 565 
 
 They've got a bran new organ, Sue . . 588 
 
 They well deserve to have 634 
 
 This book is all that's left me now . . 523 
 
 This is the arsenal 424 
 
 Though rudely blows the wintry blast . 425 
 
 Through night to light. And though . 658 
 
 Through the blue and frosty heavens . 637 
 
 Through the gray willows 517 
 
 Tiger ! tiger ! burning bright 357 
 
 Tim Twinkleton was 106 
 
 'Tis a fearful night in the winter time . 409 
 
 'Tis the soft twilight. Round the . . . 659 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 484 
 
 To him who in the love of nature holds 214 
 
 Toil on ! toil on ! ye ephemeral train . . 146 
 
 Toll, toll, toll, toll . . . 184 
 
 Town, tower 468 
 
 Tread softly, bow the head 
 
 True, all we know must die 
 
 'Twas a ferocious baggage-man .... 
 'Twas growing dark so terrible fasht . 
 'Twas a jolly old pedagogue, long ago . 
 'Twas in my easy chair at home .... 
 'Twas midnight, not a sound was heard 
 
 216 
 675 : 
 
 300 ' 
 
 323 
 
 258 
 
 429 
 
 165 I 
 
 See Summary on 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse . . 40ti 
 
 'Twas the eve before Christma* 395 
 
 Two barks met on the deep mid-sea . . 230 
 
 Two little kittens, one stormy night . . 229 
 
 Up from the south at break of day . . 536 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn . 317 
 
 Up the airy mountains 515 
 
 Upon the hills the wind is sharp . . 502 
 
 Upon the wall it hung 181 
 
 Very high in the dove-cote 232 
 
 We are two travelers, Roger and I . . 130 
 
 We don't take vagrants in, sir ... . 514 
 
 Well, wife, I've found the model church 544 
 
 We measured the riotous baby .... 520 
 
 We sat by the fisher's cottage 253 
 
 We watched her breathing 199 
 
 We were crowded in the cabin .... 208 
 
 We were standing in the doorway . . . 401 
 
 What constitutes a state 367 
 
 What did you say, dear — breakfast ? . . 372 
 
 What has my darling been doing . . . 452 
 
 What is the little one thinking about ? . 277 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain . . 467 
 
 When, marshalled on the nightly plain . 469 
 
 When on the world's first harvest day . 699 
 
 When sparrows build 471 
 
 When spring, to woods and wastes 402 
 
 When the sheep are in the fauld ... 173 
 
 When we hear the music ringing ... 69 
 
 Where did you come from, baby dear . 82 
 
 Whither midst falling dew 526 
 
 Who puts oup at der pest hotel .... 297 
 
 Why all this toil for triumphs .... 496 
 
 Wild blew the gale in Gibraltar . . 236 
 
 With deep affection 573 
 
 With fingers weary and worn ..... 282 
 
 With sable-draped banners 192 
 
 Within this sober realm of leafless trees 556 
 
 Word was brought to the Danish king . 379 
 
 Wouldst thou from sorrow find .... 219 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 262 
 
 You bells in the steeple ring, ring out . 619 
 
 " You havo heard," said a youth . . • 283 
 
 You're a kind woman. Nan ! . . . . 393 
 
 You're surprised that I ever 116 
 
 following page. 
 
912 
 
 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 
 
 SUMMARY OF CONTENTS. 
 
 Indexes of Authors, First Lines, Etc 54 Pages. 
 
 Gems fi74 
 
 Biographical Sketches 72 
 
 Living Thoughts 58 
 
 Sentiments for Autograph Albums 6 
 
 Full Page Plates 4.S 
 
 Total Number of Pag 
 
 912 
 
 Note. — The full page plates are not enumerated in the printed paging of the hook, lience 
 tlie actual number of pages is 'J12, not Slil as would seem from the consecutive paging. 
 
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