PRIVATE LIBRARY | OF I I JAMES H. BURKE. . .^KZ^ ^^*' m-^: tM vwi^ J^ 1^ ic^^ (i.a/^xA W. Jcry^o^)^ 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 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 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 Amij 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 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 '' 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. . 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 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,