>^
aWEUNIVERS/a
^lOSANCEl^^
O
55^HIBRARYQ<;^
^^H!BR
"^/jiiiAiNa-jwv ^ciAnvjian-^^
-<
N."«>
-^lllBRARYOc
^llIBRARYd?/r.
%OJI1V3JO^
"^mmyi^
.^WEUNIVER.y/A
<rii]3Nvsm^
v^
^OFCAllFO%,
^OFCAllFOfi'/i!^
%.
,^ME•UNIVER%.
%iiva8ni^ "^c^AiJvagn-^s^ ^riuoNvsm^
,^WEUNIVER%.
OS
vvlOSANCEl%
-0\l-UBRARY6k,
^TiiaoNVsoi^ "^AaaAiNO-jiv^ '%ojiivdjo'^
^.SOJliV
A\\EUNIVER%
^J'JIJWSOI^
^lOSANCElfj-^
..;,0FCAIIF0%
'^^i%imm\w ^^Aavnaii^
--i IJJI'I JUI
-'jujaii'ujn'
.^wf^)NlvEBI/A,
en
vvlOSANCElfJV.
o
<ril30NVS01^ ■^/Sa3AINfl 3UV
^^lllBRARYGc. ^HIBRARYOc
^(tfOJIlVDJO"^
'%OJI1V3JO'*^
cc
<
"^^ilJDNYSOl^
^lOSASCElfj>
.^OffAllFOP^^
^^OFCAllFOff^
'^/5ii3AiNfi-3Uv ^'^Aavaaii-^ ^(?A«v}ian-^'^
^illBRARYQ^.
o\lllBRARY(9^^
'^.!/0JllV3JO'^
^.!/0JllV3J0'
.^WEUNIVERS/A
^vWSANCElfX;^
"^Aa^AiNnjwv
^.OFCAIIFO/?^
CI
^•OFCAllFOff^
AMEUNIVERS'//i
vvlOSANCElfj^
o
>&Aava8iT^^ "<rji30Nvsoi^
^ajAiNrt-jwv'
aWEUNIVERJ//,
>^lOSANCElfjv,
o
^^UIBRARYQ^^
-^HIBRARYO^;^
^i^lJONYSOl^ %a3AlNn3WV^ ^(JOJITVDJO'^ %Oi\mi^'^
AWEUNIVERS/A
^lOSANCElfx^
o
o
^.OFCAIIFO%
.^.OF-CALIFO/?^
%a]AiNnmv^
'^^Abvaaiii'^
^6>A«vHan#
l^
THE
POPULAR ELOCUTIONIST
AND RECITER:
CLASSIFIED, ARRANGED, AND EDITED BY
J. E. CAKPENTER, M.A., Pii.D,
A NEW EDITION
TJIOROUGULY HE VISED WITH ADDITIONS
JIY
LEOPOLD WAGNER.
Hontion an"ti ilrh) ¥ork :
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
1887.
IXtNDON:
BaACBDBT, AONEW, & CO., PKINTKES, ■WHITEUfBIARa.
FN
PEEFACE BY THE OEIGINAL EDITOE.
A FEW words to account for the publication of " The Popular
Elocutionist and Reciter."
Some years since the Editor commenced his publication,
" Penny Readings in Prose and Verse," which extended to
twelve volumes of 256 pages each. A Library Edition in five
volumes was subsequently issued, and of these two works about
a quarter of a million copies have been disposed of.
Though intended in the first instance for the use of platform
readers only, they were adopted as an Elocution Class book
in many public and private schools. For this purpose they
ultimately became too bulky. The inconvenience of a school
book extending over a series of volumes is so patent that it
need scarcely be pointed out. It was to obviate this, and
acting on the suggestion of several heads of schools, and
esteemed professora of Elocution, that the present work was
undertaken. The " Popular Readings," they asserted, con-
tained so many more modern pieces than any of the " Speakers "
now in use, that a selection of the best of them, excluding such
as were adapted to the platform only, and classifying the rest,
would supply a real want.
The sale of numerous editions, revised and added to as oppor-
tunity offered, has justified this opinion.
A few concise rules on the art of Elocution, and a few only,
have been prefixed, in which all that is necessary to be known is
IX^
?Ai
JL*
IV
Pahlishers' Preface to this Revised Edition.
briefly stated, it being the opinion of the Editor, and those who
have favoured him with their advice, that not only has the veil
of pedantry which has been thrown over so many treatises,
rendered them obscure, and retarded the progress of the art,
but that wherever this branch of education may be taught,
but little good will be accomplished unless under the guidance
of a judicious and skilful teacher.
For the rules which are embodied in chapters 2 to 6 of the
introductory matter the Editor is mainly indebted to his friend,
the late Henry Marstou, Esq., of the Theatre Royal, Drury
Lane.
J. E. C.
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE TO THIS
REVISED EDITION.
In consequence of the recent decease of the original compiler,
it now passes to a new Editor, who has completely revised tho
work to present date, expunged time-worn matter, and inserted
selections from modern authors. This, we hope, will keep the
work in the high reputation and prominent position it has
held for so long a period.
CONTENTS.
PART L— ELOCUTION.
PAaB
I. Introductory .......... 1
II. Elocution considered a.s an Art ...... 4
III. On Pause 8
IV. On Inflection 11
V. On Pitch 14
VI. On Gesture 18
VII. On Reading Verse 24
VIII. Useful Hints 30
PART II.- SELECTIONS.
MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE.
Labour
The Clouds ....
Autumn ....
The Death of Paul Dombcy .
One Niche the Highest .
Love's Infatuation
The Early Struggles of a Physician
Fame v. Useful Toil .
Modern Gallantry .
Lessons of Creation
My Holiday at Wretchcdville .
The Death of Little Nell .
The Flower of the Forest
Thomas Corlylc .
33
John Rusldn .
^9
Rev. Archibald Alison
41
Charles Dickens .
42
Elihu Burriit
46
E. T. W. Hoffman
48
Samuel Warren
54
Nathaniel Haicthorne
57
Charles Lamb
58
John Rusldn
CI
George Augustus Sala
63
Charles Dickens
69
Professor Wilson
. 73
VI
Contents.
Goldsmith in Green-Arbor Court ,
On the Fate of Robert Burns
Poetry ....
Tittlebat at Home .
Sorrow for the Dead .
Character of Dr. Johnson
On the Study of Latin and Greek
Sliabby-Genteel People .
Cruelty to Animals
Accompanied on the Flute
Yachting Experiences .
The Death of Nelson
The Old Man at the Gate .
The Planetary and Terrestrial Worlds
The Clown Out of Service .
At a Wrong Lecture
. Washington Irving
. Thomas Carlyle .
. Dr. Channing
. Samuel Wanxn .
. Washington Irving .
. Lord Macaulay .
. Sydney Smith
. Charles Dickens .
. Dr. Chalmers
. F. Anstcy .
. F. C. Burnand
. Robert Southey .
. Douglas Jerrold
. Joseph Addison .
. Allan Laidlaxo
. George Grossmith
READINGS IN POETRY.
Lycidas
Lady Clara Vcre de V'erc
To a Skylark .
The Cataract of Lodorc
The Sale of the Pet Lamb
We are Seven .
On his Mother's Picture
Riding Together
The Soul's Errand .
The Cry of the Children
The Deserted Village
A Legend of Florence
The Hush of Life .
Zara's Ear-rings .
To a Sea-Gull .
\^^Evelyn Hope
The High Tide
Under Canvas. — Wound
King Robert of Sicily
The Rose and the Grave
The Influence of Beauty
John Milton .
. Lord Tennyson .
. Percy Bysshe S/ielley
. Robert Southey .
. Mary Howitt .
. William Wordsivorth
. William Cotcper .
. William Morris
Sir Walter Raleigh
Mrs. E. B. Browning
Oliver Goldsmith .
Percy G. Mocaita
Leopold Wagner
J. G. Lockhart .
Gerald Griffin
Robert Broicning
Jean Ingeloiu .
Hon. H. B. Lytton
11. W. Longfellow
Victor Hugo .
John Keats
Contents.
vu
January Wind .
Maud Miiller .
Excelsior .
The Three Sons
The Wonders of the Lane
Home Again .
The Fairy Child .
Ode to the Almighty
How May was First JIade
The Child and the Dewdrops
The Nightingale's Nest
The Goldsmith's Daughter
The Sicilian Vespers .
The Battle of Morgarten .
Ode for JIusic on Cecilia's Day
Alexander's Feast .
Cowper's Grave .
The Slaves . . . .
The Bells ....
Lake Leman ly Night
Elihu ....
To Mary in Heaven
To the Nightingale
The Comet . . . .
The Ministry of May .
An Old Man's Idyll
Gilderoy ....
Three Fishers went Sailing
The Mother's Lament .
Napoleon's Midnight Review .
The Last Man .
The Sword Song
Childe Harold's Farewell
The Death of the First-Bo;n .
The Alma.
Skipper Ben
The Warden of the Cinque Ports
The Golden Madness .
Memory ....
Pope's Willow .
The Phantom
. Eobert Buchanan
. J. G. Whittier .
. H. W. LonrjjcUow
. Rev. J. Moultrk .
. Ebenezer Elliott
. William Saivyer .
, Br. Anster .
. G. R. Dcrzhavin
. Thomas Miller
J. E. Carpenter .
. John Clare
Johann Ludwig Uhland
J. G. Whittier
Mrs. Ilemans
Alexander Pope
John Dryden
Mrs. E. B. Browning
J. E. Carpenter .
Edgar Allan Poe .
Lord Byron
Alice Carey .
Robert Burns
John Keats .
James Hogg
T. K. Hervey
Richard Realf .
Thomas Campbell .
Rev. Charles Kingslry
Gerald Griffin
Mcry and Barthelcmy
Thomas Campbell .
Theodore Korner
Lord Byron .
A. A. Walts
The late Archbishop
Trench .
Lucy Larcom .
II. W. Longfelloxo
Charles Mackay
Walter P. Bcarpark
James Montgomery
Bayard Taylcr
Vlll
Contents,
The Fiist Grey Hair ....
Phantoms .....
The Poet and the Kose
The Mourning IMother of the Dead Blind
The Burial of Moses ....
A Dream .....
To-d.ay and To-morrow
The Sands of Dee .
PAOB
Thomas H. Baily . 236
H. W. Lonrjfdloiv . . 237
John Gay . . .238
Mrs. E. B. Browning . 240
^frs. C. F. Alexander . 242
, William AlUngham . . 244
, Gerald Massey . . 245
, Rev. Charles Khvjslcy . 246
ORATORY— FOEENSIC AND SENATORIAL.
Benjamin Disraeli on the Character of the Prince Consort
Victor Hugo on the Liberty of the Press .
Heni-y Irving on the Art of Acting ....
Lord Macaulay's Speech at the University of Glasgow
Lord Palmerston on Competitive Examinations
Mr. O'Connell in Defence of Mr. Magee .
Robert Hall's Peroration on War ....
George Canning on the Latent Power of England
Kossuth's Farewell to his Country ....
The Rev. Newman Hall on the Dignity of Labour .
Benjamin Disraeli on the Death of AYellington
Lord Brougham's Speech on the Reform Bill .
Sir Robert Peel on the Constitution ....
The March to Magdala
Patrick Henry's Address to the American Congress
Lord Chatham's Protest against the American War .
Edmund Burke's Peroration on the Impeachment of \Yarr
Lord Brougham on Negro Emancipation ...
Mr. Sheridan's Panegyric on Justice ....
Daniel Webster at the Centenary Celebration of Washington
Mazzini to the Memory of the Martyrs of Cosenza
Richard B. Sheridan on Taxation .....
The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone on the Franchise
Hastings
247
249
252
258
2C0
262
265
267
268
270
273
276
278
284
236
288
292
294
296
297
300
304
308
DRAMATIC SCENES AND DIALOGUES.
Scene from the Merchant of Venice
Wolsey and CromwcU .
Proteus and Valentine
. Shahspeare
. Shakspeare .
. Shakspeare
312
316
319
Contents.
IX
doene from Every Jlan in his Humour .
Cato and Decius ....
Scene from Venice Preserved
Scene from the School of Eefona
Scene from the Earl of Vi'arwick .
Norval and Glenalvon
Scene from the Iron Che.st .
Scene from the School for Scandal .
Scene from the Man of the World
Scene from the Road to Ruin .
Scene from Money ....
Scene from John Bull
Scene from the Lady of Lyons
The First Act of London Assurance .
Scene from Broken Hearts .
Scene from It's Never Too Late to Mend
Scene from Charles the First . . . .
The Rc^jroach of Charles the Fii'st to his Betrayer
PAGE
Ben Jonson . . 320
Joseph Addison . . 323
Thomas OUcay . . 325
Thomas Morton . . 331
Br. Franklin . . 337
Rev. John Ilome . . 341
G. Colman the Younger 344
R. B. Sheridan . . 347
Charles MacUin . . 350
Thomas Ilolcroft . 354
Lord Buhvcr Lytton . 360
G. Colman the Younyer 363
Lwd Bulioer Lytton . 369
Dion Boucicaidt . . 371
W. S Gilbert . . 3S0
Charles Ecade . . 383
W. G. Wills . . . 38G
W. G. Wills . . 393
DRAMATIC SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES.
Hamlet's Advice to the Players
Othello's Address to the Senate .
Hotspur's Account of the Fop .
Brutus to the Romans ....
The Progress of Life ....
Mark Antony's Oration over Caesar's Body
Cassias Instigating Brutus to Oppose Cassar
Hamlet's Soliloquy on the Soul's Immortality
Clarence's Dream .....
Cato's Soliloquy
Douglas's Account of Himself ,
Mordaunt to Lady Mabel ....
Claude Melnotte on Pride
Richelieu's Soliloquy .....
Glostcr's Soliloquy .....
Charles the First's Farewell
Speech of Lucius Junius Brutus
Wilfrid Denver's Dream . . . .
Shalispeare . . . 394
Shaksj)care . . . 395
Shakspcare . . . 396
Shakspeare . . .397
Shakspearc . . . 398
Shakspieare . . . 399
Shakspearc . . . 401
Shakspearc . . . 403
Shaks2)eare . . . 404
Joseph Addison . . 406
Rev. John Home . . 406
, /. Westland Marston . 407
, Lordj Bulwer Lytton . 408
. Lord Bulwer Lytton . 410
. Shakspearc . . . 411
. W. G. Wills . . . 412
. John Hoicard Payne . 412
From " the Silver Kiny" 414
Contents.
RECITATIONS.
The Lifeboat
. George R. Sims .
415
A Tale of the Dover Express
. . Clement W. Sco't . .
41S
421
The Death of Absalom .
. N. P. Willis .
The Inchcape Kock .
. . Robert Southey . •
423
Beth Gelert ......
. Hon. W. R. Spencer .
425
The Glove and the Lions
. . Leigh Hunt
427
The Eaven
• Edgar Allan Poe .
423
The Bridge of Sighs .
. . Thomas flood
431
Hohenlinden . . . . •
' Thomas Campbell .
433
The Women of Mumbles Head
. . Clement W. ScoU
434
The Fireman's Wedding .
. IF. J. Eaton .
436
Over the HiU to the Toor-house .
. . Will Carleton .
. 439
Mary, the Maid of the Inn
' Robert Southcy
. 441
The Pauper's Drive
. • Thomas Noel
. 444
The Sack of Baltimore .
• Thomas Davis
. 445
(lone with a Handsomer Man
. . Will Carleton .
. 447
A Bunch of Primroses
• George R. Sims
. 44S
Lord UUiu's Daughter
• Thomas Campbell .
. 451
Elegy in a Country Churchyard
■ Thomas Gray
. 453
The Dying Gladiator .
■ • Lord Byron .
. 456
Lady Clare
• Lord Tennyson .
. 457
The Wreck of the Ilcsperus .
. . y/, H'. LongfcUoip .
. 459
Iloratius Keeps the Bridge
• Lord Macauhiy .
461
Hymn before Sunris: .
■ ■ Samuel Taylor Coleridg
e 467
Barbara Frietchie ....
■ J. G. Whittier
. 469
Mabmoud
• Leigh Hunt
. 471
The Deluge
• Anonymous .
472
The Ocean
• Lord Byron
474
The Song of the Shirt
■ Thomas Hood
476
The Boat-Race ....
• . W. C. Bennett .
478
The War of the League .
• Lord Macaulay
481
The Old Grenadier's Story .
■ ■ G. Walter Thornbury
483
The Dream of Eugene Aram .
• Thomas Hood
485
Where?
■ • P. Hope Meriscord
490
Our Folks
. Ethel Lynn
491
The Bridge-Keeper's Story .
. . W. A. Eaton .
493
The Strollers . • . . .
. Robert Recce
496
WIT ANI
) HUMOUR.
Look at the Clock
. . Rev. R. H. Barham .
498
The Red Fisherman .
. W. M. Praed .
505
Contents,
XI
Serjeant Buzfuz's Address .
Monsieur Tonson ....
The Showman's Song ....
Vat you Please ....
Modem Logic .....
Lodgings for Single Gentlemen
My Swallow-tail ....
Chateaux d'Espagne
The Jabberw'ocky ....
The Humorous Quack
Nelly Gray
The September Gale
King John and the Abbot of Canterbury
Wit at a Pinch ....
Parson Turell's Legacy
I Remember, I Remember
The Bachelor's Lament
Nothing to Wear ....
The Vision of the Aldcnuan
Father William ....
The Well of St. Keyne
Only Seven .....
Wanted — a Landlady ....
The Owl Critic ....
The Cockney
Laugh and Get Fat ....
The Legends of the Rhine .
Wanted — a Governess
The Tinker and the Miller's Daughter .
The Song of the Season .
A Practical Lesson in Ancient History .
Charles Diclccns
PAOB
510
John Taylor
Henry J. Byron
J. li. Planche .
514
518
520
Anonymous ,
G. Coltnan the Younger
Leopold Wagner .
Henry S. Leigh . .
Leiiis Carroll
522
524
525
526
528
Leopold Wagner . .
Thomas Hood
529
530
Oliver Wendell Holmes
532
Bishop Perey . . .
Anonymous
Oliver Wendell Holmes
liev. R. H. Barham .
533
536
537
541
H. G. Bell . . .
542
W. A. Butler .
543
Henry S. Leigh . .
Lewis Carroll
547
549
Rohert Southey . .
550
Henry S. Leigh .
Leopold Wagner . .
James T. Fields .
551
552
553
J. Godfrey Saxe . .
W. M. Praed .
555
556
Bret Harte . .
558
George Duhourg .
Dr. John Wolcot . .
559
560
H. Sidherland Edwards
562
Max Adder
563
THE POPULAK ELOCUTIONIST
AND KECITEE.
PART L— ELOCUTION.
CHAPTEE L
INTRODUCTORY.
If English Grammar be truly defined as " the art of spealcing and
writing the English Language with propriety,'.' then, assuredly,
the practice of elocution should form a component part of the curri-
culum of every school and college.
That such has not been the case until a very recent period, and
is even now only pai-tially so, is evidenced by the fact that among
all classes of society there is no complaint more general than that
of the rarity of good readers.
"And how," asks a wi-iter in a recent number of the English
Churchman, " can it be otherwise ? The laity complain, and most
justly, of the bad reading inflicted on them Sunday after Sunday.
Candidates for the ministry have no proper instruction, either in
public schools or universities. They enter on their professional
duties mth provincialisms and cockneyisms uncorrected, and posi-
tively read worse than many members of their congregation.
These evils are the necessary consequence of the inadequate
estimate of the cud in view, and the means to be employed for its
attainment."
" Some take half a dozen lessons, perhaps, from a strolling player,
or trust to one lecture on church reading, given by the examinino
chaplain at the close of the examination for holy orders ! The only
time mode is a regular course of instruction." As far as regards the
requirements of the clergy, the evil may be cured in after life, but
B
2 Elocution.
it is to be feared that in many cases it is too deeply rooted to be
easily eradicated. The fault lies in the general neglect in childhood
)r early manhood of the habit of reading aloud, and the almost
/otal absence of any attention to teaching it in a scientific yet
natural manner.
Professor Charles John Plumptre, in " A Plea for the Art of
Reading Aloud," thus grapples with the subject : —
" What is the cause of thi^ admitted neglect of the art of reading
in so many schools and families ? "Why is it that elocution has been
of late years so much disregarded as a part of education, and yet
music, singing, drawing, and other accomplishments, have all
received their due share of attention ? One reason is, I believe, to
be found in the fact that this very word, elocution, has been made
ahughear of, and has frightened away many from its study, through
a completely erroneovis interpreta,tion of its meaning and character.
Do not many persons imagine that the study of elociition must
lead to a pompous, bombastic, stilted, or pedantic style — a style in
which the artificial reigns predominant over everything that is
simple and natural ? I can only say, if elocution meant anything
of the kind I should be the last man to advocate its adoption in
schools or anywhere else. If I am asked to define what I then
mean by elocution, I think I should answer — ' That which is tlio
most effective pronunciation that can be given to words when they
are arranged into sentences and form discourse.' In this of course
I include the appropriate inflections and modulations of the voice,
the purity of its intonation, the clearness of articulation, and, vjJien
svifahh to the occasion, the accompaniments of ey|n*ession of coun-
tenance and action. This art of elocution, then, I may further
define as that system of instruction which enables us to pronounce
written or extemporaneous composition with proper energy, cor-
rectness, variety, and personal ease ; or, in other words, it is that
style of delivery which not only expresses fully the sense and the
words so as to be thoroughly understood by the hearer, but at the
same time gives the sentence all the power, grace, melody, and
beauty of which it is susceptible.
" Is it not strange, let me ask, when we reflect on the marvellous
lX)wer which spoken language has to excite the deepest feelings of
Introductory. 3
our common natiire, that the cultivation of the art of speaking
which once received so much attention, should afterwards and for so
long a time have been almost completely neglected ? "We know
i/hat imjiortance the ancient orators of Greece and Rome attached
to the study of rhetoric. The prince of them all, Demosthenes,
asserted that ' Delivery' (under which term is included ever3rthing
that relates to the effective management of voice, look, and gesture)
is the first, the second, and the last element of success in a
speaker. And surely this ia as true in our own day as it was
in his. For even assuming that a youth has no apparent
prospect of debating in Parliament, of addressing jiidges or juries
at the Bar, or appealing on the most solemn and important
topics of all from the pulpit, does it therefore follow that he need
bestow no trouble in learning to speak his native language elegantly
and effectively ? Will he never have occasion to read aloud in his
family circle, or to a company of friends, some leader from the
Times or other newspaper, some cha])tcr from a book,- or some
verses from a i:)oem ? And what a difference will there be in the
effect produced ui^on the reader and upon his audience accordingly
as this is done well or ill ! We are most of us in the present day
accustomed to have our sons and daughters taught dancing, drilling,
or calisthenic exercises, that give sti*ength, flexibility, and elegance
to the limbs — aaid very excellent are all such accomi^lishments in
their way. But after all, the limbs are portions of our frames far
less noble than the tongue ; and yet, while no gentleman who can
afford it hesitates about expending time and money in sending hiss
son to the fencing, drilling, or dancing master, how few, compara-
tively, send as systematically their children to the elocution master,
to be taught the full development of that which is the crowning
gloiy of man — the divine gift of speech."
That during the last few years the custom of reading before a
public audience has become very general, the platform of the so-
called " Penny Readings" bears ample testimony, and many and
deep must have been the lamentations of a majority of the readers
that they had not in their youth been taught this essential branch
of a thorough English education. It is to be feared that this slip-
shod reading to audiences for the most part incapable of appreciat-
B 9
4 Elocution.
ing the style, however much they may have rehshed the matter,
has done but little as ytt towards the cultivation of a correct taste
At the same time it is h be hoped that some results may spring
from the fashion we have indicated, and that it will not pass away
as a mere whim of the moment, or be superseded by a style of
entertainment more objectionable. If it has awakened in the
parents and guardians of youth a sense of the importance of their
being taught at school to read well, it has done something, and wt
must wait for the boys who are now being educated for it to bear
/ruit.
CHAPTER II.
ELOCUTION CONSIDERED AS AN ART.
Oratory, like poetry, is a gift, and cannot be acquired; the con-
ception of original ideas and the ability to put them ra]5idly into
form is common to both — but as versification is to poetry what
elocution is to oratory, both may be improved by study; tlv.'
versifier become in some sense a poet, and the elocutionist an orator.
There must, however, always remain a wide gulf between the two.
which no mere theoretical knowledge can bridge over.
To be able to speak and read well — that is, with a graceful and
elegant enunciation of our native tongue — must certainly rank
amongst the foremost accomplishments ; and the truth of this pro-
position appears to be very generally admitted, and attested by the
pleasure that is so universally derived from a just, appropriate, and
harmonious delivery ; for as language is the medium through
which we communicate our thoughts, feelings, and impressions, so
the force and power it exerts over us must naturally be considerably
modified by the manner in which it is conveyed to us.
To the cultivation of this power the Art of Elocution addresses
itself, and is defined to be, the just and graceful management of the
Voice, Countenance, and Gesture.
The importance of this art has been felt and acknowledged in all
countries Avherein civilization and learning have attained their
highest state of perfection. Even from the earliest times it has
ever been esteemed an indispensable branch of educa;tion ; nor caii
Elocution Considered as an Art. 5
its too common neglect with us be justified when we reflect upon
its nature, and its ahnost paramount necessity, not alone as regards
Ihose who aspire to distinguish themselves in Parliavient, at the
Bar, or in the Fulp'd, but even as to its influence in the transactions
of commercial life and the management of large public societies.
Nor is it possible to deny the grace and charm with which it invests
the conversation of the scholar and the gentleman ; for, as Cicero
has justly observed, "yl cultivated address and a Jcnoivledye of its
frincii^les are highly ornamental and useful even in private life."*
And surely the truth of this observation must, at some time or
other, have been apparent to most of us when we have witnessed
the eff'orts of some unfortunate youth who has unexpectedly been
called u])on to entertain a family circle, by reading a selection from
the works of a favourite author ; or, on the contrary, have been
charmed by the correct and pure enunciation — the just and natural
harmony — with which, it may be, some other friend has, on a
similar occasion, entranced the attention and elicited the applause
and delight of all around him.
Nor are the disadvantages from the neglect of this very essential
branch of a perfect and polite education in oratory — that is, the
extemporaneous expression of our own thoughts and sentiments —
less apparent. How many instances may be cited where awkward-
ness of address, and a stammering and confused style of delivery,
have imperilled a good cause, whose advocate, defective only in this
respect, has been compelled to succumb before mere fluency of
speech and confident volubility. And yet, strange as it may ap-
pear, there are those who either deny the possibility of teaching
this art or ignore the benefits derived from its cultivation, aflu-ming
it to be altogether inutile, and that nature, unassisted, is alone
sufficient as a guide, whether in speaking or reading — many men,
as they assert, being able to do both the one and the other, not
only correctly but gracefully, who are totally unacquainted with
the rules and principles of elocution. But if we accept thoroughly '
the deductions they would have us derive from arguments like
these, we must asstime that there are no bad readers or speakers
Clc. de Orat. lib. i.
6.
Elocution.
at all, though our observation and constant experience unfortu-
nately prove to the contrary ; and does it therefore follow that
because isolated instances exist, where from a happy combination
of circumstances the gifts of nature may be disjjlayed in their
perfection by unassisted genius, that there is no utility in art or
culture as regards those who are less fortunate ?
In fact, it is from such native powers and instinctive eflforts that
the whole principles of elocution are deduced.
As au art, it is, like others, entirely imitative : Nature in hej-
most graceful and harmonious expressions of the intentions, senti-
ments, and emotions of the mind, being the model ; and the rule*
of that art teach us to reproduce in our utterance of the thoughts
of others, the same tones, inflections, and pauses with which Nature
has invested our own.
It is not indeed pretended that by the study and application of
those rules excellence can be insured, or an equal proficiency attained
by all ; that of course must depend on natural powers and capacity ;
but few who have deeply considered the subject will be disposed to
deny the great advantages that might accrue from a systematic
instruction in this art in early hfe, when the vocal organs are
phable and ductile, the observation keen, and the ear quick and
sensible of modulation, for it is precisely at this period much of
the evil from its neglect arises. It is by the neglect of all study
that either a drawling kir.d of monotony, a uniform rehearsing
tone, by which a dull, unvaryaig sound, unbroken by inflection or
pause, is acquired, producing a wearying effect on the ear, or that
a no less disagreeable sensation is inflicted from a diametrically
opposite cause, viz., a constant rising and fallmg of the voice
totally regardless of the nature or feeling of the subject delivered,
and this careless unanimated whining manner, uncorrected, becomes
a habit not easily eradicated.
Now, we have to consider what are the principles and rules
for a just ajid appropriate delivery in reading as laid down
by the art of elocution as opposed to this, and they consist,
first, in a distinct articulation modified by tone to the emotions
of the mind, next in the judicious observance of imuse, inflection.
and ern^lmsis, as governed by the sense, and lastly, the liey or fitch,
Elocution Considered as an Art. T
being the proper management of the voice ; and to these are
added gesture or action when referring to oratory or recitation.
Of the material consequence that attaches to the first of these,
viz., articulation, there can hardly be any dispute. The most
essential quality in a speaker being distinctness, not only as regards
the pleasure with which he is heard, but also the comfort and con-
venience of himself, a moderate power of voice being audible at a
much greater distance, provided the articulation is pure and cor«
rect, than would be the case with a much stronger organ if con*
fused or indistinct in its utterance. Defects in this jjarticular are
chiefly attributable to a too great precipitancy of speech, and are
not unfrequently the resiUt of school repetitions, in which readi-
ness and quickness of utterance are considered, often, rather a clever
achievement on the part of the pupil, and a satisfactory evidence
of being perfect by the master. Be this as it may, the result is a
bad habit, and the most effectual method of counteracting and
rsmoving it that perhaps can be suggested, is the daily practice of
reading aloud either a vocabulary of words or some literary com-
position, neglecting altogether its construction or sense, and paying
attention only to the pronunciation of every syllable, particularly
regarding the vowel sounds in all their tonic variety, and in this
manner going through the entire task slowly and distinctly, much
slower indeed than would be necessary if read in the proper man-
ner. The indistinctness acquired by sacrificing sense to rapidity
may, by the opposite process, be removed.
This will be found also a very efficient way of strengthening the
voice in all its pitches : of wliich hereafter.
For a correct accentuation, which should be invariably associated
with articidation, that is easily attainable by reference to the pro-
nouncing dictionary, and for that purpose the most modeni will
always be the best, as fashion in many instances is the authority.
Above all things, mind your aitclu's — an aitch dropped or wrongly
aspirated, is to an educated ear what a note played out of tune ii
to a musician's. Remember, too, that we have many words spelt
alike and pronounced differently, accordingly as they are used as
nouns or verbs — look these out in the piece you ;ire about to read, if
you have any doubt, and consult yowr dictionary.
8 Elocution.
CHAPTER III.
ON PAUSE.
Though it woixld be wrong to affirm, of any particular branch of
the " art of elocution," that it is the first in importance, since they
all act, as it were, in combination, and each contributes its share
essentially in imparting force, elegance, feeling, or harmony to the
delivery of the perfect reader or speaker, according to the variety
of character with which Infinite Goodness has endowed that
supreme and distinctive gift, the articulate voice of man ; yet, as
the ease and propriety with which we are enabled to pronounce
written language, or our own extemporaneous effusions, is mainly
dependent on the theory of pausing, its skilful adaptation may
at least be considered the foundation on which the art of reading
and speaking is in some measure based. To appreciate it pro-
perly, it is necessary we should understand the difference that exists
between language as it addresses itself to us through two different
mediums — those of the eye and the ear — to the first by written
oharacters, and to the latter by oral expression.
Kow, the system of punctuation or stops, by which the former of
these is distinguished, can only be considered sei-viccable as it in-
structs the silent reader in the grammatical construction of the
subject before him, and he is thus guided in the sense of his author;
that is, if they are correctly placed, which, however, may not alwaya
be the case.
These, then, for distinction sake, we will call " Grammatical
Pauses." But these are by no means sufficient for the purpose of
reading aloud, and it is the ignorance, or disregard of this fact, that
is the foundation of many false rules of instruction in this partiailar
branch of education. Hence the common direction, "mind your
stops," by which is meant, those alone that appear on the printed
page, with no reference at all to any others that may be deemed
necessary, and indeed are absolutely essential to correct oral
delivery.
Hence, too, the second injimction, which is "that the breath is
never to be drawn but at a full stop." Now, concerning these stops,
On Pause, 9
we are told, that a " comma" is a rest while you can count one, a
"semicolon" two, a " colon " three, and a " period" four, and by
this precise division of time, it is evident that they are generally
accepted as sufficient for all the purposes, not only of sense, but ex-
pression also. But herein lies the error ; for, as Mr. Walker truly
observes, " Not half the pauses are found in printing which are
heard in the pronunciation of a good reader or speaker;" and these,
which we distinguish as " Rhetorical Pauses," are necessary to him,
to enable him to take breath, reheve the organs of speech, and to
friable the attention of his auditors, im wearied by the continuity of
sound, to follow with a perfect appreciation of the meaning of thai
which he utters.
The difficulty of laying down absolute rules for the exact appli-
cation of these pauses, is manifest in the many elocutionary works
extant in which it has been essayed ; and however excellent in them-
selves and useful to the teacher those works may have been, it is to
be feared that much confusion and perplexity must have been occa-
sioned to the uninitiated, from their very extent and technicality ;
and this, perhaps, has caused one writer on the subject to say that
no such rules can be laid down ; but the fact appears to be, that
when the Bheforical Pauses are added to the " grammatical," assist-
ing them by divisions of thought and feeUug, they are dependent to
a certain degree on the judgment of the speaker, and thus, perhaps,
appear to be arbitrary ; yet it is possible to give something like a
general direction, which may serve, by the observation of the student,
as a partial guide at all events.
The Rhetorical Pauses, then, consist of three rests of different
Jurations of time — viz., the smaller, or sliort imuse, answering in
this respect to the comma; the greater, or middle lyause, to the
semicolon; and the greatest, or rest, to the pei-iod, or full stop. To
the first of these, on account of the frequency of its recurrence,
and consequent assistance rendered to the speaker, the most im-
portance is attached.
This pause is generally used after several words occurring in one
phrase, serving as the nominative to some verb :
The objective phrase in an inverted sentence — that is, sentences the
number of which, when inverted as to order, preserve the same sense :
30 Elocution.
The emphatic word of force, and the subject of a sentence : Each
number of a "series," whether single; that is, composed of single
words, or compound, being composed of sentences.
It should be used also lefovc the infinitive mood :
Prepositions (except when part of one phrase), relative pronouns,
and conjunctions, adverbs of time, similitude, and some others :
In some cases, for the sake of emphasis, it is used after disjunc-
tions.
Whatever number intei-\'enes between the nominative case and
the verb, must be considered to be of the nature of a parenthesis,
and is therefore separated from both of them by the short pause.
The greater, or middle limise, is properly to be used when a sen-
tence is composed of two principal parts, in the first of which, the
sense being incoviplete or suspended, is perfected by the latter; the
pause taking place at that point v/here the sense begins to be com-
plete, thus dividing it into distinctive portions, each of which, it is
to be observed, has also a distiactive tone, or inflection.
The "great rest," or "full pause,'' completes the entire sense, and
being identical with the " period," can therefore be well understood.
To these various rests a fourth is sometimes added by writers on
this subject, which they term the " long paiiseT It is mentioned
here as being chiefly of use to the orator, as, by marking certain
divisions in his subject — a change of ideas, or a return from a di-
gression — it afi'ords him, in the heat of argument, or the eff"ects of
exhaustion, time to collect himself, and it may be, an opportunity
for correcting the tone or pitch of voice, which from excitement may
have become raised too high to be sustained with comfort or eflect.
To return, however, to the erroneous direction noticed, viz., " That
the breath is never to be drawn but at a full stop or period." It has
been before observed that the use of these pauses is for the greater
ease and facility of the speaker. The absurdity of this injunction
miTst be therefore most apparent, since the fact is really that at every
Due of these rhetorical pauses or rests, the breath receives, or should
receive, a gentle, insensible, but at the same time inaudible, in-
si^iration ; and thus the lungs, like the bellows of an organ, being
constantly supplied and inflated with fresh breath, the power of the
speaker is considerably increased by the very control he is enabled
On 111 flection. 11
to exercise in the increase or climinishment of its power at will,
after the manner of the "crescendo " and "diminuendo" in mvisic.
If the student would practically test this, let him take up the
Exordium to Milton's First Book of " Paradise Lost." Now there
are four periods in that fine opening ; the first consisting of nine
and a half hues, the next six and a half, the third five and a half,
and the last four and a half. Let him try to accomplish the delivery
of the fii'st period without taking breath. If he succeeds he ma^;
rest satisfied that he possesses lungs of the consistency of leather
with the capacity of the cave of ^olus ; but as this experiment will
infallibly prove the contrary, let him again essay, using not only the
punctuated or grammatical, but the rhetorical pauses in aid, ac-
cording to the general rules already recited, and he will find himself
able to master not the first period alone, but also to reach the end
of the subject through the three succeeding ones with the greatest
ease and facility, and in addition he will learn also this, that in at-
tempting to pronoimce more in a breath than he could conveniently
eff"ect, and neglecting those pauses Avhere the breath ought to be
taken, he has been obliged to pause where the sense, not being
separable, forbade it, and thus has rendered the whole of his subject
an unintelligible jumble.
CHAPTER IV.
ON INFvLECTIOX.
Let us now proceed to consider that portion of the art on which
the form, variety, and harmony of speaking mainly depends, and
that vfiW be found to consist in the proper use of the two inflections
of the voice.
Most if not all the defects which are discernible in the generality
of readers, with regard to " inflection," arise from an artificial
habit acc^uired in early yoiith of reading with different tones and
cadences from those which they are accustomed to vise in sjieaking.
Kow, whatever may be the cause from whence it originates, a more
fatal error, one more subversive of propriety of delivery, does not
exist ; for iu reading, the utterance should be so regulated as to fall
on the ears of the auditors as though we were conveying to them
12 Elocution.
the sentiments of the author- as if they were the emanations of
our own mind.
Mr. Sheridan, in his " Lectures," observes, " There are few per-
sons who in private company do not deliver their sentiments with
propriety and force in their manner whenever they speak in earnest;
consequently, here is a sure standard for propriety and force in
public speaking." And this observation must apply therefore
equally to reading ; but to reduce this to jDractice it is essentially
necessary that we should first be perfect masters of the nature and
subject-matter to be delivered, and the intention of the author ;
and to this end, therefore, it is always advisable that the student
should accustom himself in his private practice, first, to peruse
carefully the composition he intends to read aloud, so as entirely to
comprehend the full meaning and import of the words, and the
general construction of the language, the character of which some-
times bears the distinctive impress of its particular ^Yl•iter, and then
let him endeavour to deliver it as if the ideas and sentiments were
his own, and in that natural and forcible manner as in that case he
(vould ; and this can only be effected by obser\'ing those various in-
flections of voice which Nature herself has prescribed, and adapt-
ing them according to the form and sense of tlie various sentences.
These consist of the " Rising," the " Falling," and the " Cir-
cumflex," or " Compound Inflections." The first of these is so
called from the voice rising or ascending upwards, the second
when it falls or slides downwards, and the last when both the risin<:j
and falling inflection is combined in the same word, or even in more
than one, as is sometimes the case ; but when the voice continue!*
on the same note, it is then said to be " monotone."
The " Circumflex Inflection " is capable of being again sub-
divided for distinction's sake into the rising and falling circumflex,
according as it commences with either the rising or falling slide of
the voice.
Now, in speaking, the voice is regulated either by the imphed or
expressed sense or feeling of the subject, or nature of the sentence ;
that is, it indicates either that the sense is complete or suspended —
is "Affirmative," "Negative," "Interrogative," or "Imperative"
Thus, suspended sense is accompanied and marked by the " rising
On Inflection. 1 3
inflection," coupled witli the " middle ;pause " we have before spoken
of iu a previous part of our subject. " Complete or finished sense "
is distinguished by the falling, and to it also belongs the " fuU
pause," answering to the period or full stop, as before mentioned.
But here it is necessary to notice a veiy common en-or — one cal-
culated to generate a bad habit, and one therefore that ought to
be exploded for ever ; it is the very common direction to drop the
voice at the end of a sentence. Now, the last part of a sentence —
and more especially the last word, as it completes the sense — must
of necessity be the most essential to the perfect understanding of
that sentence. To let it, therefore, fall listlessly or feebly on the
■ear, so as to strain the attention of the auditor, or reduce him to
the bewildennent of guessing at its import, is a manifest absurdity.
The fact is, it should ever be considered of equal importance to the
first ; and, though receiving the downward inflection of the voice,
as such maintain its full tone, pitch, and enunciation.
To jjroceed, however. The Affirmative sense is indicated liy the
lalling, and the Negative, as a general rule, receives the wsing in-
flection. The same applies to the Interrogative sentences, while the
Imperative is distinguished by the falling : of course, it must be
understood that all these are subject to certain exceptions, which
exceptions are caused l>y the influence of what is termed the em-
phasis* of force or feeling, and depend, therefore, on the judgment
and intelligence of the speaker.
The compound or circumflex inflection, as we have before stated,
both descends and ascends in what may be described as a curve of
the voice, and is generally used in strong or vehement interrogation,
its extent being determined by the force or extent of the passion by
which it is governed; it is expressive of "Wonder" " Contempf,"
" Scorn;' " Eidlcnlc;' "Irony;' &c., &c.
The speech of " Brutus," in the quarrel scene between himself
and " Cassius," will afi"ord an apt illustration of the nature of this
particular inflection of the voice, beginning " AH this, and more,"
Ac, &c.
* This cniiihusit; btiug distiuguisLcd from the emphasis of souse iii its
iuflt'ction by the domiuatiou of the feeling ^v-ith which it is used.
14 Elocution.
The same inflection must be given to all words or jilirases whose
meaning and construction are in apposition, but when antithetical
or opposed to each other, they demand opposite inflections, and by
this agreement of tone in the first and opposition in the latter case,
the sound, as it were, is to the ear in accordance with the sense.
"When many antithetical members, however, follow in succession,
for the sake of variety and harmony, the inflections should be
alternated. Let the student refer for an example of this to 1 Cor.
XV. 39, 40 :—
39. All flesh is not the same flesh; but there is one kind of
flesh of men, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another
of birds.
40. There are also celestial bodies, and bodies terrestrial ; but the
glory of the celestial is one, and the glory of the terrestrial is
another.
We have instanced these two verses only ; but the whole chapter,
indeed, from the 20tli verse, not only m respect to this, but every
other rule, is an admirable exercise in "inflection;" and its perfect
delivery must at all tunes declare the accomplished elocutionist.
CHAPTER V.
ON PITCH.
The management and modulation of the voice is another branch
of the art of elocution to wliich the student who is ambitious of
becoming a good and effective reader or speaker should devote the
most sedulous attention, and for this purpose it is necessary for him
to be thoroughly acquainted wdth the theory and nature of the
various pitches of that organ, for by them not only does he derive
the variety that is so pleasing to the ear, and secure for himself re-
lief from that inconvenience which his ignorance or neglect in this
respect must inevitably entail on him, but he is enabled to exhibit
by their just and appropriate use the various emotions and senti-
ments of his subject, whether they belong to himself or others, with
the greater force and power of expression.
On Pitch. 15
The human voice has been obsei-vecl to possess three distinct
iones, and these are distinguished as "high, low, and middle pitch."
Of these, the one most used is the middle, for the reason that it ig
the tone which we naturally are accustomed to in common discourse,
and is therefore, from its frequent exercise, generally stronger. It
must also be apparent that being easier to rise or fall from it to a
liigher or lower key, it ought, with few exceptions, to be the one we
should adopt when not excited by any pai'ticular passion — as, for
instance, in calm narration, descriptive statement, or moral re-
flection.
Now, it cannot have escaped the notice of even the most casual
observer that the instant the mind, even in ordinaiy conversation,
receives the impression of any particular emotion, the voice becomes
inilected, either upward or downward, to the higher or lower portion
of its register, its range being determined by the force or intensity
of that emotion. There is a higher, sharper, and shriller tone at-
tained by rage, and a deeper one by sorrow. It is therefore ex-
pedient that a just appreciation and a skilful adaptation of these
tones should be attended to.
Having already noticed the first of these, its quality and
character, on proceeding to the high pitch, we shall find that it is
the proper key of all the more impulsive passions or elevated feel-
ings. To it belong rage, threatening, denunciation, invective, joy,
and exultation, and, indeed, all eager and animated speech in
general ; while, on the contrary, grief, melancholy, veneration, deep
\hought, serious reflection, hate, and suppressed passion, belong to
ihe low pitch.
It is necessary, however, to observe, that there is a great dis-
tinction between the terms high and loio, and loud and soft, for these
fire often confounded. This latter, it should be clearly understood,
merely signifies the degree of force or volume of sound it may be
deemed necessary to use in the same key, nnd answers precisely to
the forte smi piano in music, whilst the former intimates a change
of key altogether. Pitch, therefore, is independent o{ force, though
force may add frequently to the efiect oi pitch.
From the want of a proper knowledge of this it is by no means
an uncommon occuiTcnce for both orators and readers to commence
16 Elocution.
at once on the highest key of their voice, under the mistakes, idea
that they Avill be heard with greater ease ; but this, indeed, is a fatal
mistake. In the first place the voice loses its natural power and
pliability, producing a monotony of tone that rapidly wearies the
auditory, and, in the next, from the unnatural strain to which it is
subjected, the organ becomes distressed and weakened, and languor
and hoarseness are the inevitable results. Besides, it must be self-
evident that if a speaker begins in the middle pitch — that is, as a
general rule— that being, as we have before observed, most i)robably
the strongest, he is also able to rise or fall from it according to the
range of his voice, and must therefore with greater facility produce
those effects which belong to the varying expression of the different
emotions his subject may afford him.
With regard to the proper rule for proportioning tlie quantity or
loudness of the voice to the size of the arena in which the speaker
may be called upon to exercise his powers, two very great authori-
ties appear to differ. Mr. Sheridan, for instance, says —
" Let the speaker, after having looked around the assembly, fix
his eyes on that part of the auditory which is farthest from him, and
he wiU mechanically endeavour to pitch liis voice so as that it may
reach them ; for his business is to consider himself as addressing his
discourse to some one amongst them, in such a manner as that he
may be heard by him, and if the person be not beyond the reach of
his voice he will not fail to effect it. But," he observes — and this
is the point most carefully to be preserved in the student's memory
— " still he is to take care not to change his usual pitch in order to
do this, but only to add force or degree of loudness in proportion to
the distance."
Now, Mr. Walker on this jioint recommends the reader or speaker
to pursue a diametrically opposite plan. Commenting on the
passage here quoted from Mr. Sheridan, he goes on to say —
" This, I fear, would be attended by very ill consequences if the
assembly were very large ; as a speaker would be strongly tempted
to raise his voice, as well as to increase its force ; and by this means
begin in a key much too high for the generality of his audience, or
for his own power to continue it. Tlie safest rule, therefore, is
certainly to begin as it were with those of tho assembly that arc
On Pitch. ' J/
nearest to lu." The reason assigned for this by Mr. Walker is, that
it is so much easier to raise the pitch than to bring it down,
that the speaker will insensibly do this as he proceeds, and that
however low the key may be in which he begins, he will be audible,
provided he is articulate.
" Who shall decide when doctors disagree P" But as we see here
that Mr. Sheridan expressly states that the hexj is not to he clianged^
and onhj iv creased in force or loudness, according to the theory at
first laid down, it is to be feared that if the assembly be large, as
Mr. "Walker premises, that gentleman's speaker would not be heard
by the remote part of the audience at all ; while it must follow as a
matter of course, that if the extreme portion of it be reached by the
force, not pitch of the si^eaker, all within that range, as a natural
consequence, must participate in the delivery of his discourse.
Few voices, however, are so perfect as not to require some sort
of education in order to enable them to compass with facility an
extensive range into either the higher or lower keys, and on extra-
ordinary occasions it may even be necessary to touch on the ex-
tremes of either. This can only be effected by practice. Therefore, as
in the directions concerning articulation we stated that by reading
slowly and pronouncing every Kyllable clearly and distinctly in the
middle tone, that particular pitch would be greatly strengthened, we
venture to recommend that the self-same process be diligently and
perseveringly applied in the same manner to the other two — viz.,
ifithout reference to the sense of the passages to be read, but to the
.soivnd, and the compass and power of the voice in the higher and
lower portions of its register will be much extended. The student
should, in addition to this exercise, carefully select and read aloud
such scenes or passages as require these particular pitches, and
Btlapt them accordingly ; and more especially those in which the
particular passion they indicate appears to intensify or culminate,
so as to go through all the gradations of either, without abruptly
^ping, as it were, from one pitch to another.
IS Elocution.
CHAPTER VL
OJf GESTUB.E.
Undek fhis head is included the whole deportment of the body,
in order that it may be justly adapted to the nature and emotions
of the subject pronounced, 'ihe disposition of the limbs, the move-
ments of the hands, the carriage of the head, and even the move-
ments of the eyes and direction and expression of the countenanc«
altogether. For every passion, emotion, or sentiment, has 8om«
attitude, look, or movement peculiar to itself; any incongruity,
therefore, either by vague, awkward, or unsuitable and inconsistoul
gesture, not only frustrates the intention of the speaker, but in
many instances becomes ridiculous and absurd ; for the object of
public speaking is either to instruct, to please, or to persuade : and
how can either of these objects be attained if the orator bo devoid
of propriety, force, or grace ?
Cicero calls action " the language of the body," and further ob-
serves, "It is action alone that governs in speaking, wthout which
the best orator is of no value, and is often defeated by one in other
respects much his inferior." And, indeed, the orators of Greece and
Home appear to have attached the utmost importance to this par-
ticular department of elocution ; for not only were they accustomed
to employ persons whom they called " phonasci," whose office was
to teach the modulations of the voice, but also others for special in-
struction as to voice and gesture combined ; the latter being
generally eminent and experienced actors selected from their
theatres ; and in fact, by this practical method it was that they
attained that high degree of excellence of which we have so many
records. Nor indeed can the higher graces of ornamental delivery
be communicated by the unassisted medium of written precept and
mere theoretic rules.
This has been the attempt of many works on this subject, but it
is to be feared with little or no success, amongst the best of wliich
perhaps, may be reckoned Austin's " Chironomiu," the author in
that work, endeavouring, by means of plates and diagrams of various
kinds, to illustrate the theory of action ; but undoubtedly clever
On Gesture. 19
and ingenious as the idea is of establishing a certain fixed system of
gesticulation, it can hardly do more than impart to the practically
aninstructed a mechanical stifi"ness and a studied, constrained,
and artificial manner, instead of an easy, graceful, yet powerful
action and expression. Mr. Sheridan, no mean authority, appears
to be of this oijinion also, for he says, regarding those who ad-
vocate instruction of this nature, "They who judge in this manner
have not sufficiently considered the nature of the subject, and there-
fore attribute more i)0wer to precept alone than it is possessed of."
The fact is, that practical rules differ much from those that are
merely speculative ; nor will informing the understanding in some
cases produce by any means a perfect execution, without other assis-
tance. Can any one be taught to sing or to dance without the aid
of masters, and patterns for imitation ?
The most, therefore, that can be done without this aid is to afibrd
Buch plain directions, and general information with regard to the
art, as, being easily comprehended, may be useful to the student,
and come within the range of his own application to private prac-
tice.
The first thing to be considered, and one of infinite importance,
both to the orator or reciter, since much value must ever be
attached to first impressions, is the manner in which he presents
himself before the assembly it is his purpose to address. This, of
course, depends in some manner on the nature of his subject, and
in this the asi^ect or countenance of the speaker bears no incon-
siderable i^art. Thus, for instance, a sedate expression at once im-
plies a mature consideration of the argument about to be advanced,
and communicates insensibly an idea of its importance. And on
the contrary, a cheerful air raises the expectation of being enter-
tained with a pleasant and agreeable discourse. But above all, a
^vandering look, an air of levity, or a haughty, supercilious manner,
which either fails to excite respect or else begets distaste, must be
carefully avoided. Nor at the same time is a dejected appearance
pleasing, unless the subject to be delivered is of a melancholy
nature.
In the case of addressing a large assembly, if the speaker desires
to be heard perfectly from the opening of his oration, he shoiild by
c 2
20 Elocution.
no means begin at once, but having settled himself quietly and
composedly in his position, with a steady and respectful look,
suffer himself to take a survey of his auditory. This begets
silence, and prepares them to become attentive. With regard to
the extemporaneous speaker, it has the advantage of allowing him
to collect his thoughts, to frame his first sentence, and sometimes
to subdue that flurry of spirits which few who speak in public are
entirely free from in the opening of an address. It should not be
preserved too long, nor, on the contrary, be continually shifting, so
as to beget a feeling of uneasiness, such as often arises from the
fidgety shifting from one foot to the other (a fault very common
with some speakers). But, fronting the audience, avoiding alto-
gether a sidelong attitude, let the feet be firmly planted, yet not
close together, but with one advanced, the body resting on the
other, erect, not too stiff", but easily and flexibly adapting itself to
the motion of the head and hands ; avoiding, however, anything
approaching to a wavering motion, such as we are told by Cicero a
Eoman orator called Curio was addicted to, and for which ho
became the subject of a friend's joke, who once asked, " ]F7to is that
falking out of a lout ?"
A judicious management of the eyes, in awakening and insuring
a continued attention, also deserves notice. Thoy should be neither
wandering nor altogether fixed or staring, but generally gentle
and moderate in their motions, and directed in turn to diff"erent
portions of the audience, as if engaging each in common dis-
course.
In considering the movements of the arms and hands it should
fee well understood that, to insure a graceful action, all an^jularittj
must be strictly avoided ; and, therefore, this rule cannot be too
carefully impressed upon the mind, viz. : That all motion must
proceed from the shoulder, and not from the extremity of the fin-
gers, and that the clhow should never be suffered to incline to the
body ; nor should the hands assume a riijid and constrained appear-
ance in the disposition of ihofiiujers, by being held open and jliil,
as if about to administer a sound " lox on the ear," or sprea*!
abroad like a lunch of radishes, or crookedly contracted like the
daws of a crab : but moderately opened, let the inde^; or first
On Gesture. 21
finger, lightly press the ruiddle one, the other two inclining gently
inward towards the palm. This must, of course, be understood aj
referring to the hands in a state of repose ; and when used in a tem-
perate and unimpassioned address they contribute to that sim-
plicity and grace — and, at the same time, dignity — that should at
all times characterize the movements and bearing of the orator.
Under the intluence of the passions, indeed, they assume other
forma ; and most infinite is their use and variety : " Greater, m-
deed," as Quintilian justly observes, " than can toell be expressed,
for iliey are almost equal io our words. Do not xve desire tvitk
ihcni, promise, call, dismiss, threaten, beseech, detest, fear, inquire,
deny .'' Do iwt they express joy, sorrow, dunbt, coiifusion, penitence,
measure, plenty, number, and time!' Do not they excite, restrain,
prove, admire, and shame? That in so great a variety of speech
among all nations and countries, this seems to me the common Ian-
guagc of manhind.'' The ancients, however, differed greatly from
us with respect to the use of both hands, confining their action —
or, at least, their principal action — to the right; and it is not
difficult to understand how this might be, when we consider the
peculiar nature of their dress. A glance at a Greek or Eomau
statue, attired in the chlamys or toga, at once illustrates this. The
left arm being occupied in sustaining the folds of the drapery, could
not well be used conveniently, or without derangement of its dis-
position, though it is certainly difficult to conceive how, thus
limited to the use of one hand for their chief expression, the for-
cible passages and animated sentiments in those orations of theirs
»vhich have been jircserved to us, could have been delivered. Ba
this as it may, the modern orator is under no such restriction ; and
it is not only pro]>er but needful that either hand occasionally
should be used indiscriminately, as the principal gesture, or the
position of the person addressed, may require; and sometmies
distinctively the hft hand alternates its office with the right. With
us the corresponding hand and foot are advanced; and here agaitf
we differ from the ancients, Quintilian affirming as a ride that it
should be the reverse, while we only make such a position exceif
tional. As a general direction to be borne in mind— and the ex-
ceptions to it are few indeed—all straight lines in the movements
22 Elocutimu
of both hands and arms are to be avoided. Hogarth has laid it
down as an axiom that the " Line of Beauty" is a flomng curve;
and though this cannot be adapted to the ^ohole system of action,
the princii^le may be safely made the general basis for its theoi-y
to rest ujjon.
Rarely — very rarely indeed — should the hands be raised above
the eyes or extended beyond t'^e range of vision, the action of the
right generally commencing on the left side and terminating on the
right side ; and, vice versa, the same rule applies to the movement
of the left hand. The stroke Avhich marks the emphatic word
must descend on that word alone at the instant of its utterance.
The movement of the arm and hand also should be sustained and
suspended through the duration of a passage, and terminate pre-
cisely with it : and wo may veiy well conceive this ti»iing of the
gesture to be the probable if not the actual meaning of Shak-
speare when, in his direction to the players, he says, " Sitit the rtc-
tion to the tvord — the ivord to the action ;" for it can hardly be be-
lieved that he alluded to descriptive or aiipropriatc action simply,
such as raising the hand when appealing to heaven, or sinking it
when speaking of the earth. And, in mentioning Shakspeare, it
will scarcely be necessary to remind the student of his remarks
concerning sawing the air, which is nothing more than the inces-
sant repetition of the obnoxious straight-lined description of action
before noticed.
Having spoken of the indiscriminate use of both hands, it ia
proper to add that neither should be used invariably alone.
Nothing can ajijiear more ungraceful, not to say ridiculous, than
to see one hand (either the right or left) constantly in motion,
while the other hangs uselessly by the side, as if it had no sym-
pathy in the discourse, or that the one-hand«d orator was afflicted
with a i)artial paralysis. The fact is, that either hand should
accommodate itself to and su])port the action of the other. The
principal, which is called the Dominant, from the position of the
orator as respects the side to which he directs his attention, havinj?
the greatest extension and elevation, being always supported or se-
conded by the Subject ivc hand, which is held somewhat below it,
and ai->proximately nearer to the body. For the separate or com-
On Gesture. 23
bined action of the hands, thus positioned as the nature of the sub-
ject may demand, it is utterly impossible to lay down any specific
rules ; and here it is that plates and diagrams must fail in describ-
ing the transitions that are constantly occun-ing, creating to the
uninitiated " confusion worse confounded," — resulting in a pedantic,
affected, and unnatural gesture, without meaning, force, or grace.
In demonstrating, appealing, and on some other special occasions, the
hands may be moved forward almost on a level ; but when no active
movement is required, they should be raised, in general as high as
the breast, or sometimes a little below it, easily curved, but on no
account are they to be suffered to fall down lifelessly by the side.
It should be perfectly understood, that no art depends so much
on constant and almost unremitting practice as elocution, and the
appropriate gesture that should attend it. Neither grace nor facility
can possibly Ije otherwise attained ; theory alone is worse than
useless, and even the best instructions must, without it, entirely
and invariably fail. The best mentor that a young orator or reciter
can appeal to, in this mdispensable private practice, is the looliinj-
(jlass. Much, however, has been said in way of dissent from
this opinion, but certainly without mature consideration of the
subject.
It has been objected, for instance, that an earnest speaker must,
from the impulse of nature, use appropriate action ; but if we grant
this, it by no means follows that it ^vill be graceful, and it is the
combination of the natural with the graceful that alone makes the
Iterfccf orator.
Besides, are there no Bad Hahifs to be corrected .^ We daily see
that such have been contracted by men who enjoy a reputation as
speakers, yet doubtless they are influenced by the impulses of na-
ture ; among which habits we may mention a few, and then judge
whether they are ap])ropriate : such, for instance, as nodding ivith
thchead,pockct!ngthe hands, tnflingwith the dress, placing the arms
a-himho, tiicl-ingthcm lehind, ducl-ing the body or jerking it, leaning
on tahle, crossing the legs, standing sid^^ivays or with the feet together,
fixing the eyes on the ceiling or opposite wall, exaggeration of action
or con sta nt repet it ion of it. Many more might be instanced, but these
will serve for the present purpose, as they cannot have escaped the
24 Elocutioii.
notice of any acute observer interested in the subject of public
oratory.
ISTow as good habits are full as easy to be acquired as those of
an opposite description, though the latter, in the process of being
got rid of, present a somewhat greater diflBculty, yet the means of
their acquisition is very similar, viz., constant repetition. If, there-
fore, the rules laid down for appropriate and graceful action are
studied assiduously and frequently in the faithful reflections of the
mirror, those principles will become so impressed on the mind of the
student, as ever after to influence his bearing and general style of
gesture, and that too -without stifliiess or ai-tificiality ; for it is woi
for a moment pretended that the action which he may then consider
appropriate must of necessity be precisely the same he is called upon
to use when speaking or reciting in public. This exercise aims alone
at the acquisition of grace and ease by the appeal to his own judg-
ment, which this practice will habitually confirm, and ever after
influence the involuntary gestures that arise from the emotions of
his mind. It is jjrobable that the action may differ — may take a
wider sweep, a more extended character — may be more elevated or
depressed, slower or more abrupt : it matters not ; it will bear the
impress of his general study, and manifest itself in force, expression,
and cjrace.
CHAPTER Vn.
ox RE.VDIKG VERSE.
Although the rules laid down in the preceding chapters app\y
alike to poetry and prose, a few observations on the reading of
rhymed verse may not be out of jjlace.
There are many excellent readers of proso who entirely fail to
distinguish the equable and harmonious flow of sound which dis-
tinguishes poetry from ordinary unmeasured composition. These are
devoid of what a musician would call " ear," and hence their deliver)'
of rhymed couplets becomes tame and insipid, familiar and common-
place, and too frequently degenerates into mere " sing-song,'' utterly
beneath the dignity of inspired verse. To such persons Mr. Walker
recommends (and other writers on elocution have repeated hi?
On Reading Verse. 25
advice — some having gone so far as to run on the exami^les they
have given in the prose form) that they shonld " read verse exactly
as if it were prose." Surely this would be an injustice to any living
poet and a desecration of the writings of the dead, who if they had
intended to convey their thoughts in plain prose, to ignore the
measure and the How, the music and the metaphor, and all the
elegances and fancies which distinguish one from the other, would
have adopted that form. Many of the transpositions of words or
phrases allowable in poetry for the sake of the rhythm (sometimes
for the sake of a rhyme) would not be admissible in prose composi-
tion ; it is obvious, therefore, that to read poetry as pi-ose is to read
it as the authors would not have written had they been unfettered
by the exigencies of verse.
If, as Walker admits, " ]-)octiy without song {i.e., musical flow)
is a body without soul," it would be far better that those who are
devoid of the power of appreciating should abstain altogether from
reaxling it, rather than they should deliver it in a style that must
always be obnoxious to correct taste and sound judgment.
Perha]i3 one of the greatest difficidties felt by every professor of
elocution in teaching j-outh to recite poetry, is the almost universal
inability of the pupil to understand and gi-asp the meaning of the
poem. Unless the author be thoroughly appreciated and his
intention, not only expressed but implied, mastered, the natural
emotions (and consequently the proper inflexions and varieties of
voice) cannot possibly arise, and, if not, how can they be expressed
save by a studied, stilted, and artificial style ? It is, perhaps, not
saying too much to aver that only a poet can read poetry properly :
at any rate only those who are perfectly imbued -with the poetic
feeling can do so. Given all these qualifications, and action, voice,
»nd gesture will follow naturally and spontaneously; the electric
fire will flash from the speaker to his audience, enthusiasm will bo
kindled, and a result that only true genius can achieve will be
accomplished.
The great secret in reading poetry is to exercise the art that con-
ceals art, or ratlier the art that seems to heighten and improve
nature and to subdue it, so that it is never apparent that the
speaker is delivering the word» of others. To the hearers it should
26 Elocution.
be as tliougli the si:>eaker were giving the utterances of liis ovn\
heai-t, and his own brain, an impulsive and involuntary outpouring
excited by existing and surrounding circumstances. It was thug
Shakspeare -svi-ote, assisted by no rule, his guiding power being only
his exquisite sense of the fitness of all things. It was thus that
Edmund Kean produced his finest effects, — not from calculation,
but from knowledge, impulse, and appreciation, ht by the light that
was within him.
But in our schools and colleges teaching must l^egin before
experience has ripened. All that can be done is to apply certain
rules, and these, if diligently attended to, will have so far forwarded
the work of perfection at which all may arrive when the mind
comes to maturity. We would premise that it is essential in all
cases that the master should fully explain to the pupil the subject,
the meaning, and all the sun'oundings of the poem or extract he is
about to teach.
The rules for the delivery of poetry may be thus briefly stated.
1. In all cases it is better to commence a poem in a simple, natu-
ral, and easy style, warming with the subject as the poet becomes
passionate or emotional.
2. If the poetry be written correctly, eveiy word should have the
same accent as in prose, but as many of our best poets have
accented words that change their accent when used as verbs or
nouns alike, it is better to sacrifice the sense to the sound rather
than the rhythm of the poem should be destroyed.
o. The article ihe must never be strongly accented in reading or
reciting verse.
4. Elisions, so frequently found in our earlier poets, must seldom
or never be attended to in reading verse — thus in " gen'rous" the
dropped •' c" must be sounded as in "generous."
5. The end of every line in poetry must be delicately marked.
care being taken not to interfere with the intimate or remote con-
nexion subsisting between the subsequent lines.
6. The rhetorical pauses should be taken at the commencement,
and never in the middle of a poetic foot, or the power of what
Sheridan calls " making the ear sensible of the versification" will
be lost.
On Reading Verse. 27
7. A simile ought to be read in a lower tone of voice than the
portion of the poem which precedes it.
Thus far the rules we have laid down apply to poetry generally,
but as the simulations of the i:)assions enter largely into the recital
pf heroic verse, it will be necessary to enter briefly into this branch
of the subject.
Mr. Walker, in his elaborate work " The Elements of Elocution,"
asks, " How are we to acquire that peculiar quality of sound that
indicates the passion we wish to express ?" and he proceeds, " The
answer is easy : by feeling the passion which expresses itself by
that peculiar quality of sound. But then the question will return,
liow are we to acquire a feeling of that passion ?" "Without follow-
ing this author through an essay which extends over many pages, it
will be sufficient to observe, that he contends that the simulation of
the passions may be obtained by imitation — that is, by observing
and noting in the memory the various tones and gestures which
accompany them when they arise or are indulged in by others,
so that we may dispose ourselves to feel them mechanically, and
improve our expression of them when we are called on to read or
recite the particular pieces in which they occur ; for by the imitation
of the passions, we meet them, as it were, halfway.
A condensed resumi' of Walker's classification of the passions and
his rules (re-modelled) for simulating them, will indicate generally
the method that may be employed.
1 . Tranquillity. — This may be expressed by the composure of the
countenance and a general repose of the whole body, without the
exertion of any one muscle. The countenance open, the forehead
smooth, the eyebrows arched, the mouth nearly closed, and the
eyes passing with an easy motion from object to object, but not
dwelling too long on one. Care must be taken to distinguish it
from insensibility.
'1. Cheerfulness adds a smile to tranquillity, and opens cne
mouth a little more.
3. Mirth requires a laughing, joyous style of dehvery ; but
buifooneiy and g:-imace must be avoided, or the audience will laiigh
at and not wath the speaker, who should let his subject-matter set
his audience laughing before copying their example.
28 Elocution.
4. Eaillery puts on the aspect of cheorfuliiess ; the tone of voice
should he sprightly.
5. Irony is expressed by the sneer, which is ironical approliatioa
^ satirical tone of voice, look, and gesture, should accompany it.
6. Joy radiates the countenance with smiles, and lights up, as it
were, the whole frame. WaU'er recommends " clapping the hands."
"raising the eyes to heaven," and "giving such a spring to tho
Lody as to make it attempt to mount up as if it could fly" — but all
such extravagances must be avoided.
7. Delight. — The tones, gestures, and looks are the same aa joy,
bu.t less forcible and more permanent.
8. Love must be apjiroached with the utmost delicacy ; it is best
expressed by a dee}:), impassioned, fervent tone ; the right hand may
be pressed over the heart, but the " languishing eyes" recommended
by some authors borders too closely on burlesque. A steady,
respectful gaze on the assumed object of affection may be permitted.
9. Pity may be denoted by an expression of pain on the counte-
nance, and a compassionate tenderness of voice. The mouth open,
and a gentle raising and falling of the hands and eyes, as if mourn-
ing over the unhappy object.
10. Hope erects and brightens the countenance, spreads the arms
with the hands open, as to receive the object of its wishes. Tho
voice is jjlaintive and inclining to eagerness.
11. Hatred draws back the body as to avoid the hated object;
the hands at the same time spread out, as if to keep it off. The
pitch of the voice is low, but harsh, chiding, and vehement,
12. Anger expresses itself with rapidity and harshness — and
sometimes with interruption and hesitation, as if unable to utter
VAth sufficient force. Kage and Fury are exaggerations of thij
passion.
13. Reproacu requires the contracted brow and the curled l;p ;
the voice is low and the whole body ex^iressive of aversion.
14. Fear is one of the most difficult and elaborate passions to
simulate. The breath must appear quick and short; the voice
trembling and weak ; the body as if shrinking from danger. Whei.
attended with terror and consternation, one foot is drawn back as if
putting itself into a posture for flight.
On Reading Verse. 29
15. Sorrow. — Countenance dejected, eyes castdown, arms hanging
/cose, the voice plaintive and interrupted by sighs.
16. Remorse. — Head hangs down, the voice low and harsh.
17. Despair can only be touched by an accompKshed actor. The
amateur should attempt nothing beyond reading or reciting the pas-
sage, depicting it in a deep and solemn tone.
18. SuRRRisE may be expressed by the mouth and eyes beiug wide
open ; the voice in the ui)per pitch. Wonder, Amazement, and Ad-
miration, come under this head.
19. Prid?; assumes a lofty look ; the eyes well open, the worda
Uttered in slow, stifF, affected style.
20. Confidence — Courage. — In both the head is erect, the breast
projected, the coimtenance clear and open, the voice loud, round, and
not too rapid. Boasting exaggerates these by noise and blus-
tering.
21. Perflexity, Avith which may be classed Irresolution and
Anxiety, requires an expression of thoughtful consideration ; the
motions of the body are restless, the pauses long, the tone of the
voice uneven.
22. Vexation expi-esscs itself with looks of perplexity ; the tones
are sharp and broken ; the hands restless.
23. Envy.- Envy ari;je3 from a mixture of joy, sorrow, and
hatred ; it sometimes assumes a mocking tone.
24. Malice sends flashes from the eyes and closes the teeth. The
voice is expressed as in anger.
25. Jealousy displays itself in such a variety of forms that it may
embrace any of the foregoing ; the text of the author wlU discover
which
26. Modesty bends the body forward, and has a placid, downcast
countenance ; the tone of voice is low.
27. SuAME turns away the face from the beholders, casts down
the eyes ; the voice is confused and faltering.
28. Gravity. — The posture of the body and limbs is composed
and without much motion ; the speech slow and solemn, the tone
jvithout much variety.
29. Admonition assumes a grave air, bordering on severity ; the
Voice assumes the low tone, bordering on tlie monotone.
30 Elocution.
30. Reproof puts on a stern as])ect and roughens the voice; it is
sometimes accompanied by threatening gestures.
A number of other examples might be given, but the pupil win
has mastered the above will scarcely need further instruction.
CHAPTEE VIII.
USEFUL HINTS.
1. Where the opportunity is afforded you, try the acoustic pro-
perties of the room in which you are to recite beforehand. You will
thus ascertain the proper pitch on which to commence.
2. If the room be large and resonant, be careful to speak -slowly,
allowing time for the voice to travel ; otherwise the words will bo-
come jumbled, run one within another, and indistinctness will
result. The attention with which you are listened to will soon con-
vince you if you are heard or not.
3. Never read in public a piece with which you are previously un-
acquainted : you must, in order to give the proper emphasis to the
lines before you, be acquainted with what is to follow. At least
one perusal of the piece you may be called on to read should be in-
sisted on.
4. To preserve the voice, bathe and gargle the throat morning
and evening, using cold water. As a rule, muffling uji the throat is
relaxing and injurious, but it is advisable to do so when going from
a warm room into the cold air. Keep the mouth closed until yon
have walked some time or reached home, and you may then speak
at pleasure.
5. If you have to read or recite for some time you may jnst
moisten the lips with cold water, but avoid drinking it in any quan-
tity. Good bottled stout, which has been drawn sufficiently long
for the froth to subside, is the best thing to sing or speak on.
Especially avoid sherry and spirits neat or diluted. A glass or two
of old, dry port wine may be taken with advantage before com-
mencing, or in the interval, where one is afforded.
6. Never speak through a confirmed hoarseness, if it can be avoided
If your voice is out of order a new-laid egg beaten up with a tea-
Useful Hints. 31
spoonful of the compound tincture of cinnamon may be taken with
advantage, but avoid all nostrums for the voice ; many of them
contain opium, and will ultimately and permanently injure
it. For nervousness a couple of teaspoonfuls of sal volatile
in a wineglass of water will be found useful. Spirits or spirits-
and-water cause a dryness of the tongue, and will oul}- increase
your misfortune.
7. It is a too common fault with many speakers and readers to
imitate the voice and manner of some particular actor ; your own
natural and ordinary voice should alone be used, except in a read-
ing cnxbracing a personation, such as of an Irish, Scotch, or York-
fehireman, &c., and these should be studied from actual observation,
and not from hearing others imitate them. This, however, may be
atyled mimicry, — it cannot be called elocution.
8. The H is silent in heir, honest, honour, hospital, hour, humble,
humour, and the words derived from them. ~
9. The careless or ignorant speaker will often trip in the following
words, which are vulgarisms to be specially avoided ; viz., feller for
fellow — winder for window — lor for law — sor for saw — voilet
for violet — voiulcni for violent — moi for my — as well as using
an aspirate in an improjicr place, as liair for air— /(Oi7 for
oil, &c.
10. For hoarseness chew a small piece of horse-radish frequently,
or take a cayenne lozenge. Braham is said to have bitten a piece
out of the back of a red-herring to effect a speedy cure, but the re-
lief could only have been temporary. For hoarseness arising from
wer-exertion of the voice a small piece of gum catechu dissolved in
^he mouth has been recommended.
11. Loud speaking, long continued, with the lungs but partially
distended, is very injurious to those organs; it is apt to occasion a
spitting of blood, which is not unfrequently a precursor of pul-
monary consumption. But loud speaking, with proper manage-
ment of breath, is a healthful exercise ; besides strengthening the
muscles which it calls into action, it promotes the decarbonization
of the blood, and consequently exerts a salutary influence on the
system generally. — Comstock.
12. " A public speaker, possessed of only a moderate voice, if he
g2 Elocution.
articulates correctly, will be better iinderstood, and heard witli
greater pleasure, than one who vociferates without judgment. The
voice of the latter may, indeed, extend to a considerable distance,
but the sound is dissipated m confusion. Of the former voice not
the smallest vibration is wasted ; every stroke is perceived at the
utmost distance to which it reaches ; and hence it has often the ap-
pearance of penetrating even farther than one which is loud, but
badly articulated.
" In just articulation the words are not to l)e hurried over, not
precipitated syllable over syllable ; nor, as it were, melted together
into a mass of confusion : they should not be trailed, or drawled,
nor permitted to slip out carelessly, so as to drop unfinished. They
should be dehvered from the lips as beautiful coins just issued from
the Mint, deeply and accurately impressed, neatly struck by the
proper organs, dii^tinct, in due succession, and of due weight." —
Austin's Ghironomia.
13. All sound is audible in a greater or leas degree, according to
the density or resistance of the aerial fluid. If that fluid is ren-
dered considerably thinner, the voice is diminished ; but if it is alto-
gether removed, as in an empty receiver, no sound can be excited.
Hence the philosophical cause why the voice is more easily heard
in a room when it is cold than when it is warm, when it is empty
than when it is full. — Heiuues.
14. Writers on elocution have frequently attempted to describe
the formation of the various articulate sounds, for the benefit of
those whose articulation is imperfect ; but it is almost impossible
\o clearly describe the formation by words, and engravings show
but a part of the process. The best method of correcting defective
speech, when not arising from organic defect, is to exercise the
pupil before a mirror, that he may observe the contrast between the
movements of his own mouth, and those of the master. This prac-
tice will also be found highly beneficial to i>ersons learning to sing,
irthe pronunciation of foreign languages. Defective articulation
frequently arises from endeavouring to speak too fa.st. Time is not
given for the organs to fonn the correct sounds, and habit confirms
the false. Children ought not to be allowed to repeat their lessons
In a hurried manner, either while committing them to memory, or
Useful Hints. 3'3
repeating them to the teacher. Mrs. Siddons' fii-st direction to
her pupils was " Take time."
" Consonants should not be preceded by any confused sound of
their own. The not attending to this in pronouncing the letter s,
has been the chief cause of our language being called by foreigners
the hissing language, though, in reaUty, it does not abound so
much in that letter as either the Greek or the Roman ; the final a
with us having, for the most part, the sound of ,?. But if care be
not taken early in forming the pronunciation, people are apt to
contract a habit of hissing before they utter the sound of s, at tho
beginning of syllables, as well as of continuing it at the end. Ex
pression docs not reside in the mere letters which comprise the
words ; it depends on the due force given to them in utterance.
No letter so Iiarsh which may not be softened; so strong, Avliich
may not be weakened ; and vice versa. The long may be shortened,
and the short lengthened. And all this depends upon the manage-
ment of the voice. "Whenever the power of the consonants is par-
ticularly suited to the expression, their sound should be enforced;
when otherwise, softened." — Sheuidax's AH of Beading.
15. A proof of the importance of delivery may be drawn from
the additional force whicli the actors give to what is written by the
best poets, so that what we hear pronounced by them gives infi-
nitely more pleasure than when we only read it. I think I may
affirm, that a very indiflerent speech, well deUvered, will have a
greater efiect than the best, if destitute of that advantage. —
Ql'INTILIAN.
1<5. If the student has any provincialism or peculiarity, he
should exercise liimself upon the pure sounds of letters, but when
this is necessary it would be better to apply to a master, as his own
ear will be but little guide. Every one studying elocution shoiild
desire his hearers to toll him if they observe any imperfection in his
articulation or error in his pronunciation, as it should be kept in
mind that purity and coiTCctness are the basis of all excellence in
the art. — Tvrrell.
17. The student would do well to wile away an hour sometimes
in a sculpture gallery, and afterwards endeavour to realize the atti-
tudes he has there observed. But all action must be suggested by
34 Elocution.
the sense of the production wliicli he is delivering, and any move-
ment that does not naturally arise out of it is inconsistent and erro-
neous. If you feel a poem and dehver it with energy, you will l)e
sure to give action which is not very inappropriate, and redundan-
cies and awkward peculiarities are best got rid of by practising
before a judicious friend. T'-ue purity and digiiity of action is a
collection of
" Niuueless graces which uo methods teach,
And which a master's hand alone can reach,"
and wliich notliing but a long experience and correct taste can
impart. — Tyrrell.
18. Conversational dialogues are among the most eSective means
of breaking up monotonous and mechanical tones, and are of great
service in facilitating the acquisition of an appropriate style of
reading. — Eussell.
19. Modulation should never be resorted to for the sake of
variety, it should always be subservient to the sense ; for it is the
province of modulation to mark changes of sentiment, changes in
the train of strength, and parenthetical clauses. — Comstock.
20. The management of passion in accordance with the character
that is represented to labour under it, its natural sentiments, its fluc-
tuations, and its combinations, must be intuitively present to the
mind of the dramatic author. The person who acts a character
has, in some respects, a minuter and more delicate task to perform,
as he must watch over every tone, look, and gesture, and keep them
in consistency with the situation of the person represented. Tlicre
is a smile of benignity, of love, of contempt ; there is a smile of
innocence and of guilt ; of dignity and of silliness ; there is the smile
of the peasant and that of the king. To var>^ the expression of
passion, so as to preserve it in keeping with the character, to ex-
hibit inferior and incidental passions" as modified by a dominant
one, are the attainments of a great actor, who, in his delineations,
IS not always assisted by the composition of the dramatist. For,
although in representations of passion, in agreement with the cha-
racter represented, yet the actor has the difficult task of preserving
the consistency of the functions of voice, look, and gesture, in
tiiose parts where there is little excitement, and wher- *he familiar
Useful Hints. 35
parts or the dialogue arc apt to make one forget the idiosyncrasy of
Uie character. This jireservation of the consistency of character, iu
Viinute and incidental matter, is much more difficult to accomplish
Uian a forcible representation in some highly-wrought scene.
Besides, written language is frequently so inexpressive, that different
meanings are often attached to the same passages ; for this reason,
it is highly important to know the nature of passion, its natural
sentiments, its combinations and endurance, that we may be enabled
to give that reading, aa it is called, which a cultivated taste prefers.
--Graham.
'21. There is a certain mechanical dexterity to be acquired before
the beautiful conceptions we possess can be communicated to others.
This mechanism is an essential part of all the fine arts. Nothing
l)ut habitual practice will give the musician his neatness of execu-
tion, the painter his force of colouring, and even the poet the
happiest choice and an-angement of his words and thoughts. How,
then, can wo expect that a luminous and elegant expression in
reading and speaking can be acquired without a similar attention
to habitual practice ? This is the golden key to excellence, but can
be purchased only by labour, unremitting labour, and perseverance^
— Walkkk.
22. ^IiiMOKV. — As the great purpose to which this faculty is sub-
8ci*vient is to enable us to collect and retain, for the future regula-
tion of our conduct, the results of our past experience, it is evident
that the degree of perfection which it attains in the case of different
persons must vary ; first, with the facility of making the original
acquisition ; secondly, with the permanence of the acquisitiou ; and
thirdly, with the quickness or readiness with which the individual
is al.)le, on particular occasions, to apply it to use. The qualities,
therefore, of a good memory are, in the first place, to be susceptible ;
secondly, to be retentive ; and thirdly, to be ready.
It is but rarely these three qualities are united in the same person.
"We often, indeed, meet Avith a memory Avhich is at once susceptible
and ready ; but I doubt much if such memories be commonly very
retentive ; for the same set of habits which are favourable to the
two first qualities are adverse to the third. Those individuals, for
example, who, with a view to conversation, make a constant business
D 2
36 Elocution.
of informing themselves with respect to the popular topics of the
day, or of turning over the ephemeral piiblicatioiis subservient to
the amusement or to the pohtics of the times, are naturally led to
cultivate a susceptibility and readiness of memory, but have no
inducement to aim at that permanent retention of selected idea.s
which enables the scientific student to combine the most remote
materials, and to concentrate at will, on a particular object, all the
scattered lights of his experience and of his reflexions. Such men
(as far as my observation has reached) seldom possess a familiar or
correct acquaintance even with those classical remains of our own
earUer writers which have ceased to furnish topics of discourse to
the circles of fasliion. A stream of novelties is perpetually passing
through their minds, and the faint impression which it leaves will
soon vanish to make way for others, like the traces which the ebbing
tide leaves upon the sand. Kor is this all. In proportion as the
associating principles which lay the foundation of susceptibility
and readiness predominate in the memory, those which form the
basis of our more solid and lasting acquisitions may be expected to
be weakened, as a natural conse(iuence of the general laws of our
intellectual frame. — Dugald Stew.\rt.
23. Pompous spouting, and many other descriptions of unnatural
tone and measured cadence, are frequently admired by many as
excellent reading, which admiration is itself a proof that it is not
desei-ved ; for when the delivery is rcaZ/y good, the hearers (except
any one who may dehberately set himself to observe and criticise)
never iliinh about if ; but are exclusively occupied with the sense it
conveys, and the feelings it excites. — AnciiBisHor Wuately.
2-t. Force and Expression. — Loudness, with its degrees to
softness, is signified in elocution, as in music, by the term force.
A proper adaptation of its varying degrees to corresponding shades
of expression will give that variety which is so pleasing to the ear.
These several degrees have been denoted by words borrowed from
the language of the Italians. They arc generally written abbiv-
viated, as in the following table.
Useful Bints.
37
Degrees of Force.
Coi-respoudiug States of
Mind, aud other condi-
tions which direct the ap-
plication of the degi-ees of
Force.
/
Piano,
riaiiissiinn.
sofU
very soft.
Secrecy, caution, doubt ;
pity, love, prief, awe ; ten-
dei-uess and plaintive sen-
timent ; humility, shame;
repose; fatigue and pros-
tration.
Mezzo forte
111. f.
ratlier loud, (literally,
middling loud).
Common conversation ;
plain narrative aud de-
scription ; uuimpassioned
speech.
Forto.
Fortissimo.
loud
very oud.
Certainty; anger, i-age,
hate, ferocity, revenge ;
mirth, exultation, joy ; and
excited states of mind
generally.
"We may a^ld to this Table, aa comintj under the head of Force, a
^'w marks of expression, also borrowed from the art of music.
A gradual increase of loudness is expressed by the word crescendo,
or by the si<^n ~-==^^
A gradual decrca.so of loudness is expressed l)y the word
diininufmdo, or by the sign :z-^:^^^-
An explosive or abrupt utterance is denoted by the word flaccafo
when the expression is spread over a whole clause, or, when limited
to a few words, by points or dots ( ' ' ' • • • ) I'laced over the
intended syllables.— John Millakd.
PART II.
MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE.
LABOUR.
Thomas Carlyle.
[Tliomas Carlvle was bom at Ecclefeclian, in Dumfriesshire, in 179.5.
Diadually drifted into literature, utUiziug the results of his studies throu-h
the medium of the press. He became a great admirer of the German hmguage
" • '• ' Oue of his earliest works was
^,.„ spondeuc.
He married about 1827, and resided in Scotland (near Dumfries) until ISoO,
when he took up his residence in London. He was ever an honest worker at
Ids craft, and an inveterate exposer of '■ shams." His style of composition h:is
been the subject of some difl'erence of opinion, many accusing him of an atfected
ruggedness. It is clearly not the style approved of by those who hold to the
polished diction of Addison and his contemporaries as models for the study of
ckgaut English prose. Still his force and power are undeniable, thougli his
cuUmg satire has often caused him to be (and very undeservedly so) re^jardcd
as a cjTiic. Died 1881.]
Two men I lionour. and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman
that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and
makes lier man's. Venerable to me is the hand, hard and coarse ;
wherein notwithstanding hesa cunning virtue, indo feasibly royal, as
of this ])lanet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face all weather-tanned,
besoiled, with his rude intelhgence ; for it is the face of a man li\nng
man-like. Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even
because we must pity as well as love thee ! Hardly entreated
brother ! For us was thy back so bent, for ns were thy straight
limbs and fingers so deformed; thou wert our conscript on whom
the lot fell, and fighting our battles wei't so marred. For in thee too
lay a God-created foi-m, but it was not to be unfolded ; encrusted
must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labour ;
and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet, toil
on, toil'on : thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may ; thou toilest
for the altogether indispensable daily bread.
A second man I honour, and stUl more highly, liim who is scon
The Clouds. 39
toiling for the spiritually indispensable — not daily bread, but the
bread of Hfe. Is not he, too, in his duty ; endeavouring towards in-
ward harmony ; revealing tliis, by act or by word, through all his
outward endeavours, be they high or low ? Highest of all when
his outward and his inward endeavours are one : when we can name
him artist ; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who
with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us ! If the poor
and humble toil that we have food, miist not the high and glorious
toil for him in return that he may have light, guidance, freedom,
immortality ? These two, in all their degrees, I honour ; all else is
chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.
There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work.
Were he ever so benighted, or forgetful of his high calling, there is
always lioi)C in a man that actuall}^ and earnestly works ; in idle-
ness alone there is jK-rjietual despair. Consider how, even in the
meanest .sorts of labour, the whole sonl of a man is composed into
real harmony. He bends himself with free valour against his task ;
and douljt, desire, sorrow, remorse, indignation, desjiair itself, shrink
murmuring far off in their caves. The glow of labour in him is a
purifying tire, wherein all poison is burnt \\\) ; and of smoke itself
there is made a bright and blessed flame.
Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other
blessedness ; he has a life pui'pose. Labour is life. From the
heart of the worker rises the celestial force, breathed into him by
Almighty Uod, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowledge.
Hast thou valued ])atience, courage, openness to light, or readiness
to own thy mistakes ? In wrestling with the dim brute powers of
fact, ihou wilt contini;ally learn. For every Jioble work the possi-
bilities are diffused through immensity, undiscoverable, except to
faith.
Man, son of heaven ! is there not in thine inmost heart a spirit
of active method, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it ? Comjilain
not. Look \x\>, wearied brother. See thy fellow-workmen surviving
through eternity, the sacred band of immortals.
THE CLOUDS.
Joicx EUSKIX.
[Mr, Ruskin, flin omiueut art-critie, was boru in 1819, and is still liviug. He
was educated at Oxford, and stvidii-d the pictorial art under Copley Fielding
and J. D. Harding. His principal works are his "Modem Painters," "The
Seven Lamps of Architecture," and " The Stones of Venice."]
It is a strange thing how little, in general, people know about the
sky. It is the part of creation in which Xature has done more for
the sake of pleasing man, more for the sole and evident purpose of
talking to him and teaching him, than in any other of her works ;
and it is just the part in which we least attend to her. There are
40 Miscellaneous Readings m Prose.
not many of her other works in which some more material or
essential purpose than the mere pleasing of man is not answered by
every part of their organization ; but every essential purpose ot the
sky mi<Tht, so far as we know, be answered if, once m three days or
thereabouts, a great, ugly, black rain-cloud were brought up ovel
the blue and everything well-watered, and so all left blue again till
next tinie, with, perhaps, a film of morning and evening mist iur
dew And, instead of this, there is not a moment of any day ot
our lives when Nature is not producing, scene after scene, picture
after picture, glory after glory, and working still upon such exqui-
site and constant principles of the most perfect beauty, that it is
quite certain that it is all done for us, and intended for our perpetual
pleasure. And every mun, wherever placed, however far from other
sources of interest or of beauty, has this doing for him constantly.
The noblest scenes of the earth can be seen and known but by few;
it is not intended that man should live always in the midst of them :
he injures them by liis presence ; he ceases to feel them if he be
always with them. But the sky is for all; bright as it is, it is not
"too bright nor good for human nature's daily food;" it is fitted, in all
its functions, for the perpetual comfort and exalting of the heart ; foi
the soothing it, and purifying it from its dross and dust. Some-
times gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful; never the
same for two moments together ; ahnost human in its passions,
almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its
appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct, as its ministry of
chastisement or of blessing to Avhat is mortal, is essential. And yet
we never attend to it ; we never make it a subject of thought, but
as it has to do with our animal sensations; we look upon all \<y
which it speaks to us more clearly than to brutes, upon all which
bears witness to the intention of the Sujiremc, that we are to receive
more from the covering vault than the light and the dew which we
share with the weed and the worm, only as a succession of meaning-
less and monotonous accidents, too common and too vain to Ije
worthy of a moment of watchfulness or a glance of admiration. If,
in our moments of utter idleness and insipidity, we turn to the sky
as a last resource, which of its phenomena do we speak of? One
says it has been wet, and another it has been windy, and another it
has been warm. AYho, among the whole chattering crowd, can tell
me of the forms and precipices of the chain of tall white mountains
that gilded the horizon at noon yesterday ? Who saw the narrow
sunbeam that came out of the south, and smote upon their summits,
until the}'' melted and mouldered away in a dust of blue rain ?
Who saw the dance of the dead clouds, when the sunlight left them
last night, and the west wind blew them before it like withered
leaves ? All has passed unregretted or unseen ; or, if the apathy
be ever shaken off, even for an instant, it is only by what is gross
or what is extraordinary ; and yet it is not in the broad and fierce
manifestations of the elemental energies, not in the clash of the
hail, nor the drift of the whirhvind, that the highest characters of
the sublime are developed. God is not in the earthquake nor in the
Autuonn. 41
fire, out in the still small voice. They are but the blunt and tlie
low faculties of our nature which can only be addressed throuo-h
lampblack and lightning. It is in quiet and subdued passages 0/
unobtrusive majesty ; the deep, and the calm, and the perpetual-,
that which must be sought ere it is seen, and loved ere it is under-
stood ; things which the angels work out for us daily, and yet vary
eternally ; which are never wanting, and never repeated ; which are
to be found always, yet each found but once. It is through these
that the lesson of devotion is chielly taught and the blessing oi
beauty given.
(^From the "Stones of Venice." By permission of Messrs. Smith and Elder.)
AUTUMN.
Eev. Archiuald Alisox.
[ Tlie Il«iV. Archibald Alison, who was senior minister of St. Paul's Chapel,
£diuh)urpli, was born in 17.07, and, after a careful prejiaration at Glasgow Uni-
versity, he proceeded to Balliol C'iille<re, Oxford, where he took his degree of
JJ.C.Tj. in 17H4. In 17'.to he jiublislied an "Essay on the Nature and Principles
of Taste," and in 1814 two volumes of sermons. A selection from the latter,
comprising those on the Four Seasons, was aftcTwai'ds published iu a handy
volume.— Died 183».J
liET the young go out, in these hours, under the descending sun of
the year, into the fields of nature. Their hearts are now ardent
with hope, — with the hopes of fame, of honour, or of hapjDiness ;
and, in the long perspective which is before them, their imagination
creates a world where all may be enjoyed. Let the scenes which
they now may witness moderate, \n\i not extinguish their am-
bition ; — while they see the yearly dL'solation of nature, let them see
it as the emblem ol" mortal hope ; — while they feel the dispro])ortion
between the powers they ])ossess, and the time they are to be em-
ployed, let them carry their anil)itious eye beyond the world ; —
and while, in these sacred solitudes, a voice in their own bosom
corresjionds to the voice of decaying nature, let them take that high
decision which becomes those who feel themselves the inhabitanta
of a greater world, and who look to a being incapable of decay.
Let the busy and the active go out, and pause for a time amid
the scenes which surround them, and learn the high lesson which
nature teaches in the hours of its fall. They are now ardent vdih.
all the desires of mortality ; and fame, and interest, and pleasure,
are displaying to them their shadowy promises, and, in the vulgar
race of life, many weak and many worthless passions are too
naturally engendered. Let them withdraw themselves, for a time,
from the agitations of the world ; let them mark the desolation of
summer, and listen to the winds of winter, which begin to murmur
above their heads. It is a scene which, with all its powers, has yet
no reproach ; — it tells them, that such is al:,o the fate to which they
must come ; that the pulse of passion miist one day beat low ; that
the illusions of t',me must pass ; and that " the sj^irit must return
42 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
to liini wlio gave it." It reminds tliem, with gentle voice, of that
innocence in which Hfe was begun, and for which no pros^^erity of
vice can make any compensation; and that angel who is one day to
stand upon the earth, and " to swear that time shall be no more."
seems now to whisper to them, amid the hollow winds of the year,
what manner of men they ought to be, who must meet that decisive
hour.
There is " an even-tide " in human life — a season when the eyt
becomes dim, and the strength decays ; and when the winter of age
begius to shed, upon the hmnan head, its prophetic snow. It is the
season of life to which the present is most analogous ; and much it
becomes, and much it would profit you, to mark the instnictions
which the season brings. The spring and the summer of your days
are gone ; and with them, not only the joys they know, but many
of the friends who gave them. You have entered upon the aiitumn
of your being ; and whatever may have been the profusion of your
spring, or the warm intemjierance of your summer, there is yet a
season of stillness and of solitude, which the beneficence of Heaven
affords you, in which you may meditate upon the i)ast and the
future, and prepare yourselves for the mighty change which you aw
soon to undergo.
If thus you have the wisdom to use the decaying season of
nature, it brings with it consolations more valuable than all the
enjoyments of former days. In the long retrospect of your journey,
you have seen, every day, the shades of the evening fall, and, axa'xy
year, the clouds of winter gather. But you have seen also, every
succeeding day, the morning arise in its brightness ; and, in every
succeeding year, the spring return to renovate the winter of nature.
It is now yon may understand the magnificent language of heaven ;
it mingles its voice with that of revelation ; it summons you, in
these hours when the leaves foil, and the winter is gathering, to
that evening study which the mercy of Heaven has in-ovidcd in the
book of salvation : and while the shadowy vahey opens, which leads
to the abode of death, it speaks of that hand which can comfort and
can save, and wliich can conduct to those " green pastures, and
those still waters," where there is an eternal spring for the children
of God.
THE DEATH OP rATIL DOMBEY.
Charles Dickens.
\}h: Dickens was a native of Portsmouth, born in the year 1812. His father
being' chiel ot the reporting start' of the Mornimj Chronicle, his son obtained an
eugagenient on that paper as reporter. His sketches of life and character Dub-
lished 111 that journal induced Messrs. Chapman and Hall to engage hi u to
supply the letterpress to a series of sketches by the late Mr. SeymouT. Tro u
these sprung " Ihe Pickwick Papers," Mr. Dici:ens became famous, and at once
took, and still retams, the position of the foremost noveUst of the age. Died 1870. |
Paul had never risen from his little bod. He lay there, listenintr
to the noises m the street, quite tranquilly ; not caring much how
The Death of Paul Domhey. 4.1
the time went, but watching it, and watching everything about him
with observmg eyes. When the sunbeams struck into his room
through the rustUng bhnds, and quivered on the opposite wall like
golden water, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the
sky was red and beautiful. As the retlection died away, and a
gloom went creeiDing up the wall, he watched it deepen, deepen,
deepen into night. Then he thought how the long streets were
dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining over-
head. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the river, which
he knew was flowing through the great city ; and now he thought
how black it was, and how deep it would look, reflecting the hosts
of stars — and more than aU, how steadily it rolled away to meet th(i
sea.
As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the streets becamt
so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as they passed,
and lose them in the hollow distance, he would lie and watch the
many-coloured ring about the candle, and wait ])atiently for day-
His only trouble was, the swift and raj>id river. He felt forced,
sometimes, to try to stop it — to stem it with his childish hands — -or
choke its way with sand — and when he saw it coming on resistless,
he cried out. But a word from Florence, who was always at his
side, restored him to himself; and leaning his poor head iipon her
breast, he told Floy of his dream, and smiled.
When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun ; and
when its cheerful light began to s]>arkle in the room, he pictured to
himself — pictured ? — he saw the high church towers rising up into
the morning sky, the town reviving, waking, starting into life once
more, the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling fast as ever), and
the country bright with dew. Famfliar sounds and cries came by
degi-ces into the street below ; the seiwants in the house were roused
and busy ; faces looked in at the door, and voices asked his atten-
dants softly how he was. Paul always answered for himself, " I am
better. I am a great deal better, thank you ! Tell papa so !" By
little and httle, he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of
carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing ; and would
fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense again —
the child could hardly tell whether this were in his sleeping or his
waking moments — of that rushing river. "Why, wfllit never stop,
Floy P" he would sometimes ask her. " It is bearing me away, I
think."
]]ut Floy could always soothe and reassure him ; and it was his
daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, and take
some rest. " You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch
you now !" They would prop him up with cushions in a corner of
his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside him;
bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering to those
who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat up so many
nights beside him. Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and light,
would gi-adually decline ; and again the golden water would be
dancing on the walL
44 Aliscellaneous Readings in Prose.
He was visited by as many as three grave doctors— tliey used to
assemble downstairs, and come up together— and the room whs so
jjuiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though he never asked of
iinybodywhat they said), that he even knew the difference m the
sound of their watches. But his interest centered m Sir Parker
Peps, who always took his seat on the side of the bed. For 1 aul
had heard them say long ago, that that gentleman had been with
his mamma when she clasped Florence in her arms, and died. And
he could not forget it now. He liked him for it. He was not
afraid. The i:.eople round him changed as unaccountably as on
that first night at Dr. Blimber's— except Florence; Florence never
changed— and what had been Sir Parker Peps was now his father,
sitting with his head upon his hand. Old Mrs. Pipchin, dozing on
an easy-chair, often changed to Miss Fox, or his aunt ; and Paul
was quite content to shut his eyes again, and see what hapj)ened
next without emotion. But this figure Avith its head upon its hand
returned so often, and remained so long, and sat so still and solemn,
never speaking, never being spoken to, and rarely Ufting up its face,
that Paul began to wonder languidly if it were real ; and in the
night-time saw it sitting there -with fear.
" Floy," he said, " what is that ?" " Where, deare.st ?" " There !
at the bottom of the bed." " There's nothing there, except pajni !"
The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the l>edsido,
said — " My own boy, don't you know me ?" Paul looked it in tho
face, and thought, was this his father! But the face, so altered to
his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it were in pain ; and
before he could reach out both his hands to take it between them,
and draw it towards him, the figure turned away quickly from the
little bed, and went out at the door. Paul looked at Florence with
a fiuttering heart, but he knew what she was going to say, and
stopped her with his face against her lips. The next time he
observed the figure sitting at tlie bottom of the bed, he called to it,
"Don't be so sorry for me, dear papa; indeed I am quite hajipy !"'
His father coming, and bending down to him — which he did quickly,
and without first pausing by the bedside — Paul held him round the
neck, and repeated these words to him several times, and very
earnestly ; and Paul never saw him again m his room at any time,
whether it were day or night, but he called out, " Don't be so sorry
for me ; indeed I am cpiite happy." This was the beginning of his
always saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and
that they were to tell his father so.
How many times the golden water danced upon the wall ; how
many nights the dark dark river rolled towards the sea in spite of
him ; Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their kindness,
or his sense of it, could have increased, they were more kind, and he
more grateful every day ; but whether they were many days, or few,
appeared of little moment now to the gentle boy. One night he
had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the dra\ving-
room downstairs, and had thought she ninst have loved sweet
Florence better than his lather did, to have held her in her arms
The Death of Paul Domhey. 45
when she felt that she was dying ; for even he, her brother, who had
such dear love for her, could have no greater wish than that. The
train of thought suggested to hiiu to inquire if he had ever seen his
mother ; for he could not remember whether they had told him yes
or no, the river running very fast, and confusing his mind. " Floy,
did I ever see mamma ?" " Ko, darling ; why ?'' " Did I never
see any kind face, like mamma's, looking at me when I
was a baby, Floy?" he asked, incredulously, as if he had some
vision of a face before him. " Oh yes, dear !" " Whose, Floy ?"'
"Your old nurse's; often." "And where is my old nurse?"
said Paul. " Is she dead too ? Floy, are we all dead,- except
you P"
There was a hurry in the room, for an instant — ^longer, perhaps ;
but it seemed no more — then all was still again ; and Florence, ^^dth
her face quite colourless, but smiling, held his head upon her arm.
Her arm trembled very much. " Show me that old nurse, Floy, if
you please P" " She is not here, darling. She shall come to-mor-
row." — " Thank you, Floy !"
" And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ?" said the child, re-
garding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, yes ! No
other stranger woidd have shed those tears at sight of liim, and
called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own poor blighted
child. No other woman would have stooped down liy his bed, and
taken up his wasted hand and put it to her lips and bi-east, as one
who had some right to fondle it. No other woman would have so
forgotten everybody there but him and Floy, and been so full of
tenderness and pity. " Floy, this is a kind good face," said Paul,
"lam glad to see it again. Don't go away, old nurse! Stay
here !"
"Now lay me down," he said; " ami, Floy, come close to me, and
let me sec you!" Sister and brother wound their arms around
each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon
them, locked together. " Huw fast the river runs, between its
green banks and the rushes, Floy ! But it's veiy near the sea. I
hear the waves ! They always said so." Presently he told her
that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to
rest. How green the banks were now, how bright the flowers grow-
ing on them, and how tall the rushes ! Now the boat was oi;t at
sea, but gliding smoothly on ; and now there was a shore befor.
them. Who stood on the bank ? He put his hands together, as
he had been usee! to do at his prayers. He did not remove his anus
to do it; but they saw him fold them so behind her neck. " Mamma
is like you, Floy ; I know her by the face ! But tell them that the
print upon the stairs at school is not divine enough. The light
about the head is shining on me as I go !"
The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing e^se
stirred m the room. The old, old fashion ! The fashion that came
in ^^^th our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race
has nm its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll.
The old, old fashion — Death ! Oh, thank God, all who see it, for
46 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
that older fashion yet, of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels
of young children, Avith regards not quite estranged, when the swift
river bears us to the ocean !
(By permission of Messrs. Ciiapnian and Hall.')
ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST.
.Tlihu Burritt.
[Born iu America (U.S.), 1811. Originally a blacksmith, but baviug acquired
the raastory of many languages, he adopted literature as a profcssiou, and
became a popular lecturer and journalist. Died 1879.]-
The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Yii*-
ginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel below,
looking up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks which the
Almighty bridged over those everlasting hutments, " when the
morning stars sang together." The little piece of sky spanning
those measureless piers is full of stars, although it is mid-day. It
is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpen-
dicular bulwarks of limestone to the key of that vast arch, which
api3ears to them only of the size of a man's hand. The silence of
death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls
from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is darkened, and the
boys have uncovered their heads, as if standing iu the presence-
chamber of the Majesty of the whole earth. At last this feeling
begins to wear away ; they look around them ; and find that others
have been there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut
in the limestone butments. A new feeling comes over their young
hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. " What
man has done, man can do," is their watchword, while they draw
themselves up, and carve their name a foot above those of a hundred
full-grown men who have been there before them.
They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion, except
one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten tnith, that
there is " no royal road to learning." This ambitious youth sees a
name just above his reach— a name wliich will be green in the me-
mory of the world when those of Alexander, Cajsar, and Bonaparte,
shall rot in oblivion. It was the name of Washington. Before ho
marched with Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there and left
I his name, a foot above any of his predecessors. It was a glorious
thought to write his name side by side with that great father of liis
country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and clinging to a
little jutting crag, he cuts a gain into the limestone, about a foot
above where he stands ; he then reaches up and cuts another for his
hands. _ 'Tis a dangerous adventure ; but as he puts his feet and
hands uito those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full
length, he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that
mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with con-
cern and admiration, he cuts his name in wide capitals, large and
deep, into that flinty album. His knife is still in his hand, and
One Niche the Ilighes'i. ].7
strengtli in his sinews, and a new-ci"eated aspiration in his heart.
Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in Uirgej
capitals. This is not enough ; heedless of the entreaties of his
companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his as-
cending scale grow wider apart. He measures his length at every
gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker,
till their words are finally lost on his car. He now for the first time
casts a look beneath him. Had that glance lasted a moment, that»
moment would have been his last. He cUngs with a convulsive
shudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his
almost certain fall. He is faint with sevei'e exertion, and trembling
from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is ex-
posed. His knife is worn half-way to the haft. He can hear the
voices, but not the words, of his terror-stricken companions below.
What a moment ! what a meagre chance to escape destruction !
there is no retracing liis steps. It is impossible to put his hands
into the same niche with his feet, and retain his slender hold a mo-
ment. His companions instantly perceive this new and feart'ul
dilemma, and await his fall with emotions that " freeze their young
blood." He is too high to ask for his father and mother, his brothers
and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruction. But one
of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as the wind, he
bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told
upon his father's hearthstone.
]\Iinutes of almost eternal length I'oll on, and thero are hundreds
standing in that rocky channel, and himdreds on the bi'idge above,
all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The
poor boy hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above
and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, wlio is
shouting with all the energy of despair, — " William ! William !
Don't look down ! Yoiir mother, and Henr}', and Harriet, are all
liere praying for you ! Don't look do^vn ! Keep jowr ej'e towards
the top !" The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a
Hint tov/ards heaven, and his young heai-t on Him who reigns there.
He grasiis again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another
foot is added TO tlie hundreds that remove him from the reach oi
human help from below. How carefully he iises his wasting blade,'
How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier ! How
he avoids every fiinty grain ! How he economises his physical powers,
resting a moment at each gain he cuts. How everj^ motion is
watched from below ! There stand his father, mother, brother, an^J
sister, on the very spot, where if he falls, he will not fall alone.
The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty
additional niches in that mighty wall, and now finds hunself du-ectly
under the middle of that vast arch of rock, earth, and trees. He
tnust cut his way in a new direction, to get from this overhanging
mountain. The inspiration of hope is in his bosom ; its vital heat
is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds j^erchedupon cliffs, trees,
and others who stand \\'ith rojies in their hands upon the bridge
above, or with ladders below. Fifty more gains must 1)0 cut before
48 31 iscellaneous Readings in Prose.
the longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again
into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully foot by foot,
from under that lofty arch. SpHced ropes are in the liands of those
who are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes
more, and all will be over. That blade is worn to the last half inch.
The boy's head reels ; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His
last hope is dying in his heart, his life must hang upon the next
gain he cuts. That niche is his last. At the last Hint gash he
makes, his knife— his faithful knife— falls from his little nerveless
hand, and, ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's foot.
An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell tln-oiigh the
channel Ixdow, and all is still as the grave. At a height of nearly
three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts liis hoiJcless heart and clos-
ing eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment— there I
one foot swings off! — he is reeling — tremblmg — toppling over into
eternity. Hark! — a shout falls on his ears from above ! The man
who is lying with half his length over the bridge, has caught a
glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought, the
noosed rope is within reach of the smking youth. No one breathes.
With a faint convulsive effoi-t, the swooning boy drops his arni into
the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words " God!"
and " mother !" whisj^ered ou his lips just loud enough to be heard
in heaven — the tightening vope lifts hun out of his last shallow niche.
Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss ; but
when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws i;p the lad, and
holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude —
such shouting! and such leai:)ing and weeping for joy, never greeted
a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity.
LOVE'S INFATUATION.
E. T. AV. norFM.\NN,
[The works of Ernest Thcodor "Wilhclm Hoffmau have been chiefly brouglit
under the notice of our countrymen through the pcu of the kite Thomas C,iri\'k'.
On the Contment, Holfmann's weird tales are becoming day by day more imd
more poinilar. Jacques Oft'eubach has composed an elaborate fantasiic oi)t ru
founded upou the " Band ^Man," from whicli the following is an e.Ntract. Uoi n
at Kouigsberg, in Prussia, January 24th, 1776. Died June 2-5, 1822.]
The company was both numerous and brilliant; Olimpia was
richly and tastefully dressed. One could not but admire her tiguro
and the regular beauty of her features. The striking inward curvu
of her back, as well as the wasp-Hke smallness of her waist, ap-
peared to be the result of too tight lacing. There was somethin,"
stiff and measured in her gait and bearing that made an unfavour-
able impression upon many; it was ascribed to the constraint
imposed upon her by the company. The concert began, Olimiiiu
played on the piano with great skill, and sang as skilfully an aria
Loves Infatuation. 49
di hravitra, in a voice •which was, if anything, almost too sharp,
but clear as glass bells. Nathanaol was transported with delight ;
he stood in the background farthest from her, and owing to the
blinding lights could not distinguish her features. So, without
being observed, he took Coppola's glass out of his pocket and
directed it upon the beautiful Olimpia. Oh I then he perceived
how her yearning eyes sought him, how every note only reached
its full purity in the loving glance which penetrated to and in-
flamed his heart. Her artificial roulades seemed to him to be the
exultant cry towards heaven of the soul refined bj' love ; and when
at last, after the cadenza, the long trill rang shrilly and loudly
through the hall, he felt as if he were suddenly grasped by burning
arms, and could no longer control himself — he could not help
shouting aloud in his mingled pain and delight, " Olimpia ! " All
eyes were turned upon him ; many people laughed. The face of
the cathedral organist wore a still more gloomy look than it had
done before, but all he said was, " Verj- well ! "
The concert came to an end, and the ball began. Oh ! to danco
with her — with her — that now was the aim of all Nathanael's
wishes, of all his desires. But how should he have courage to
request her, the queen of the ball, to gi-ant him the honour of a
dance ? And yet he couldn't tell how it came about, just as the
dance began he found himself standing close beside her, nobody
having as yet asked her to be his partner ; so, with some difficulty
stammering out a few words, ho grasped her hand. It was cold
as ice ; ho shook with an awful frosty shiver. But, fixing his eyes
upon her face, ho saw that her glance was beaming upon him with
love and longing, and at the same moment he thought that the
pulse began to boat in her cold hand, and the warm life-blood to
course through her veins. And passion burned more intensely in
his own heart also : ho threw his arm around her beautiful waist
and whirled her round the hall. He had always thought that he
kept good and accurate time in dancing, but from the perfectly
lythmioal evoimess with which Olimj^ia danced, and which fre-
quently put him quite out, ho perceived how very faulty his own
time really was. Notwithstanding, he would not danco with any
other lady ; and everybody else who approached Olimpia to call
upon her for a dance ho would have liked to kill on the spot. This,
however, only happened twice ; to his astonishment, Olimpia
remained after this without a partner, and he failed not on each
occasion to take her out again. If Nathanael had been able to see
anything else except the beautiful Olimpia there would inevitably
have been a good deal of unpleasant quarrelling and strife ; for it
was evident that Olimpia was the object of the smothered laughter,
only with difficulty suppressed, which was heard in various corners
amongst the young people ; and thej' followed her with very
curious looks, but nobody knew for what reason. Nathanael,
excited by dancing and the plentiful supplj' of wine he had con-
sumed, had laid aside the shyness which at other times characterised
him. He sat beside Olimpia, her hand in his own, and declared his
50 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
love enthusiasticaUy and passionately in words wliicli neither of them
understood, neither he nor Olimpia. And yet she perhaps did, tor
she sat with her eyes fixed unchangeably upon his, sighing re-
peatedly, "Ach! Ach! Ach ! " Upon this Nathanael would
answer, "Oh you glorious heavenly lady! You ray from the
promised paradise of love ! Oh ! what a profound soul you have .
my whole being is mirrored in it! " and a good deal more m the
same strain. But Olimpia only continued to sigh, "Ach! Ach !
again and again.
Professor Spalanzani passed by the two happy lovers once or
twice, and smiled with a look of peculiar satisfaction. All at once
it seemed to Nathanael— albeit he was far away in a different
■wrorld — as if it were growing perceptibly darker down below at
Professor Spalanzani's. He looked about him ; and to his very-
great alarm became aware that there were only two lights left
burning in the hall, and they were on the point of going out. The
music aud dancing had long ago ceased. " Wo must part — part I"
he cried, wildly and despairingly ; he kissed 01imr)ia,'s hand ; he bent
down to her mouth, but ice-cold lips met his burning ones. As ho
touched her cold hand he felt his heart thrilled with awe : tho
legend of "The Dead Bride" shot suddenly through his mind.
But Olimpia had drawn him closer to her, and tho kiss appeared to
warm her lips into vitality. Professor Spalanzani strode slowly
through the empty apartment, his footsteps giving a hollow echo,
and his figure had, as the flickering shadows played about him, a
ghostly awful appearance. " Do you love me ? Do you love me,
Olimpia? Only one little word — do you love mo?" whispered
Nathanael ; but she only sighed, "Ach ! Ach ! " as she rose to her
feet. "Yes, you are mj' lovely, glorious star of love," said
Nathanael, " aud will shine for ever, purifj'ing and ennobling my
heart." "Ach! Ach I " replied Olimpia, as she moved along.
Nathanael followed her ; they stood before the Professor.
"You have had an extrordinarily animated conversation with
my daughter," said he, smiling; " well, well, my dear Mr. Natha-
nael, if you find pleasure in talking to the stupid girl, I am ^-uro I
shall be glad for you to come and do so." Nathanael took his leave,
his heart singing and leaping in a perfect delirium of happiness.
During the next few days Spalanzani's ball was the gemral
topic of conversation. Although the professor had done everything
to make the thing a splendid success, yet certain gay .spirits
related more than one thing that had occurred which was quite
irregular and out of order. They were especially keen in pulling
Olimpia to pieces for her taciturnity and rigid stiffness ; in spite of
her beautiful form they alleged that she was hopelessly stupid, and
in this fact they discerned the reason why Spalanzani had so long
kept her concealed from publicity. Nathanael heard all this with
inward wrath, but nevertheless he held his tongue ; for, thought
he, would it indeed be worth while to prove to these fellows that it
is their own stupidity which prevents them from appreciating
Olimpia's profound and brilliant parts ? One day Siegmund said
Lovers Infatuation. 51
to him, " Pray, brother, have the kindnes to tell me how j-ou — a
sensible fellow, came to lose your head over that Miss "\Yax-face —
that wooden doll across there ? " Nathanaei was about to fly into
a rage, but he recollected himself and replied, "Tell me, Siegmund,
how came it Olimpia's divine charms could escape j-our eye,
so keenlj' alive as it always is to beautj', and your acute perception
as well ? Bat Heaven be thanked for it, otherwise I should have
had you for a rival, and then the blood of one of us would have
had to be spilled." Siegmund, perceiving how matters stood with
his friend, skilfully interposed and said, after remarking that all
argument with one iu love about the object of his affections was
out of place, " Yet it's very strange that several of us have formed
pretty much the same opinion about Olimpia. We think she is —
you won't take it ill, brother r — that she is singularlj' statuesque
and soulless. Her figure is regular, and so are her features, that
can't be gainsaid ; and if her eyes were not so utterly devoid of
life, I may say, of the power of vision, she might pass for a beauty.
She is strangely measured iu her movements ; thej' all seem as if
they were dependent upon some wound-up clock-work. Her
playing and singing has the disagreeablj^ perfect but insensitive
time of a singing machine, and her dancing is the same. We felt
quite afraid of this 01imi)ia, and did not bke to have anything to
do with her ; she seemed to us to be only acting like a living
creature, and as if there was some secret at the bottom of it all."
Nathanaei did not give way to the bitter feelings which threatened
to master him at these words of Siegmund's, he iought down and
got the better of his displeasure, and merely said, very earnestly,
"You cold prosaic fellows may verj' well bo afraid of her. It is
only to its like that the poetically organised spirit unfolds itself.
Upon mo alone did her loving glances fall, and through mj' mind
and thoughts alone did they radiate ; and only in her love can I
find my own self again. Perhaps, however, she doesn't do quite
right not to jabber a lot of nonsense and stupid talk like other
shallow people. It is true, she speaks but few words ; but the
few words she does speak are genuine hieroglyphs of the inner
world of Love and of tho higher cognition of the intellectual life
revealed in tho intuition of tho Eternal bej-ond the grave. But
you have no understanding for all these things, and I am only
wasting words." *' God be with you, brother," said Siegmund,
verj' gently, almost sadly, "but it seems to me that you are in a
very bad way. Y'ou may rely upon me, if all — Xo, I can't say
any more." It all at once dawned upon Nathanaei that his cold
prosaic friend Siegmund reallj' and sincerely wished him well, and
so he warmly shook his proffered hand.
Nathanaei had completely forgotten that there was a Clara in
tho world, whom he had once loved — and his mother and Lothair.
They had all vanished from his mind ; he lived for Olimpia alone.
He sat beside her every day for hours together, rhapsodising about
his love and sympathy enkindled into life, and about psychic
electric affinity — aU of which Olimpia listened to with great rever-
E 2
52 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
ence. He probed up from tlie very bottom of his desk all the
things that he had ever -written — poems, fancy sketches, visions,
romances, tales, and the heap was increased daily with all kinds of
aimless sonnets, stanzas, canzonets. All these he read to Olimpia
hour after horn- without growing tired; but then he had never
had such an exemplary listener. She neither embroidered nor
knitted ; she did not look out of the window, or foed a bird, or
play with a little pet dog or a favoui'ite cat, neither did she twist
a piece of paper or anything of that kind round her finger ; she
did not forcibly convert a yawn into a low affected cough — in
short, she sat hour after hour with her eyes bent unchangeably
upon her lover's face, without moving or altering her position, and
her gaze grew more ardent and more ardent still. And it was
only when at last Natbanael rose and kissed her lips or her hand
that she said, "Ach! ach ! " and then "Good night, dear I "
Arrived at his own room, Nathanael would break out with " Oh !
what a brilliant — what a profound mind ! Onlj- you — you alone
understand me." And his heart trembled with rapture whon ho
reflected upon the wondrous harmony which daily revealed itself
between his own and his Olimpia's character ; for he fancied that
she had expressed in respect to his works and his poetic genius tho
identical sentiments which he himself cherished deep down in his
own heart in respect to the same, and even as if it was his
own heart's voice speaking to him. And it must indeed have been
so ; for Olimpia never uttered any other words than those already
mentioned. And when Nathanael himself in his clear and sober
moments, as, for instance, directly after waking in a morning,
thought about her utter passivity and taciturnity, he only said,
"What are words — but words ? The glance of her heavenly eyes
says more than any tongue on earth. And how can, anyway, a
child of heaven accustom herself to tho narrow circle which the
exigencies of a wretched mundane life demand ? "
Professor Spalanzani appeared to be greatly pleased at the inti-
macy that had sprung up between his daughter Olimpia and
Nathanael, and showed the young man many unmistakable proofs
of his good feeling towards him ; and when Nathanael ventured at
length to hint very delicately at an alliance with Olimpia, tho
Professor smiled all over his face at once, and said he should allow
his daughter to make a perfectly free choice. Encouraged by these
words, and with the fire of desire burning in his heart, Nathanael
resolved the very next day to implore Olimpia to tell him frankly,
m plain words, what he had long read in her sweet, loving
glances,— that she would be his for ever. lie looked for the ring
which his mother had given him at parting ; he would present it
to Olimpia as a symbol of his devotion, and of the happy life he
was to lead with her from that time onwards. Whilst looking for
it, he came across his letters from Clara and Lothair ; he threw
them carelessly aside, found the ring, put it in his pocket, and ran
across to Olimpia. Whilst still on the stairs, in the entrance-
passage, he heard an extraordinary hubbub ; the noise seemed to
Loves Infatuation. 53
proceed from Spalanzani's study. There -u-as a stamping — a
rattling — pushing — knocking against the door, -with curses and
oaths intermingled. " Leave hold — leave hold — you monster — you
rascal — staked your life and honour upon it ? Ha ! ha I ha ! ha !
That was not our wager. I, I made the ej'es — I the clockwork.
Go to the devil with your clockwork— you damned dog of a watch-
maker — be off — Satan — stop — you paltry turner— you infernal
beast — stop — begone — let me go.'* The voices which were thus
making all this racket and rumpiis were those of Spalanzani ar'd
the fearsome Coppelius. Nathanael rushed in, impelled by some
nameless dread. The Professor was grasping a female figure by
the shoulders, the Italian Coppola held her by the i'eet ; and they
were pulling and dragging each other backwards and forwards,
fighting furiously to get possession of her. Nathanael recoiled
with horror on recognising that the figure was Olimjiia. Boiling
with rage, he was about to tear his beloved from the grasp of tho
madmen, when Coppola, by an extraordinary exertion of strength,
twisted the figure out of tho Professor's hands, and gave him such
a terrible blow with her, that he reeled backwards and fell over tlio
table, all amongst tho vials and retorts, the bottles andglass-cylindcrs
which covered it ; all these things were smashed into a thovisand
pieces. But Coppola threw tho figure across his shoulder, and,
laughing shrilly and horribly, ran hastily down the stairs, tho
figure's ugly feet hanging down, and banging and rattling like
wood against tho steps. Nathanael was stupefied ; he had seen
only too distinctly that in Olimjiia's pallid, waxen face there were no
eyes, merely black holes in their stead; she was an inanimate
puppet. Spalanzani was rolling on the floor ; the pieces of glass
had cut his head, and breast, and aim; the blood was escaping
from him in streams. But he gathered his strength together by an
effort. "After him — after him ! "What do you stand staring
there for ? Coppelius — Coppelius — he's stolen my best automaton
— at which I've worked for twenty years — staked my life upon it —
tho clockwork — speech — movement — mine — your eyes — -stolen your
eyes — damn him — curse him — after him — fetch me back Olimpia —
there are the eyes ! '' And now Nathanael saw a pair of bloodless
eyes lying on tho floor, staring at him; Spalanzani seized them
with his uninjured hand, and threw them at him, so that they hit
his breast. Then madness dug her burning talons into him, and
swept down into his heart, rending his mind and thoughts into
shreds. "Aha! Aha! Aha! Fire-wheel — fire-wheel! Spin
round, fire-wheel I merrily, merrilj^ ! Aha ! wooden doll ! spin
round, pretty wooden doll ! " and he threw himself upon the Pro-
fessor, clutching him fast by the throat. He would certainly have
strangled him, had not several people, attracted by the noise,
rushed in and torn away the madman ; and so they saved the Pro-
fessor, whose wounds were immediately dressed. Siegmund, with
all his strength, was not able to subdue the frantic lunatic, who
continued to scream in a dreadful way, "Spin round, wooden
doll ! " and to strike out right and left with his doubled fists. At
54 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
lengtli the united strength of several succeeded in ovorpowenng
him, by throwing him on the floor and binding him. His cries
passed into a brutish bellow that was awful to hear; and thus
raging with the harrowing violence of madness, ho was taken
away to the madhouse.
{From "JFeird Stories" by pcrnmsion of Mr. J. C. Ximmo.)
THE EAELY STRUGGLES OF A PHYSICIAN.
Samuel Wareex.
[Mr. Warren was originally intended for the medical profession, and for sonio
years carried on a tolerable practice. Circumstances, however, caused him to
relinquish it for the Bar; and at the time of his death lie was a Master in Chan-
cery and Kecordcr for Hull. Those works by which his name will ever be asso-
ciated with the standard literature of our century would probably never have
seen the light had it not been for the encouragement aflbrded to him by the
late Mr. Blackwood, who discerned the intrinsic merits of his essay on the early
struggles of a physician's career, when three other editors had rejected it. Sub-
sequent chapters added to this essay culminated in their collection under the title
of "The Diary of a Late Physician." His other best known works are "Ten
Thousand a Year," and " Now and Then." Born 1807. Died 1877-]
From what cause, or combination of causes, I know not, but I
seemed marked out for failure in my profession. Though my
name shone on my door, and the respectable neighbourhood could
not but have noticed the regularity and decorum of my habits and
manners, yet none ever thought of calling me in ! Had I been
able to exhibit a line of carriages at my door, or open my houso
for the reception of company, or dash about town in au elegant
equipage, or be seen at the opera and theatres — had 1 been able to
do this, the case might have been different. In candour I must
acknowledge that another probable cause of my ill success was
a somewhat insignificant person and unprepossessing countenance.
I could not wear such an eternal smirk of conceited complacency,
or keep my head perpetually bowing, mandarin-liko, as many of
my professional brothers. Still there wore thousands to whom
these deficiencies proved no serious obstacles. The great mis-
fortune in my case was, undoubtedly, the want of introductions.
There was a man of considerable rank and great woaltli, who was I
a sort of fiftieth cousin of mine, resided in one of the fashionable I
squares not far from mo, and on whom I had called to claim kindred
and solicit his patronage ; but after having sent up my name and
address, I was suffered to wait so long in an ante-room, that, what
with this and the noise of servants bustling past with in.solent
familiarity, I quite forgot the relationship, and left the house,
wondering what had brought me there. I never felt inclined to
go near it again ; so there was au end of all prospects of intro-
duction from that quarter. I was left, therefore, to rely exclu-
sively on my own efforts, and trust to chance for patients. It is
true that, in the time I have mentioned, I was twice called in at
The Early Struggles of a Physician. 55
au instant's ■warning; but, in both cases, the objects of my visits
bad expired before my arrival, probably before a messenger could
bo despatched for me; and the manner in ■ss'hich my fees were
proifered convinced me that I should be cursed for a mercenary
•wretch if I accepted them. I was therefore induced, in each case,
to decline the guinea, though it would have purchased me a week's
happiness ! I was also, on several occasions, called in to visit the
inferior members of families in the neighbourhood — servants,
housekeepers, porters, &c. ; and of all tlie trying, the mortifying
occurrences in the life of a young physician, such occasions as
these are the most irritating. You go to the house — a large one
probablj^ — and arc instructed not to knock at the front door, but
to go down by tho area to your i:)atient !
As was generally the case, I found Emily busily engaged in
painting little fire-screens, and other ornamental toys, which,
when completed, I was in the habit of carrying to a kind of piivate
bazaar in Oxford Street, where I was not known, and where, with
an aching heart, I disposed of the delicate and bcautitul produc-
tions of my poor wife, for a tritle hardly worth taking home. Could
any man, pretending to tho slightest feeling, contemplate his young
wife, far advanced in a critical state, and requiring air, exercise,
and cheerful company, toiling, in the manner I have related, from
morning to night, and for a miserably inadequate remuneration ?
She submitted, however, to our misfortunes with infinitcdy more
firmness and equanimity than I could pretend to ; and her uniform
cheerfulness of demeanour, together with the passionate fervour of
her fondness for mo, contributed to fling a few rays of trembling
and evanescent lustre over tho gloomj' jirospects of tho future.
Still, however, the dreadful question incessantly presented itself —
What, in heaven's name, is to become of us ? I cannot say that
wo were at this time in absolute, literal want ; though our parsi-
monious fare hardly deserved ihe name of food, especially such as
my wife's delicate situation re(iuired. It was the hopelessness of
all prospective resources that kept us in perpetual thraldom. With
infinite eS'ort wo might contrive to hold on to a given period — say,
till the next half-yearly demand of old L ; and then we must
sink altogether, unless a miracle intervened to save us. Had I
been alone in the world I might have braved the worst, havo
turned my hand to a thousand things, have accommodated myself
to almost any circumstances, and borno the estremest privations
with fortitude. But my darHng — my meek, smiling, gentle Emily !
—my heart bled for her.
Not to leave any stone unturned, seeing an advertisement ad-
dressed, " To medical men," I applied for the situation of assistant
to a general practitioner, though I had but little skill in the
practical part of compounding medicines. I applied personally to
the advertiser, a fat, red-faced, vulgar fellow, who had contuved
to gain a very large practice, by what means God only knows.
His terms were— and these named in the most ofiensive contemptu-
56 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
ousness of manner— £80 a-year, board and lodge out, and give all
my time in the day to my employer ! Absurd as was the idea of
acceding to terms like these, I thought I might still consider them.
I pressed hard for £100 a-year, and told him I was married
" Married ! " said he, with a loud laugh. " No, no, sir, you are
not the man for my money ; so I wish you good morning."
Thus was I baffled in every attempt to obtain a pennanont sourco
of support from my profession. It brought me about £40 per
annum. I gained, by occasional contributions to magazines, an
average sum annually of about £25. My wife earned about that
sum by her pencil. And these were all the funds I had to meet
the enormous interest duo half-j^early to old L ■, to discharge
my rent, and the various other expenses of housekeeping, &c.
Might I not well despair ? I did ; and God's goodness only pro-
served me from the frightful calamity which has suddenly termi-
nated the earthly miseries of thousands in similar circumstauces.
And is it possible, I often thought, with all the tormenting
credulousness of a man half stupefied with his misfortunes — is it
possible, that, in the very heart of this metropolis of splendour,
wealth, and extravagance, a gentleman and a scholar, who has
laboured long in the honourable toil of acquiring professional
knowledge, cannot contrive to scrape together even a competent
subsistence? and that, too, while ignorance and infamy arc
wallowing in wealth — while charlatanrj' and quackery of all kinds
are bloated with success ! FuU of such thoughts as these, how
often have I slunk stealthilj' along the streets of London, on cold
and dreary winter evenings, almost fainting with long abstinence,
yet reluctant to return home and incur the expense of an ordinary
family dinner, while my wife's situation required the most rigorous
economy to enable us to meet, even in a poor and small waj-, the
exigencies of her aj^proaching accouchement I How often — by
hundreds of times — have I envied the coarse and filthy faro of the
minor eating-houses, and been content to interrupt a twelve hours'
fast with a bun or biscuit and a draught of water or turbid table-
beer, under the wretched pretence of being in too great a hurry to
go home to dinner ! I have often gazed with envy— onco, I
recollect, in particular — on dogs eating their huge dailj' slico of
boiled horse's flesh, and envied their contented and satiated looks !
With what anguish of heart have I seen carriages setting down
company at the door of a house, illuminated by the glare of a
hundred tapers, where were ladies dressed in the extreme of fashion,
whose cast-off clothes would have enabled me to acquire a tolerably
respectable livelihood I O, ye sons and daughters of luxury and
extravagance ! how many thousands of needy and deserving families
would rejoice to eat of the crumbs which fall from your tables, and
they may not !
I have stood many a time at my parlour window, and envied
the kitchen fare of the servants of my wealthy opposite neighbour ;
while I protest I have been ashamed to look our own servant in the
face, as she, day after day, served up for two what was little moro
Fame v. Useful Toil. 57
than sufficient for one : and j'et, bitter mockery ! I was to sup-
port abroad the farce of a cheerful and respectable professional
exterior.
FAME t'. USEFUL TOIL.
Nathaniel IIawthorxe.
[The most popular romancist of the New "World. Ilis works comprise " The
Ilmisc witlitho Seven Gables," "The Scarlet Letter," "The Blithedale Romance,"
"Our Old Home," "Twice-told Tales," and "Mosses from an Old Manse."
Born 1804. Died 18G4. His son, Julian Hawthonie, is well known as a
novelist, and a contributor of social skeiches to the London periodicals.]
It contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual
health, to bo brought into habits of companionship with individuals
unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits, and whoso sphere
and abilities he must go out of himself to appreciate. The acci-
dents of my life have often afforded mo this advantage, but never
with more fulness and variety than during my continuance in
office. It is a good lesson — though it may often be a hard one —
for a man who has dreamed of literary fame, and of making for
himself a rank among the world's dignitaries by such means, to
step aside out of the narrow circle in which his claims are recog-
nised, and to find how utterly devoid of significance, beyond that
circle, is all that ho achieves, and all ho aims at. I know not that
I especially needed the lesson, either in the way of warning or
rebuke ; but, at any rate, I learned it thoroughly : nor, it gives
me pleasure to reflect, did tho truth, as it came homo to my per-
ception, ever cost mo a pang, or require to be thrown off in a sigh.
In tho way of litei'arj' talk, it is true, tho Naval Officer — an excel-
lent fellow, who camo into offico with mo and went out only a littlo
later — would often engage mo in a discussion about one or the
other of his favourite topic-^, Napoleon or Shakspeare. The Col-
lector's junior clerk, too, — a young gentleman who, it w'as
whispered, occasionally covered a sheet of Uncle Sam's letter-
paper with w'hat (at tho distance of a few yards) looked very much
like poetry, — used now and then to speak to me of books, as
matters with which I might possibly be conversant. This was my
all of lettered intercourse ; and it was quite sufficient for my
necessities.
No longer seeking nor caring that my name should be blazoned
abroad on title-pages, I smiled to think that it had now another
kind of vogue. The Custom-House marker imprinted it, with a
Btencil and black paint, on pepper-bags, and baskets of anatto, and
cigar-boxes, and bales of all kinds of dutiable merchandise, in
testimony that these commodities had paid the impost, and gone
regularly through the office. Borne on such queer vehicle of fame,
a knowledge of my existence, so far as a name conveys it, was
carried -where it had never been before, and, I hope, will never go
again.
58 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
MODEEN GALLANTRY.
Chakles Lamb
rTh-"eeDtle Elia," as this delightful essayist has been fondly called, wag
bum in London, 1776, and educated at Christ's Hospit<al. He held for many
Years an appointment in the East India Company's ofhces m Leadeuball-street,
retiriuf on a handsome pension in 1825. He wrote occasionally for periodicals,
published a small volume of " Album Verses," a tragedy, not very successful,
called "John Woodvil," and a volume of Tales founded on the plays ot
Shakspeare. It is by his "Essays by Elia," originally published in the "London
Magazine," that his posthumous reputation is sustained. Ho died li<6^, ami is
buried in the churchyard at Edmonton, near London.]
In comparing modern with ancient manners, we are pleased to coni-
pliment ourselves lapon the point of gallantry ; a certain obsequi-
ousness, or defereiitial respect, which we are supposed to pay to fe-
males as females.
I shall believe that this principle actuates our conduct Avhen I
can forget that, in the nineteenth century of the era from which we
date our civility, we are but just beginning to leave off the very fn--
quent practice of whipping females in public, in common with the
coarsest male offenders.
I shall believe it to be influential, when I can shut my eyes to the
fact, that in England women are still occasionally — hanged.
I shall believe in it, when actresses are no longer subject to be
hissed off a stage by gentlemen.
I shall believe in it, when Dorimant hands a fishwife across the
kennel ; or assists the apple-woman to pick up her wandering fruit,
which some unlucky dray has just dissipated.
I shall believe in it, when the Dorimants in humbler life, who
would be thought in their way notable adepts in this refinement,
shall act upon it in jjlaces where they are not known, or think them-
selves not observed — when I shall see the traveller for some rich
tradesman pai^t with his admired box-coat, to spread it over the de-
fenceless shoulders of the poor womaii, who is passing to her parish
on the roof of the same stage-coach with him, drenched in the rain
—when I shall no longer see a woman standing up in the pit of a
London theatre, till she is sick and faint with the exertion, witi
men about her seated at their ease, and jeering at her distress ; till
one, that seems to have more manners or conscience than the rest,
significantly declares " she should be welcome to his seat, if she
were a little younger and handsomer." Place this dapper warc-
iiouseman, or that rider, in a circle of their own female acquaintance,
and you shall confess you have not seen a politer-bred man in Loth-
bury.
Lastly, I shall begin to believe that there is some such principle
influencing our conduct, when more than one-half of the drudgery
and coarse servitude of the world shall cease to be performed by
women.
Until that day comes, I shall never believe this boasted point to
be anything more than a conventional fiction ; a pageant got up
Modern Gallantry. 59
between the sexes, in a certain rank, and at a certain time of life,
in which both find their account equally.
I shall be even disjxjscd to rank it among the salutaiy fictions of
life, when in polite circles I shall see the same attentions paid to
uge as to youth, to homely features as to handsome, to coarse com-
plexions as to clear — to the woman, as she is a woman, not as she is
a beauty, a fortune, or a title.
I shall believe it to be something more than a name when a well-
dressed gentleman in a well-dressed company can advert to the topic
of frmale old age without exciting and intending to excite a sneer ;
— when the phrases " antiquated virginity," and such a one has
" overstood her market," pronounced in good company, shall raise
immediate offence in man, or woman, that shall hear them
epoken.
Joseph Paicc, of Bread Street Hill, merchant, and one of the
Directors of the South Sea Comjjany — the same to whom Edwards,
the Shakspeare commentator, has addressed a fine sonnet — was the
only pattern of consistent gallantry I have met with. He took me
under his shelter at an early age, and bestowed some pains ujion
me. I owe to his jirocepts and example whatever there is of the
man of liusiness (and that is not much) in my composition. It was
not his fault that I did not profit more. Though bred a Presby-
terian, and brought up a merchant, he was the finest gentleman of
his time. He had not one system of attention to females in the
drawing-room, and another in the shop, or at the stall. I do not
mean that he made no distinction. But he never lost sight of sex,
or overlooked it in the casualties of a disadvantageous situation. I
have seen him stand bareheaded — smile, if you please — to a poor
servant girl, while she has Iteen inquiring of him the way to some
street — in such a jiosturo of unforced ci\nlity as neither to embarrass
her in the acceptance, nor himself in the offer of it. He was no
dangler, in the common acceptation of the word, after women : but
he reverenced and upheld, in every form in which it came before
nim, woiiKoihoiHl. I have seen him — nay, smile not — tenderly es-
corting a market-woman, whom he had encountered in a shower, ex-
alting his umbrella over her poor basket of fruit, that it might re-
ceive no damage, with as much carefulness as if she had been a coun-
tess. To the reverend form of Female Eld he would yield the wall
(though it were to an ancient l)eggar-woman) with more ceremony
than we can afford to show our grandams. He was the Preux
Chevalier of Age ; the Sir Calidore, or Sir Tristan, to those who
have no Calidores or Tristans to defend them. The roses, that had
long faded thence, still bloomed for him in those withered and yellow
cheeks.
He was never married, but in his j^outh he paid his addresses to
the beautiful Susan Winstanley — old Winstanley's daughter of
Clapton — who, dying in the early days of their courtship, confirmed
in him the resolution of perpetual bachelorship. It was during
their short courtship, he told me, that he had been one day treating
his mistress with a profusion of civil speeches— the common gallan-
GO Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
tries— to which kind of thing she had hitherto manifested no repug-
nance-but in this instance with no effect. He could not obtain
from her a decent acknoAvledgment in return. She rather seemccl
to resent his compHments. He could not set it down to ca,pncc, lur
the lady had always shown herself above that littleness. \V hen ho
ventured on the following day, finding her a little better humoureci,
to expostulate with her on her coldness of yesterday, she con essod,
with her usual frankness, that she had no sort of dislike to his at-
tentions ; that she could e\en endure some high-flown compliments ;
that a young woman placed in her situation had a right to expect
all sorts of civil things said to her ; that she hoped she could digest
a dose of adulation, short of insincerity, with as little injury to her
humility as most young women : but that— a bttle before he haj
commenced his compliments— she had overheard hini by accident,
in rather rough language, rating a young woman \yho had not
brought home his cravats quite to the appointal time, and slie
thought to herself, " As I am Miss Susan Winstanley, and a young
lady— a reputed beauty, and known to be a fortune— I can have
my choice of the finest speeches from the mouth of this very fine
gentleman who is courting me— but if I had been poor Mary Such-a-
owG {naming the milliner) — andhadfailed of bringinghomethc cravats
to the appointed hour— though perhaps I had sat up half the night
to forward them — what sort of compliments should I have received
then ? And my woman's pride came to my assistance, and I thought
that if it were only to do vie honour, a female, hke myself,
might have received handsomer usage : and I was determined not
to accept any fine speeches to the compromise of that sex the
belonging to which was, after all, my strongest claim and title to
them."
I think the lady discovered both generosity, and a just way of
thinking, in this rebuke which she gave her lover; and I have
sometimes imagined, that the uncommon strain of courtesy which
through life regulated the actions and behaviour of my friend to-
wards all of womankind indiscriminately, owed its happy origin to
Ibis seasonable lesson from the lips of his lamented mistress.
I wish the whole female world would entertain the same notion
of these things that Miss Winstanley showed. Then we should see
something of the spirit of consistent gallantry ; and no longer wit-
ness the anomaly of the same man — a i:)attern of true politeness to
a wife — of cold contempt, or rudeness, to a sister — the idolater of
his female mistress — the disparager and despiser of his no less female
aunt, or unfortunate — still female — maiden cousin. Just so much
respect as a woman derogates from her own sex, in whatever condi-
tion placed — her handmaid or dei^endent — she deserves to have di-
tninished from herself on that score ; and probably will feel the di-
tamution, when youth, and beauty, and advantages, not inseparable
from sex, shall lose of their attraction. What a woman should de*
mand of a man in courtship, or after it, is first — respect for her as
she is a woman ;— and next to that — to be respected by him above
all other women. But let her stand upon her female character as
upon a foundation; and let th» attentions incident to individual
Lessons of Creation. 61
preference, be so many pretty additaments and ornaments — as many,
and as fanciful, as you please — to that main structure. Let her
first lesson be — with sw^et Susan Winstanley — to reverence her se:c.
LESSONS OF CEEATION.
John Rvskix.
[See page 39.]
It has always appeared to me that there was, even in healthy moun-
tain districts, a certain degree of inevitable melancholy; nor could
I ever escape from the feeling that here, where chieliy the beauty of
God's working was manifested to men, warning was also given, and
that to the full, of the enduring of His indignation against sin.
It seems one of the most cunning and frequent of self-deceptions
to turn the heart away from this warning, and refuse to acknow-
ledge anything in the fair scenes of the natural creation but bene-
ficence. Men in general lean towards the light, so far as they con-
template such things at all, most of them passing "by on the other
side," either in mere plodding pursuit of their own work, irresjiec-
iivoof what good or evil is around them, or else in selfish gloom,
(ir selfish delight, resulting from their own circumstances at the
moment. Of those who give themselves to any true contemplation,
the plurality, being humble, gentle, and kindly-hearted, look only
in nature for what is lovely and kind ; partly, also, God gives the
disposition to every healthy human mind in some degree to pass
over or even harden itself against evil things, else the suffering
would be too great to be borne ; and humble ]ieople, with a quiet
trust that everything is for the best, do not fairly represent the facts
to themselves, thinking them none of their business. So, what
between hard-hearted people, thoughtless people, busy peo]ile,
humble people, and cheerfully-minded people— giddiness of youth,
and preoccupations of age — philosophies of faith, and cruelties
of folly — priest and Levite, masquer and merchantman, all
agreeing to keep their own side of the wny — the evil that God
Bands to warn us gets to Ijc forgotten, and the evil that he sends to
be mended Ijy us gets left unmended. And then, because people
.shut their eyes to the dark indisptitableness of the facts in fi-ont of
them, their faith, such as it is, is shaken or uprooted by every dark-
ness in what is revealed to them. In the present day it is not easy
to find a well-meaning man among our more earnest thinkers, who
will not take Ujion himself to dispute the whole system of redemp-
tion, because he cannot unravel the mystery of the jranishmcnt of
sin. But can he unravel the mystery of the punishment of no sin.^
Can he entirely account for all that hai:)pens to a cab-horse ? Has
he ever looked fairly at the fate of one of those beasts as it is dying
—measured the work it has done, and the reward it has got, piit his
hand upon the bloody wounds through which its bones are piercint;-,
and so looked up to Heaven -with an entire understanding of Hea-
ven's ways about the horse ? Yet the horse is a fact — no dream —
no revelation among the myrtle-trees by night ; and the dust it dies
62 Biiscellaneous Readings in Prose.
upon, and the dogs that eat it, are facts — and yonder happy person,
whose the horse was, till its knees were broken over the hurdles ;
who had an immortal soul to begin with, and wealth and peace to
help forward his immortality ; who has also devoted the powers of
his soul, and body, and wealth, and peace, to the spoiling of houses,
the corruption of the innocent, and tlie oppression of the poor ; and
has, at this actual moment of his prosperous life, as many curses
waiting round about him in calm shadow, with their death-eyes
fixed upon him, biding their time, as ever the poor cab-horse had
launched at him in meaningless blasphemies, when his tading feet
stumbled at the stones — this haj^py person shall have no stripes —
shall have only the horse's fate of annihilation ; or, if other tlungj
are indeed reserved for him. Heaven's kindness or omnipotence is
to be doubted therefore.
We cannot reason of these things. But this I know — and this
may by all men be known — that no good or lovely thing exists in
this world without its corresponding darkness ; and that the uni-
verse presents itself continually to mankind under the stern as-
pect of warning, or of choice, the good and the evil set on the right
hand and the left, and in this mountain gloom, which weighs so
strongly upon the human heart that in all time hitherto, as we have
seen, the hill defiles have been either avoided in terror or inhaliited
in penance, there is but the fulfilment of the universal law, that
where the beauty and wisdom of the Divine working are most mani-
fested, there also aremanifested most clearly the terrorof God's wrath,
and inevitableness of His power. Nor is this gloom less wonderful so
far as it bears witness to the error of human choice, even when the na-
ture of good and evil is most definitelysetbefore it. The trees of Para-
dise were fair; but our first parentshid themselves from C!od " la uwdio
llf/ni Paraclisi," in the midst of the trees of the garden. The hill.s
were ordained for the help of man : but, instead of raising liis eves
to the hills, from whence comefch his help, he does his idol sacrifice
'■ upon every high hill and under every green tree." The mountain
ot the Lord's house is established above the liills; but Nadab and
Abihu shall see under His feet the body of heaven in his clearness
yet go down to kindle the censer against their own souls And so'
to the end of time it will be; to the end, that cry will still be heard
along the Alpine winds, " Hear, ye mountains, the Lord's con-
troversy ! htiU their gulfs of thawless ice, and nnretarded roar of
tormented waves, and deathful falls of fruitless waste, and nnre-
deemed decay, must be the image of the souls of those wlio liavo
chosen he darkness and whose cry shall be to the mountains to
tall on them, and to the hills to cover them ; and still, to th.. endcf
time the clear waters of the unfiiiling springs, and the white i>as-
ture-hhesm their clothed multitude, and the abiding of the bun. in-.
peaks in then- nearness to the opened heaven, shall be the type."
and the blessmgs, of those who have chosen light, and of whom it '
^m^ri^:^^:^''' '''''' '""" ^"^^^ '' '''' 1"^!^^^ ■ ■^''' ^^-' '
iFrom " Modern Painters." By permission of Messrs. Smith and Elder.^
63
LIY HOLIDAY AT WEETCHEDVILLE.
George Augustus Sala.
[Jfr. Siila is universally recognised as the King of Journalists. He was ori-
ginally an engraver, but, under the encouragement of the late Charles Dickens,
adopted a. journalistic career. He has worked in all the various departments of
literature ; and has been connected with the" Daily Telegraph " from its earliest
days. As a special correspondent he has penetrated to nearly every quarter of
the globe. He was the first editor of "Temple Bar," and the author of the
characteristic " Hogarth Papers" in the early numbers of the " The Cornhill
Magazine." His essays have been collected under the titles of " Breakfast in
Bed," '• After Breakfast," and " Under the Sun." In fiction he is represented
by "The Two Prima Donnas," "Captain Dangerous," and " The Seven Sons
of Mammon." Two exhaustive book's, " Dayliglit and Gaslight," and " Twice
Round the Clock," reflect his observations upon London life and labour. Other
important works comprise, " Uome and Venice," " America Revisited," " Paris
Herself Again," " Dutch Pictures," " A Journey due North," "A Journey due
South," "From AVatcrlon to the Peninsula," "A Trip to Barbarj'," and, "most
recently, " Tlie Land of the Golden Fleece," the result of his travels iu Austra-
lia and New Zealand in 1886. Born 182G.]
How I camo to bo acquainted with Wretcliodville was in this wise.
I was in quest last autumn of a nice quiet place within a conve-
nient distance of town where I could finish an epic poem — or stay,
was it a live-act drama ? — on which I had been long engaged, and
where I could bo secure from the annoj'anco of organ-grindors and
of reverend gentlemen leaving little subscription-books one day
and calling for them the next. I pined for a place where one
could bo verj' snug, and where one's friends didn't drop in "just
to look you up, old follow ; " and where the jiost didn't come in too
often. So I picked up a bag of needments, and availing myself of
a mid-day train on the Groat Domdauiel Eailway, alighted hap-
hazard at a station.
It turned out to be Sobbington. I saw at a glance that Sobbington
was too fashionable, not to say stuck-up, for me. The Waltz from
" Faust " was piauofortetically audible from at least half-a-dozen
semi-detached windows; and this, combined with some painful
variations on " Take, thini, the Sabre," and a cursorj- glance into
a stationer's shop and fancy warehouse where two stern mammas
of low-church aspect were purchasing the back numbers of " The
Now Pugwell Square Pulpit," and three young ladies were telo-
graphicallj' inquiring, behiiul tlicir parents' backs, of the young
person at the counter whether any letters had boeti left for them,
sufficed to accelerate my departure from Sobbington. The next
station on the road, I was told, was Doleful Ilill, and then camo
Deadwood Junction. I thought I would take a little walk, and see
what the open and what the covert yielded.
I left my bag with a moody porter at the Sobbington station, and
trudged along the road which had been indicated to me as leading
to Doleful liill. It happened to bo a very si>londid afternoon.
There were patches of golden and of purple gorso skirting those
parts of the road in which the semi-detached viUa eruption had
64j Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
not yet broken out ; the distant hills were delicately blue, and the
mellow sun was distilling bis rays into diamonds and rubies on the
roof of a wondrous Palace of Glass, which does duty in these parts,
as Vesuvius does duty in Naples, as a pervading presence. At
Portici and at Torre del Greco, at Sobbington or at Doleful IIill,
turn whithersoever you will, the mountains seem close upon you
always.
It is true that I was a little dashed when I encountered an organ-
grinder lugubriously winding "Slap, bang, here we are a.t,'ain I "
ofS his brazen reel, and looking anything but a jolly dog. Organ-
grinding was contrary to the code I had laid down to govern my
retirement. But the autumnal sun shone very genially on this
child of the sunny South — who had possibly come from the bleakest
part of Piedmont ; his smile was of the sunniest likewise, and
there was a roguish twinkle in his black eyes ; and though his
cheeks were brown, his teeth were of the whitest. So, as I gave
him pence, I determined inwardly that I would tolerate at least
one organ-grinder if he came near where I lived. It is true that I
had not the remotest idea of where I was going to live.
I walked onwards and onwards, admiring the pied cows in the
far- off pastures — cows the white specks on whose hides occurred
so artistically that one might have thought that the scenic arrange-
ment of the landscape had been intrusted to Mr. Birket Foster.
Anon I saw coming towards me a butcher- boy in his cart, drawn
by a fast-trotting pony. It was a light high spring- cart, very
natty and shiny, with the names and addi-esses of the proprietors,
Messrs. Hock, Butchers to the Eoyal Family, West Deadwood —
which of the princes or princesses resided at West Deadwood,
I wonder? — emblazoned on the panels. The butcher-boy shone,
too, with a suety sheen. The joints which formed his cargo wore
of the hue of which an English girl's cheeks should be — pure red
and white. And the good sun shone upon all. The equipage
came rattling along at a high trot, the butcher squaring his arms
and whistling— I could see him whistle from afar off. I asked him,
when he neared me, how far it might be to Doleful Hill,
" Good two mile," quoth the butcher-boy, pulling up. " Steady,
you warmint!" This was to the trotting pony. ""But," ho
contmued, "you'll have to pass Wretched villo first. Lays' in a
'ole a httle to the left, arf a mile on."
"Wretchedville," thought I; what an odd name! "What sort
of a place is it ? " I inquired.
"Well," replied tho butcher-bov ; "it's a lively place, a worry
lively place. I should say it was lively enough to make a cricket
burst himself for spite: it's so uncommon lively." And with this
enigmatical dehverance the butcher- boy relapsed into a whistle of
the utmost shrillness, and rattled away towards Sobbington.
T+Zi ^^1 ^^^^ ^* ^^'^ "°* ^^^^ 1^^^^ s'^ golden an afternoon. A
little dulness, a few clouds in the sky, might have acted as a caveat
against Wretchedville. But I plodded on and on, finding all thin-s
lookmg beautiful iu that autumn glow. I came positively on ''a
My Holiday at Wretchedvillc. 65
gipsy encampment ; blanket tent ; donkey tethered to a cart-
wheel; brown man in awido-a-wake hammering at a tin pot; brown
woman with a yellow kerchief, sitting cross-legged, mending brown
man's pantaloons ; brown little brats of Egypt swarming across
the road and holding out their burnt-sienna hands for largesse, and
the regular gipsy's kettle swinging from the crossed sticks over a
fire of stolen furze. Farmer Somebody's poultry simmering in the
pot, no doubt. Family linen — somebody else's linen yesterday —
drying on an adjacent bush. "Who says that the picturesque is
dead '^ The days of Sir Roger do Coverlej' had come again. So I
went on and on admiring, and down the declivitous road into
Wretchedville and to destruction.
Were there anj- apartments "to let"? Of course there were.
The very first house I came to was as regards the parlour-window
nearly blocked up by a placard treating of " Apartment.i
Furnished." Am 1 right in describing it as the parlour- window ?
I scared J' know ; for the front door, with which it was on a level,
was approached by such a very steep flight of steps that when you
stood on the topmost grade it seemed as though, with a very slight
effort, you could have peeped in at the bedroom window, or
touched one of the chimnej'-pots ; while as concerns the basement,
the front kitchen — I beg pardon, the breakfast parlour" — appeared
to bo a good way above tho level of the street.
The .space iu tho iirst-floor window not occn])ied by tho placard
was filled by a monstrous grouj) of wax fruit, the lemons
as big as pumpkins and the leaves of an unnaturally vivid green.
Tho window below — it was a single-windowed front — served merely
as a frame for the half-length portrait of a lady in a cap, ringlets,
and a colossal cameo brooch. Tho ej^es of this portrait were fixed
upon me ; and before almost I had lifted a very small light knocker,
decorated, so far as I could make out, with the cast-iron effigy of a
desponding ape, and had struck this against a door which, to judgo
from tho amount of percussion produced, was composed of bristol-
board highly varnished, the portal itself flew open and the portrait
of the basement appeared in the flesh. Indeed, it was the same
portrait. Downstairs it had been Mrs. Primpris looking out into
the Wretchedville Eoad for lodgers. Upstairs it was Mrs. Primpris
letting her lodgings and glorying in the act.
She didn't ask for any references. She didn't hasten to inform
me that there were no children or anj' other lodgers. She didn't
look doubtful when I told her that tho whole of my luggage
consisted of a black bag which I had left at the Sobbington station.
She seemed rather pleased than otherwise at tho idea of tho bag,
and said that her Alfred should step round for it. She didn't
object to smoking ; and she at once invested me with the Order
of the Latch-key — a latch-key at Wretchedville, ha I ha ! She
further held me with her glittering ej'e, and I listened like a twc-
years child while she let me the lodgings for a fortnight certain.
Perhajjs it was less her eye that dazed me than her cameo, on
which there was, in high relief and on a ground the hue of a pig's
66 Miscellaneom Readings in Prose.
liver, the effigy of a young -woman witli a straight nose and a
round chin and a quantity of snakes in her haii-. I don't think
that cameo came from Rome. I think it came from Tottenham
Court Eoad.
She had converted me into a single gentleman lodger of quiet
and retired habits — or was I a widower of independent means
seeking a home in a cheerful family ?— so suddenly that I beheld
all things as in a dream. Thinking, perchance, that the first stono
of that monumental edifice, :;he bill, could not be laid too quickly,
she immediately provided me with tea. There was a little cottage-
loaf, so hard, round, shiny, and compact, that I experienced a well-
nigh uncontrollable desire to fling it up to the ceiling to ascertain
whether it would chip off any portion of a preposterous rosette in
stucco in the centre, representing a sunflower, surrounded by
cabbage-leaves. This terrible ornament was, by the way, one of
the chief sources of my misery at Wretchedville. I was continually
apprehensive that it would tumble down bodilj' on the table. In
addition to the cottage-loaf there was a pretentious teapot, which,
had it been of sterling silver, would have been worth fifty guineas,
but which, in its ghastly gleaming, said plainly "Sheffield" and
"imposture." There was a piece of butter in a "shape" like a
diminutive haystack, and with a cow sprawling on the top in
unctuous plasticity. It was a pallid kind of butter, from which
with difficulty you shaved off" adipocerous scales, which would not
be persuaded to adhere to the bread, but flew oif at tangents and
went rolling about an intolerably large tea-tray, on whoso papier-
mache surface was depicted the death of Captain Iledley Vicars.
The Crimean sky was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the
gallant captain's face was highly enriched with blue-and-crirason
foil-paper.
As for the tea, I don't think I ever tasted such a peculiar
mixture. Did you ever sip warm Cutsup sweetened with borax !'
That might have been something like it. And what was that
sediment, strongly resembling the sand at Great Yarmouth, at
the bottom of the cup ? I sat down to my meal, however, and
made as much play with the cottage-loaf as I could. Had the loaf
been varnished ? It smelt and looked as though it had undergone
that process. Everything in the house smelt of varnish. I was
uncomfortably conscious, too, during mj' repast — one side of the
room being all window — that I was performing the part of a
"Portrait of the Gentleman in the first floor," and that as such I
was " sitting '' to Mrs. Lucknow at Number Twelve opposite — I
know her name was Lucknow, for a brass plate on the door said
S3 — whose own half-length effigy was visible in her breakfast-
parlour window, glowering at me reproachfully because I had not
xaken her first floor, in the window of which was, not a group of
wax fruit, but a sham alabaster vase full of artificial flowers.
Every window in Wretchedville exhibited one or other of these
ornaments, and it was from their contemplation that I began to
understand how it was that the "fancy goods'' trade in the
Mij Holiday at Wretcheclville. 67
Minories and Houndsditch throve so well. They made things there
to be purchased by the housekeepers of "Wretchedyille.
The shades of evening fell, and Mrs. Primpris brought me in a
monstrous paraffin-lamp, tho flame of which wouldn't do anything
but lick the chimney-glass till it smoked it to the hue proper to
observe eclipses by, and then splutter into extinction, and charnel-
like odour. After that we tried a couple of composites (six to tho
pound) in green glass candlesticks. I asked Mrs. Primpris if she
could send me up a book to read, and she favoured me, per Alfred
and Selina, with her whole library, consisting of the Asylum Press
Almanack for 1800 ; two odd volumes of the Calcutta Directory ;
the Brewer and Distiller's Assistant ; Julia de Crespigny, or a
"Winter in London ; Dunoycr's French Idioms ; and the Eeverend
Mr. Huntingdon's Bank of Faith.
I took out my cigai'-case after this and began to smoke ; and then
I heard Mrs. Primpris coughing and a number of doors being
thrown wide oj^en. Upon this I concluded that I would go to bed.
My sleeping apartment — the first-floor back — was a perfect cube.
One side was a window overlooking a strip of clay-soil hemmed in
between brickwalls. There were no tombstones yet, but if it wasn't
a cemetery, why, when I opened tho window to get rid of the odour
of the varnish, did it smell like one ':* Tho opposite side of the cube
was composed of a chest of drawers. I am not impertinently
curious by nature, but as I was the first-floor lodger, bethought
myself entitled to open tho top long drawer with a view to the
bestowal therein of the contents of my black bag. The drawer was
not emptj' ; but that which it held made mo very nervous. I sup-
pose the weird figure I saw stretched out there with pink arms and
legs sprouting from a shroud of silver paper, a quantity of ghastly
auburn curls, and two blue glass eyes unnaturally gleaming in the
midst of a mask of salmon- coloiu'cd wax, was Selina's best doll ;
the present, perhaps, of her uncle, who was, haply, a Calcutta
director, or an Asylum Press Almanac-maker, or a brewer and dis-
tiller, or a cashier in tho Bank of Faith. I shut the drawer again
hurriedly, and that doll in its silver paper cerecloth haunted me all
night.
The third side of my bedroom consisted of chimney — tho coldest,
hardest, brightest-looking fireplace I over saw out of Hampton
Court Palace guardroom. The fourth side was door. I forgot into
■which corner was hitched a washhand stand. The ceiling was mainly
stucco rosette, of the pattern of tho one in my sitting-room. Among
the crazes which came over mo at this time was one to the effect
that this bedroom was a cabin on board ship, and that if tho ship
should happen to lurch or roll in the trough of the sea, I must in-
fallibly tumble out of the door or the window, or into the drawer
where the doll was — unless the drawer and the doll came out to me
— or up the chimnej-. I think that I murmured " Steady " as I
clomb into bed.
My couch — an "Arabian" one, Mrs. Primpris said proudly —
seemingly consisted of the Logan, or celebrated rocking-stone of
^2
68 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
Cornwall, loosely covered with bleacted canvas, under which was
certain loose foreign matter, but whether composed of flocculi of
wool or of the halves of kidney potatoes I am not in a position to
state. At all events I awoke in the morning veined all over like a
scagliola column. I never knew, too, before, that any blankets
were ever manufactured in Yorkshire, or elsewhere, so remarkably
small and thin as the two seeming flannel pocket-handkerchiefs
with blue-and-crimson edging, which formed part of Mrs. Prim-
pris's Arabian bed-furniture Nor had I hitherto been aware, as I
was when I lay with that window at my feet, that the moon was so
very large. The orb of night seemed to tumble on me flat, until I
felt as though I were lying in a cold ftying-pan. It was a " watery
moon," I have reason to think ; for when I awoke the next morn-
ing, much battered with visionary conflicts with the doll, I found
that it was raining cats and dogs.
"The rain," the poet tells us, " it raineth every day." It rained
most prosaically all that day at Wretched ville, and the next, and from
Monday morning till Saturday night, and then until the middle of
the next week. Dear me ! dear me ! how wretched I was I I
hasten to declare that I have no kind of complaint to make against
Mrs. Primpris. Not a flea was felt in her house. The cleanliness
of the villa was so scrupulous as to be distressing. It smelt of soap
and scrubbing-brush like a Eefuge. Mrs. Primpris was strictly
honest, even to the extent of inquiring what I would like to have
done with the fat of cold mutton-chops, and sending mo up ante-
diluvian crusts, the remnants of last week's cottage-loaves, with
which I would play moodily at knock-'em-downs, using the pepper-
caster as a pin. I have nothing to say against Alfred's fondness
for art. India-rubber, to be sure, is apter to smear than to obli-
terate drawings in chalk ; but a three-penny piece is not much ;
and you cannot too early encourage the imitative faculties. And
again, if Selina did requii-e correction, I am not prepared to deny
that a shoe may be the best implement and the bladebones the most
fitting portion of the human anatony for such an exercitation.
I merely say that I was wretched at Wretchedville, and that
Mrs. Primpris's apartments very much aggravated my misery. The
usual objections taken to a lodging-house are to the effect that the
furniture is dingy, the cooking execrable, the servant a slattern,
and the landlady either a crocodile or a tigress. Now my indict-
ment against my Wretchedville apartments simply amounts to
this : that everything was too new. Never were there such staring
paper-hangings, such gaudily printed druggets for carpets, such
blazing hearthrugs— one representing the Dog of Montargis seizing
the murderer of the Forest of Eondy — such gleaming fire-irons,
and such remarkably shiny looking-glasses, with gilt halters for
frames. The crockery was new, and the glue on the chairs and
tables was scarcely dry. The new veneer peeled off the new chillb-
nier. The roller-blinds to the windows were so new that they
wouldn't work. The new stair-carpeting used to dazzle my eyes
80, that I was always tripping myself up ; the new oil-cloth in the
The Death of Little Nell 69
ball smelt like the Trinity House repository for new buoj's ; and
Mrs. Primpris was always full-clressed, cameo brooch and all, by
nine o'clock in the morning. She confessed once or twice during
my stay that her house was not quite "seasoned." It was not
even seasoned to sound. Every time the kitchen-fire was poked
you heard the sound in the sitting-room. As to perfumes, when-
ever the lid of the copper in the washhouse was raised, the first-
floor lodger was aware of the fact. I knew by the simple evidence of
my olfactory organs what Mrs. Primpris had for dinner every day.'
Pork, accompanied by some green esculent, boiled, predominated.
When my fortnight's tenancj' had expired — I never went out-
side the house until I left it for good — and my epic poem, or what-
ever it was, had more or loss been completed, I returned to London,
and had a rare bilious attack. The doctor said it was painter's
colic ; I said at the time it was disappointed ambition , for the book-
sellers had looked very coldly on my poetical proposals, and the
managers to a man had refused to read my plaj' ; but at this pre-
sent writing I believe the solo cause of my malady to have been
Wretchedville. I hope they will pull down the villas and build the
jail there soon, and that the rascal convicts will be as wretched
as I was.
{From " Under the Sioi," bi/ permission of Messrs. VizetcUij ^- Co.)
THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.
Charles Dickens.
[Seo pago 42.]
WirE\ morning came, and they could s^Dcak more calmly on the
subject of their grief, they heard how her life had closed.
She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time,
knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after day-
break. They had read and talked to her in the earlier jjortion of
the night, but as the hoiu-s crept on she sunk to sleep. They could
tell, by what she faintly uttered in her di'cams, that they were of
her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painfiil scenes,
but of people who had helloed and used them kindl3% for she often
said " God bless you !"' with great fervour. Waking, she never
wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music
which she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been.
Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that
they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old
man with a lovely smile upon her face — such, they said, as they had
never seen, and never could forget — and clung with both her arms
about his neck. They did not know that she was dead, at first.
She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were
like dear friends to her. She wished they could be told how much
she thought about them, and how she had watched them as they
walked together, by the river side at night. She would like to see
70 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
poor Kit, she had often said of late. She wished there was some-
body to take her love to Kit. And even then, she never thought
or spoke about him, but with something of her old, clear, merry
laugh.
For the rest, she never murmured or complained ; but with a
quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered — save that she every day
became more earnest and more grateful to them — faded like the light
upon a summer's evening.
The child who had been litr little friend came there, almost as
soon as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he
begged them to lay on her breast. It was he who had come to the
window over-night and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the
snow traces of small feet, where he had been lingering near the
room in which she lay, before he went to bed. He had a fanc\% it
seemed, that they had left her there alone ; and could not bear the
thought.
He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being
Restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see
iier, saying that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear
of his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all
day long when lie was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him.
They let him have his wish : and indeed he kept his word, and was,
in his childish way, a lesson to them all.
Up to this time, the old man had not spoken once — except to
her — or stirred from her bedside. But, when he saw her little
favourite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as
though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the
bed, he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by,
knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them
alone together.
Soothing him with his artless tallc of her, the child persuaded him
to take some rest, to walk abroad, and to do almost as he desired
him. And when the day came on, which must remove her in her
earthly shape from earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he
might not know when she was taken from him.
They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was
Sunday — a bright, clear, wintry afternoon — and as they travers(?d
the village street, those who were walking in their path drew back
to make way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some
shook the old man kindly by the hand, and some uncovered while
he tottered by, and many cried " God bless him," as he passed
along.
* * =x= * * #
And anon the bell— the bell she had so often heard, by nio-ht
and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a livTnc
voice— rang its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful so
good. Decrepit age, and %agorous life, and blooming youth, and
helpless inlancy poured forth— on crutches, in the pride of strength
and health, m the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life—
to gatner round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were
The Death of L Ittle Nell. 71
dim and senses failing — grandmothers \\\\o might have died ten
years ago, and still been old — the deaf, the blind, the lame, tha
palsied, the living deail in many shapes and forms, to see the closing
of that early grave. What was the death it woiild shnt in, to that
whifh still oonld crawl and creep cabove it ?
Along the crowded path they bore her now ; pure as the newly-
fallen snow that covered it ; whose day on earth had been as fleet-
ing. Under the porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy
brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again ; and the old
church received her in its quiet shade.
They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many
a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement.
The light streamed on through the coloured window— a window
where the boughs of trees were ever rushing in the summer, and
where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of ail
that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling,
changing light would fall upon her grave.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! Man}'' a young hand
dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some^
and, they were not a few, knelt down. All were sincere and truth,
ful in their sorrow.
The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers
closed round to look into the grave before the pavement-stone should
be replaced. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on
that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was
gazing with a ))ensive face ui)on the sky. Another told how he had
wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold ; how
she had never feared to enter the church alone at niglit, but had
loved to linger there when all w;i.s quiet, and even to climb the tower
stair, witli no more light than that of the moon's rays stealing
through the loopholes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about
among the eldest, that she had seen and talked with angels; and
when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her
early death, some thought it might l)e so, indeed. Thus, coming to
the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to
others, and falling off in whispering groups of three ov four, the
church was cleared in time of all but the se.\tou and the mourn-
ing friends.
They saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down. Then,
when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a soimd disturbed
the sacred stillness of the place — when the bright moon poured her
light on tomb and monume'"'':, on pillar, well, and arch, and most
of all (it seemed to them) upon Ler quiet grave, — in that calm time,
when outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of
immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust
before them — then, witli tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned
away, and leit the child with God.
Oh ! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will
teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that we must all learn,
and is a mighty, universal Truth, When death strikes down the
72 Miscellaneous Headings in Prose.
innocent and young, for every fragile form from whicli lie lets the
panting spirit free, a Imndi-ed virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, chanty,
and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sor-
))vving mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some
gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up
bright creatures that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a
way of light to Heaven.
It was late when the old man came home. The bey had led him
to his own dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back ; and,
rendered drowsy by his long ramble, he had sunk into a deep sleep
by the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they had taken
care not to rouse him. The slumber held him a bag time, and when
he at length awoke the moon was shining.
The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watch-
ing at the door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway
with his little guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly
obliging the old man to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow
and trembling stej^s towards the house.
He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding wliat he had
left there, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which
they were assembled. From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's
cottage ; calling her name. They followed close upon him, and
when he had vainly searched it, brought him home.
With such persuasive words as pity and aS'ection could suggest,
they i^revailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they
should tell him. Then, endeavouring by every httle artifice to pre-
pare his mind for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent
words ui3on the happy lot to which she had been removed, they told
him, at last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, ho
fell down among them like a murdered man.
For many hours they had little hopes of his surviving ; but grief
is strong, and he recovered.
If there be any who have never known the blank that follows
death — ^the weary void — the sense of desolation that will come upon
the strongest minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed
at every turn — the connexion between inanmiate and senseless
things, and the object of recollection, when every household god
becomes a monument, and every room a grave — if there be any
who have not known this, and proved it by their own experience,
they can never faintly guess, how, for days, the old man pined and
moped away the time, and wandered here and there as if seeking
something, and had no comfort.
******
_ At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with
his knapsack on his back, his stafi" in hand, he:' ovn straw hat,
and httle basket full of such things as she had been used to carry,
was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and vndc,
a trightened schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before,
sitting in the church— upon her grave.
They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in
TJte Flower of the Forest. 73
the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb
him then, but kept watch upon him all that day. AVhen it grew
quite dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring
to himself " she will come to-morrow !"
Upon the morrow he was there again frorp. r/-nrise until night ;
and still at night he laid him down to rest, and miirmured, " She
will come to-morrow !"
And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her
grave, for her.
How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of
resting-jilaces under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and
woods, and paths not often trodden — how many tones of that one
well-remembered voice — how many glimpses of the form, the flut-
tering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind — how many
visions of what had been, and what he hoped yet to be, rose up
before him, in the old, dull, silent church ! He never told them
what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with them at
night, ])ondering with a secret satisfaction, they coxild see, upon the
flight that he and she would take before night came again ; and still
they would hear him whisper in his prayers, " Lord ! let her come
to-morrow !"
The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at
the usual hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead
upon the stone.
They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well ;
and in the church where they had so often prayed, and mused, and
lingered hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together.
(By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Ilall.)
THE FLOWER OF THE FOEEST.
Thofessou "Wilsox.
[Jolm 'U'ilson was the son of a mauufacturer in Paisley, where he was bom,
17»5. He was educated firstly at the University of Glasgow, whence he passed
to Magdalene College, Oxford. On completing his studies ho took up his
abode on the Ixiuks of Windermere, and here -wTote his first poems, the prin-
cipal of which were — "The Isle of Palms," 1812, followed by "Tlie City of
the Plague." lie next essayed prose fiction, and added to our permanent
literature '-Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life;" the "Trials of Margaret
LjTidsay ;" and "The FoiTesters." In 1820 he was appointed to the chair of
Moral I'hilosophy in Edinburgh, and thenceforth known as "Professor." This
position he resigned in 1851, when the Crown settled on him a pension of
300/. a year. He died 1854, and his w6rks, including his magazine papers and
the cekbrated "Noctes" of " Bhvckwood's Magazine," ha73 nince been pub-
lished by the Messrs. Blackwood in a complete fonn.]
The y.iidow of the lonely cottage of Hilltop was beaming far above
the highest birch-wood, seeming to travellers at a distance in the
long valley below, who knew it not, to be a star in the sky. A bright
fire"was in the kitchen of that small tenement; the floor was Avashed,
swept, and sanded, and not a footstep had marked its perfect neat-
74 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
ness ; a small table was covered, near the ingle, with a snow-white
cloth, on which was placed a frugal evening meal ; and in happy
but pensive mood, sat there, all alone, the woodcutter's only daughter,
a comely and gentle creature, if not beautiful ; such an one as dif-
fuses ];)leasure round her in the hay-field, and serenity over the scat
in which she sits attentively on the Sabbath, listening to the Word
of God, or joining ^vith mellow voice in His praise and worshiix
On this night she expected a visit from her lover, that they might
fix their marriage-daj"- ; and her parents, satisfied and happy that,
their child was about to be wedded to a respectable shepherd, had
gone to pay a visit to their nearest neighbour in the glen.
A feeble and hesitating knoclc was at the door, not like the glad
and joyful touch of a lover's hand; and, cautiously opening it,
Mary Robinson beheld a female figure wrapped up in a cloak, with
her face concealed in a black bonnet. The stranger, whoever sho
might be, seemed wearied and worn out, and her feet bore witness
to a long day's travel across the marshy mountains. Altliough she
could scarcely help considering her an unwelcome visitor at such an
hour, yet Mary had too much sweetness of dis[)Osition — too much
humanity, not to request her to step forward into the hut ; for it
seemed as if the wearied woman had lost her way, and had come
towards the shining window to be put right upon her journey to tho
low country.
The stranger took off her bonnet on reaching the fire, and Maiy
Robinson beheld the face of one whom in youth she had tenderly
loved ; although, for some years past, the distance at which they
lived from each other had kept them from meeting, and only a letter
or two, written in their simple way, had given them a few notices
of each other's existence. And now Mary had opportunity, in the
first speechless gaze of recognition, to mark the altered face orher
friend ; and her heart was touched with an ignorant compassion.
" For mercy's sake ! sit down, Sarah ! and tell me Avhat evil has
befallen you ; for you are as white as a ghost. Fear not to confide
anything to my bosom ; we have herded sheep together on tlie lone-
some braes ; we have stripped the bark together in the more lonesome
woods; wehaveplayed, laughed, sung, danced together; wehave talked
merrily and gaily, but innocently enough surely, of sweethearts to-
gether; and, Sarah, graver thoughts, too, have we shared, for, when
your poor brother died away like a frosted fiowcr. I wept as if I had
been his sister ; nor can I ever be so happy in this world as to for-
get him. lell me, my friend, why are you here? and why is your
sweet face so ghastly ?" j j
The heart of this unexpected visitor died within her at these kind
and affectionate inquines. For she had come on an errand that was
hkely to dash the joy from that hap]iy countenance. Her heart up-
braided her with the meanness of the purpose for which she hid
paid this visit ; but that was only a i)assing thought ; for was she,
innocent and free from sin, to submit, not only to desertion, but t^
iSfr^'i '^1 *™'^ ^''''^^ ^'^^ her wrongs, and her hopes of
redress, to her whom she loved t^s a sister, and wlio^e generous na-
The Flower of trie Forest. 75
ture she well knew, not even love, the changer of so many things,
could change utterly ; though, indeed, it might render it colder than
of old to the anguish of a female friend.
" Oh ! Mary, I must speak ; yet must my words make yoij, grieve,
far less for me than for yourself. Wretch that I am, I brmg evil
tidmgs into the dwelling of my dearest friend ! These ribands,—
they are worn for his sake, — they become well, as he thinks, the
auburn of your bonny hair ; that blue gown is worn to-night because
he likes it ; but, Mary, will you curse me to my face, when I declare
before the God that made us that that man is pledged unto me by
all that is sacred between mortal creatures ; and that I have here in
my bosom written promises and oaths of love from him who, I was
this morning told, is in a few days to be thy husband ? Turn me
out of the hut now, if you choose, and let me, if you choose, die of
hunger and fatigue, in the woods where we have so often walked to-
gether ; for such death would be mercy to me, in comparison with
vour marriage with him who is mine for ever, if there be a God who
needs the oaths of the creatures he has made."
Mary Robinson had led a haj^py life, but a life of quiet thoughts,
tranquil hopes, and meek desires. Tenderly and truly did she love
the man to whom she was now betrothed ; but it was because she
had thought him gentle, manly, upright, sincere, and one that feared
God. His character was unimiieached ; to her his behaviour had
always been fond, affectionate, and respectful; that he was a fine-
looking man, and could show himself among the best of the country
round at church, and market, and fair-day, she saw and felt with
pleasure and pride. But in the heart of this poor, humble, con-
tented, and pious girl, love was not a violent passion, but an affec-
tion sweet and profound. She looked forwards to her marriage
\vith a joyful sedateness, knowing that she would have to toil for
her family, if blest with children ; but happy in the thought of
keeping her husband's house clean, — of preparing his frugal meals,
and welcoming him, when wearied at night, to her faitliful, and af-
fectionate, and grateful bosom.
At first, perhaps, a slight Hush of anger towards Sarah tinged
her cheek ; then followed, in quick succession, or all blenc!.:d to-
gether in one sickening pang, fear, disappointment, the sense of
wrong, and the cruel j^ain of disesteeming and despising one on
whom her heart had rested with all its best and purest aifections.
But though there was a keen struggle between many feelings in her
heart, her resolution was formed during that very conflict ; and she
said within herself, " If it be even so, neither will I be so unjust as
to deprive poor Sarah of the man who ought to marry her, nor yviH
I be so mean and low-spirited, poor as I am, and dear as he has
been unto me, as to become his wife."
While these thoughts were calmly passing in the soul of this
magnanimous girl, all her former affection for Sarah re\"ived ; and
as she sighed for herself, she wept aloud for her friend. " Be quiet,
be quiet, Sarah, and sob not so as if your heart were breaking. It
need not be thus -s^-ith you. Oh ! sob not so sair ! You surely
76 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose
jiave not walkea in this one day from the heart of the parish of
Montrath ?" "I have indeed done so, and I am as weak as the
wreathed snaw. God knows, little matter if I should die away;
for, after all, I fear he will never think of me for his wife ; and you,
Mary, will lose a husband with whom yoii would have been happy.
I feel, after all, that I must appear a mean wretch in your eyes."
There was silence between them ; and Mary Eobinson, looking at
the clock, saw that it wanted only about a quarter of an hour from
the time of tryst. " Give nie the oaths and promises you men-
tioned out of your bosom, Sarah, that I may show them to Gabriel
when he comes. And once more I promise, by all the sunny and
all the snowy days we have sat together in the same plaid, on the
hniside, or in the lonesome charcoal plots and nests o' green in the
woods, that if my Gabriel — did I say my Gabriel? — has for-
saken you, and deceived me thus, never shall his lips touch mine
again — never shall he put ring on my finger— never shall this head
lie in his bosom — no, never, never ! notwithstanding all the happy,
too happy hours and days I have been with him, near or at a
distance — on the corn-rig — among the meadow-hay — in the singing-
school — at harvest-home — in this room — and in God's own house.
So help me God, but I will keep this vow !"
Poor Sarah told, in a few hurried words, the st-ory of her love and
desertion, — how Gabriel, whose business as a shejiherd often took
him into Montrath parish, had wooed her, and fixed everything about
their marriage nearly a year ago. But that he liad become cause-
lessly jealous of a young man whom she scarcely knew — had accused
her of want of virtue — and for many months had never once come to
see her. " This morning, for the first time, I heard for a certainty,
from one who knew Gabriel well, and all his concerns, that the bans
had been proclaimed in the church between him and you, and that,
in a day or two, you were to be married. And, though I felt drown-
ing, I determined to make a struggle for my hfe— for oh ! Mary,
Mary, my heart is not like your heart, — it wants your wisdom, your
meekness, your piety ; and, if I am to lose Gabriel, I will destroy
my miserable life, and face the \\Tath of God sitting in judgment
ftjaon sinners."
_ ^ At this burst of passion, Sarah hid her face with her hands, as
if sensible that she had committed blasphemy.— Mary, seeing her
wearied, hungry, thirsty, and feverish, spoke to her in the°most
Boothmg manner ; led her into the little parlour, called the spence,
then removed mto it the table, with the oaten cakes, butter, and milk;
and, tellmg her to take some refreshment, and then lie down on the
bed, but on no account to leave the room till called for, gave her a
sisterly kiss, and left her. In a few minutes the outer door opened,
and Gabriel entered.
The lover said, "How is my sweet Mary?" with a beaming
countenance ; and, gently drawing her to his bosom, he kissed her
cheek- Mary did not, could not, wished not, at once to release
nerselt irom his enfolding arms. Gabriel had always treated her as
ttie woman who was to be his wife ; and though at tliis time her
The FCower of the Forest 77
heart knew its own bitterness, yet she repelled not endearments
that were so lately delightful, and suffered him to take her almost
in his anns to their accustomed scat. He held her hand in his,
and began to speak in his usual kind and affectionate language.
Kind and affectionate it was ; for, though he ought not to ha\ e
done so, he loved her, as he thought, better than his life. Her
heart could not, in one small short hour, forget a whole year of
bliss. She could not yet fling away with her own hand what, only
a few minutes ago, seemed to her the hope of 2"»aradise. Her soul
sickened within her, and she wished that she were dead, or never
had been born.
" Gabriel ! Gabriel ! well indeed have I loved you ; nor -will I
3ay, after all that has passed between us, that you are not deser\'ing.,
ifter all, of a Ijctter love than mine. Vain were it to deny my lovo
cither to you or to my own soul. But look me in the face — be not
wrathful — think not to hide the truth either from yourself or me,
for that now is impossible,— but tell me solemnly, as you shall
answer to God at the judgment-day, if )^ou know any reasou why
I must not be your wedded wife." She kept her mild moist eyes
fixed ui:)on him ; but he hung down his head, and uttered not a
word, for he was guilty before her, before his ovm soul, and before
God.
" Gabriel, never could we have been happy ; for you often told
me that all the secrets of your heart were known imto me, yet
never did j'ou tell me this. How could you desert the poor innocent
creature that loved 3'ou ; and how coiild you use me so, avIio loved
you perhaps as well as she, but whose heart God will teach not to
forget you, for that may I never do, but to think on you with that
friendshij) and affection which, innocently, I can bestow upon you,
when you are Sarah's husband? For, Gabriel, I have this night
sworn, not in anger or passion — no, no — but in sorrow and pity for
another's wrongs, in sorrow also — deny it will I not — for my own,
to look on you from this hour as on one whose life is to be led apart
from my life, and whose love must never more meet with my love.
Speak not unto me, look not on me with beseeching eyes. Duty
and religion forbid us ever to '>e man and wife. But you know there
is one besides me, whom you loved befor vou loved me, and therefore
it may be, better too ; and that she loves you, and is faithful, as if
God had made you one, I say without fear, — I who have known her
since she was a cliild, although, fatally for the peace of us both, we
have long hved apart. Sarah is in the house, and I will bring her
iinto you in tears, but not tears of penitence, for she is as umocent
of that sin as I ar^i, who now speak."
Mary went into the little parlour, and led Sarah forward m her
hand. Despairing a : she had been, yet when she had heard from
poor iMary's voice si:)eaking so fei-vently, that Gabriel had come,
and that her fi-iend was interceding in her behalf, — the j^oor girl
had arranged her hair in a small looking-glass, tied it up -vvath a
riband which Gabriel had given her, and put into the breast of hei
gown a little gilt brooch that contained locks of their blended hair.
78 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
Pale, but beautiful -for Sarah Pringle was the fairest girl in ax,
the country —she advanced with a flush on that paleness of reviving
hope, injured pride, and love that was ready to forgive all, and
forget all, so that once again she could be restored to the place m
his heart that she had lost. " What have I ever done, Gabriel,
that YOU should fling me from you? May my soul never live by
the atonement of my Saviour, if I am not innocent of that sin, yea,
of all distant thought of that sin with which you, even you, have
in your hard-heartedness charged me. Look me in the face, Gabriel,
and think of all I have been unto you, and if you say that before
God, and in your own soul, you beUeve me guilty, then will 1 go
away out into the dark night, and, long before morumg, my troubles
will be at an end." i i j. • n
Truth was not only in her fen'ent and simple words, but in the
tone of her voice, the colour of her face, and the light of her eyes.
Gabriel had long shut up his heart against her. At first, he had
doubted her virtue, and that doubt gradually weakened his affec-
tion. At last he tried to beheve her guilty, or to forget her alto-
gether, when his heart turned to Mary Robinson, and he thought
of making her his wife. His injustice— his wickedness — his baseness
— which he had so long concealed, in some measure, from himself,
by a dim feeling of wrong done him, and aftenvards by the pleasure
of a new love, now appeared to him as they were, and without dis-
guise. Mary took Sarah's hand and placed it within that of hor
contrite lover, — for, had the tumult of conflicting passions allowed
him to know his own soul, such at that moment he surely was, —
saying, with a voice as composed as the eyes wth which she looked
upon them, " I restore you to each other ; and I already feel the
comfort of being able to do my duty. I will be bridesmaid. And
I now implore the blessing of God upon your marriage. Gabriel,
your betrothed will sleep this night in my bosom. AVe will think
of you, better, perhaps, than you deserve. It is not for me to tell
you what you have to repent of. Let us all three pray for each
otlier this night, and evermore when we are on our knees before our
Maker. The old people will soon be at home. Good-night, Gabriel !"
He kissed Sarah, and, giving Mary a look of shame, humility, and
reverence, he went home to meditation and repentance.
It was now Midsummer .' and before the harvest had been
gathered in throughout the higher valleys, or the sheep brought
from the mountain-fold, Gabriel and Sarah were man and wife.
Tuiis passed on, and a blooming family cheered their board and
fireside. Nor did Mary Robinson, the Flower of the Forest (for so
the Woodcutter's daughter was often called,) pass her life in single
blessedness. She too became a Avifo and mother ; and the two
families, who lived at last on adjacent farms, were remarkable for
mutual affection, throughout all the parish ; and more than one
intermarriage took place between them, at a time when the worthy
parents had ahnost entirely forgotten the trying incident of their
youth.
70
GOLDSMITH IN GREfiN-ARBOR COURT.
Washington Irving.
rWashington Irrlngls, without doubt, universally considered the most delight-
ful and popular of American authors. Born in 1783, he made his literarv debut in
the columns of a New York newspaper with his " Knickerbocker's tlistoiy of
New York." In 1819 he paid a visit to England, where, as the result of his rambles
in town and country, he penned those jdeasant pa])ers wliich, under the collected
form of "The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon," raised him to a prominent
position amongst writers on both sides of the Atlantic. '' Braccbiidge Hall " and
" Tales of a Traveller," soon followed to enhance his reputation. After these
he devoted himself to more important literary eflbrts, chief among which were
*' Tales of the Alhambra," "The Conquest of Granada." '• The Life of Columbus,"
"A Tour of the Prairies," " The Adventures of Captain Bonneville," " Abbots-
ford and Xewstead Abbey," "Mahomet and his Successors," "The Life of
Washington," and most valuable of all, " The Life of Goldsmith." He died at
his favourite retreat, Sunuyside, near Tarrytown, New Y'ork, Nov. 28, 1859.]
As it was now growing late, we parted for the evening, though
I felt anxious to know more of this practical philosopher. I was
glad, therefore, when Buckthornc proposed to have another meeting,
to talk over old school times, and inquired his schoolmate's address.
The latter seemed, at first, a little shy of naming his lodgings;
but suddenly, assuming an air of hardihood — "Green-arbor
Court, sir," exclaimed he — "Number — in Green-arbor Court.
You must know the place, classic giound, sir, classic ground ! It
was there Goldsmith wrote his ' Yicar of Wakefield,' — I always
like to live in literary haunts."
I was amused by this whimsical apology for shabby quarters.
On our way homeward, Buckthorne assured me that this Diibble
had been the prime wit and great wag of the school in their boyish
days, and one of those lucky ur chins denominated bright geniuses.
As ho perceived mo, curious respecting his old schoolmate, he
promi.sed to take mo with him in his proposed visit to Green-arbor
Court.
A few mornings afterwards he called upon me, and we set forth
on our expedition. Ho led me through a variety of singular
alleys, and courts and blind passages; for he appeared to be
V perfectly versed in all the intricate geography of the metropolis.
At length we came out upon Fleet Market, and traversing it,
turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a long steep flight of
stone steps, called Break-neck Stau's. These, he told rne, led up
to Green-arbor Court, and that down them poor Goldsmith might
many a time have ri.sked his neck. "When we entered the court, I
could not but smile to think in what out-of-the-way corners genius
produces her bantlings. And the muses, those capricious dames,
who, forsooth, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a single
smile to votaries in splendid studies, and gilded drawing-rooms, —
what holes and burrows will they frequent to lavish theii' favours
on some ragged disciple I
80 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
This Green- arbor Court I found to be a small square, surrounded
by tall and miserable houses, the very intestines of which seemed
turned inside out, to judge from the old garments and frippery
fluttering from every window. It appeared to be a legion of
washerwomen, and lines were stretched aboiit the little square, on
which clothes were dangling to drJ^
Just as we entered the square, a scuffle took place between two
viragoes about a disputed right to a wash-tub, and immediately
the whole community was in a hubbub. Heads in mob-caps
appeared out of every window, and such a clamoiu- of tongues
ensued, that I was fain to stop my ears. Every amazon took part
with one or other of the disputants, and brandished her arms,
dripping with soap-suds, and fired away from her window as from
an embrazure of a fortress ; while the swarms of children nestled
and cradled in every procreant chamber of* this hive, waking with
the noise, set up their shrill pipes to swell the general concert.
Poor Goldsmith ! what a time he must have had of it, with his
quiet disposition and nervous habits, penned up in this den of noiso
and vulgarity ! How strange that, while every sight and sound
was sufficient to embitter the heart, and fill it with misanthropy,
his pen should be dropping the honey of Hybla ! Yet it is more
than probable that he drew many of his inimitable pictures of low
life from the scenes which surrounded him in this abode. Tlio
circumstance of Mrs. Tibbs being obliged to wash her husband's
two shirts in a neighbour's house, who refused to lend her wash-
tub, may have been no sport of fancy, but a fact passing under his
own eye. His landlady may have sat for the picture, and Beau
Tibbs's scanty wardrobe have been a facsimile of his own.
It was with some difficulty that we found our way to Dribble's
lodgings. They were up two pair of stairs, in a room that looked
upon the court ; and when wo entered, he was seated on the cdgo
of his bed, writing at a broken table. Ho received us, however,
with a free, open, poor-devil air that was irresistible. It is true
he did at first appear slightly confused ; buttoned up his waistcoat
a little higher, and tucked in a strav frill of linen. But he recol-
lected himself m an instant ; gave a half swagger, half leer, as he
stepped forth to receive us; drew a three-legged stool for Mr.
Buckthorne; pointed me to a lumbering old damask chair that
looked like a dethroned monarch in exile ; and bade us welcome to
nis garret.
ON THE FATE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Thomas Caulyle.
[Sec page 38.]
CONTEMPLATIXG the sad end of Burns-how he sank unaided by anv
real help, uncheered by anywise sympathy,— generous minds have
Bometimes figured to themselves, with a reproachful soriow that
On the Fate of Robert Barns. 81
much might have been done for him ; that, by counsel, true affec-
tion, and friendly ministrations, he might have been saved to
himself and the world. But it seems dubious whether the richest,
wisest, most benevolent individual could have lent Burns any
effectual helj).
Counsel, — which seldom jn'ofits any one, — he did not need. In
his understanding, he knew the right from the wrong, as well per-
haps as any man ever did ; but the persuasion which would have
availed him, lies not so much in the head as in the heart, where no
argument or expostulation could have assisted much to implant it.
As to money, we do not believe that this was his essential want ;
or well see that any private man could have bestowed on him an
independent fortune, with much prospect of decisive advantage. It
is a mortifying truth, that two men, in any rank of society, can
hardly be found virtuous enough to give money, and to take it as a
necessary gift, without an injury to the moral entireness of one or
both. But so stands the fact : Friendship, in the old heroic sense
of the term, no longer exists ; it is in reality no longer expected, or
recognised as a virtue among men. A close observer of manners
has pronounced " patronage," — that is, pecuniary or economic
furtheraucc, — to be "twice cursed;" cursing him that gives, and
him that takes ! And thus, in regard to oiitward matters, it has
become the rule, as, in regard to inward, it always Avas and must
be the rule, that no one shall look for eficctual help to another ; but
that each shall rest coiitented with what help ho can afford himself.
Such is the principle of modern Honour ; naturally enough growing
out of the sentiment of Pride, which we inculcate and encourage as
the basis of our whole social morality.
Wo have already stated our doubts whether direct pecuniary
help, had it been offered, would have been accepted, or could have
proved very effectual. "We shall readily admit, liowever, that much
was to be clone for Burns ; that many a poisoned arrow might have
been warded from his bosom ; many an entanglement in his path
cut asunder by the hand of the powerful ; light and heat, shed on
him from high places, would have made his humble atmosjohere
more gonial ; and the softesi heart then breathing, might have lived
Und died with fewer pangs. Still we do not think that the blame
of Burns's failui-e lies chietly with the world. The world, it seems to
us, treated him with more, rather than with less kindness than it
usually shows to such men. It has ever, we fear, shown but sm.all
favour to its teachers : hunger and nakedness, perils and reviling,
the prison, the poison-chalice, the Cross, have, in most times and
countries, been the market-price it has offered for wisdom — the
welcome with which it has treated those who have come to enlighten
and purify it. Homer and Socrates, and the Christian Apostles,
belong to old days ; but the world's martyrology was not comjjleted
with these. Roger Bacon and Galileo languish in priestly dungeons ;
Tasso pines in the cell of a mad-house ; Camoens dies begging on
the streets of Lisbon. So neglected, so "persecuted they the
frophets," not ia Judea only, but iu all places where men have
Q
82 Miscellaneous Headings in Prose.
Lceu. Wo reckon that every poet of Burns's order i.s, or should be a
Prophet and Teacher to his age ; that he has no right to cxjiect
kindness, but rather is bound to doit; that Burns, in particular,
experienced fully the usual proportion of goodness ; and that the
blame of his failure, as we have said, lies not chiefly with the
world.
Where then does it lie ? We are forced to answer, with himself:
it is his inward, not his outward misfortunes, that bring him to the
dust. Seldom, indeed, is it otherwise; seldom is a life morally
wrecked, but the grand cause lies in some internal mal-arrangement,
■ — some want less of good fortune than of good guidance. Kature
fashions no creature without iinjilantiug in it the strength needful
for its action and duration ; least of all does she neglect her master-
piece and darling, the poetic soul ! Keither can we believe that it
is in the power of any external circumstances, utterly to ruin the
mind of a man ; nay — if proper \visdom be given him, — even so much
as to affect its essential health and beauty. The sternest sum-total
of all worldly misfortunes is Death ; nothing more can can lie in
the cup of human woe : yet many men, in all ages, have triumjihed
over death and led it cajitive ; converting its physical victory into a
moral victory for themselves — into a seal and immortal consecration
for all that their past life had achieved. What has been done may
be done again ; imy, it is but the degree, and not the kind, of suck
hei'oism, that differs in different seasons : for, without some portion
of this spirit, not of boisterous daring, but of silent fearlessness — of
SELF-DENIAL in all its forms, no great man, in any scene or time, has
ever attained to be good.
POETRY.
Dii. Chanxing.
[The Eov, William Ellory Chaimiug, D.D., was bom at Newport, Rhode Island,
IT..S., ill 1780. His gi-audfather was oue of those who sigued the Decluration
of Iiidopondcuce. He Avas educated at Harvard College aud iuteuded for the
juedical professiou, hut he abandoned the idea to prepare jiiniself for the Uui-
tariau miui.stry. His great eloquence soon reudert'd hiui oue of the most cou-
si)ieuous nieu in America; even tliose M'ho were most o])posed to his doctrine
admitted the force of his genius aud the fiuishcd elegance of his oratory. To
his great honour, during a long period when to denounce slavery in Auierii;ji
was to court unpopularit3% Chanuing was persistent in his opposition to the
pi'niicious system. Ho died Oct. 2ud, 1842.]
PotTiiY ! v/e believe that poetry, fur from injuring society, is one of
the great instruments of its refinement and exaltation. It lifts the
mind above ordinary life, gives it a respite from depressing cares,
and awakens the consciousness of its affinity with what is pure and
noble. Ill its legitimate and highest efforts, it has the f-ame ten-
dency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize our nature.
True, poetry has been made the instrument of vice, the ]iander of
bad i^assions ; but when genius thus stoops, it dims its lires, and
parts with muc^"> of its power; and even when j^oetry is enslaved to
Poetry. 83
jicentiousuess or misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true
vocation. Strains of pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of
innocent happiness, sympathies with suffering virtue, bursts of
scorn or indignation at the hollowness of the world, passages true
to our moral nature, often escape in an immoral work, and show us
]io\v hard it is for a gifted sjairit to divorce itself wholly from what
is good. Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. It
delights in the beauty and sublimity of the outward creation and of
the soul. It indeed jwrtrays, with terrible energy, the excesses of
the passions ; but they are passions which show a mighty nature,
which are full of power, which command awe, and excite a deep
though shuddering symiDathy. Its great tendency and j^urpose is,
to carry the mind above and beyond the beaten, dusty, weary walks
of ordinary life ; to lift it into a purer element ; and to breathe
into it more profound and generous emotion. It reveals to us the
loveliness of nature ; brings ])ack the freshness of eaidy feeling ; re-
vives the relish of sim))le pleasures ; keeps unquenched the enthu-
siasm which warmed the spring-time of our being; refines youthful
love ; strengthens our interest in liuman nature by vi^^d delinea-
tions of its tenderest and loftiest feelings ; spreads our sympathies
over all classes of society ; knits us by new ties with universal
being ; and through the Ijrightness of its j^rophetic \asions, helj^s
faith to lay hold on the future life. "We are aware that it is objected
to poetry, that it gives wrong views and excites false exiiectations
of life, peoples the mind with shadows and illusions, and builds up
imagination on the ruins of wisdom. That there is a wisdom,
against which poetry wars, the wisdom of the senses, which makes
physical comfort and gratification the supreme good, and wealth the
chief interest of hfe, we do not deny ; nor do we deem it the least
service which poetry renders to mankind, that it redeems them from
the thraldom of this earth-born prudence. But passing over this
topic, we Avould observe, that the complaint against poetry, as
abounding in illusion and decej^tion, is in the main groundless.
In many poems there is more of truth than in many histories and
philosophic tlieories. The fictions of genius are often the vehicles
of the sublimest verities, and its fiashes often ojjen new regions of
thought, and throw new light on the mysteries of our being. In
jDoetry when the letter is falsehood, the spirit is often profoundest
wisdom. And if truth thus dwells in the boldest fictions of the
poet, much more may it be expected in his delineations of life ; for the
present life, which is the first stage of the immortal mind, abounds
m the materials of poetry, and it is the high office of the bard to
detect this di\ane element among the grosser labours and pleasures
of our earthly being. The present life is not only prosaic, precise,
tame, and finite. To the gifted eye it abounds in the poetic. The
affections which spi'eadbeyondourselves and stretch far into futurity;
the workings of mighty passions, which seem to arm the soul with an
almost superhuman cnci-gy; the innocence and irrepressible joj^ of in-
fancy; the bloom, and buoyancy, and dazzling hopes of youth ; the.
throbbings of the heart, when it first wakes to love, and dreams of a
G 2
84 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
happiness too vast for earth ; woman, with her beauty, and grace,
and gentleness, and fuhiess of feeling, and depth of atiection, and
blushes of purity, and the tones and looks which only a mother's
heart can inspii-e ; — these are all poetical. It is not true that the
poet jDaints a life which does not exist. He only exti'acts and con-
centrates, as it were, hfe's ethereal essence, arrests and condenses
its volatile fragrance, brmgs together its scattered beauties, and
prolongs its more ref.ncd but evanescent joys. And in this he does
well ; for it is good to fe-^l that life is not wholly usurped by
cares for subsistence and i^hysical gratifications, but admits, in
measures which may be indefinitely enlarged, sentiments and de-
Hghts worthy of a higher Ijeing. This power of poetry to refine our
views of life and hajipiness, is more and moi'C needed as society ad-
vances. It is needed to withstand the encroachments of heartless
aid artificial manners, that make civilization so tame and unin-
teresting. It is needed to counteract the tendency of physical
science, which being now sought, not, as formerly, for intellectual
gratification, but for multiplying bodily comforts, requires a new
development of imagination, taste, and jioetiy, to preserve men
from sinking into an earthly, material, Epicurean life.
TITTLEBAT AT HOME.
S.\MIEL WaUKEX.
[Seep. 51.]
Crash went all his castle building at the sound of his tea-kettle,
hissing, whizzing, sputtering in the agonies of boiling over ; as if
the intolerable heat of tho fire had driven desperate the poor
creature placed upon it, who instinctively tried thus to extinguish
the cause of its anguish, lla-viug taken it off and placed it upon
the hob, and put on tho fire a tiny fragment of fresh coal, ho
began to make preparations for shaving, by pouring some of the
hot water into an old tea-cup, which was presently to servo for
the purposes of breakfast. Then ho si>rcad out a bit of crumpled
whity-brown paper, in which had been folded up a couple of cigars
bought overnight for tho Sunday's special enjoyment — and as to
which, if ho supposed they had come from any jdaco beyond the
four seas, I imagine him to have been slighth' mistaken. Ho
placed this bit of paper on tho little mantelpiece ; drew his solitary,
well-worn razor several times across the palm of his left hand ;
dipped his brush, worn within a third of an inch to the stump, into
[ho hot water ; presently passed it over so much of his face as ho
intended to shave; then rubbed on tho damp sm'fiico a bit of yellow
soap — and in less than five miiuites Mr. Titmouse was a shaved
man. But mark — don't suppose that he had ]>crformed an ex-
tensive operation. One would liavo thought him anxious to get
rid of as much as possible of his abominable sandy- coloured hair—
Tittlebat at Home. 85
quite the contrary. Every hair of his spreading whiskers was
sacred from the touch of steel ; and a bushy crop of hair stretched
underneath his chin, coining curled out on each side of it, above
his stock, like to little horns, or tusks. An imperial — i.e. a dirt-
coloured tuft of hair, permitted to grow perpendicularly down the
under-lip of pujipies — and a pair of promising moustaches, poor
Mr. Titmouse had been compelled to sacrifice some time before, to
the tyrannical whimsies of his vulgar employer, Mr. Tag-rag, who
imagined them not to be exactly suitable appendages for counter-
jumpers. So that it will bo seen that the space shaved over on this
occasion was somewhat circumscribed. This operation over, he
took out of his trunk an old dirty-looking pomatum pot. A little of
its contents, extracted on the tips of his two fore-fingers, he stroked
carefullj' into his eyebrows ; then spreading some on the palms of his
hands, ho rubbed it vigorously into his stubborn hair and whiskers
for some quarter of an hour ; and then combed and brushed his hair
into half a dozen different dispositions — so fastidious in that matter
was Mr. Titmouse. Then he dipped the end of a towel into a little
water, and twisting it round his right fore-finger, passed it gently
over his face, carefullj' avoiding his eyebrows, and the hair
at the top, sides, and bottom of his face, which ho then wiped
with a dry corner of the towel ; and no farther did Mr.
Tittlebat Titmouse think it necessary to carry his ablutions. Had
ho been able to " see himself as others saw him," in respect
of those neglected regions which lay somewhere behind and
beneath his cars, ho might not possibly have thought it super-
fluous to irrigate them with a little soap and water ; but, after
all, ho knew best ; it might have given him cold, and besides,
his hair was very thick and long behind, and might perhaps con-
ceal anything that was unsightly. Then Mr. Titmouse drew from
underneath tlio bed a bottle of Warren's " incomparable blacking,"
and a couple of brushes, with great labour and skill polishing his
boots up to a wonderful point of brilliancy. Having replaced his
blacking implements under the bod and washed his hands, he
devoted a few moments to boiling about three teaspoonfuls of
coffee (as it was styled on the paper from which he took, and in
which he had bought it — whereas it was, in fact, chiconj). Then
he drew forth from his trunk a calico shirt, with linen wristbands
and collars, which had been worn only twice since its last washing
— i.e. on the preceding two Sundays — and put it on, taking great
care not to rumple a very showy front, containing three little rows
of frills; in the middle one of which he stuck three "studs,"
connected together with two little gilt chains, looking exceedingly
stylish — especially coupled with a span-new satin stock, which he
next buckled round his neck. Having put on his bright boots
(without, I am sorry to say, anj' stockings), he carefully insinuated
his legs into a pair of white trousers, for the first time since their
last washing; and what with his short straps and high braces, they
were so tight that you would have feared their bursting if he
should have sat down hastily. I am almost afraid that I shall
86 Mlsctllaneous Readlags in Prose,
hardly be believed ; but it is a fact lliat the rext thing liQ did was
to attach a pair of spurs to his boots : — but, to bo sure, it was not
impossible that he might intend to ride during tho day. Then ho
put on a queer kind of under-waistcoat, which in fact was only a
roll-collar of rather faded pea-green silk, and designed to set ott: a
very fine flowei-ed damson-coloured silk waistcoat ; over which ho
drew a massive mosaic gold chain (to purchase which he had sold
a serviceable silver watch), which had been carefully wrapped up
in cotton-wool ; from which soft repository, also, he drew ins Eixc;
(those must have been sharp eyes which could tell, at a distance
and in a hurry, that it was not a diamond), which he placed on the
stumpy little finger of his red and thick right hand — and con-
templated its sparkle with exquisite satisfaction.
Having proceeded thus far with his toilet, he sat down to his
breakfast, spreading the shirt ho had taken off upon his laji, to
preserve his white trousers from spot or stain — his thoughts
alternating between his late waking vision and his purposes for
the day. He had no butter, having used the last on the preceding
morning ; so ho was fain to put up with dry bread, and very dry
and teeth-trying it was, poor lellow — but his eye lit on his ring I
Having swallowed two cups of his jHr/sZ-coffee (eugh ! such stuff !\
he resumed his toilet, by drawing out of his other trunk his blue
surtout, with embossed silk buttons and velvet collar, and an
outside pocket in the left breast. Having smoothed down a few
creases, he put it on : — then, before the little vulgar-fraction of a
glass, he stood twitching about the collar, and sleeves, and front, so
as to make them sit well ; concluding with a careftil elongation of
the wrist-bands of his shirt, so as to show their whiteness gracefully
beyond the cuff of his coat-sleeve — and ho succeeded in producing a
sort of white boundary line between the blue of his coat-sleeve and tho
red of his hand. At that useful member he could not help looking
with a sigh, as he had often done before — for it was not a handsome
hand. It was broad and red, and the fingers were thick and
stumpy, with very coarso deep wrinkles at every joint. His nails
also were flat and shapeless ; and he used to be continually
gnawing them till he had succeeded in getting them down to tho
quick — and they were a sight to set one's teeth on edge. Then ho
extracted from the first-mentioned trunk a white pocket hand-
kerchief — an exemi^larj' one that had gone through four Sundays'
show (not vse be it understood), and yet was capable of exhibition
again. A pair of sky-coloured kid gloves next made their appear-
ance : which, however, showed such bare-faced marks of former
service as rendered indispensable a ten minutes' rubbing with
bread-crumbs. His Sunday hat, carefully covered with silver-
paper, was next gently removed from its well-worn box — ah, how
lightly and delicately did he pas^ his smoothing hand round its
glossy surface ! Lastly, he took down a thin black cane, with a
gilt head, and full brown tassel, from a peg behind the door — and
his toilet was complete. Laying down his cane for a moment, ho
passed his hands again through his hair, arranging it so as to fall
Tittlebat at Home. 87
nicely on each side beneath his hat, which he then placed upon his
head with an elepmt inclination towards the left side. lie was
really not bad-looking, in spite of his sandy-coloured hair. His
forehead, to be sure, was contracted, and his eyes were of a very
light colour, and a tritle too protuberant ; but his mouth was
rather well-formed, and being seldom closed, exhibited very
beautiful tectli ; and his nose was of that description which
generally passes for a lloman nose. His countenance wore
generally a smile, and was expressive of — self-satisfaction: and
surcl}' any expression is bettor than none at all. As for there
being the slightest traco of infcUed in it, I should be misleading
the I'eader if I were to say anything of the sort. In height, he was
about five feet and a quarter of an inch in Jiis hoots, and he was rather
strongly set, with a little tendency to round shoulders : — but his
limbs were pliant and his motions nimble.
Hero you have, then, Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse to the life — certainly
no more than an average sample of his kind ; but as he is to go
through a considerable variety of situation and circumstance, I
thought you would like to have him as distinctly before your
mind's eye as it was in my power to present him. — Well — he i)ut
his hat on, as I have said ; buttoned the lowest two buttons of his
surtout, and stuck his white pocket handkerchief into the outside
pocket in front, as alreadj' mentioned, anxiously disposing it so as
to let a little of it appear above the edge of the pocket, with a
sort of careful carelessness — a graceful contrast to the blue ; drew
on his gloves ; took his cane in his hand ; drained the last sad
remnant of infusion of chicory in his coftoe-cup ; and the sun
shining in the full splendour of a July noon, and promising a
glorious day, forth sallied this poor fellow, an Oxford Street Adonis,
going forth conquering and to conquer ! Petty finery without, a
pinched and stinted stomach within : a case of Back veisus Belly (as
the lawyers would say), the plaintiff winning in a canter ! Forth
sallied, I say, Mr. Titmouse, as also sallied forth that day some
five or six thousand similar personages, down the narrow, creaking
close staircase, which he had not quitted before he heard exclaimed
from an opposite window, " My eyes, aiut that a swell ! " He felt
how true the observation was, and that at that moment he was
somewhat out of his element ; so he hurried on, and soon reached
the great broad street, apostrophized by the celebrated Opium-
Eater, with bitter feeling, as — "Oxford Street! — stony-hearted
step-mother ! Thou that listenest to the sighs of orphans, and
drinkest the tears of children ! " Here, though his spirits were not
just then very buoyant, our poor little dandy breathed more freely
than when ho was passing through the nasty crowded court
(Closet Court) which he had just quitted.
{Front " Tell TJiousaud a Year.'') ''
88 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
SOREOW FOR THE DEAD.
"Washington Irving.
[See p. 79.]
TtlE sniTOW for the dead is the only sorrow from which wo refuse
to bo divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other
■ affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep
open — this affliction we cherish and bi'ood over in solitude. Wliere
is the mother who would willingly forget tlie infant that perished
like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang?
Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of
parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Wlio, even in the
hour of agony, would forgot the friend over whom he mourns ?
Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her ho
most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the
closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be
bought by forgetfulness ? No, the love which siirAaves the tomb
is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it
has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelmijg burst of
grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; when the
sudden anguish and the convulsive agonj' over tlie ])resent ruins
of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation
on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out
such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a
passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper
sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even
for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a
voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance
of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living.
Oh, the grave I the grave I It buries every error — covers every
defect — extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom
spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can
look down upon the grave oven of an enemj' and not feel a com-
punctious throb, that ho should ever have warred with the handful
of earth that lies mouldering before him I
But the grave of those wo love — what a place for meditation !
There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of
rirtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon
us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy — then it
is we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of
the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs —
its noiseless attendants — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last
testimonies of expiring love I The feeble, fluttering, thrilling —
oh ! how thrilling— pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering
accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affec-
tion I The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us eyea
from the threshold of existence !
Character of Dr. Johnson. 89
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul,, or
a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if thou art
a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its
whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness
or thy truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in
thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in
thee — if thou art a lover, and hast ever given an iinmerited pang
to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; —
then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every
ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and
knocking dolefully at thy soul — then bo sure that thou wilt lie
down, sorrowing and repentant, on the grave, and utter the mi-
heard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter,
because unheard and unavailing.
CHARACTER OF DR. JOHNSON.
Lonn IIacavlay.
[Thomas Babington Macaulay was bom October 25th, 1800. In 1811 was
entered of Trinity College, Cambridge, took his degree of B.A. in 1822 ; became
a Fellow in 1824, and M.A. 1825. Meanwhile lie liad become a contributor to
Knight's Quarterly MnijHiinc. lu 182C he was called to the bar, and in 1830
entered rurliameut as number for Calnc.
After returning from India, where he had proceeded as legal adviser to the
Supremo Council of Calcutta, he joined the administration of Lord Melbourne
as Secretary at War, and in that of Lord John liussell was Paymaster of the
Forces. He was returned to Parliament for Edinburgh in 1830; but at the
election of 1847 he was unseated — only, however, to be returned without canvass
or solicitation in 1852. Hard work under high pressure told on the health of
the Hon. 'J'. P>. Macaulay, as it has done on many: he was compelled to with-
draw from Parliament in 185G, when (1857) he was elevated to the peerage as
Baron Macaulay. He died 1859.
Maeaulay's fame as a poet was first established in 1842, when he published
his "Lays of Ancient Rome." They are Homeric in tlieir minuteness, whilo
for narrative power they carry us along with them by the sheer force ani
rapidity of their incidents. Though homely in style, they are vigorous and
full of energy, like Scott's best ballads; above all, they are highly dramatic,
and among Uie liest in tlio lauguagt> for oral delivery. A number of brilliaut
Essays in the "Quarterly Peview " contributed to Pord iMaeaulay's reputation.
Of his great work, his "ilistoiy of England," Macaulay only lived to publish
four volumes — a fragment of the fifth being published after his death.]
At the time when Johnson commenced his literary career, a writer
had little to hope from the patronage of powerful individuals. The
patronage of the public did not yet furnish the means of comfortable
subsistence. The prices paid l)y booksellers to authors were so low
that a man of considerable talents and unremitting industry coiild
do little more than proWde for the day which was passing over him.
The lean kine had oaten up the fat kine. The thin and ^vithered
ears had devoured the good ears. The season of rich harvests was
over, and the period of famine had begun. All that is squalid and
miserable might now be summed up in the word Poet ! That '^.'ord
90' JJ idcellaneous Readings in.Ficse,
denoted a creature di-essed like a scarecrow, familiar with compters
and spmigiDg-liouses, and perfectly qualified to decide on the com-
parative merits of the Common Side in the King's Bench Prisou an 1
of Mount Scoundrel in the Fleet. Even the pooi-est pitied him, —
and they well might pity him ; for if their condition was equally
abject, their aspirings were not equally high, nor their sense of in-
sult equally acute. To lodge in a garret up four pair of stairs, to
dine in a cellar among footmen out of place, to translate ten hours
a day for the wages of a ditcuer, to be hunted by bailiffs from one
haunt of beggary and pestilence to another, from Grub Street to St.
George's Fields, and from St. George's Fields to the alleys behind St.
Martin's Church, to sleep on a Ijulk in June, and amidst the ashe.-;
of a glass-house in December, to die in an hospital and to be burieil
in a parish vault, was the fate of more than one writer, who, if hi
had lived thirty years earlier, would have been admitted to thi
sittings of the Kitcat or the Scriblorus Club — would have sat in
Earliament, and would have been entrusted with embassies to the
igh Allies ; who, if he had lived in our time, would have found
encouragement scarcely less muniticcnt in Albemarle Street or in
Paternoster Row.
As every climate has its peculiar diseases, so every walk of life
has its peculiar temptations. The lit^-rary character, assuredly, has
always had its share of faults — vanity, jealousy, morbid sensibility.
To these faults were now superadded the faults which are commonly
found in men whose livelihood is precarious, and whose principles
are exposed to the trial of severe distress. All the vices of the
gambler and of the beggar wore blended with those of the author.
The prizes in the wretched lottery of book-making were scarcely
less ruinous than the blanks. If good fortune came, it came in such
a manner that it was almost certain to be abuseil. After months
of starvation and despair, a fidl third-night or a well-received dedica-
tion filled the pocket of the lean, ragged, unwashed i^oet with
guineas. He hastened to enjoy those luxuries with the images of
which his mind had been haunted Avhile he was sleeping amidst
the cinders, and eating potatoes at the Irish ordinary in Shoe Lane.
A week of taverns soon qualified him for another year of night-
cellars. Such was the life of Savage, of Boyse, and of a crowd of
others. Sometimes blazing in gold-laced hats and waistcoats ; some-
times lying in bed because their coats had gone to pieces, or wearing
paper cravats because their linen was in pawn; sometimes drinking
Champagne and Tokay with Betty Careless; sometimes standing at
the window of an eating-house in Porridge Island, to snufF up the
scent of what they could not afford to taste. They knew luxury ;
they knew beggary ; but they never knew comfort. These men
Avere irreclaimable. They looked on a regular and frugal life with
the same aversion which an old gipsy or a ]Mohawk hunter feels for
a stationary abode, and for the restraints and securities of civilized
communities. They were as untameable, as much wedded to their
desolate freedom, as the wild ass. They cjuld no more be broken
Character of Dr. Johnson. 91
in to the offices of social man than the unicorn could be trained to
serve and abide by the crib. It was well if they did not, like beasts
of a still fiercer race, tear the hands which ministered to their neces-
Bities. To assist them was impossible ; and the most benevolent of
mankind at length became weary of giving relief which was dissipated
with the wildest profusion as soon as it had been received. If a
sum was bestowed on the wretched adventurer, such as, properly
husbanded, might have supplied him for six months, it was instantly
spent in strange freaks of sensualit}^ ; and, before forty-eight hours
had elapsed, the poet was again pestering all his acquaintances for
twopence to get a plate of shin of beef at a subterraneous cookshop.
If his friends gave him an asylum in their houses, those houses were
forthwith turned into taverns. All order was destro^-ed; all business
was suspended. The most good-natured host began to rejient of
his eagerness to serve a man of genius in distress when he heard his
guest roaring for fresh ^^unch at five o'clock in the morning.
A few eminent writers were more fortunate. Pope had been
raised above poverty by the active patronage which, in his youth,
both the great political parties had extended to his Homer. Young
had received the only pension ever bestowed, to the best of our re-
collection, by Sir Kobert "Waljwle, as the reward of mere literary
merit. One or two of the many poets who attached themselves to
the opposition — Thomson in particular, and Mallet — obtained, after
much severe suffering, the means of subsistence from their political
friends. Richardson, like a man of sense, kept liis shop ; and his
shop kept him, whicli his novels, admirable as they are, would
scarcely nave done. 15ut nothing could be more deplorable than
the state even of the ablest men who at that time depended for sub-
sistence on their writings. Johnson, Collins, Fielding, and Thom-
son were certainly four of the most distinguished persons that
England produced during the eighteenth century. It is well known
that they were all four arrested for del)t.
Into calamities and difficulties sucli as these Johnson plunged
in his twenty-eighth year. From that time, till he was three or
four and fitty, we have little intbrmation respecting him ; little, we
mean, compared with the full and accurate information which we
possess respecting his proceedings and habits towards the close
of his life. He emerged at length from cocklofts and sixpenny
ordinaries into the society of the polished and the opulent. His
fame was established. A pension sufficient for his wants had been
conferred on him ; and he came forth to astonish a generation
with which he had almost as little in common as with Frenchmen
or Spaniards.
In his early years he had occasionally seen the great ; but he had
seen them as a beggar. He now came among them as a companion.
The demand for amusement and instniction had, during the course
of twenty years, been gradually increasing. The price of literary
labour had risen; and those rising men of letters with whom John-
son was henceforth to associate, were for the most part persons
widely different from those who had walked about with him all
92 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
night in the streets for want of a lodging. Burke, Robertson, tho
Wartons, Gray, Mason, Gibbon, Adam Smith, Bcattie, Sir William
Jones, Goldsmith, and Churchill were the most distinguished writers
of what may be called the second generation of the J ohnsonian age.
Of these men, Churchill was the only one in whom we can trace the
stronger lineaments of that character which, when Johnson lirst
came up to London, was common among authors. Of the rest,
scarcely any had felt the pres.^ure of severe poverty. Almost all had
been early admitted into the most respectable society on an equal
footing. They were men of quite a dift'erent species from the de-
pendents of Curll and Osborne.
Johnson came among them the solitary specimen of a past age —
the last survivor of the genuine race of Grub Street hacks ; the last
of that generation of authors whose abject misery and whose disso-
lute manners had furnished inexhaustible matter Id the satirical
genius of Pope. From nature he liad received an uncouth figure, a
diseased constitution, and an irritable temper. The manner in
which the earlier years of his manhood had Ijcen passed liatl given
to his demeanour, and even to his moral character, some peculiari-
ties appalling to the civilized beings who were the companions of
his old age. The perverse irregularity of his hours, the slovenliness
of his person, his fits of strenuous exertion, interrupted Ijy long
intervals of sluggishness, his strange abstinence, and his equally
strange voracity, his active benevolence, contrasted with the con-
stant rudeness and the occasional ferocity of his manners in society,
made him, in the opinion of those with whom he lived during the
last twenty years of his life, a complete original. An original he
was, undoubtedly, in some resjiects. But if we possessed full infor-
mation concerning those who shared his early hardships, we should
probably find that what we call his singularities of manner were, for
the most part, failings which he had in common with the class to
which he belonged. He ate at Streatham Park as he had been
used to eat behind the screen at St. John's Gate, when he was
ashamed to show his ragged clothes. He ate as it was natural that
a man should eat, who, during a great part of his life, had passetj
the morning in doubt whether he should have food for the after-
noon. The habits of his early life had accustomed him to bear
privation with fortitude, but not to taste pleasure with moderation.
He could fast ; but when he did not fast, he tore his dinner like a
famished wolf, with the veins swelling on his forehead, and the per-
si)iratioii running down his cheeks. He scj:.rcely ever took wine,
but when he drank it. he drank it greedily and in large tumblers.
These were, in fact, mitigated symptoms of that same moral disease
which raged with such deadly malignity in his friends Savage and
Boyse. The roughness and violence which he showed in society
were to be expected from a man whose tem])er, not naturally gentle,
had been long tried by the bitterest calamities, by the want of
meat, of tire, and of clothes, by the importunity of creditors, by the
insolence of patrons, by that bread which is the bitterest of allfood,
by those stairs which are the most toilsome of all jiaths, bv that
On the Study of Latin and GreeJc. 93
deferred hope which makes the heart sick. Through all these
things the ill-dressed, coarse, ungainly pedant had struggled man-
fully up to eminence and command. It was natural that, in the
exercise of his power, he should be the more austere because he
had himself endured, that, though his heart was undoubtedly gene-
rous and humane, his demeanour in society should be harsh and
despotic. For severe distress he had sympathy, and not only
symnathy, Imt munificent relief. But for the suffering which "a
liarsli word iuHicts upon a delicate mind he had no 2)ity ; for it was
a kind of suffering which he could scarcely conceive. He would
carry home on his shoulders a sick and starving girl from the
streets. He turned his house into a place of refuge for a crowd of
wretched old creatures who could find no other asylum ; nor could
all their peevishness and ingratitude weary out his benevolence.
But the ])angs of a wounded vanity seemed to him ridiculous ; and
he scarcely felt sufficient compassion even for the pangs of wounded
affection. He had seen and felt so much of sharp misery, that he
was not affected by paltry vexations ; and he seemed to think that
everybody ought to be as much hardened to these vexations as
liimself He was angry with Boswell for complaining of a head-
ache, with ;Mrs. Thrale for grumbUng about the dust on the road, or
the smell of the kitchen. These were, in his phrase, "fojDpish
lamentations," which people ought to be ashamed to utter m a
world so full of sin and sorrow. Goldsmith crying because the
" Good-natured Man " had failed, insjiired him with no pity.
Though his own health was not good, he detested and despised
valetudinarians. Pecuniary losses, unless they reduced the loser
absolutely to beggary, moved him ver_y little. People whose hearts
had been softened by prosperity might weep, he said, for such
events ; but all that could be expected of a plain man was not to
laugh. He was not much moved even by the spectacle of Lady
Tavistock dying of a broken heart for the loss of her lord. Such
grief he considered as a luxiiry resented for the idle and the wealthy.
A washerwoman, left a widow with nine small children, would not
have sobbed herself to death.
ON THE STUDY OF LATIN AND GEEEK.
Sydney SMrm.
[Sydney Smith was born in 1768 at Woodford, in Essex, and educated at
Winchester School and New College, Oxford. In conjunction with Jeffrey
and Brougham he founded the "Edinburgh E- view," the first number of which
ke edited, and to which he long remained a powerful contributor. His " Letters
of Peter PljTiiley " effectually aided the cause of Catholic EmanciiDation. Id
1827 ho was made a Canon of Bristol Cathedral, and four years afterwarda
Canon residentiary of St. Paul's. He had the reputation of being the most
witty ^\Titer in the language. — Died, 184o.]
Latin and Greek are useful, as they inure children to intellectual
difficulties, and make the life of a young student what it ought to
be, a life of considerable labour. "We do not, of course, mean t€
94 Miscellaneous Readings in Frooc.
confine this praise exclusively to the study of Latin and Greek, or
to suppose that other difficulties might not be found which it would
be useful to overcome ; but though Latin and Greek have this merit
in common with many arts and sciences, still they have it ; and, if
they do nothing else, they at least secure a solid and vigorous
appUcation at a period of life which materially intiuences all other
periods. To go through the grammar of one language thoroughly
is of great use for the mastery of every other grammar ; because \
there obtains, through all L'.nguages, a certain analogy to each other
in their grammatical construction. Latin and Greek have now
mixed themselves etymologically with all the languages of Modern j
Europe, and with none more than our own ; so that it is necessary \
to read these two tongues for other objects than themselves. _
The two ancient languages are, as mere inventions — as i)ieces o\ j
mechanism — incomparably more beautiful than any of the modern '
languages of Europe; their mode of signifying time and case by ij
terminations, instead of auxiliary verbs and 2)articles, would uf itself |i
stamp their superiority. Add to this, the copiousness of the Greek
language, with the fancy, harmony, and majesty of its compounds ;
and there are cpiite sufficient reasons why the classics should be
studied for the beauties of language. Compared to them merely
as vehicles of thought iind passion, all modern languages arc dull,
ill-contrived, and barbarous.
That a great i)art of the Scriptures have come down to us in the i
Greek langiiage is of itself a reason, if all others were wanting, why '
education should be i)lanned so as to jn-oducc a supply of Greek I
scholars. ^ I
The cultivation of style is veiy justly made a part of education. ']
Everything which is written is meant either to please or to instruct. |
The second object it is difficult to effect without attending to the
first ; and the cultivation of style is the acquisition of those rules
and literary habits which sagacity anticipates, or exjierience shows '
to be the most effiictual means of pleasing. Those works are the
best which have longest stood the test of time, and pleased the !
gi'eatest number of exercised minds. Whatever, therefore, our
conjectures may be, we cannot be so sure that the best modern
writers can aftbrd us as good models as the ancients ; wc cannot be
certain that they will live through the revolutions of the world, and
continue to please in every climate, under every species of govern-
ment, through every stage of civilization. The moderns have been
well taught by their masters ; but the'time is hardly yet come when
the necessity for such instruction no longer exists. "We may still
borrow descriptive power from Tacitus ; dignified perspicuity from
Livy ; simphcity from Caisar : and from Homer some portion of
that light and heat which, dispersed into ten thousand channels,
has filled the world with bright images and illustrious thoughts.
Let the cultivator of modern literature addict himself to the ]->uresl
models of taste which France, Italy, and England could sujjply, he
might still learn from Virgil to be majestic, and from Tibullua to
be tender; he might not y€t look upon the face of nature as
Sliahhy-Gtntcd People. 95
Theocritus saw it, nor might he reach those springs of pathos with
•which Euripides softened the hearts of his audience. In short, it
appears to ns, that there are so mauj' excellent reasons why a
certain number of scholars should be kejit up in this and in every
ci\'ilized country, that we should consider every system of education
from which classical education was excluded, as radically erroneous
and completely absui'd.
SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE.
Chakles Dickens.
[See p. 42.]
There are certain descri]itions of people who, oddly enough,
appear to appertain exclusively to the metropolis. You meet them
every day in the streets of London, but no one ever encounters
them elsewhere; thej' seem indigenous to the soil, and to belong
as cxclusivelj^ to London as its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and
mortal'. Wo could illustrate the remark by a varietj' of examples,
but, in our present sketch, we will only advert to one class as a
specimen — that class which is so aj^tly and expressively designated
as " shabby-genteel."
Wo will endeavour to explain our conception of the term which
forms the title of this paper. If you meet a man lounging up
iJrury Lane, or leaning with his back against a post in Long Acre,
with his hands in the pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully
besprinkled with grease-spots : tho trousers made very full over
the boots, and ornamented with two cords down the outside of each
log — wearing, also, what has been a brown coat with bright
buttons, and a hat very much pinched up at tho sides, cocked over
his right eye — don't pity him. He is not shabby-genteel. The
"harmonic meetings" at some fourth-rate public-house, or tho
purlieus of a private theatre, are his chosen haunts ; ho entertains
a rooted antijiathy to any kind of work, and is on familiar tei'ms
with several pantomime men at the largo houses. But, if you see
hurrying along a by-street, keeping as closo as he can to the area
railings, a man of about forty or fiftj', clad in an old rusty suit of
threadbare black cloth which shines with constant wear as if it had
been bees'- waxed — tho trousers tightly strapped down, partly for
, the look of tho thing, and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping
, off at tho heels, — if you observe, too, that his yellowish-white
' ncckei'chief is carefulh' pinned up, to conceal the tattered garment
underneath, and that his hands are encased in the remains of
an old pair of beaver gloves, you may set him down as a shabby-
genteel man. A glance at that depressed face, and timorous air of
conscious poverty, will niako your heart ache — always supposing
that you are neither a i)hilosopber nor a political economist.
We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man ; he was bodily
present to our senses all day, and he was in our mind's eye all
96 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
night. The man of whom Sir "Walter Scott speaks in his Demon-
ology did not suffer half the persecution from his imaginary gentle-
man-usher in black velvet, that -sve sustained from our friend in
quondam black cloth. He first attracted our notice by sitting
opposite to us in the reading-room at the British Museum ; and
what made the man more remarkable was, that he always had be-
fore him a coujile of shabby-genteel books — tT\'o old dogs'-eared
folios, in mouldy worm-eaten covers, which had once been smart.
He was in his chair, every morning, just as the clock struck ten ;
he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon ; and,
when he did, he quitted it with the air of a man who knew not
where else to go for warmth and quiet. There ho used to sit all
day, as close to the table as possible, in order to conceal the lack of
buttons on his coat : with his old hat carefully deposited at his
feet, where he evidently flattered himself it escaped observation.
About two o'clock, 5'ou would see him munching a French roll or
a penny loaf; not taking it boldly out of his pocket at once, like a
man who knew ho was only making a lunch; but breaking off
little bits in his pocket, and eating them by stealth. He knew too
well it was his dinner.
When we first saw this poor object, we thought it quite impos-
sible that his attire could ever become worse. We even went so far
as to speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a
decent second-hand suit. We knew nothing about the matter ; he
grew more and more shabby-genteel eveiy daj-. The buttons
dropped off his waistcoat, one by one ; then, he buttoned his coat;
and, when one side of the coat was reduced to the same condition
as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over on the other side. Ho looked
somewhat better at the beginning of the week than at the conclu-
sion, because the neckerchief, though yellow, was not quite so
dingy ; and, in the midst of all this wretchedness, ho never ap-
peared without gloves and straps. He remained in this state for a
week or two. At length, one of the buttons on the back of tho coat
fell off, and then the maa himself disappeared, and we thought he
was dead.
We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disap-
pearance, and, as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly
fell into a train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from
public life. We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or
thrown himself off a bridge — whether he really was dead, or had
only been arrested — when our conjectures were suddenly set at
rest by the entrj* of the man himself. He had undergone some
strange metamorphosis, and walked up tho centre of the room with
an air which showed he was fully conscious of the improvement in
his appearance. It was very odd. His clothes were a fine, deep
glossy black ; and yet they looked like the same suit ; nay, there
were the very darns with which old acquaintance had mado
us familiar. The hat, too — nobody could mistake the shape of that
hat, with its high crown graduallj- increasing in circumference
to-wards the top. Long service had imparted toit a reddish- brown
^hahhy-Genteel Peoije. 97
tint ; but no-^, it was as black as the coat. The truth flashed sud-
denly upon us — they had been " revived." It is a deceitful liquid,
that black and blue revivf r ; we have vratched its effects on many
a shabby-genteel man. It betrays its victims into a tempoiaiy
assumption of importance ; possibly into the pui'chase of a new jxaii-
cf gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other trifling article of dress.
It elevates their spirits for a week, onlj"to depress them, if possible,
below their original level. It was so in this case ; the transient
digiiitj' of the unhappy man decreased, in exact proportion as the
"revivor" woro oi^. The knees of the unmentionables, and tho
clbijws of the coat, and the seams geneially, soon began to get
alarmingly white. The hat was onco more deposited under the
tulil'^ and itr owner crept into his scat as quietly as ever.
Tliero was a week of incessant small rain and mist. At its
expiration the "reviver" had entirely vanishf;d, and the shabby-
genteel man never afterwards attempted to effect any improvement
111 his outward appearance.
It would bo ditiicult to name any particular part of town as Iho
principal resort of shabbj'-gonteel men. '\^'e have met a great
many persons of this description in the neighbourhood of the inns
of court. They may be met with, in Ilolborn, between eight and
ten any morning; and whoever has the curiosity to enter the
Insolvent Debtors' Court will observe, both among spectators and
practitioners, a great variety of them. We never went on 'Change,
by any chance, without seeing* some ehabbj'-gcnteel men, and we
have often wondered what earthly business they can have there.
They will sit there for hours, leaning on gieat, dropsical, mildewed
umbrellas, or eating Abernethy biscuits. Nobody speaks to ihem,
nor they to any one. On consideration, we remember to have
occasionally seen two shabbj' -genteel men conversing together on
'Change, but our experience assures us that this is an luicommon
circumstance, occasioned by the, oft'er of a pinch of snufl', or some
such civility.
It would be a task of equal difficulty either to assign any par-
ticular sjwt for the residence of these beings, or to endeavour to
enumerate their general occupations. "We were never engngcd in
business with more than one- shabby-genteel man ; and he was a
drujiken engraver, and lived in a damp back-parlour in a new row
cf houses at Camden Town, half street, half brick-field, somewhero
near the canal. A shabby- genteel man may have no occupation,
or ho may be a corn agent, or a coal ogrnt, or a wine agent, or a
collector of debts, or a broker's assistant, or a broken-down
attorney. He maj' be a clerk of the lowest description, or a con-
tributor to the press of the same grade. Whether our readers
have noticed these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we
know not ; this we know — that the miserably poor man (no matter
whether he owes his distresses to his own conduct, or that of
others) who feels his poverty, and vainlj' strives to conceal it, is
one of the most pitiable objects in human nature. Such objects,
"with few exceptions, are shabby-genteel people.
H
98 2Iiscellaneous Readings in Prose.
CEUELTY TO ANIMALS.
Dk. Chaljiers.
I The liev. Dr. Thomas Chalmers was born at Austnithcr, iu Fifo, 1780. Iln
was educated at St. Andrew's University, of which coUege he obtained thb
chair of moral philosophy iu 1824. In 1828 he was removed to the chair of
tlioolof!;y in the University of Edinburirh, where he died suddenly m the spnng
of 1817. His works, published during his lifetime, in twenty-five vols., em-
brace a wide range of subjects, chiefly relating to theology and political
economy. His posthumous works, in nine vols., comprise his " Daily Scripture
Headings," &c. &c.]
Man is the direct agent of a wide and continual distress to the
lower animals ; and the question is, " Can any method be devised for
its alleviation ?" On this subject that Scrii)tural image is strikingly
realized: "the whole inferior creation groaning and travailing
together in pain" because of him. It signihes not to the substantive
amount of the suffering, whether this be prompted by the hardness of
his heart, or only pennitted through the heedlessness of his mind.
In either Avay it holds true, not onlv that the arch-devourer Man
stands pre-eminent over the fiercest children of the wilderness as an
animal of prey, biit that for his lordly and luxurious a]>petite, as
well as for his service or merest curiosity and amusement, nature
must be ransacked throughout all her elements. Rather than forego
the veriest gratifications of vanity, he will wring them from tlie
anguish of wretched and ill-fated creatures; and whether for the
indulgence of his baroaric sensuality or barbaric splendour, can
stalk paramount over the sufferings of that prostrate creation which
has been placed beneath his feet. That beauteous domain, whereof
he has been constituted the terrestrial sovereign, gives out so many
lihssful and benignant asjiects ; and whether we look to its peaceful
lakes, or to its flowery landscapes, or its evening skies, or to all that
soft attire which overspreads the hills and the valleys, lighted up
by smiles of sweete.st sunshine, and where animals disport them-
selves in all the exuberance of gaiety, — this surely were a moix
befitting scene for the rule of clemency than for the iron rod of a
murderous and remorseless tyrant. But the present is a mysterious'
world wherein we dwell. It still bears much upon its materialism
of the impress of Paradise. But a breath from the air of Pande-
monium has gone over its living generations ; and so "the fear of
man and the dread of man is now upon every beast of the earth,
and upon every fowl of the air, and upon all that moveth \ipon the
earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea ; into man's hands are they
delivei'ed : every moving thing that liveth is moat for him ; yea,
even as the green herbs, there have been given to him all things."
Such is the extent of his jurisdiction, and with most full and
wanton licence has he revelled among its privileges. The whole
earth labours and is in violence because of his cruelties ; and from
the am]ihitheatre of sentient nature, there sounds in fancy's ear
Cruelty to Animals. 93
ciie bleat of one wide and universal suffering, a di-eadful homage to
the power of nature's constituted lord.
These sufferings are really felt. The beasts of the field ara not so
many automata Avithout sensation, and just so constructed as to give
forth all the natural expressions of it. Xature hath not practised
this universal deception iipon our species. These poor animals just
look, and tremble, and give forth the very indications of suffering
that we do. Theirs is the distinct cry of pain. Theirs is the un-
equivocal physiognomy of pain. They put on the same aspect of
terror on the demonstrations of a menaced blow. They exhibit the
same distortions of agony after the infliction of it. The bruise,
or the burn, or the fracture, or the deej) incision, or the fierce en-
Dounter with one of ecjual or superior sti-ength, just affects them
(iimilarly to ourselves. Their blood circulates as ours. They have
pulsations in various parts of the body like ours. They sicken, and
they grow feeble with age, and finally, they die, just as we do.
They possess the same feelings ; and, what exposes them to like
sufi'erings from another quarter, they possess the same instincts with
our own species. The lioness robbed of her whelps causes the wil-
derness to ring aloud with the proclamation of her wrongs ; or the
bird whose little household has been stolen fills and saddens all tho
grove with melodies of deepest pathos. All this is palpable even ta
the general and unlearned eye ; and when the physiologist lays open
the recesses of their system, by means of that scalpel under whose
operation they just shrink and are convulsed as any li\-ing subject
of our own species, there stands forth to view the same sentient
apparatus, and furnished with the same conductors for the trans-
mission of feeling to every minutest ]>ore upon the surface. Theirs
is unmixed and unmitigated pain, the agonies of martyrdom with-
out the alleviation of the hopes and the sentiments whereof they
are incapable. "When they lay them down to die, their only fellow-
ship is with suffering ; for in tlie i")rison-house of their beset and
bounded faculties, there can no relief be afforded by communion vn'dx
other interests or other things. The attention does not lighten their
distress as it does that of man, by carrjang off his spirit from that
existing pungency and pressure which might else be ovei'whelming.
There is but room in their mysterious economy for one inmate,— and
that is, the absorbing sense of their own single and concentrated
anguish. And so in that bed of tonnent whereon the wounded
animal lingers and expires, there is an unexplored dejjth and
intensity of suffering which the poor dumb animal itself cannot tell,
and against which it can offer no remonstrance— an untold and
unknown amount of wretchedness of which no artjculatf "oicc gives
utterance.
100 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
ACCOMPANIED OX THE ELUTE ; A TALE OF i
ANCIENT EOME.
F. AXSTEY. I
[Mr. Anstcy may be justly regarded as the Edmond About of Englisli litcra- i
tui'e. His stories "are ingenious, clever, and cntertainin:^ ; his success in his
particular department of letters being due to the fact that he has done for fiction
■what burlesque writers have done for the drama. " Vice- Versa," "The Tinted J
Venus," "The Giant's llobe," and "The Black roodle," may be cited as his |
most remarkable works.] i
The Consul Duilius was entertaining Eomo in triumph after Lis '
celebrated defeat of the Carthaginian fleet at Mylre. lie had won
a great naval victory for his country with the first fleet that it ha I
ever possessed — which was naturall}- a gratifying reflection, and lio .,
would have been perfectly happy now if he had only been a little
more comfortable.
But he was standing in an extremely ricketj'' chariot, which was
crammed with his nearer relations, and a few old friends, to whom "
he had been obliged to send tickets. At his back stood a slave, u
who held a heavy Etruscan crown on the Consul's head, andji
whenever he thought his master was growing conceited threw in ■
the reminder that he was only a man after all — a libei'ty which at j
any other time he might have had good reason to regret.
Then the large Delphic wreath, which Duilius wore as well as
the crown, had slipped down over one eye, and was tickling his '
nose, while (as both his hands were occupied, one with a sceptre, '
the other with a laurel bough, and ho had to hold on tightly to I
the rail of the chariot whenever it jolted) there was nothing to do f,
but suffer in silence.
They had insisted, too, upon painting him a beautiful bright red
all over, and though it made him look quite new, and very shining
and splendid, he had his doubts at times whether it was altogether
becoming, and particularly whether he would ever be able to get
it off again. |
But these were but trifles after all, and nothing compared with '
the honour and glorv of it ! Was not everybody straining to get
a glimpse of him ? Did not even the spotted and skittish horsea
which drew the chariot repeatedly turn round to gaze upon his
vei-milioned features ? As Duilius remarked this ho felt that he
was, indeed, the central personage in all this magnificence, and
that, on the whole, he liked it.
He could see the beaks of the ships he had captured bobbing up
and down in the middle distance; ho could see the white bulls
destined for sacrifice entering completely into the spirit of the i
thing, and redeeming the procession from any monotony bj' occa- ■
sionally bolting down a back street, or tossing on their gilded :
horns some of the flamcus who were walking solcmulj' in front I
Of them. ' I
AccoTiipanied on the Flute. 101
He could hear, too, above fire distinct brass bands, the remarks
of his friends as they predicted rain, or expressed a pained surprise
at the smallness of the crowd and the absence of any genuine
enthusiasm ; and he caught the general purport of the very
oifensive ribaldrj' circulated at his own expense among the brave
legions that brought up the rear.
This was merely the usual course of things on such occasions,
and a great compliment when properly understood, and Duilius
felt it to be so. In spite of his friends, the red paint, and the
familiar slave, in spite of the extreme heat of the weather and his
itching nose, ho told himself that this, and this alone, was worth
living for.
And it was a painful reflection to him that, after all, it would
onlj' last a day ; ho could not go on triumphing like this for the
remainder of his natural life — he would not be able to afford it on
his moderato income ; and yet — and yet — existence would fall
woefully flat after so much excitement.
It may be supposed that Duilius was naturally fond of ostenta-
tion and notoriety, but this was far from being tho case ; on the
contrary, at ordinarj- times his disiwsilion was retiring and almost
shj', but his sudden success had worked a temporary change in
him, and in the verj' flush of triumph he found himself sighing to
think, that in all human probability he would never go about with
trumpeters and trophies, -w ith flute-players and white oxen, any
more in his whole life.
And then ho reached tho Porte Triumphalis, where the chief
magistrates and the Senate awaited them, all seated upon spirited
Eoman-nosed chargers, which showed a lively emotion at the
approach of the procession, and caused most of their riders to
dismount with as much aflectation of method and design as their
dignity enjoined and the nature of the occasion permitted.
'.fhere Duilius was presented with the freedom of the city and an
address, which last he put in his pocket, as ho explained, to read
at home.
And then an .3]dile informed him in a speech, dtiring which he
twice lost his notes, and had to be prompted by a lictor, that the
grateful Ecpublic, taking into consideration the Consul's dis-
tinguished services, had resolved to disregard expense, and on that
auspicious day to give him whatever reward he might choose to
demand — "in reason," the ^dile added cautiously, as he quitted
his saddle with an unexpectedness which scarcely seemed in-
tentional.
Duilius was naturally a little overwhelmed by such liberality,
and, like every one else favoured suddenly with such an oppor-
tunit J', was quite incapable of taking complete advantage of it.
For a time ho really could not remember in his confusion any-
thing he would care for at all, and he thought it might look mean
to ask lor monej\
At last ho recalled his yearning for a Perpetual Triumph, but
his natural modesty made him moderate, and he could not find
102 Miscellaneous Headings in Prose.
courage to ask for more than a fraction of the glory that now
attended him.
So, not without some hesitation, he replied that they were
exceedingly kind, and since they left it entirely to his discretion,
he would like — if they had no objection — he would like a flute-player
to attend him whenever he went out.
Duilius very nearly asked for a white bull as well ; but, on
second thoughts, he felt it might lead to inconvenience, and there
were many difficulties connected with the proper management of
such an animal. The Consul, from what he had seen that day,
felt that it would be im^irudent to trust himself in front of the bull,
while, if he walked behind, he might be mistaken for a cattle-
driver, which would bo odious. And so he gave up that idea, and
contented himself with a simple flute-player.
The Senate, visibly relieved by so unassuming a request, granted
it with positive effusion ; Duilius was invited to select his
musician, and chose the biggest, after which the procession moved
on through the arch and up the Capitoliue Hill, while the Consul
had time to remember things he would have liked even better
than a flute-player, and to suspect dimly that he might have made
rather an ass of himself.
» * • • •
That night Duilius was entertained at a supper given at the
public expense ; he went out with the proud resolve to show his
sense of the compliment paid him by scaling the giddiest heights of
intoxication. The Romans of that day only drank wine and water
at their festivals, but it is astonishing how inebriated a person of
powerful will can become, even on wine and water, if he only gives
his mind to it. And Duilius, being a man of remarkr.ble deter-
mination, returned from that hospitable board particularly drunk ;
the flute-player saw him home, however, helped him to bed,
tliough he could not induce him to take off his sandals, and lulled
him to a heavy slumber by a selection from the popular airs of
the time.
So that the Consul, although he awoke late next day with a bad
headache and a perception of the vanity of most things, still found
reason to congratulate himself upon his forethought in securing so
invaluable an attendant, and planned, rather hopefully, sundry
little ways of making him useful about the house.
As the subs^equent hi.-^tory of this great naval commander is
examined with the impartiality that becomes the historian, it is im-
possible to be blind to the melancholy fact that in the first flush of
his elation Duilius behaved with an utter want of tact and taste
that must have gone far to undermine his popularity, and proved
a source of much gratification to his friends.
lie would use that flute-player everywhere — he overdid the thing
altogether : for example, he used to go out to pay formal calls, and
leave the flute-player in the hall tootling to such an extent that at
last his acquaintances were forced in self-defence to deny them-
selves to him.
AecomiKLnied on the Flute. 103
When lie attended worshiiD at the temples, too, he would bring
the flute-player with him, on the flimsy pretext that he could
assist the choir during service ; and it was the same at the theatres,
where Duilius — such was his arrogance — actually would not take a
box unless the manager admitted the flute-player to the orchestra
and guaranteed him at least one solo between the acts.
And it was the Consul's constant habit to strut about the Forum
with his musician executing marches behind him, until the spec-
tacle became so utterly ridiculous that even the Eomans of that age,
who were as free from the slightest taint of humour as a self-
respecting nation can possibly be, began to notice something
peculiar.
But the day of retribution dawned at last. Duilius worked tha
flute so incessantly that the musician's stock of airs was very soon
exhausted, and then he was natui'ally obliged to blow them through
once more.
The excellent Consul had not a fine ear, but even he began to
hail the fiftieth repetition of " Pugnare nolumus," for instance —
tlio great national peace anthem of the period — with the feeling
that he had heard the same tune at least twice before, and pre-
ferred something sHghtly fresher, while others had taken a much
shorter time in arriving at the same conclusion.
The elder Duilius, the Consul's father, was perhaps the most
annoyed by it ; he was a nice old man in his way — the glass and
china way — but he was a typical old Roman, with a manly con-
tempt for pomp, vanity, music, and the fine arts generally. 80 that
his son's flute-player, performing all day in the courtyard, drove
the old gentleman nearly mad, until he would rush to the windows
and hurl the lighter articles of fainiture at the head of the per-
sistent musician, who, however, after dodging them with dexterity,
att'ected to treat them as a recognition of his efforts and carried
them away gratefully to sell.
Duilius senior would have smashed the flute, only it was never
laid aside for a single instant, even at meals ; he would have made
the player drunk and incapable, but he was a member of iho Maims
Hpei, and he would with cheerfulness have given him a heavy bribe
to go away, if the honest fellow had not proved absolutely in-
corruptible.
So he would only sit down and swear, and then relieve his feel-
ings by giving his son a severe thrashing, with threats to sell him
for whatever he might fetch ; for, in the curious conditions of
ancient Eoman society, a father possessed both these rights, how-
ever his ortspring might have distinguished himself in public
life.
Naturally, Duilius did not like the idea of being put up to auc-
tion, and he began to feel that it was slightly undignified for a
Roman general who had won a naval victory and been awarded a
first-class Triumph to be undergoing corporeal punishment daily at
the hands of an unflinching parent, and accordingly he determined
to go and expostulate with his flute- player.
104 Mlscdlaneous Readings in Prose.
He was beginning to find him a nuisance himself, for all his old
shy reserve and unwillingness to attract attention had returned to
hiin ; he was fond of solitude, and yet he could never be alone ; ho
was weary of doing everything to slow music, like the bold, bad
man in a melodrama.
He could not even go across the street to purchase a postage -
stamp without the flute-player coming stalking out after him,
playing away like a public fountain ; while, owing to the well-
known su-^ceptibility of a rabble to the charm of music, the dis-
gusted Consul had to take his -walks abroad at the head of Rome's
choicest scum.
Duilius, with a lively recollection of these inconveniences, would
have spoken verj'' seriously indeed to his musician, but he shrank
from hurting his feelings by plain truth. He simply explained
that he had not intended the other to accompany him alien ijs, but
only on special occasions ; and, while professing the sincerest
admiration for his musical proficiency, he felt, as he said, unwilling
to monopolise it, and unable to enjoy it at the expense of a fellow-
creature's rest and comfort.
Perhaps ho put the thing a little too delicately to secure the
object he had in view, for the musician, although ho was deeply
touched by such unwonted consideration, waved it aside with a
graceful fervour which was qaite irresistible.
He assured the Consul that he was only too happy to have been
selected to render his hnmble tribute to the naval genius of so
great a commander, ho would not admit that his own rest and coni-
Ibrt were in the least affected by his exertions, for, being natui'ally
fond of the flute, he could, he protested, perform upon it con-
tinuously for whole days without fatigue. And he concluded by
pointing out very respectfully that for the Consul to dispense, even
to a small extent, with an honour decreed (at his ovm particular re-
quest) by the Republic, would have the appearance of ingratitude,
and expose him to the gravest suspicions. After which he rendered
the ancient love chant, " Ludus idem, Indus vetus," with singular
sweetness and expression.
Dudius felt the force of his arguments. Republics are pro-
verbially forgetful, and he was aware that it might not be safe, even
for him, to risk offending the Senate.
So he had nothing to do but just go on, and bo followed about by
the flute-player, and castigated by his parent in the old familiar
way, until he had very little self-respect left.
At last he found a distraction in his care-laden existence — he fell
deeply in love. But even here a musical Nemesis attended him, to
his infinite embarrassment, in the person of his devoted follower.
Sometimes Duilius would manage to elude him, and slip out un-
seen to some sylvan retreat, where he had reason to hope for a
meeting with the object of his adoration. He generally found that
in this expectation he had not deceived himself ; but, always, just
as he had found courage to speak of the passion that consumed
him, a faint tune would strike his ear from afar, and, turning his
Accompanied on the Flute. 105
head in a fury, lie would see his faithful flute-player striding over
the fields in pursuit of him with unquenchable ardour.
He gave in at last, and submitted to the necessity of speaking all
his tender sj^eeches "through music." Claudia did not seem to
mind it, perhaps finding an additional romance in being wooed
thus, and Duilius himself, who was not eloquent, found that tho
flute came in very well at awkward pauses in the conversation.
Then they were married, and, as Claudia played very nicelj' her-
self upon the tibiw, she got up musical evenings, when she played
duets with the flute-player, which Duihus, if he had only had a
little more taste for mui?ic, might have enjoyed immensely.
As it was, beginning to observe for the hrst time that the musi-
cian was far from uncomely, he forbade the duets. Claudia wept
and sulked, and Claudia's mother said that Duilius was behaving
like a brute, and she was not to mind him ; but the harmonj^ of
their domestic life was broken, until the poor Consul was driven to
take long country walks in sheer despair, not because he was fond
of walking, for ho hated it, but simply to keep the flute-player out
of mischief.
He was now debarred from all other society, for his old friends
had long since cut him dead whenever he chanced to meet them.
" How could he expect people to stop and tnlk," thej- asked indig-
nantly, "when there was that confounded fellow blowing tunes
down tho backs of their necks all the time ? "
Duilius had had enough of it himself, and felt this so strongly
that one day he took his flute-player a long walk through a lonely
wood, and, choosing a moment when his companion had played
" Id omnes faciunt " till ho was somewhat out of breath, he turned
on him suddenly. "When ho left the lonely wood he was alone, and
near it something which looked as if it might onco have been a
musician.
Tho Consul went home, and sat there waiting for the deed to
become generally known. He waited with a certain uneasiness,
because it was impossible to tell how the Senate might take the
thing, or the means by which their vengeance would declare
itself.
And yet his uneasiness was counterbalanced by a delicious relief:
tho Stato might disgrace, banish, put him to death even, but he
had got rid of slow music for ever ; and, as he thought of this, the
stately Duilius would snap his fingers and dance with secret
delight.
All disposition to dance, however, was forgotten upon the arrival
of lictors bearing an official missive. He looked at it for a long
time before he dared to break the big seal, and cut the cord
which bound the tablets which might contain his doom.
He did it at last ; and smiled with relief as he began to read :
for the decree was coiirteously, if not affectionately, worded. The
Senate, considering (or affecting to consider) the disappearance of
the flute-player a mere accident, expressed their formal regret at
the failure of the proyision made in his honour.
lOG Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
Then, as ho read on, Duilius dashed the tal.lets into small fVop:-
ments, and rolled on the ground, and tore his hair, and howled ;
for the senatorial decree concluded by a declaration that, in con-
sideration of his brilliant exploits, the State hereby placed at his
dispo-^al two more flute-players, who, it was confidently hoped,
would survive the wear and tear of their ministrations longer than
the first.
Duilius retired to his room and made his wiU, taliinp: care to have
it properly signed and attested. Then ho fastened himsell' in ; and
when they broke down 1h^ door next daj' they found a lifeless
corpse, with a strange sickly smile upon its pale lips.
No one in Rome quite made out the reason of this smile, but it
was generally thought to denote the gratification of the deceased at
the idea of leaving his beloved ones in comfort, if not in luxury ;
for, though the bulk of his fortune was left to Carthaginian
charities, he had had the forethought to bequeath a flute-playe;
apiece to his wiio and mother-in-law.
{From " The Black Foodie,'" bij permission of Messrs Longmans, Green ^- Co.)
YACHTING EXPERIENCES.
F. C. BrnxAND.
[Nfr. Bumnnd's predilections for humnroiis Avritin?: and stage-craft were
early shown in connection with the Ciunbriil^rc " A. 1). t'." As a humorist,
his lame chiefly rests upon the well-known " Happy Thought" papers. As a
parodist and a punster, he st;.nds unenuuUed. After having for many years
contributed to the columns of " I'unch," he succeeded to the editorial c'liair on
the lie itli of ^[r. Tom Taylor in the year 18S0. The following extract from " Our
Yaclu" forms a inihlic reading which has hitherto been confined to the author
himself, over the delivery of which he is peculiarly happy.]
Diary. — I told the commodore I wasn't much of a shot (no more
I am, as I have subsoiiuentl)' discovered), when on board a yacht.
"What I may be oil shore I don't know, as I have never had the
opportunity of trying. I knew something about it, through having
luckily practised years ago, :it a penny a shot, or so much a dozen,
on a wooden blackbird tied to a pendulum in a gallery at Suvillo
House. Then there was a dirty man in shirt-sleeves to load for
me, so that I never, as it happened, observed that process. AVhat
puzzled me was tho wads. I thought I'd copy the other fellows in
loading, but couldn't, as they'd both got rifles that didn't require
ramrods and wads, &c.
To load a gun bj' the light of nature is not so easy as I had
imagined from seeing tho man at Leicester Square. All I had ever
noticed him doing was to put a caji on. So I laugh it off (I don't
mean I laugh the gun off, but the awkwardness of the situation),
by saying to tho lieutenant, " Ua, ha, ha I Yvu dou't know
Yachting Experiences. 107
■wliether powder or shot or wads go iu tirsr, eh ? " He is evidently-
annoyed at this charge of mine, though playfully made, and replied
" Wads, of course." (I recommend this method of gaining infor-
mation in preference to any unnecessary display of ignorance.) He
says " wads." I'll use two to begin with. I must here remark what
an ill-constructed affair is a powder-flask ; I never seemed to bo
getting any out at all, and yet, alter eight or nine attempts, I
found the barrel full almost to the brim — I mean muzzle. This
delays me, and I h;ivo to begin again. Wo now get in full view of
Puffin Island, and into the rough water. I go below to load, where
I can bo quiet. I find the Treasure in the cabin, aft. I don't
know what associates him in inj mind immediately with brandy
and rations. He is very civil, and offers to load my giin. I tell
}iiin that the wads are already in, and he takes them out. I say,
" Oh, you don't use them, eh ? " So I gather there are more ways
than one of loading a gun. The cabin is vcrj^ stuffy and hot, and
getting up the companion with a gun in my hand is very difficult.
Standing on deck with it is more difficult. I now refer to an entry
evidently made in s//o;7hand, on account of the motion of the
vessel : —
"10 a.m. — Rough. On deck. Difficult to wi'ite. Commdre. says
note Puff. Isle. Put gun down, take log. Commdre. says what
long, and lat. Man. school atlas. Puff. Isle not down. Long, and
lat. 53 by 4. May 2. Miles or feet ? Eough. Waves. Treasure
at bow. Waves hat. For help. To fright Puis. Pufs frightd.
Flock flying. Commdre. shoots. Lieut, shoots. Not well to-day.
Capn. says calm outside; wish it was inside."
Dkiry fram IhcoUcdion. — At 2\^i<jlit. 1 recollect when my turn
came I made a shot. Not a bad one as a shot. It must have hit
something. In loading rather hastily and jauntily — lor I was
pleased with my execution, which had quite taken away my qualm-
ishness (N.B. — Nothing liko tiring off' a gun as a remedy against
eea-sickness) — I jerked the ramrod sharply down the barrel, and it
striking against the wads, or something, jerked itself sharplj'- into
the air, ever so high, and fell into the sea. I proposed going ou*;
in the little boat and recovering it. The captain said, better get a
diver to do that. My shooting was over for the season.
Lof/. " 11 A.M. — Passing Puffin. Calmer. Pipe all hands to
second breakfast or first dinner. Eations No. 3 for captain and
Treasure. Hungry. Latitude and longitude as before."
At this meal, the waves being still boisterous, we have to hold
the swinging table with one hand and eat with the other. We
thiMi adopt the i)lan of two holding while the third eats. As this
would prolong the dinner indefinitely^, and spoil the third person's
dinner, we let the table go and dine as we can. We sit against our
berths. At the third helping of soup the commodore's plate makes
a rush at his mouth, and I find myself sprawling over the lieu-
tenant. The commodore says I might have helped it if I'd liked.
I reply, I mightn't, angrily. He returns, that if I can't help play-
ing the fool cvcrvwhere, we'd better give the whole thing up.
108 Miscellaneous Headings in Prose.
After lie has said this, he and the lieuieuant, accomiumif d by two
plates and the soup-tureen and the table, come right over mo all in
a lump. I catch hold of the commodore's hair. The rest of the
dinner may be described as the Treasure staggering in with hot
tins, holding hotch-potch and sea-pies, and we alternately sprawl-
ing over one another with soup plates, until one of the ropes break,
■when wo are all on the floor together — tins, mugs, tureens, plates,
hotch-potch, sea-pies, my gun, log-book, and powder-flask.
*******
Our yachting is over for this year. I note down the account of
our last few days. After the calm came a storm. The captain and
the Treasure became so hopelessly intoxicated, that wo had to
manage the vessel ourselves. We first found it out in consequence
of a delay on the part of the Treasure in bringing in dinner. Wo
found him in the caboose boiling our compass in a stewpan, while
the captain was doubled uj) in a corner nodding and smiling like a
mandarin. On remonstrating with the Treasure, ho became obsti-
nately polite, and clung to the repetition of one word, " tesser-
monels," bj' which we graduall)' understood him to mean that ho
could refute the present charge of intoxication bj' reference to his
testimonials. The captain only shook his head, and muttered
" rations." I called to mind the mutiny of the Bounty, and thought
what a horrible thing it would be if our crew suddenly broke out
into open defiance of authority. However, they didn't mutiny, but
went fast asleep.
The commodore was now obliged to take the steering in hand.
We, that is the lieutenant and myself, managed the sails ; and it is
really as easy as possible to haul in the mainsail-gaff and the top
gib-boom, and so forth, although it sounds difficult. The question
arose as to whore the land was ? I thought that it was on tho
right. The commodore asked how far off ? I referred to tho index
of my map ; but as there was no map with it, this proceeding did
not help us to any great extent.
When night set in shouM we go on sailing ? tho lieutenant
asked. The commodoro said, why not ? I agreed with him, why
not ? Because, the lieutenant reminded us, the compass was
broken, and how could we steer without a compass? I agreed
with him, and put this question to the commodore as a poser. He
"was ready for the emergency. "How," he asked, "did people
steer when they hadn't compasses, eh ? " I gave it up ; so did the
lieutenant at first, though as an afterthought he said, " l<y tho
stars." " Very well," returned the commodoro, " then itY-V/ steer
by the stars," and thought he'd settled tho matter. I asked, " By
what stars?" and the commodore said, that "if I wae going to
play the fool and upset all his arrangements, we'd better give tho
whole thing up." I wanted to make a few farther inquiries, but
the commodore said he mad steer, and I oughtn't to speak to the
mau at the wheel. Taking advantage of his inability to quit his
post, the lieutenant and myself went for'ard ; and, after a short
Yachting Experiences. J 09
conversation, settled that scoeriug by the stars was liumbng. The
captain and Treasure -were still heavily asleep. Towards evening it
began to rain. I didn't know that it did rain at sea ; I thought it
was only on land, to make vegetables grow. It rained until it was
dusk, and then a bit of a wind sprung up. Most extraordinary
thing, as I told the lieutenant, that I always thought the wind
went down at night. The lieutenant, who had been gettii;g more
and more disagreeable ever since the insubordination of tlie crew,
said, " Down where ? " If the commodore hadn't asked hinx to
take a turn at the wheel, we should have quarrelled, lie didr.'t
manage the steering well ; and took, the commodore informed me,
nil the wind out of our sails. I know they began to flap about in
a vacillating manner, and the commodore remonstrated. The
lieutenant, who was very grumpy, said "He'd better do it himself
if ho was so clever." I tried to pacify them bj' saying, what did it
matter i* On which they both replied, "Oh, it didn't matter I "
sarcastically. Luckily the captain was suddeidy restored to con-
sciousness, and came aft, with a rather dazed expression. He said
he couldn't make out what had been the matter with him. He
hoped wo didn't think it was anything like intoxication. Wo
confessed that wo thought its symptoms somewhat similar, but ho
explained to us that in his caso it was a sort of a something that
he'd onco had when he was a child, and the doctors said it wouldn't
come again ; but, having come again, it had, ho explained, took
him quite unawares like. He believed he'd never quite got over
the measles. 1 e strongly reprehended the conduct of the Treasure,
and proposed that he should be discharged at Liverpool.
He took the helm, and we were all silent and sulky. I made up
my mind that I'd desert when I got on shore ; and I think we all,
when wo did speak, came to the conclusion that we wanted a larger
yacht. The Treasure woke up, and became obstreperous and
(juarrelsomo at midnight. He engaged in a single-handed combat
with the captain ; but, on his foot slipping, he was luckily knocked
down tho companion, and shut up in our cabin, where he abused
us through the skylight until he went to sleep again. His im-
prisonment prevented us from taking our natural rest below. So
we sat on deck, and tried to pretend we were enjoying ourselves.
The commodore looked glum, and smoked. Tho lieutenant squatted
with his chin on his knees, and grumbled ; while I spent my hours
in drowsily meditating on William, Susan, the nautical drama, my
costume waiting for me at L'pool, and the probable expenses of
our trip. Log. — Morning broke : grey, dull, and drizzling, wind
anijlioic.
{By permission of the Autltor andof Mcai^i. BradbKi-y, Aynac S; Co.)
110 Miscellaneous Readings in Frose.
THE DEATH OF NELSON.
Robert Southey.
[Robert Southoy, LL.D., sometimo poet-laureate, "poet, scholar, aut!quary,
critic, aud liistoriim," was one of the most volumiuous writers of his owu, or
perhaps auy age. He sprung from the people, and was the son of a linendraper,
who sent him to Westminsier school, aud afterwards to Oxford. He achieved
for himself the highest place among nature's noblemen by the right of his
nobility of mind; and he loft at his death 12,0in)^, to bo divided among his
children, and one of the mo-t valuable private libraries in ihc kingdom. Ilis
princinal poems are, *' Thalaba tlie Destroj'er," aud the " Curse of Kehama." In
biogra'phy, his "Life of Nelson " has been held up, with justice, as a model fon
all writers of biography. His "Doctor," a sort of common-place book, is a
work full of suggestions useful to the student, but full of affectations, which
would scarcely be agreeable to the general reader. It was in his early youth
that he wrote " The Well of St. Keyue," "Mary the Maid of the Inn," and
those ballads which have been the admiration of the rising generation for tho
last fiftj' years, and Avhich are still so fresh and so charming when well oi-ally
delivered. Southey was twice married; the second time to Miss Ciirolino
]3owles, the poetess, who, as Mrs. Southey, has also made an emluring reputa-
tion. It may bo said of him, that he literally worked his brain dry, for at
last his intellect became clouded, aud his jjower of comprehension faded out
of him. Ho was born at Bristol 1774, and died at Greta 1843.]
Nelsox having desimtolied hi.s business at Portsmouth, endeavoured
to eUide the populace by taking a by-way to the beach ; but a
crowd collected in his train, pressing forward, to obtain a sight of
his face; many were in tears, and many knelt down before him,
and blessed him as he pas.sed. England has had many heroes, but
never one who so entirely possessed the love of his fellow-country-
men as Nelson. All men knew that his heart was as humane as it
was fearless ; that there was not in his nature the slightest alloy of
selfishness or cupidity ; but that, with perfect aud entire dcvotioi;,
he served his country witli all his heart, and with all his soul, and
with all his strength ; and, therefore, they loved him as truly and
as fervently as he loved England. Tliey pressed upon the parapet
to gaze after him when his barge pushed off, and he Avas retun:ing
their cheers by w-aving his hat. The sentinels, who endeavoured
to prevent them from trespassing upon this ground, were wedged
among the crowd; and an officer who, not very prudently upon
such an occasion, ordered them to drive the people down with theif
bayonets, was compelled speedily to retreat; for the people would
not be debarred from gazing, till the last moment, upon the hero —
the darling hero of England !
It had been part of Nelson's pra)-er, that the British fleet might
be distinguished by humanity in the victory which he expected.
Setting an example himself, he twice gave orders to cease firing on
the Hcdouhtahlc, supposing that she had struck, because her guns
were silent ; for, as she carried no flag, there was no means of
instantly ascertaining the fact. From this ship, which he had
thus twice spared, he received his death. A. ball, fired from her
mizen-top, which, in the then situation of the two vessels, was not
The Death of jS^elson. Ill
more than fifteen yards from that part of the deck where he was
standing, struck the epaulette on his left shoulder, about a quarter
after one, just in the heat of action. He fell ui^on his face, on the
(^pot whicli was covered with his poor secretary's blood. Hardy,
who was a few steps from him, turning round, saw three men
raising him up. " They have done for me at last, Hardy," said ho.
''I hope not," cried Hardy. "Yes!" he replied; "my backbone
is shot through." Yet even now, not for a moment losing his
preseirce of mind, he observed, as they were carrying him down the
ladder, that the tiller ropes, which had been shot away, were not
yet I'eplaced, and ordered that new ones should be rove immediately :
then, that he might not be seen by the crew, he took out his hantl-
kerchief, and covered his face and his stars. Had he but concealoJ
these badges of honour from the enemy, England, perhaps, would
not have liad cause to receive with sorrow the news of the battle of
Trafalgar. The cockpit was crowded with wounded and dying
men, over whose bodies he was with some difficulty conve)^ed, and
laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen's berth. It was soon j^erceived,
upon examination, that the wound was mortal. This, however,
was concealed from all except Captain Hardy, the chaplain, and
the medical attendants. He himself being certain, from the sensa-
tion in his back, and the gush of blood he felt momently within his
breast, that no human care couki avail him, insisted that the sur-
geon should leave him, and attend to those to whom he might b«
useful : " for," said he, " you can do nothing for me." All that
could be done was to fan him with paper, and frequently to give
him lemonade to alleviate his intense tlnrst. He was in great jjain,
and expressed nauch anxiety for the event of the action, which now
began to declare itself. As often as a shij) stnick, the crew of the
Virfory hurraed ; and at every hurra a visible expression of joy
gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the dying hero,
jut he became impatient to see Hardy ; and as that officer, though
Dften sent for, could not leave the deck. Nelson feared that some
'^.vtal caiise prevented him, and repeatedly cried, "Will no one
Vring Hardy to me ? he must be killed ! he is surely dead !"' An
/our and ten minutes elajised from the time Nelson received his
wound, before Hardy could come to him. They shook hands in
silence : Hardy in vain struggling to supjiress the feelings of that
most painful and yet sublimest moment. " Well, Hardy." said
Nelson, " how goes the day with us ?" " Very well," rephed Hardy ;
" ten ships have struck, but five of the van have tacked, and show
an intention to bear down upon the Victor jf. I have called two or
three of our fresh ships round, and have no doubt of giving them
a drubbing." " I hope," said Nelson, "none of our shijjs have
struck." Hardy answered, " there was no fear of that." Then,
and not till then, Nelson spoke of hnnself. " I am a dead man,
Hardy," said he ; "I am going fast ; it will be all over with me
soon. Come nearer to me. Let my dear Lady Hamilton have my
hair, and all other things belonging to me." Hardy observed, that
he hoped Mr. Beatty could yet hold out some prospect of life.
112 Miscellaneous Readings ill JProse.
" Oil ! no," he replied, " it is impossible. My back is shot through.
Beatty will tell you so." Hardy then, once more, shook hands
with him, and with a heart almost bursting, hastened upon deck.
By this time all feeling below the breast was gone ; and Nelson,
iiaving made the surgeon ascertain this, said to him, " You know
I am gone. I know it. I feel something rising in my breast,"
putting his hand on his left side, " which tells me so." And ujiou
Beatty's inquiring whether his pain was very gi*eat, he replied, " so
great, that he wished he was dead. Yet," said he, in a lower voice,
" one would like to live a little longer, too !" And after a few
minutes, in the same undertone, he added, " What would become
of poor Lady Hamilton, if she knew my situation !" Next to his
country she occupied his thoughts. Ca])tain Hardy, some fitly
minutes after he had left the cockpit, returned ; and, again taking
the hand of his dying friend and commander, congratulated him on
having gained a complete victory. How many <jf the enemy wore
/akcn he did not know, as it was impossible to perceive them dis-
tinctly; but fourteen or fifteen at least. "That's well," cried
Nelson, " but I bargained for twenty." And then, in a stronger
voice, he said : " Anchor. Hardy ; anchor." Hardy, upon this,
hinted that Admiral Collingwood would take upon himself the
direction of affairs. " Not while I live. Hardy," said the dying
Nelson, ineffectually endeavouring to raise himself from the bed :
*' do you anchor." His previous orders for preparing to anchor
had shown how clearlj^ he foresaw the necessity of this. Presently,
calling Hardy back, he said to him in a low voice, " Don't throw
me overboard;" and he desired that he might be buried by his
parents, unless it should please the king to order otherwise. Then
reverting to private feelings : " Take care of my dear Lady Hamilton,
Hardy : take care of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me. Hardy," said
he. Hardy knelt down and kissed his cheek ; and Nelson said,
" Now I am satisfied. Thank God I have done my dnty !" Hardy
stood over him in silence for a moment or two, then knelt a^ain
and kissed his forehead. " Who is that ?" said Nelson ; and being
informed, he replied, " God bless you. Plardy !" And Hardy then
left him — for ever. Nelson now desired to be turned upon his right
side, and said, " I wish I had not left the deck ; for I shall soon be
gone." Death was, indeed, rapidly apjiroaching. He said to the
chaplain, " Doctor, 1 have not been a (jrcnt sinner ;" and after a
short pause, " Kemember that I leave Lady Hamilton and my
daughter Horatia as a legacy to my country." His articulation
now l)ecame difficult ; but he was distinctly heard to say, " Thank
God, I have done my duty!" These words he repeatedly pro-
nounced ; and they were the last words which he uttered. He
expired at thirty minutes after four, — three hours and a auarter
after he had received his wound.
The death of Nelson was felt in England as something more
t])au a public calamity : men started at the intelligence, and turned
pale, as if they had heard of the loss of a dear friend. An object
of our admiration and afi"eci^»on, of our pride and of our hopes, waa
The Death of Nelson. ] i 3
suddenly talven from us ; and it seemed as if we had never till
then known how deeply we loved and reverenced him. What the
country had lost in its great naval hero — the greatest of our own
and of all former times — was scarcely taken mto the account of
grief. So perfectly, indeed, had he performed his part, that the
maritima war, after the battle of Trafalgar, was considered at an
end. The fleets of the enemy were not merely defeated, but
destroyed ; new navies must be built, and a new race of seamen
reared for them, before the possibility of their invading our shores
could again be contemplated. It was not, therefore, from any selfish
reflection upon the magnitude of oiir loss that we mourned for him :
the general sorrow was of a higher character. The peoj^le of Eng-
land grieved that funeral ceremonies, and pubUc monuments, and
posthumous rewards, were all which they could now bestow upon
him whom the king, the legislature, and the nation would have alike
delighted to honour; whom every tongue would have blessed-,
whose presence in every village through which he might have passed
would have wakened the church-bells, have given schoolboys a
holiday, have drawn children from their sports to gaze upon him,
and " old men from their chimney-corner" to look upon Nelson ere
they died. The victory of Trafalgar was celebrated, indeed, with
the usual forms of rejoicing, but they were without joy : for such
already was the glory of the British navy, through Nelson's sur-
passing genius, that it scarcely seemed to receive any addition from
the most signal victory that ever was achieved upon the seas ; and
the destruction of this mighty fleet, by which all the maritime
schemes of France were totally frustrated, hardly appeared to add
to our security or strength ; for, while Nelson was living to watch
the combined squadrons of the enemy, we felt ourselves as secure
as now, when they were no longer in existence.
There was reason to suppose^ from the appearances upon opening
Ids body, that in the course of natiire he> might have attained, like
his father, to a good old age. Yet he cannot be said to have fallen
jjrematurely whose work was done ; nor ought he to be lamented,
who died so full of honours, and at the height of human fame.
'L'he most triumphant death is that of the martyr; the most awful
that of the martyred patriot ; the most sj^lendid that of the hero in
the hour of \'ictory ; and if the chariot and the horses of fire had
been vouchsafed for Nelson's translation, he could scarcely have
departed in a brighter blaze of glory. He has left us, not indeed
his mantle of inspiration, but a name and an example which are at
this ho'>j.r insj^iring thovisands of the youth of England — a name
which is our pride, and an example which will continue to be our
shield and our strength. Thus it is that the spirits of the g'reat
and the wise continue to Uve and to act after them.
114 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
THE OLD MAN AT THE GATE.
Douglas Jekuold.
[Douglas William Jen-old was bora in London 1803. In bis tentb year be
was sent to sea, but after serving two years was apprenticed to a printer iu
London. His nautical dninia " Black-eyed Susan " first brougbt bim into notice,
but bis subsequent dramatic writings, wbicb were numerous, were of a ;ar
bigber cbaracter. Mr. Jerrold was one of tbe first, and for some tinu> tb'3
leading, contributors to Piincli. In 1852 be became editor of Lloyd's Widdn
Xewspaper, wbicb post be beld to bis deatb in 1857. His collected works arc
published in six vols., forming a mine of wit, wisdom, and recreativu literature.]
In Surrey, some three miles from Chertsey, is a quiet, sequestered
nook, called Shepporton Greeii. At the time whereof wc write, the
oldcu charity dwelt in an old workhouse — a primitive abiding
place for the broken ploughman, the palsied shepherd, the
old, old peasant, for whom nothing more remained in this
world but to die. The governor of this abode of benevo-
lence dwelt in the lower part of the building, and therein, as the
village trade might fluctuate, made or mended shoes. Let the
plain truth be said — the governor was a cobbler. Within a stone's
cast of the workhouse was a little white gate, swung between
two hedge-banks in the road to Chertsey. Here, pass when you
would, stood an old man, whose self-imposed office it was to open
the gate ; for the which service the passenger would drop some
small benevolence in the withered hand of the aged peasant. Tliis
man was a pauper — one of the almsmen of the village workhouse.
There was a custom — whether established by the governor afore-
said, or by predecessors of a vanished century, we know not — that
made it the privilege of the oldest paui:)er to stand the porter at the
gate ; his perquisite, by riglit of years, the halfpence of the rare
pedestrian. As the senior died, the living senior succeeded to the
office. Now the gate — and now the grave.
And this is all the history ? All. The story is told — it will not bear
another syllable. The " Old ^Man " is at the gate; the custom which
places him there has been made known, and with it ends the narrative.
How few the incidents of life — how multitudinous its emotions !
How flat, monotonous may be the circumstance of daily existence,
and yet how various the thoughts which sprinc: from it ! Look at
yonder landscajie, broken into hill and dale, with trees of every hue
and form, and water winding in silver threads through velvet fields.
How beautiful — for how various ! Cast your eye over that moor ; it
is ilat and desolate — barren as barren rock. Not so. Seek the soil,
and then, with nearer gaze, contemplate the wondrous forms and
colours of the thousand mosses growing there; give ear to the hum
of busy life sounding at every root of poorest grass. Listen ! Does
not the heart of the earth beat audibly beneath this seeming bar-
renness — audibly as where the corn grows and the grape ripens?
Is it not so with the veriest rich and the veriest poor — with the
most active and with apparently the most inert !
The Old Man at the Gate. 1 1 o
That " Old Man at the Gate " has eighty jesivs upon his head —
eighty years, covering it Avith natural reverence. He was once in
London— only once. This pilgrimage excepted, he has never jour-
neyed twenty miles from the cottage in which he was born; of
which he became the master ; whereto he brought his wife ; ■where his
children saw the light, and their children after ; where many of
them died ; and whence, having with a stout soul fought against
the strengthenmg ills of poverty and old age. he was thrust by want
and sickness out, and with a stung heart, he laid his bones upon a
woi-khouse bed.
Life to the " Old Man " has been one long path across a moor —
a flat, unbroken journey ; the eye uncheered, the heart unsatisfied.
Coldness and sterility have comjiassed him round. Yet has he
been subdued to the blankness of his destiny ? Has his mind re-
mained the unwrit page that schoolmen talk of — has his heart be-
come a clod ? Has he been made by poverty a moving image — n
plough-guiding, corn-thrashing instrument ? Have not unutterable
thoughts sometimes stirred within his brain — thoughts that elevated,
yet confused him with a sense of eternal beauty— coming upon him
like the spiritual presences to the shepherds.^ Has he not been be-
set by the inward and mysterious yearning of the heart towards
the unknown and the unseen ? He has been a ploughman. In the
eye of the well-to-do, dignified with the accomplishments of reading
and writing, is he of little more intelligence than the oxen treading the
glebe. Yet, who shall say that the influence of nature — that the
glories of the rising sun — may not have called forth harmonies of
soul from the rustic drudge, the moving statue of a man !
That worn-out, threadbare remnant of humanity at the gate ;
age makes it reverend, and the incAatable — shall inevitable be said r'
— injustice of the world, invests it with majesty; the majesty of
suft'ering meekly borne, and meekly decaying. "The poor shall
never cease out of the land." This text the self-complacency oi
competence loveth to quote : it hath a melody in it, a hilling sweet-
ness to the selfishness of our nature. Hunger and cold aii-l naked-
ness are the hard portion of man; there is no help for it; lags
must flutter about us; man, yes, even the strong man, his only
wealth (the wealth of Adam) wasting in his bones, must hold hii
pauper hand to his brother of four meals jjcr diem ; it is a necessity
of nature, and there is no heli) for it. And thus some men send
then- consciences to sleep by the cliinkiug of their own pui'ses. Ne-
cessity of evil is an excellent philosophy, applied to everybody bat
— ourselves.
These easy souls will see nothing in our " Old Man at the Gate "
but a pauper, let out of the workhouse, for the chance of a ie<v
hcJfpence. Surely, he is something more ! He is old ; very old.
Lvery day, every hour, earth has less claim in him. He is so old, so
feeble, that even as you look he seems sinking. At sunset, he is
scarcely the man who opened the gate to you in the morning. Yet
there is no disease in him — none. He is dying of old age. He is
working out that most awful problem of life — slowly, solemnly. He
I 2
116 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
is now, the baclged pauper — and now, in the unknown country with
Solomon !
Can man look upon a more touching solemniij? There stands
the old man, passive as a stone, nearer, every moment, to church-
yard clay ! It was only yesterday that he took his station at the
gate. His predecessor held the post for two years ; he too daily,
daily dying—
" Till like a clock, worn out with eating time.
The weary wheels of life at length stood ctill."
How long will the present watcher survive ? In that very ii:i-
certainty — in the very hoariness of age which brings home to n.j
that uncertainty — there is something that makes the old man
sacred ; for, in the course of nature, is not the oldest man the nearest
to the angels ?
Yet, away from these thoughts, there is reverence due to that old
man. What has been his life ? A war with suflPering. What a
beautiful world is this ! How rich and glorious ! How abundant in
blessings — great and little — to thousands ! What a lovely place hath
God made it; and how have God's creatures darkened and outraged
it to the wrong of one another ! Well, what had this man of the
■world ? What stake, as the effrontery of selfishness has it ? The
wild-fox was better cared for. Though preserved some day to be
killed, it icas preserved until then. What did this old man inherit?
Toil, incessant toil, with no holiday of the heart : he came into the
world a badged animal of labour ; the property of animals. What
was the eai*th to him ^ — a place to die in.
" The poor shall never cease out of the land." Shall we then,
accommodating our sympathies to this hard necessity, look serenely
down upon the wretched ? Shall we preach only comfort to our-
selvec; from the doomed condition of others ? It is an easy philo-
sophy ; so easy there is but little wonder it is so well exercised.
But " The Old Man at the Gate " has, for seventy years, worked
and worked; and what his closing reward? The workhouse. Shall
we not, some of us, blush criuison at our own world-successes, pon-
deriug the destitution of our worthy, single-hearted fellows? Should
not affluence touch its hat to " The Old Man at the Gate " with a
reverence for the years upon him ; he — the born soldier of poverty,
doomed for life to lead life's forlorn hope ? Thus considered, surely
Dives may unl)oiinetto Lazarus.
To our mil^l, tne venerableness of age made the " Old Man at
tha Gate " something like a spiritual presence. He was so old, who
could say how few the pulsations of his heart between him and the
grave? But there he was with a meek happinass urjon him ; gentl(\
cheerful. He was not built up in bricks and mortar; buj; was still
in the open air, with the sweetest influences about him ; the sky—
the trees — the green SA^ard, — and flowers with the breath of God in
them !
(^Dji permission of Messrs. Bradbury and Erans.)
117
THE PLANETARY AND TEERESTEIAL WOELDS.
Joseph Addisox.
[Joseph Addison was the sou of an Euglisli dean ; he was bom in Wiltohii?,-
in 1072. Educated at Oxford, he soon distiuguished himself \>y his Latin
1 oetry, and, in his twenty-second year, published his iirst English verse. In
1 713 his tragedy of " Cato " was brought upou the stage, but his place in literature
is among the first of British essayists. In conjunction wth Sir liichard Steele
he published " The Spectator," and it is adjnittid on all sides that to him "we
ari! iudrbted for the fonnation of a pure English style." Addison had
ofl^irial einploynieut from which he retired on a pension of 150(7. a year. He
married the Dowager Countess of Warwick, bul it has been said "married
discord in a noble wife, ' He died in Holland House, Kensington, 1719.J
To US, who dwell on 'i'c3 surface, the earth is by far the inost exten-
sive orb that our eyes can anywhere behold : it is also clothed with
verdui-e, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a variety of beau-
tiful decorations ; whereas, to a spectator, placed on one of the
planets, it wears a uniform asjicct, looks all luminous, and no larger
than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances it en-
tirely disappears. That wnich we call alternately the morning and
the evening star — as, in one part of the orbit, she rides foremost in
the procession of night ; in the other, ushers in and anticipates the
dawn — is a planetary world ; which, with, those others that so won-
derfully vary their mystic dance, are in Qiemselvcs dark bodies, and
shine only by reflection ; have fields, and seas, and skies of their
own ; are furnished with all accommodations for animal siibsistence,
and are supposed to l)e the abodes of intellectual life : all which to-
gether with our earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand
dispenser of divine munificence, the sun ; receive their fight from the
distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benigu
agency.
The sun, which cssms to perform its daily stages through the
eky, is, in this respect, fixed and immovable : it is the great axle of
heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious
orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though seemingly
smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abundantly larger than
this whole earth, on which so many lotty mcTintains rise, and such
vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the
centre of tho.t resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hun-
di-ed thousand miles : a girdle fonned to go round its circumference,
would require a length of milhons. Were its solid contents to be
estimated, the account would overwhelm our understanding, and be
almost beyond the power of language to express. Are we startled
at these reports of philosophy ? Are we ready to cry out, in a tran-
sport of surprise, " How mighty is the Being who kindled such a
prodigious fire ; pnd keeps alive from age to age such an enormous
mass of flame !" Let us attend our philosophic guides, and we shall
be brought acquainted with speculations more enlarged and more
inflaming.
J 18 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
This sun, with all its attendant j^lanets, is but a veiy Tittle part
of the grand machine of the uni%-erse : every star, though in ap-
pearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's ring,
\s really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in glory; no less spa-
cious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of day. So that
every star is not barely a -v-rorld, but the centre of a magnificent
system ; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and re-
volving round its attractive influence ; all which are lost to oiu'
sight, in immeasurable wilds of ether. That the stars aj^pear likt
BO many diminutive and scarcely-distinguishable points, i.s owing to
their imrrense and inconceivable distance. Immense and inconceiv-
able indeed it is ; since a ball shot from the loaded cannon, and
Hying with iinabated rapidity, must travel, at thia impetuous rate,
almost seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the
nearest of these twinkling luminaries !
AVhile, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme
meanness, I would also discover the aoject littleness of all terrestrial
things. What is the earth with all lier ostentatious scenes, com-
pared with this astonishingly grand furniture of the skies ."^ What,
but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe ! It
is observed by a very judicious writer, that, if the sun himself, which
I'nlightens this pai't of the creation, were extinguished, and all the
host of plaiietary worlds which move about him were annihilated,
they would not be missed by an eye that can take in the whole com-
]niss of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon the sea shore.
The bulk of which they consist, and the space wnich they occupy,
are so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole that theu* loss
would scarcely leave a blank in the immensity of God's works. If
then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminu-
tive, what is a kingdom or a country ? What are a few lordships, or
the so-much-admired patrimonies of those who are styled wealthy ?
When I measure them with ni}' own little |iittance, thcj' swell into
pi'oud and bloated dimensions ; but when I take the universe for
my standard, how scanty is their size! hew contemptible their figure!
They shrink into pompous nothings.
THE CLOW^ OUT OF SERVICE.
Allan L.vidlaw.
[^^r. Laidliiw, whose cliaractcr-sketclics are excellent, cherishes the arguin-, nt
tliat in realistic rci-itations terse prose is more artistic, becau-c truer to the
nature of the chtU'actor represented than verse, in which the native pathos of
the narrative is apt to be imperilled by the inevitable jingle of rhymes.]
"Yes, sir, you're right; I am out o' service, reg'lar brokon
down ; but matters might have been worse than they are. There's
many got more cause to grumble than I have, sir. What'U I tako
bir? Well, thank yo, sir, my weakness is warm whisky and
The Cloivn out of Service. llO
■water, with a lump o' sugar and a slice o' lemon. Thank' ee, sh',
with your leave, I will take a jiipe. Ah, a wonderful soothing
thing, bacca, sir ; many's the time a pipe of it has served me for
a dinner and supper. Want me to tell ye some anecdotes of
my life ? Well, sir, I'm willing ; but s'cuse me, sir, are you a lit'rary
chap ? Lord bless my soul, sir, the numbers of times I've been asked
fur anecdotes o' my life, any one 'ud think I was some remarkable
pussunage, instead of onlj' a poor broken-down clown.
.Beg pardon, sii" ; but you authors seem to take a lot o' trouble,
and spend a lot o' money in treats, looking out for subjects. Ah,
sir, I've broken down afore my time. I ain't used up with long
running ; it's grief and hard times has done it, likewise a bad attack
of asthma. Terrible short o' wind I am at times. Bless ye I could
no more jump through a " flat " now than I could fly.
"Well, sir, I'm sure I'm very pleased to tell you something about
my life. I've had many ups and downs and hardships ; for in our
profession there's plenty of 'em. There's one very painful part o'
my history, that somehow or other I have a melancholy pleasure in
lingering over. You shall hear the story, sir ; may be it '11 serve
to show that theatrical life ain't the life that some parties think
it is.
I was engaged for a long time at a flourishing provincial theatre.
I had a hitid time of it then, for mj- wife was took bad, and was
near her first confinemeut as well. She was a terrible charge on
me at times, though she loved me well and so did I her. Bless
j'ou, I never let her see she was a bit pulling me back ; but I found
it out arterwards. You see, she wasn't a professional — she was a
pretty, amiable creature ; but she was a simple country girl. I
often think I did very wrong to marry her, for I could'nt keep her
comfortable with my poor earnings, and I led her as hard a life as
I led mj-self. Business was very bad too, just then. The best
days for our line o' business ai'e gone by now, I think. A panto-
mimist now wants more eddication in dancing, and gets a better
position in the "opening" part. I was never much of an hand at
dancing, myself, beyond the hornpipe, double shufiies, or a break-
down.
But, however, at the time I speak of, we were a strong company,
and were doing well; business was good, and the manager was a
kind, nice-spoken man — none o' your loud-voiced, cock-o'-the-walk
sort — and we wei'e always paid regularly up to time. Tuken alto-
gether he was about the best I ever served under.
We went on smoothly for four weeks, and I was beginning to get
a little more light at heart, though I spent my money as soon as
I'd earned it, and my wife was still very ill.
Well, one day, about the middle of the fifth week, my wife was
took much worse, and became very ill indeed. I was in a terrible
state, for the heaviness of mj' heart brought a painful reaction after
the excitement of my business. Ah ! httle do the public think
what pains and griefs sometimes lie in the hearts of those who are
rrjusinir them.
120 Miscellaneous Readings in Prose.
Well, that night I was almost floored ; but I couldn't ^ive in, I
must do my turn, there was no one to take mj'- phice ; so I had to
go and crack my j^oor jokes, and jump about and daxice iu tho
the vtre, while there at home was my poor wife dyino:.
I felt terrible low when I passed the stage door. The manager —
God bless him — came up to me and said a few kind words, and
several of the corps came and pressed my hand in sympathy. But
there was a girl whose good deed I shall never forget. She was
one of the " extras," and that night she came up to me iu one ol
the wings whore I was standing, and says she: —
" I'm only on two turns, and I'm not wanted after tho fifth scene
in tho ojiening ; as soon as I'm done I'll go to your home and
nurse your wife. I can help her better than the woman that keeps
the hou30. You follow on quickly when you're finished."
I could not speak to her, so I only squeezed her hand ; but after
the fifth scene was " closed in " she suddenly appeared to me iu
her ordinary clothes.
" All right," saj's she. " I'm going now ; keep your heart up ;
don't break down now ; and follow as sooa as you've done."
Well, sir, I barely rubbed the paint oflf my face, huddled my
ordinary clothes on over my stage dress, and tore of¥ through the
streets hom3 like nixd. I entered tho room quiet like, trying to
stay my hird breathing. I took in at a glance what had happened
during my absence. The landladj' — good old soul — was a crying,
and that kind girl was nursing tho new-born child. My wife was
conscious of my being in the room, somehow. I went to her call,
and, almost fit to choke, I knelt by her side, took her hand and
kissed it. " Joseph dear,'' says she, in a weak, trembling voice.
" I'm so glad you've come in time ; I'm going to leave you, Joe. I
know you have been the best of husbands ; I know I coul I never
have had a better, if a wealthier one. I'm ignorant and awkward,
and only dragged you back ; but I loved you dearly. Ycm'll take
caro of the child, Joe. It's a girl. Cherish it for my sake, dear,
and think of mo sometimes Kiss mo now, Joe, before I go."'
I couldn't speak, I could hardlj- breathe. I pressed her hand
and kissed her feverish lips. Her mild blue eyes looked at mo
very, very soft and kind — I can see 'em now — and then of a sudden
they came dull and vacant ; and I knew that the spirit that loved
m3 was gone Thank'of, sir, I will take another glass — to
your good health and a merry Christmas to you. Well, sir, I manage
very well. My datighter earns a good bit now. She's a beautiful
dancer — splendid, sir. No, sir, only in the provinces as yet, sir ;
but she's a splendid dancer, sir. She'd hold her own easy in
London, if she could only get an " opening." You ! a dramatic
author ! got influence I and you'll get her an engagement I Ble?.-
you, sir, bless you from my heart. The blessing of an old broken-
down clown ain't much, I know, sir ; but I do bless you. You've
made my Chiistmas happy, sir ; may you never know a sad one."
{Ill/ jicrnii.isioii of the Author.)
121
AT A WRONG LECTURE.
George Grossmith wrote the foUowinji: account of his experience
at one of his own lectures: "In Blankshire once I had the mis-
fortune to incur the animosity of an eccentric lady. It was in one
of those little countrj'- towns where they do not often have lectures,
but where, oddly enough, whenever they have one, they ai-e pretty
certain to have two the same night ; fir, being about equally
divided by religious dilferences, such is the neighbourly, friendly
spirit in which all matters are conducted there that, whenever one
side invites a lecturer down from London, the other section are
sure to have one down on the same night in opposition. Now I
was engaged to hold forth on the ' Sketches by 13oz,' my rival in
the opposition room behind en ' The Pilgrim's Progress.' 'Ihe lady in
question — elderly, very respectable, but not verj^ intelligent — wan-
dered from her peaceful home with the view of attending the latter ;
but she went to the wrong room, taking he^- place in the front, and,
putting on the most solemn countenance it was ever my misfortune
to behold, became a listener to my discourse on the writings of
Dickens, and I am certain for the first twenty minutes did not dis-
cover the mistake she had made. But, alas I when I at length re-
ferred to my author's description of a country fair and the servant -
girls out for the day, ' not allowed to have any followers at home,
and now resolved to have 'em all at once,' the dear old soul gave a
shriek of horror and said quite audiblj', ' Oh, how shocking!' This
exclamation was repeated when 1 described ' the fat old lady with
the Jack-in-the-b ox, and three shies for a penny,' and I at last
became somewhat unnerved. I tried not to look at the old lady ;
but there is nothing in creation more difficult than the effort not to
look at a thing you don't want to. At length I approached with
horror the author's description of a thimble-rig, knowing it would
upset her. ' Here's a little game to make ^-ou wake up and laugh
six months after you're dead, buried, and forgotten, and turn the
hair of your head grey with delight. Hero's "three little thimbles
and one little pea. Keep your eye on the pea, and never say die !
Now there, with a one, two, three, and a three, two, one, &c.' This
was quite enough. The old lady, mistaking me for the creature I
was describing, and believing I was offering to bet with the
company, uttered a shriek of horror, and left the room. 'Poor
lady,' said I to the quiet old chairman, ' of course she's mad ! But
why did the committee let her in ?' ' No, sir,' said the president,
'that lady is not mad; she's my wife.' I apologised; but, much
to my comfort, the chairman was not so much offended as I had
supposed ; for, addressing me again, he said, ' Never mind ; you'd
better get on with your lecture. She's more trouble to me than
she is to you.' "
READINGS IN POETRY.
LYOIDAS.
John Miltox.
[John Milton -wns born 1C08. At fifteen he Avas a pupil of St. Pa.il's School,
I>(iu'lon, and two years afterwards we tiud him at Christ College, Cambri(l,.;e.
At the atri" of tweiity-ono he had written his prand "llyma ou the Nativity."
In 1032 ho took the degree of ii.A. ; in 1634 his masque of " Comus " was pre-
i-.i'nted at Ludlow Castle. In 1649 Milton was appointed Latin secretary to
the Council of State, and ho served Cromwell when he had assumed the pro-
ti'ctorate. In 1665 "Paradise Loat " was completed, at a cottage at Ch;ilfoi't,
iu Bucks, whither the poet had gone to escape the great plague. It -was sold
to Simmons, a bookseller, for 5/. Of his three wives, his "unkind daughters,"
his blindness, and his career, never chequered by extreme povertj-, it is not iu
accurdaiiee with the plan of this work to dilate. lie died 167-1.]
Yet once more, ye lauic.s,, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come, to pluck your berries liarsli and crude ;
And, with, forced fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear.
Compels me to disturb your season due :
For L3'cida3 is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer :
Who wonld not sing for Lycidas ? he knew,
Himself, to sing, and build the loftj' rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
B:(gin, then, sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneaih the scat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string;
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse :
8o may some gentle muse
With lucky words favour my destined um;
And, as he passes, turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nursed upon the self-sumc hill.
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rilL
Together both, ere the high lawns appeai-'d
L'mier the opening eyelids of the morn.
Lycidas. 1^3
We drove a-field, and both togethei* heard
What time the gray-fly A\dnds her sultry honi,
Battening oiir flocks with the fresh dews of niglit,
Oft stfll the star, that rose at evening bright,
Toward heaven's descent had slojied his westering vo-li^^sL
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute ;
Rough satyrs danced, and fauns ^vith cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long :
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
But, oh ! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return !
Thee shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves.
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn :
The willows and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killmg as the c<^nher to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear^
When first the white-thorn blows ;
Such Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
Where Avere ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deop
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas ?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lio,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream =
Ah me ! I fondly dream.
Had ye been there : for what could that have clone ?
AVhat could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore.
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son.
Whom universal nature did lament.
When, by the rout that made the hideous roaiv
His gory visage down the sti-eam was sent,
Down the swift Hebras to the Lesbian shore ?
Alas ! what boots it vnth incessant cai-e
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade.
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse ?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To spoi't with Amaryllis, in the shade.
Or with the tangles of Netera's hair ?
Fame is the spur that the clear spiiij dotk r^lr^Q
(That last infirmity of noble minds)
To scorn delights and live laborious days :
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find.
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred sliesrs,
And slits the thin-spun life. " But not the praiso,"
124 Readings in Poetry.
Phoebus replied, and toucli'd my fesmbliug ears ;
" Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
JS^or in the gUstering foil
Set off to the world, r-or in broad rumonr liec!.
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyzz.
And perfect witness of all -judging Jove;
As he pronounces la-^tly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
fountain Ai-ethuse, and thou honour'd flood,
Smooth- sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds !
That strain I heard was of a higher mood :
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the herald of the sea
That came in Neptune's plea ;
He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain ?
And question'd every gust, of rugged wings,
That blows from off each beaked promontory :
They knew not of his story ;
And sage Hipjiotades their answer brings.
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray 'd :
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters jilay'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark.
Built in the eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
"Ah! who hath i-eft," quoth he, " my dearest pledg'^i?"
Last came, and last did go.
The pilot of the Galilean lake ;
Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain,
(The golden oi:)es, the iron shuts amain).
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake :
" How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake.
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold !
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearer's feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest ;
Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to liCld
A sheep-hook, or h-:,ve learn'd aught else the least
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs !
What reck^ it them ? What need they ? They are sjied ;
And, when they list, their lean and flashy fsongs
Grate on their scrannel pipes ofwretcho(i straw;
The hungry sheep look up and are not fed.
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Lycidas. 1:S5
Hot inwardly, and foiil contagion si^read ;
Besides what the grim wolf, with privy paw,
Daily devours apace, and nothing said :
But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy streams ; return. Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks.
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks ;
Throw hither all your quaint enamellVl eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honey'd showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine.
The white pink, and the pansy freak'd Avith jet,
The glowing violet.
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine.
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears :
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed.
And daffodillies All their cups with tears.
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For, so to interpose a little ease.
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise :
Ah me ! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd,
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou, perha2)S, under the whelming tide,
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world ;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded mount
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ;
Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth :
And O, ye dolphins, waft the hapless j'^outh. v
Weeo no more, woful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead.
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor;
So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed.
And yet anon repairs liis drooping head.
And tricks his beams, and, with new-spangled ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky :
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high.
Through the dear might of Him that walk'd the wavc3
Where, other groves and other streams along.
With nectar pure liis oozy locks he laves.
And }iear« tho uuexi^re.ssive Euptial song •
Vi^ Readings in Poetry.
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the saints above,
In solemn troops and sweet societies.
That sing, and, singing, in their glory move ;
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more ;
Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore.
In thy large recx)mpense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous Hood.
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and ril'p,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray ;
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay :
And now the sim had stretched out all the hUis,
And now was dropt into the western bay :
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue :
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastui'es new.
LADY CLAEA VERE DE VEEE. ;|
Alfred Texxyson.
[Lord Tennyson, the present poet liurente, was born in the year 1800. I
His iirincipal works are "Poems,' 1832 — 1812; " Tlie Princess," 1847; "In |
Menioriani," 1850; "Maud," 18oo ; "Idylls of the Kin:;," 183'J ; and '' Enoeh
Arden," ISGo. lie is considered, by cnmiaon consent, the foremost poet of the
age, and his works command an extensive sale.]
Lady Clara Vere do Vore, of mo you shall not win renown,
You thought to break a country heart for pastime, ere you went to
town.
At mo you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired :
The daughter of a hundred earls, you are not one to be desired.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know j'ou proud to bear your name,
Your pride is yet no mate for mine, too proud to care from whence)
I came.
Nor would I break for j-our sweet sake a heart that doats on truer |
charms,
A simple maiden in her flower is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, some meeker pupil you must find.
For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind, I
You sought to prove how I could love, and my disdain is my roply.!
The lion on your old stone gates is not more cold to you than 1.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, you put strange memories in my head,
Not thrice your branching limes have blown since I beheld young
Laurence dead.
Oh ! your sweet eyes, your low replies : a great enchantress you
m;iy be ;
But there was that across his throat which you had hardly caredj
to see.
To a Shylo.rh. 127
Lady Clara Vere de Vere, when thus he met his mother's view,
She had the passions of her kind, she spake some certain truths of
you.
Indeed, I heard one bitter word that scarce is fit for you to hear ;
Hor manners had not that repose which stamps the caste of Yere
do Vere.
I.ady Clara Vere de Vere, there stands a spectre in your hall :
The guilt of blood is at your door : you changed a wholesome heart
to gall.
You held your coui'se without remorse, to make him trust his
modest worth.
And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare, and slew him with your noble
birth.
Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, from yon blue heavens above us bent,
Tiie grand old gardener and his wife .smile at the claims of long
descent.
Ilowe'er it be, it seems to me, 'tis only noble to be good ;
Kind hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Normau
blood.
I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : you pine among your halls and
towers :
The languid light of your pro-id eyes is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowmg health, with boundless wealth, but sickening of a vague
disease.
You know so iU. to deal with time, you needs must play such pranks
as these.
Clara, Clara Vere do Vere, if time bo heavy on your hands,
Arc there no beggars at your gate, nor any poor about your lands ?
Oh ! teach the orjihan-boy to read, oh ! teach the Orphan-girl to sew,
I'lay heaven for a human heart, and let the foolish yeoman go.
(By ])triiuiision of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)
TO A SKYLAEK. "
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
[Percy Bysshe Shelley was the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, Bart., of
Field I'lacf, Sussex, where he was born August 4th, 1792. He was sent to
Eton, but, violating the rules of that school, was nmoved to Oxford at an
earlier age than is u<ual. Shelley was twice married. H s second wife was
Miss Godwin, daughter of tlie auth r, and herself famous as the author of
" Frankenstein." With his Tiew w'fe he went to Italy, renewed his acquaint-
ance with Byron, and joined Leigh Hunt in the " Liberal." Shortly after this
he met with his untimely death, by the wreck of his boat in a violent sunn, on
his return to his house on the Gulf of Lerici, July 8th, 1822. His bodj^ was
Y/ashcd ashore fifteen days afterwards. His principal poetical works are
1 28 Headings in Poetry.
"PiomcthexisTJnbonnd," "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude," "Queen Mab,'
" The Revolt of Islam," aud " The Ctuci," a tragedy. Many of Lis miiiui
poems are simple and very l)i.'autiful.]
Hail to thee, blithe spirit !
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of xxnpremeditated art.
Higher still, and higher,
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire ;
The blue deeji thou wingest,
And ainging still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just beguile
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight
Tbou art ixnseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen are the arrows
^ Of that silver sjihere,
AVhose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear.
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
"With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moou rains out her beams, and heaven if\ overflowed.
"What thou art we know not ;
What i^ most like thee?
From rain'oow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden.
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded noi.
To a Skylark 12S
Like a liigh-born maieleu
111 a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, vrl^lch overflows her bower :
Like a glow-wona golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbcholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and gi'ass, which screen it from the view.
Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowei''d,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy winged thieves,
Sound of vernal showers
On the twiidvling grass,
Eain-awakencd ilowers,
All that ever was
Joyous and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass s
Teach us, sprite or bird.
What sweet thoughts are thine ;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triiamphal chaunt,
^Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt, —
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?
What shapes of sky or plain ?
What love of thine own kiaa? Wliat ignorance of ])ain ?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee ;
Thou lovest; bnt ne'er knew love's sad tatieiy.
Waking or asleep.
Thou of death must d'^-^^m
T[30 {leadings in Poetry,
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes How in such a crystal stream ?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not :
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught :
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear ;
If wc were tilings born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy wc ever could come near.
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found.
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorncr of the ground !
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow.
The world should listen then as I am listening now.
THE CATAEACT OF LODOEE.
EOBEllT SOUTHEY.
[Soo page IIO.J
now does the water come down at Lodorc ?
My little boy asked me thus, once on a time.
Moreover, he task'd me to tell him in rhynu^;
Anon at the word there lirst came one daughter.
And then came another to second and third
The request of their brother, and hear how the water
Comes down at Lodore, with its riish and its roar,
As many a time they had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme, for of rhymes I had store.
And 'twas in my vocation that thus I should sing,
Because I was laureate to them and the King.
From its sources wliich well
In the tarn on the fell.
From its fountain in the mountain,
Its rills and its gills,
The Cataract of Lodore. 13?
Through moss and through brak..
It runs and it creeps,
For awhile till it slec:)?,
In its own little lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds.
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade.
And thi-ough the wood shelter,
Among crags and its flurry.
Helter-skelter — hurry-skurry.
ilow does the water come down at Lodore ?
Here it conies sparkling,
And there it lies darkling ;
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,
It hastens along, conflicting, and strong,
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,
Its caverns and rocks among.
E/ising and leaping.
Sinking and creeping.
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking.
Spouting and frisking.
Twining and twisting.
Around and around.
Collecting, disjecting,
With endless rebound ;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzing and deafening the ear with its sound.
Reeding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing.
And dripping and skipjDing,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering.
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining.
And rattlincr and battling,
k2
132 Readings in Poetry.
And shaking and quaking,
And i^ouring and roaring,
And waving and rav'uig,
And tossing and crosising,
And flowing and growing.
And running and stunning.
And huriyiug and skurrying.
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning.
And foaming and roaming^
And dropping and hopping.
And working and jerking.
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering ;
And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riWng and striving,
And sprinkling andt\vinklmg and wrinklinf;;,
And sounding and bounding and rounding.
And buhbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and ghding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling.
And clattering and battering and shattering ;
And gleaming and steaming and streaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing.
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping.
And curling and whirling and i:)urhng and twirling,
lletreatiug and beating and meeting and sheeting.
Delaying and stra^-ing and inlaying and spraying.
Advancing and ]:)rancing and glancing and dancmg,
Eecoiling turmoiling and toiling and boiling.
And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and sidashing and clashing, —
And so never ending, but always descending.
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar —
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.
THE SALE OP TnE PET LAMB.
Mary IIowitt.
[ir.ary Botham was born at Uttoxctcr, in tbe County of Stafford, and mar-l
ricJ "NVilliiim IIowitt, the popular author and editor, in 1823. Both wer(|
onjjinully members of the Society of Friends. Besides the works publisher
in coujuiution with her husband, ilrs. Howitt is the authoress of "Thil
•Seven Temptations," a dramatic poem; ""Wood Lcighton," a novel; "Th<[
Ueir of "West Waylnnd; " and scvcrsl volumes in prose and verse for childrcaj
Tlie Sale of the Pet harah. 1 3^
p}io is also favourably kuoi\Ti as the translator of the tales of Fredcrika
^reiuer and Hans Christian Andersen. Still li^^ng.]
Oil ! poverty is a weary tiling, 'tis full of grief and paiu ;
It bowetli down the heart of man, and dulls his cimning braii) ;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
The children of tlio rich man have not their bread to win ;
They scarcely know how labour is the penalty of sin ;
E'en as the lilies of the field they neither toil nor spin.
And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the eailh they have abundant share ;
They walk along life's pleasant ways, where aU is rich and fair.
The children of the poor man, though they be young each one,
Must rise l^etime each morning, before the rising sun ;
And scarcely wheu the sun is set their daily task is done.
Few things have they to call their oavu, to fill their hearts with
pride,
Tlio sunshine, and the summer tlowers upon the highway side,
And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide.
Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three ;
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty ;
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be.
A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and moi-e,
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly, — they were the rich man's store :
There ■was the while one little lamb, beside a cottage-door ;
A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,
Tliat ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to thei]'
knee :
That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.
But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed,
The father labour'd all day long that his children might be fed.
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them
bread.
That father, with a downcast eye, iipon his threshold stood,
Ga;int poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued,
" What is the creature's life to us ?" said he ; " 'twill buy us food.
" Ay, though the children weep all da);-, and with down-drooping
head
Each does his small task mournfulty, the hungry must be fed ;
And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."
134 Headings in Poetry.
It went. Oh ! i^avting has a pan? the hardest heart to wring,
]»nt the tender sonl of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
AV'ith love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.
Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,
Most sorrowful to hear theai plead for the lamb so piteously :
" Oh ! mother dear, it loveth iis ; and what beside have we P"
" Let's take him to the broad green hill !" in his imi^otent despair,
Said one strong boy : " let's take him off, the hills arc wide and fair;
I know a little hiding place, and we will keep him there."
Oil vain ! they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,
With a strong cord they tied him fast, and o'er the common brown,
A.nd o'er the hot and Uinty roads, they took him to the town.
The little children through that day, and throughout all the
morrow, ^^
From everything about the house a mournful thoxight did borrow ;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.
Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain ;
It kee[x.'th down the soul of man, as with an iron chain ;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
"WE AEE SEVEN."
William Wonrswoimi.
[Wonlswortli was bora .at Cockennoutli, ruiiil)i>rlaiul, 1770. lie w.-xs odu-
catfil at Ilawkshoad School, and I'litin-fd .St. John's Colli'go, Cambridge, 17f<7.
His first work, "Descriptive Sketches," obtained but few readers, aud it was a
qnart<;r of a century before his poetical merits were acknowledged. Words-
wortli was some tinio poct-l.anreite. llis published poems extx-nd to ei^
»olumes, 8vo. He died in li^JH.]
A .SIMPLE child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb.
What should it know of death ?
I met a little cottage girl,
She was eight years old she said ;
Her hair was thick with many a curl,
That clustered round her head :
She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad ;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ;
Her beauty made me glad;
" We are Seven." IS I;
" Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be ?"
" How many ? seven in all," she said,
And wondering look'd at me.
" And where are they ? I pray you tell."
She answered, " Seven are we :
And two of us at Conway dwell.
And two are gone to sea ;
Two of us in the churchyard He,
My sister and my brother ;
And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother."
" You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea :
Yet ye are seven — I pray you, tell.
Sweet maid, how this may be."
Then did the little maid reply,
" Seven boys and girls are we.
Two of us in the churchyard lie.
Beneath the churchyard tree."
" You run about, my little maid,
Your hmbs they are alive ;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."
" Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied ;
" Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door,
And they are side by side ;
" My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem.
And there upon the ground I sit —
And sing a song to them.
'• And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my httle porringer.
And eat my supper there.
" The first that died was sister Jane,
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain ;
And then she went away.
136 Headings in Poetry.
" So in the churchyard she was laid;
And when the grass was dry,
Tocrether round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.
" And when thft ground was white with snoW;
And I could run and shde,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
" If they two are in heaven ?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
" Oh, master, we are seven."
" But they are dead ; those two are dead !
Their spirits are in heaven !" —
'Twas throwing words away : for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, " Nay, v.e are seven !"
ON mS MOTHER'S PICTURE.
William Cowpeu.
[Cowpor was hoYu at iM'rkliampstearl in IT.")!, and aftor rccoiviucr tlip ruili-
nii'iits ot cilucatidii at a country scliool, was roniovi'd to AVcstniiustiT. Ou
quiltiuf^ school lio was artidi'd to an attorney, but his oxtrcnio uorvousncss,
wliich never left him throuirh life, and at one time deepened into insanity,
totally tinlitted liim for any public occupation. Ilis writings reflect the gloom
and gleam that characterized his career, lie died in 1800.]
On that those hps had language ! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last :
Those lips are thine — thine own sweet smde I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me ;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
" Grieve not, my child, cliaso all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the ai't that can immortalize —
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
welcome guest, though une-viiccted here !
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Afl'ectionate, a mother lost so long,
1 will obey, not wiUinglv alone.
But gladly, as the ]n-oceiit were her own :
And, while that face renews my filial grief.
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief.
On his Mother's Picture. 13'^
Shall steep me in Elysiaii reverie,
A momentary dream that thou ai't slie.
My mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, Life's journey jiist begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss,
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss —
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes.
I heard the IjcII toH'd on thy biirial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
I Jut was it such ? — It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound imknown :
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more !
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concem.
Oft gave me promise of thy quick retiirn,
AVhat ardently I wish"d, I long ])eliev'd.
And, disappointed still, was still dcceiv'd.
By expectation cv'ry day Iteguil'd,
Dupe of lo-morrovj even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last siilimission to my lot;
But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.
AVhere once we dwelt, our name is heard no more-=«
Children not thine have ti'od my nurs'ry Hoor ;
And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day.
Drew me to school along the public way.
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,
"Tis now become a hist'ry little known,
That once we called the past'ral house our ovm.
Short-liv'd possession ! but the record fiiir.
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made.
That thou might' st know me safe^ and warmly laid ;
Thy morning bounties ere I left m}^ home —
The biscuit, or confectionary plum ;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone, and glov/'J;
All this, and more endearing still than all.
Thy constant How of love, that knew no fall,
INe'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes ;
All this, still legible in mem'ry's page,
138 Headings in Poetry.
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
S 11 oil honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere —
Not scorn'd in Hoav'n, though little notic'd here.
Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
AYhen, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers.
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin,
(And thou wast happier than myself the while —
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smilc)-
Could those few pleasant days again aj^pear,
Miglit one wish bring them, would I wish them here ?
I would not trust my heart — the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.
But no — what here we call our life is such,
So little to Vic lov'd, and thou so much.
That I should ill recpiite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into l)onds again.
Tliou — as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into jiort at some wcU-haven'd isle.
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile.
There sits quiescent on the Hoods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense jilay
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay :
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore
" Where temi)ests never beat, nor billows roar,"
And thy lov'd consort on the dang'rous tide
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoj^iiig to obtain that rest.
Always from port withheld, always distrest —
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails rip]i"d, seams opening wide, and compass lost.
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet the thought, that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth ;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise —
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
And now farewell ! — Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what 1 wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again •,
To have renewed the J03-S that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine ;
And, while the -wings of Fancy still are free,
Riding Together. 139
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has hut half-succeeded in his theft —
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left.
EIDING TOGETHER.
■\ViLLiAM Morris.
[Mr. Morris, who has evidently taken Chaucer for his model, is one of the
purest and most thoroughly En;^lish of any of our recent poets. Jle was boru
at Wulthamstow, ]\[arch 21, IS'-'A, and educated at Marlbro' College and Exeter
College, Oxford, where he took his degree about 18-50. His i)rincipal works aic
his " Defence of Guonevere, and other Poems," 18-56 ; " Thn Life and Death of
Jason," 1867; and "The Earthly Paradise," 1868. Of the latter work tlie
second and concluding volume appeared in Nov. 1869.]
Fob, many, many days together the wind blew steady from the
east ;
For many days hot grew the weather, ahout the time of our
Lady's Feast ;
For many days we rode together, yet met with neither friend nor
foe ;
Hotter and clearer grew the weather, steadily did the east wind
blow.
We saw not the trees in the hot bright weather, clear cut with
shadows very black.
As freely we rode on together with helms unlaced and bridles slack.
And often as we rode together, we, looking down the green-bank 'd
stream.
Saw flowers in the sunny weather, and saw the bubble-making
bream ;
And in the night lay down together, and hung about our heads
the rood,
Or watch'd night-long in dewy weather, the while the moon did
watch the wood.
Our spears stood bright and thick together, straight out the
banners streamed behind.
As we gallop' d on in the sunny weather, with faces turned towards
the wind.
Down sank our threescore spears together, as thick we saw the
Pagans ride ;
His eager face in the clear fresh weather shone out that last time
by my side.
THE SOUL'S EEEAND.
Sin Waltek Kaleigh.
[Raleigh, tho poet, soldier, navigator, j.olitician ami courtier, was born 1.552,
aii<l bchea lid 1(;18. His poctrj- is very brautiful, aud expressed in the quaiul
but vigomus style of the period. Among his political and other works niav b ■
mentioned his " Maxims of State," the " Cabinet Council," and his " Advice, to
his Son." His unfinished work, tlio >' History of tho World," was written dur-
ing his twelve ycai-s' imprisonment in the Tower.]
Go, soul, tlie body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand !
Fear not to touch the best,
And truth shall be thy warrant ;
Go, since I ueeds nui.st die,
And give the world the lie.
Go, tell the court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the church it shows
140 Readings in Poetry.
Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed together — it rocked to the
crash of the meeting spears ;
pown rained the buds of the dear spring weather, the elm-tree
flowers fell like tears.
There, as we rolled and writhed together, I threw my arms above
my head.
For close by my side, in the lovely weather, I saw him reel aud
fall back dead.
I and the slayer met together, he waited the death-stroke there
in his place.
With thoughts of death iii the lovely weather, gapingly mazed
at my madden'd face.
Madly I fought as we fought together ; in vain : the little Christian
band
The Pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather the river drowns low-
laying land.
They bound my blood-stained hands together ; they bound his
corpse to nod by my side ;
Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, with cla.sh of
cymbals did we ride.
We ride no more, no more together — my j^i'ison bars are thick
and strong;
I take no heed of any weather ; the sweet saints grant I live not
long!
(^Dy permission of the Author.")
The Soul's Errand. 141
What's good aud doth no good :
If cliurcli and coui-t reply.
Then give them both the lie.
Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' actions,
Kot lov'd nnless they give,
Not strong but by their factioriS
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.
Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply, _
Then give them all the lie.
Tell them that brave it most.
They beg for more by spending,
"Who in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,_
Then give thorn all the lie.
Tell zeal it lacks devotion,
Tell love it is but lust,
Tell time it is but motion,
Tell flesh it is but dust ;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.
Tell age it daily wasteth,
Tell honour how it alters.
Tell beauty how she blasteth,
Tell favour how she falters.
And as they shall replyv
Give every one the lie.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness ;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the he
Tell physic of her boldness,
Tell skill it is pretension,
Tell charity of coldness.
142 Readings hi Poetry.
Tell law it is contention.
And as tliey do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell fortime of her blindness,
Tell nature of decay,
Tell friendship, of unkindness,
Tell justice of delay.
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming ;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If arts and schools reply.
Give arts and schools the lie.
Tell faith it's fled the city,
Tell how the country erreth,
Tell manhood shakes off ])it3'.
Tell virtue least prefcrreth.
And if they do reply.
Spare not to give the lie.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing :
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing ;
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soul can kill.
THE CEY OF THE CHILDEEN.
Elizabetu Eakritt Bkownino.
[Mrs. Browning wrote ami published the greater portion of her poetiy wliilo
she was yet Elizabeth Barrett ; she married Jlr. Browning, the poet, in 184G.
All her works evince iutellfctu.al power of the highest order, and they suffer
nothing by comparison with the sublimest efforts of masculine genius : she
combines the philosophy of Tennyson with the grace of Shelley and the force
of Milton. Her principal works are, ''Toems,'" two V(.>ls., 1811 ; " The Dnima <if
Kxile;" " The Vision of Poets ;" "Lady Geraldine's Courtship ;" "CasaGuidi
Windows," Avritten in Florence, 1848; ""Aurora Leigh," 1856, a novel in blank
verse ; besides numerous contributions to the periodicals. Messi-s Chapman
and llall publish her works in a collected fonu. She died in 18(Jl.]
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes vn.i\\ years?
They are leaning tlieir young heads against their mothers,—
And that cannot stoj) thoir tears.
The Cry of the Children. J ^'3
The young lamba are bleating in the meadows,
The voting birds are chirping m the nest,
The yoing i^^vns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers ire blowing toward the west-
But the yoiSig, young children O my brothers,
They are weepmg bitterly .—
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
Do you question the young children in their sorrow.
Why their tears are falling so ."—
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost iu Long Ago—
The old tree is leafless in the forest—
The old year is ending m the trost—
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest—
The old hope is hardest to be lost :
But the young, young children my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Wcepin^ sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherhmd ?
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see.
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of mtancy—
« Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary ;
- Our young feet," they say, " are very weak !
Few paces have we taken, yet arc weary—
Our (^rave-rest is very far to seek.
Ask the age°l why they weep, and not the chddrcn,
For the outside earth is cold,
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildermg.
And the graves are for the old.
"True," say the children, "it may happen
That we die before our tmie. _
Little Alice died last year-the grave is shapen
Like a snowball, m the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared t<) take her—
Was no room for any work in the close clay :
From the sleep whereiix she lieth noite ^vfll wake her,
Crvin-, ' CJet up, little Alice ! it is day.
If YOU hsten by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Abce never cries !-
Could wfsee her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growmg m her eyes!
i44 Readings in Poetry.
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud, by the kirk-chime !
It is good when it happens," say the children,
" That we die before our time."
Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking
Death in lite as best to have !
They are binding up their hearts away from breakuig,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city —
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do —
Pluck you haiulfuls of tlie meadow-cowslips pretty —
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through !
But they answer, " Arc your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine ?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine !
" For oh," say the chddren, " we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap —
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping —
We fall upon our faces, trying to go ;
And, underneath our heavy eyelids droojiing.
The reddest flower would look as pale as snov;.
For, all day, we drag our buixlen tiring
Through the coal-dark undergronnd —
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.
" For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning, —
Their wind comes in our faces, —
Till our hearts turn, — our head, with pulses burning.
And the walls turn in their places —
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling—-
Turns the long light that drops adown the wall —
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling —
All are turning, all the day, and we with all. —
And all the day, the iron wheels are droning ;
And sometimes we could pray,
* ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning),
' Stop ! be silent for to-day !' "
Ay ! be silent ! Let them hear each ofrlier breathing
For a moment, mouth to month —
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of tlieii" tender human youth !
The Cry of the Children.
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals —
Let them prove their living sonls against the notion
That they live in you, or under yon, O wheels ! — -
Still, all day, the iron %Yheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark ;
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward.
Spin on blindly in the dark.
Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers.
To look up to Him and pray —
So the blessed One, who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day.
They answer, " Who is God that He should hear ua.
While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near ua
Pasa by, hearing not, or answer not a word ;
And u'c hear not (for the wheels in their resounding'
Strangers speaking at the door :
Is it likely God, with angels singing round him,
Hears our weeping any more?
" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember.
And at midnight's hour of harm,
• Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber.
We say softly tor a charm .
We know no othc vords, except ' Our Father,'
And we think tnat, in some pause of angel's song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather.
And hold both within His right hand which is strong
'Our Father!' If He heard us. He would surely
(For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purelj,
' Come and rest N\dth me, my child.'
" But no !" say the children, weeping faster,
" He is speechless as a stone ;
And they tell us, of His image is the master
AVho commands xis to work on.
Go to !" say the children — " Up in Heaven,
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find.
Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving —
We look up for God, but tears have made us bliii .L"
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
my brothers, what ye preach ?
For God's possible is taixght by His world's lovir/y--
And the children di^"^^-'- of each.
I-
146 Headings in Poetry.
And well may tlie cliiklren weep before you ! I
They are weary ere tliey run ; I
They have never seen the snnshine, nor the glory '
AVhich is brighter than the sun : ,
They know the grief of man, without his wisdom ; <
They sink in man's despair, without his calm — I
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom. — ;'
Are martyrs, by the ])ang without the pa:r.i, — i
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly I
The blessing of its memory cannot keep, — i!
Are orjihans of the earthly love and heavenly : 'i
Let them weep ! let them weep ! 'j
They look up, with t'leir pale and sunken faces, I
And their locJc is dread to sec, "
For they mind you of their angels in their places, ^
AVlth eyes tnrned on Deity ; — i
•' How long," they say, " how long, cruel nation, ]
Will you stand, to move the world, on a ohild"s heai't,-— |
Stitlc down with a mailed lieel its j^alpitation, |
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? I
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper, ';
And your purple shows 3'our path ! J.
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence J.
Than the strong man in his wrath !" |
{Bi/ permission 0/ Messrs. Chopmua and Ilall.) I
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Oliater Goldsmith.
[Oliver Goldsmitli, the son of a poor curatf, and the sixth of a family of
niuo cliildren, was boru at Palla?, County of Lougford, in Ireland, 1731. Ho
made the four of Europe on foot, and often subsisted on the bouutj' of
peasants, •whom lie conciliated by pcrfonniug to tliom on his flute. " Tho
Traveller" was the result of this tour, and by its jiublication in 1705, he first
emerged from obscurity. " The Vicar of Wakefield "' appeannl in the follow-
ing year. In 17G7 his comedy of " Tho Good-natured Man " was produced ;
his ''Koman History," " Tho Deserted Village," and still popular comedy " Sho
Stoops to Uonquor," followed, in 1708, 177u, and 1773. At the time of his death,
1774, he coulcl command his own terms from the booksellers, but he was ex-
travagant and died in d(dit. He was buried in the Temple, and a monument
was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.J
Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain.
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain .
Where smiling spinng its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease.
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please ;
'I'he Deserted Village. 147
£tow often have I loitered o'er thy greeu,
Where humble happiness endeared each scene [
How often have I jiaused on every charm,
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm ;
The never-failing brook, the busy mill ;
The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill;
The hawthorn bush, vniXx seats beneath the shade,
For talking age, and whispering lovers made !
How often have I blessed the coming daj^
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree :
While many a pastime circled in the shade.
The young contending as the old surveyed ;
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,
And sleights of art, and feats of strength went roima
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired.
Succeeding sports the mirthful band insjjired ;
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out to tire each other down ;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face.
While secret laughter tittered round the place ;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love.
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove —
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these,
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please.
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;
There as I passed, with careless steps and slow.
The mingling notes came softened from below ;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung.
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool.
The playful children just let loose from school ;
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
Vnd the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ;
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
A.nd filled each pause the nightingale had made.
Near yonder copse, where once the gai'den smiled.
And still where many a garden flower grows wild ;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear.
And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
Remote from towns he ran his godly race.
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place ;
Unskilful he to f iwn, or seek for ]30wer.
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ,
Far other aims his heart had learned to pi-ize,
More lj?nt to raise the wretched than to rise.
] is lte0,dlngs in Poezry
His house was known to all the vagrant train ;
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain.
The long remembered beggar was his guest,
Whoso beard descending swept his aged breast ;
The ruined S2)cndthrit't, now no longer ■proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his tire, and talked the night away ;
"Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done.
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were woa.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow.
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ;
But, in his duty prompt at every call, I
He watcheil and wept, he prayed and felt for all. |
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, j^i
To tempt her new-iiedged offspring to the skica ; f
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay.
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul !
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unatfectcd grace,
His looks adorned the venerable ]dace ;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.
The service past, around the pious man.
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ;
Ev'n childi-en followed with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smila.
His ready smile a pai'ent's warmth expressed,
'J'heir welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given.
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall clift' that lifts its awful form.
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm.
Though round its breast the rolhng clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unpro fit ably gay.
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The villatre master tautrht his little «chool.
The Desciied Village. i49
A. man severe he was, and stern to view ;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trac-e,
The day's disasters in his morning face ;
Full well they laughed, with counterfeited gleer
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ;
FuU well the Inisy whisper, circling round.
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned :
Yet he was kind ; or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage.
And even the story ran that he covild gauge ;
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill.
For even though vanquished, he could argue still :
While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame : the very spot
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing e3re.
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired.
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired ;
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round.
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place ;
The whitewashed wall, the nicely-sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ;
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The Twelve Good Rules, the Eoyalgame of Goose.
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
vVith aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ;
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show,
Ranged o'er the cliimney, glistened in a row.
Yes, let the rich deride, the proud disdain
These simple blessings of the lowly train ;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art :
Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play.
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway r
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined :
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade.
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed.
150 Readings in Poetry,
In these, ere trifleis half tli(dr wish obtain,
Tho toiling i^lcasnre sickens into pain ;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decoy,
The heart distrusting asks — if this bo joy ?
A LEGEND OF ELOEENCE.
Percy G. Mocatta.
[Mr. Mocatta is a roinposcr of music, but he has written also some rharniiii'j^
poems aud lyiies. The following picro, the copyright of the author, has Wh'w
written specially for Mrs. Newton I'hillips, by wlmni it has become pop^ilariscil
in the most fashionable circles, and whose consent must be obtained before il
can be pubUily delivered by other elocutionists.]
Ix Florence (Florence ! home of song and sun, —
Nature and Art, combin'd in countless forms),
Dwelleth a master-painter, and his one
Young, beauteous daughter, love for whom soon warms
Tho breast aspiring of a pupil-lad :
Eequiting which, she stirs to dcsp'rato ire,
To imprecation fierce and frenzy mad,
A pitiless and unforgiving sire.
Nor plea nor j^rotestation will he hear.
Nor heed of mutual love the tender tale ;
Nor mark the fallen face, the trickling tear,
Succeeding oft where argument doth fail !
" Dost boast of talent, boy r " he fiercely cries,
" Go, paint me lilies broini, and roses hhie !
A picture even critics' eagle-ej'cs
Shall find, in all respects, to Nature true !
Then, then alone, come woo my daughter fair,
TJieii only shall she bless thee with her hand ;
Begone I my bidding do, or else beware
A Father's wrath I Hash youth, dost understand ? "
O, task impossible ! Dare mortal hope
To work and win on, terms so passing hard ?
Nay, nay, 'tis far beyond Luigi's scope ;
Ilis life's a blank, — his bliss for ever marr'd !
He wanders wearilj' bj- Arno's stream,
And, gazing down upon its crystal face.
Longs for those waters, lit by sun's last beam,
To clasp him in their close, yet cold embrace !
But hark ! the pealing Aru/elus recalls
From Arno Luigi's melancholy mind ;
And, wand'ring on, •wdthiu the church's walls
lie stands, where peace poor penitents may find.
Our Lady's festal day I Tho organ swells.
And, on its tones sonorous, wafts above : —
" Ora pro nobis. Mater I " which up wells
From a thousand throats, imploring Heav'nly love !
The Hush of Life. 151
Poor Luigi ! Vain his searcli I It cannot be I
He gropes in darkness; — ne'er one gleam of light;
But soft ! "Who enters there ? His love ? — 'tis she !
Who roses pale doth bear and lilies white !
She sees him not ; but passing Marj^'s shrine,
Her floral off 'ring makes, and j^ray'rful kneels;
He gazeth fondly on her form divine,
And, lo ! amazement o'er his features steals I
What can it be ? Ho fears his reason's going
(And men from slighter cause their senses lose I)
A fever'd dream ? No ! still the flow'rs are blowing,
And rose and lily wear the wished-for hues !
A miracle, forsooth ! or, maybe, tico !
For, as the maiden riseth from her pray'r,
Her veil, which erst was white, to Luigi's view,
Now shades of hlac and hnnra begins to wear !
Then, swift as thought, doth yon stain'd glass confess
The secret : — how Sol's rays, in piercing thro',
Chang'd rose and lily's white to tinted di'ess ;
A change — complete, and yet to Nature true !
* •* -x- * * *
The picture's painted, and the prize secur'd ;
Proving to all, beyond a shade of doubt, —
To all who've martyrdom for Love endur'd : —
"No task exists Love cannot carry out ! "
(^B>j permission of the Author.)
THE HUSH OF LIFE.
Leopold Wagnek.
The shades of Night assert their mournful sway,
And passing o'er, we mark another day.
No voice of labour greets the stranger ear ;
The forge, the mill, and all is hushed and drear ;
No children cluster round the sehoolhouse door ;
Reposing in their cots their tasks are o'er.
AVithout the silent village, in the fields
Observe how fitting all to^Nature yields !
The bleating sheep subdue their gentle cry ;
'Iho lowing cattle feel the night is nigh ;
The droning insects check their busj°sound ;
The twitt'ring birds their several nests have found.
'Way down the lane, the churchyard's open gate,
Invites the passer-by to meditate —
1^2 Readings in Poetry.
Tho •u'eeping •willows kiss th.e dust and sigh,
"While stately elms aspire towards the sky ;
The gravell'd path -wo fain would lightly tread,
Per hero we muse amid tho silent dead ;
And ev'ry mound and sculptur'd stone attests
The burial-place of Man, who, mould'ring, rests
Ueneath the peaceful sward. His earthly cares
Ai'o o'er ; his outer form dissolved — yet shares
His soul that brighter glory won above,
Tho fruit of long-abiding firith and love.
Yes I blest for ever is the Christian's strife —
'Tis hero we meet the solemn Hush of Life !
ZAEA'S EAE-EIXGS.
J. G. LOCKILUIT.
[John Gibson Lockhart was editor of tho " Quarterly Review," and son-in-
law of Sir Walter Scott. Enough this to link his name with tho literary history
of his own time, had it not been associated with his romances, " V;ilerius,"
"Adam Blair," "Ueginald Dalton," and "Matthew Wald;" with his biographies
of Burns and Napolion, his "Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," and his
cpleudid rendering of the " Spanish Ballads." In 1843 his politics procured
for him a sinecure of 40U/. a year, which he enjoyed till his death in lKJ4. Ho
was born in 1793, his father being tho Kev. Dr. John Lockhart, minister of tho
College Church, Glasgow. Mr. Lockhart distinguished himself both at tho
Glasgow University and at Balliol College, Oxford.]
" My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropt into the well,
And what to say to Muca I cannot, cannot tell."
'Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daughter, —
" The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water.
To me did Muca give them, when he spake his sad farewell,
And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell.
" !My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! they were pearls in silver set,
That when my INIoor was far away, I ne'er should him forget,
That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,
Bi\t remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale.
When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in
the well.
Oh ! what will Muca think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.
" My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have been,
Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen,
Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear,
Changing to tho changing light, with radiance insincere —
That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well —
Thus will he think — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.
" He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the way ;
He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ;
ToaSea-Gull. iS3
He'll tliink some other lover's hand among my tresses noosed,
From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl un-
loosed ;
He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well,
My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.
" He'll say I am a woman, and we arc all the same ;
He'll say I loved when he Avas here to whisper of his llame —
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muca, and cared not for his token.
My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! oh ! luckless, luckless well !
For what to say to Muca, alas ! I cannot tell.
" I'll tell the truth to Muca, and I hope he will believe —
That I have thought of him at morning, and thought of him al
eve;
That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone.
His car-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone ;
And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,
And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well."
TO A SEA-GULL.
Gerald Griffin.
[Gerald Griffiu was bnni at Limorick, Dec. 12, 1803. Before ho was ono
Bud-twenty he came to Loiidou aud obtained cmplojnnent in reporting for tlio
dail}' papers and contributing to the magazines. Tlie " Mnuster Festivals,"
"Suil Dhuv, thi! Coiner," "The Collegians," &c. &c., made him a reputation
which was still increasing when, it is said, in consequence of one of his sisters
taking the veil, his devotional feelings were awakened, aud he retreated from
the world to join the Society of Christian Brothers, devoting himself to works
of morality aud education. lie died of a fever in 1840.]
White bird of the tempest ! beautiful thing,
With the Ijosom of snow, and the motionless wing,
Now sweeping the billow, now floating on high,
Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the sky ;
Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form.
Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so warm •,
Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn,
Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn ;
Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtained dome,
Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ;
Now silently poised o'er the war of the main,
Like the Spirit of Charity brooding o'er pain ;
Now gliding with pinion all silently furled.
Like an Angel descending to comfort the world ^.
Thou seem'st to my sjiirit, as upward I gaze.
And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays,
154 Headings in P.oetry.
Xow lost in tlie storm-driven vapours, that fly
Like hosts that are routed across the broad sky,
Like a pure spirit, true to its A-irtue and faith,
'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and death !
Eise ! beautiful emblem of purity, rise,
On the sweet ^^^uds of Heaven, to thine own brilUant skies;
Still higher ! still higher 1 till, lost to our sight,
Thou hidest thy mugs in a mantle of light;
And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee,
Must long for that moment— the joyous and free—
"WHien the soul, disembodied from Nature, shall spring
Unfettered, at once to her Maker and Kin^ ;
"When the bright day of service and suffering past.
Shapes, lairer than thine, shall shine round her at last.
While, the standard of battle triumphantly furled,
She smiles like a victor serene ou the world !
EVELYN HOPE.
KoBEiiT Browning.
[Mr. Browiaing; was; bom at faint) Twi-ll in lsl2, aud odiicatcfl at the London
Uuivcrsity. His •• raraec-Isu.-i " Avas publishtnl in l83ii, Imt iliil not take with
the public; it was followed by '-Tippa I'assos," which found more favour,
[ii 1837 his tragredy of "Stratford" was prodii<ed, " Sordello "' followed ; then
" The Blot on the Scutcheou," brought out at Drury Lane (1843). His works
are now publislied by Messrs. Chapman and Hall, and are receiving tho atten-
tion that tliev all along deserved. He married Miss BaiTCtt the poetess, who
died in l»(Jl.J
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead —
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;
She plucked that piece of geranium flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.
Little has yet been changed, I think —
The shutters are shut, no light may pass,
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died !
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name —
It was not her time to love ; beside.
Her life had many a hope and aim.
Duties enough and little cares.
And now was quiet, nov/ astir —
Till God's hand beckoned unawares.
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope r
What, your soul was pure and trr.o,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Ma,de you of spirit, fire, and dew—
Evelyn Hope. 35.-
And just because I was thrice as old,
And our patlis in the world diverged so wide»
Each was nought to each, must I be told ?
We were fellow mortals, nought beside ?
No, indeed, for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love, —
1 claim you still, for my own love's sake !
Delayed it may be for more lives 3'et,
Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few — ■
Much is to learn and much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.
But the time will come, — at last it will.
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say.
In the lower earth, in the years long still.
That body and soul so pure and gay ?
Why yoiir hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red— -
And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead.
I have lived, I shall say, so much since then.
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men.
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes •
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me —
And I want ami find you, Evelyn Hope !
What is the issue ? let us see !
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ;
My heart seemed full as it could hold-
There was place and to sjiare for the frank young smile
And the red young mouth, and the hair's yoimg golc'
So, hush, — I ■will give you this leaf to keep, —
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand.
There, that is oiu' secret ! go to sleep ;
You will wake, and remember, and imderstand.
{fiy permimon ofMcsirs. Chapman and Hall.)
166 Readings in Poetry.
THE HIGH TIDE.
(on the coast of LIN'COLKSIUKE, 1571.)
Jean Ixoblow.
[Mi33 Jean lugelow is a popular living poetess, whoso works have now
rcHched a uiuth eilitiou. She is a worthy follower of jMrs. E. B. Jlrcnvuiug, ou
wliuni slie appi'ars to have foumleil hor style, aud writes very couscientiously \
h.r subjects bjing very well chosen, aud her thoughts origiual.]
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
Tlie ringers ran by two, by three ;
" Pull if ye never pulled before ;
Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he:
" Play uppe, play uppe, Boston bells !
Play all your changes, all your swells.
Play tippe 'The Jirides of Euderby.' "
Men say it was a stolen tyde —
The Lord that sent it, He knows all ;
But in myne ears doth still abide
The message that the bells let fall :
And there was nought of strange, beside
The nights of mews aud peewits pied
By millions crouched ou the old sea wall.
I sat and sjjun within the doore,
My thread brake off, I raised myne eyos;
The level sun, like ruddy ore,
Lay sinking in the barren skies ;
And dark against day's golden death
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song.
" Cusha ! Cusha !" all along ;
Where the reedy Lindis doweth,
Flowcth, tioweth,
From the meads where melick growctli
Faintly came her milking song —
" Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha !" calling,
" For the dews will soone be falluig ;
Leave your meadow grasses meUow,
Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslijis, cowslips yellow ;
Come uppe ^\niitefoot, come ujipe Lightfoot ;
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;
I
The High Tide. J 5?
Come uppc Jetty, rise and foUov,-,
From the clovers lift your head;
Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come uppc Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."
If it be long, ay, long ago.
When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
Swift as an arrow, sharpe and strong j
And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shce),
That riuv; the tune of Enderby.
Alia fresh the level pasture lay,
And not a shadowe mote be scene,
Save where full f}^e good miles away
The steeple towered from out the grecue}
And lo ! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.
The swanherds where their sedges arc
Moved on in sunset's golden breath,
The shephcrde lads I heard afarre.
And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ;
Till floating o'er the grassy sea
Came downe that kyndly message free,
The •' Brides of Mavis Enderby."
Then some looked uppc into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels lie.
And where the lordly steeple shows.
They sayde, " And why should this thing le?
What danger lowers by land or sea ?
They ring the tune of Enderby !
" For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys warping doAvn ;
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the towne :
But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates floe,
Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby' ?"
C looked without, and lo', iv.ysonne
Came riding downc with might and maia^
..is raised a shout as he drew on,
rill a''l the welkin rang again.
558 Readings in Poetry.
" Elizabeth ! Elizabeth !"
(A. sv.-eeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
" The oldc sea wall (he cried) is downe,
The rising tide comes on apace,
And boats adrift m yonder towne
Go sailing uppe the market-i^lace."
He shook as one that looks on death :
" God save you, mother!'' straight he saith;
*' Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?"
" Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away.
With her two bairns I marked her lo;.^' ;
And ere yon bells l)egannc to play
Afar I heard her milking song."
He looked across the grassy lea,
To right, to left, " Ho Enderby !"
They rang "The Brides of Enderby !"
With that he cried and beat his breast ;
For, lo ! along the river's bed
A mighty cygre reaix'd his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud;
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud.
Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward pressed
8hook all her trembling bankes amaine ;
Then madly at the eygre's breast
Flung upi^e her weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-—
Then lK\-xten foam Hew round about —
Then all the mighty Hoods were out.
So fan-e, so fast the eygrc di-ave,
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet :
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night,
The noise of bells went sweei^ing by ;
I marked the lolly beacon light
Stream from the church tower, red and high-
A lurid mark and dread to see ;
And awsome bells they were to mee.
That in the dark rang "Enderby."
Under Canvas. — Woundect J 59
Tiiey rang the sailor lads to guide
From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ;
And I — my sonne Avas at my side,
And yet the ruddy beacon glowed :
And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
'■' O come in life, or come in death !
O lost ! my love, Elizabeth."
And didst thou visit him no more ?
Tliou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare ;
The waters laid thee at his doore.
Ere yet the early dawn was cleP;r.
Thy pretty l^airns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass.
That ebb swept out the flocks to sea ;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas !
To man3-e more than myne and mee :
But each -will mourn his own (she saith),
And sweeter woman ne'er dre\v breath
Than my soaine's wife, Elizabeth.
(73y prrmissio)! of Ike Author.)
UNDER CANVAS.— WOUNDED.
Hon. Henry Bulweu Lyttox.
[Son of the ciniiient novelist, Lord Lytton, and worth}- of liis high literary
paruutage, Mr. Bulwer Avi-itcs genuine poetry. His Hues are full of music and
trudcrness; and his subjects, though generally drawn from nature, are placed
in dramatic situations by a skilful hand. His published poems are " Tlw
Wanderer," "Clyt''mnestra," and "Lucile,"' from which tlis following is ex-
tracted.]
" Oil is it a phantom ? a dream of the night?
A vision wdiich fever hath fashion'd to sight P
The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain
Sways sighingly there the drench"d tent's tatter'd curtaiu,
To and fro, up and down.
But it is not the wind
That is lifting it now : and it is not the mind
That hath moulded that vision.
A pale woman enters.
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
Its dull glare upon her. "With eyes dim and dimmer.
There, all in a slumbrous and shadowy glimmer,
The suff'erer sees that still form floating on,
And feels faintly aw-are that he is not alone.
She is thtting before him. She pauses. She standa
160 Headings in Poetry.
By his bedside all sileut. She lays her white hands
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing
Softly, softly, the sore wounds : the hot blood-stain'd dressing
Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals
Thro' the racked weary frame : and throughout it, he feels
The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood.
Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood
Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him,
And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him,
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping !
A soft voice says — ' Sleep !'
And he sleeps : he is sleeping.
" He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there :
Still that jiale woman moves not. A minist'rin^ care
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering
The aspect of all things around liim.
Revering
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly
Sigh'd — ' Say what thou art, blessed dref.m of a saintly
' And minist'ring spirit !'
A whisper serene
Slid softer than silence — 'The Soeur Seraphine,
' A poor Sister of Cliarity. Shun to inquire
' Aught further, 3'oung soldier. The son of thy sire,
' For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave.
' Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'Tis moi'e bravs f
* To live than to die. Sleep !' ]
He sleeps : he is sleeping. ]
"He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steo])ing !
The skies with chill splendour. And there, nevor Hitting, i
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. I
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning, I
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.
He said, i
' If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, ^
' Sweet minister, jwur out yet fni-ther the healing J
' Of that balmy voice ; if it may bo, revealing j
' Thy mission of mere}' ! whence art thou ?' ■
' fjou '\
' Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One
* Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead : j;
' To thee, and to others, alive yet ' — she said^
' So long as there liveth the poor gift in me j
' Of this ministration : to them, and to thee, !
'Dead ' • all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation
King Hubert of Sicily. 101
' Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation,
'"Wherever man sufi'ers, or woman may soothe,
'There her land ! there her kindred !'
She bent down to smooth©
The hot pillow, and added — ' Yet more than another
" Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother,
' I know them — I know them.'
" ' Oh can it be ? you !
* My dearest, dear father ! my mother ! you knew,
' You know them ?'
She bow'd half averting, her head
lu silence.
He brokenly, timidly said,
'Do they know I am thus ?'
' Hush !' — she smiled, as she drew
From her bosom two letters : and — can it be true ?
That beloved and famihar writing !
He burst
Into tears — ' My poor mother, — my father ! the worst
' WiU have reached them !'
' No, no !' she exclaim'd with a smile,
' They know you are living ; they know that meanwhile
' I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weej^ not 1'
But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot
Fcver'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd.
There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest :
And he hears, as it were between smiling and weepmg,
The calm voice say — ' Sleep !'
And he sleeps, he is sleeping.
(Bj 2)ermi)iston o/Mcsirii. Chapman and JJalt.)
KING EGBERT OF SICILY.
H. W. Longfellow.
[Henv}' Wadsworth Longfellow was a native nf Portland, Maine, United States,
born Feb. 27. 1807. After passing three years and a half in travelling through.
France, Spain, Germany, Holland, and England, he returned to America, and
became Professor of Modern Languages at Bowdoin College, Brunswick (where
he was himself educated) , in 1829. Resigning this appointment in 1835, he
made another tour through Europe, was appointed Professor of Languages and
a play; "The Golden Legend;" "Miles Standish;" "Tales of a Wayside
Inn," &c. Died March 24th, 1882.]
EoBERT or Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane,
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attive,
"With retinue of many a knight and squire,
1G2 Readings in Poetry.
\
On St. John's eve at vespers proudlj' sat, ,^
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat. i
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again j
Repeated, like a burden or refrain, '\
He caught the words, Deposuit potentcs j
De sede, et exaUavit hu miles ; 'I
And slowly lifting up his kingly head, i
He to a learned clerk beside him said,
'■What mean these words ? " The clerk made answer meet-
" He has put down the mighty from their seat,
And has exalted them of low degree."
Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully —
" 'Tis well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests, and in the Latin tongue ;
For unto priests and people be it known.
There is no power can push mo from my throne ! "
And, leaning back, he yawned and foil asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.
When he awoke, it was already night ;
The church was empty, and there was no light.
Save where the lamps that glimmered few and faint,
Lighted a little space before some saint.
Ho started from his seat and gazed around.
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked ;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked.
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints.
And imprecations upon men and saints.
The sounds re-echoed from the roofs and walls,
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls.
At length, the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout.
And thinking thieves wore in the house of prayer.
Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there ? "
Half choked with rage, Kmg Robert fiercely said,
" Open : 'tis I, the king ! Art thou afraid ? "
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
" This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! "
Turned the great kej-, and tiung the portal wide :
A man rushed by hira at a single stride.
Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak.
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke
But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished Hko a spectre from his sight,
Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane,
And Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire.
Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,
i
King Robert of Sicily. 165
"With sense of wrong and ouhngc dpFperate,
Strode on, and thuudcned at the palace gate ;
Eushed thi'ough the court-yard, thrusting in his rage,
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.
From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed-
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed —
Until at last ho reached the banquet-room,
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,
Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring —
King Eobert's self and features, form, and height,
But all transformed with angelic light !
It was an angel ; and his presence there '
With a divine effulgence filled the air.
An exaltation, piercing the disguise.
Though nono the hidden angel recognise.
A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The thioneless monarch on the angel gazed.
Who met his looks of anger and surprise "*
With the divine compassion of his eyes ;
Then said, " Who art thou ? and why com'st thou here ?"
To which King Eobert answered with the sneer,
" I am the king, and come to claim mj' own
From an impostor, who usurps my throne ! "
And suddenly, at these audacious words,
Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords.
The angel answered, with unruffled brow,
" Nay, not the king, but the king's jester. Thou
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape.
And for thj'- counsellor shalt lead an ape ;
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! "
Deaf to King Robert's threats, and cries, and prayers,
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ;
A group of tittering pages ran before.
And as they opened wide the folding door,
His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
And all the vaulted chamber roai- and ring
With the mock plaudits of " Long live the king ! "
Next morning, waking with the day's fiist beam,
He said, within himseK, " It was a di-eam ! "
But the straw rustled as he turned his head —
There were the cap and bells beside his bed ;
Around him rose the bare, discoloured walls ;
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,
m2
lo4! Readings in Poetry.
And, in the corner, a revolting shape, P
Shivering and chattering, sat the wretched ape. ?
It was no dream ; the world he loved so much »
Ilad turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 1
Daj's came and went ; and now returned again
To Sicily the old Satu^-nian reign :
Under the angel's governance benign
The happy island danced with corn and wine,
And, deep within the mountain's burning breast,
Enceladus, the giant, was at rest.
Meanwhile King Eobert yielded to his fate,
Sullen, and silent, and disconsolate.
Dressed in the motley garb that jesters wear,
"With looks bewildered and a vacant stare.
Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn,
By coui'tiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn,
His only friend the ape, his only food
What others left, he still was unsubdued.
And when the angel met him on his way,
And half in earnest, half in jest, would say,
Sternlj', though tenderly, that he might feel
The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel,
" Art thou the king r " the passion of his woo
Burst from him in resistless overflow,
And lifting high his forehead, he would fling
The haughty answer back, " I am, I am the king ! "
Almost three yeai-s were ended, when there came
Ambassadors of great repute and name
Prom Valmond, Emperor of AUemaiue,
Unto King Eobert, saying that Pope Urbane
By letter summoned them forthwith to come
On Holy Thursday to his city of Eome.
The angel with great joy received his guests,
And gave them presents of embroidered vests.
And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined,
And rings and jewels of the rarest kind.
Then he departed with them o'er the sea,
Into the lovely land of Italy,
"Whose loveliness was more resplendent made
By the mere passing of that cavalcade,
"With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir
(Jf jewelled bridle and of golden spur.
And lo I among the menials, in mock state,
Upon a piebald steod, with shambling gait.
His cloak of fox-tails Ihipping in the wind,
The solemn ape demurely perched behind,
King Eobei-t rode, making huge merriment
In all the country towns through which they went.
Kinrj Rohert of Sidly. 165
The Pojie received them with great pomp and blare
Of bannered trumpets, on Saint Peter's Square,
Giving his benediction and embrace,
I'ervent and full of apostolic grace.
While -with congratulations and with prayers
Ho entertained the angel unawares,
Eobert the jester, bursting through the crowd,
Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud,
*' I am the King ! Look, and behold in mo
Kobert, your brother. King of Sicily !
This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes,
Is an impostor in a king's disguise.
Do you not know me ? Does no voice within
Answer my cry, and say wo are akin ? "
The Pope, in silence, but with troubled mien,
Gazed at the angel's countenance serene ;
The emperor, laughing, said, " It is strange sport
To keep a madman for thy fool at court ! "
And the poor baffled jester, in disgrace.
Was hustled back among the iiopulace.
In solemn state the holy week went by.
And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ;
The presence of the angel, with its light.
Before the sun rose, made the city bright.
And with new fervour fill'd the hearts of men,
Who felt that Christ, indeed, had risen again.
Even the jester, on his bed of straw,
With haggard eyes the unwonted splendour saw ;
He felt within a power unfelt before,
And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor,
He heard the rushing garments of the Lord
Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward.
And now the visit ending, and once more
Valmond returning to the Danube shore,
Homeward the angel journeyed, and again
The land was made resplendent with his train,
Flashing along the towns of Italy
Unto Salerno, and from there by sea.
And when once more within Palermo's wall.
And seated on the throne in his great hall,
He heard the Angelus from convent towers.
As if the better world conversed with ours,
He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher,
And, with a gesture, bade the rest retire.
And when they were alone the angel said,
" Art thou the king ?" Then bowing down his head,
King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast,
And meekly answered him, " Thou know'st best !
166 Readings in Poetry.
My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence,
And in some cloister's school of penitence,
Across those stones, that pave the way to heaven,
Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven ! "
The angel smiled, and from his radiant face
A holy light illumined all the place.
And through the open window, loud and clear,
They heard the monks chant in the chapel near,
Above the stir and tumult of the street :
" He has put down the mighty from their scat.
And has exalted them of low degree ! "
And through the chant a second melody
Eose like the throbbing of a single string :
•' I am an angel, and thou art the king ! "
King Eobert, who was standing near the throne.
Lifted his eyes, and lo, ho was alone !
But all apparelled as in days of old,
"With ermined mantle and witli clolh of gold ;
And when his courtiers came they found him there
Kneeling uj^on the floor, absorbed in silent prayer.
THE EOSE AND THE GEAVE.
Victor Hugo.
[Sec p. 249.]
The grave said to the rose —
" Oh, flower of love !
Where go the tears that dewy morn on thco
Sheds from above ? "
The rose said to the grave —
" Grave, tell me this :
Where go the souls that daily disappear
In thine abyss ? "
The rose replied — " sad
And dismal tomb.
Out of those tears do I distil
A sweet perfume ! "
The grave replied — " flower.
Blushing anti bright.
Out of the souls that come to me I make
Angels of light ! "
i
I
167
THE INFLUENCE OF BEAUTY.
John Keats.
rjohn Kciits was boru iu Loudon 1796 ; he was intended for a surgeon, and
published his mystical poem " Eudymiou " before ho was twenty, a circum-
Btauce that ouglit to have procured for it a kiudly consideration — but nothing
was too younger too innocent for the savages of "The Quarterly."
In Keats' case tlie shot did not hit, for before the article appeared the
young poot was taken to Italy ; but he coiild not outstrip that galloping con-
sumption that had seized him. Ho was buried in " the strangers' ground " in
Home, where he died Dec. 27, 1820.
Keats displayed in his ■wi-itiugs an immense amount of imagination, and it
may bo safely asserted that much of ovu: recent poetry has been influenced by
them.]
A THixG of beauty is a joy for ever :
Its loveliness increases ; it will never
Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, ajid quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow are we wreatliing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways
Made for om* searching : yes, in sj^ite of all.
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in ; and clear rill-i
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season : the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose bloomb ;
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead ;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read :•
An endless fountain of immortal drink.
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees
That whisper roimd a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so docs the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite.
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast^
They alway iiiust bo with us, or we die.
108 Readings in Poeti^.
'Di^reforo, 'tis with full happiness that I
AVill trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
luto my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the gi'eeu
Of our own valleys : so I will begin
Now, while I cannot hear the city's din ;
]Jsow, while the early budders are just new.
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests ; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber ; and the dairy-pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write.
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white.
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees
Hvim about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of mj' stor^-.
Oh ! may no wintry season, bare and hoar}'-,
See it half finished ; but let autumn bold.
With universal tinge of sober gold,
]Je all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome I send
My herald thought into a wilderness :
There let its trump et blow, and quickly dresa
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, through flowers and weed.
Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread
A mighty forest ; for the moist earth fed
So i^lenteously all weed-hidden roots
Into o'erhangiug boughs, and precious fruitr.
And it had gloomy shades, sequester'd dee]>,
Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's keen
A lamb stray'd far a-down those inmost glens,
Never again saw he the hajipy pens
Whither his brethren, bleating with content.
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
Among the shepherds 'twas beheved ever,
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried
By any wolf, or pard with jurying head,
Until it came to some unfooted plains
Where fed the herds of Pan : ay, great his gains
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many
Winding through palmj- fern, and rushes fenny,
And ivy banks ; all leading pleasantly
To a wide lawu, whence one co\ild only see
January Wind. 169 '
Stems thronging all around between the swell
Of tuft and slanting branches : who could teU
The freshness of the space of heaven above,
Edged round with dark tree-tops ? through which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often too
A httle cloud would move across the blue.
s
Full in the middle of this pleasantness ^ j
There stood a marble altar, with a tress j
Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew '
Had taken fairy fantasies to strew j
Daisies ui^on the sacred sward last eve, i
And so the dawned hght in pomp receive. i
For 'twas the morn ; Apollo's upward firo
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so un sullied that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
Into the winds : rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him : cold springs had run
To warm their chilhest bubbles in the gi-ass ;
Man's voice was on the mountains : and the mass
Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold,
To feel this sun rise, and its glories old.
JANUAEY WIND.
EOBEET BrClIAXAX.
[Mr. Buchanan was educated at Glasgow University, and came to London ia
1859. For the first four years of his London life he had a hard time of it,
woi-king as a nameless contributor to certain cheap periodicals, but he did find
employment, and in the meantime was storing up those poetic treasures which
culminated in the publication of his '' L'ndertones " (18C3\ a vohune which was
acknowledged to be "the most remarkable ./irsf volume or poems, perhaps, ever
written." He has published two volumes since — " The Idyls of Inverbura,"'
and recently, "London Poems." They have more than justified the high
praise that was bestowed upon his maiden venture.]
The wind, wife, the wind ; how it blows, how it blows ;
It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it
crows :
It dashes on the window-pane, then nishes off with a cry,
Ye scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and
high;
And far away upon the sea it floats with thunder-call,
The wind, wife ; the wind, -nafe : the wind that did it all.
The wind, wife, the wind ; how it blew, how it blew ;
The very night our boy was bom, it whistled, it screamed, it crew ;
170 Readings in Poetry.
And while you moan'd upon your bed, and your heart was darlc
with fright,
I swear it mingled with the soul oi" the boy you bore that night ;
It scarcely seems a winter since, and the wind is with us still, —
The wind, wife ; the wind, wife ; the wind that blew us ill !
The wind, wife, the wind ; how it blows, how it blows ;
It changes, shifts, without a cause, it ceases, it comes and goes ;
And David ever was the same, wayward, and wild, and bold —
I'or wUful lad will have his way, and the wind no hand can hold ;
But ah ! the ^villd, the changeful wind, was more in the blame
than he :
The wind, wife ; the wind, wife ; that blew him out to sea !
The wind, wife, the wind ; now 'tis still, now 'tis still ;
And as we sit I seem to feel the silence shiver and thrill ;
'Twas thus the night he went away, and we sat in silence here,
We listen'd to our beating hearts, and all was weary and drear;
We longed to hear the wind again, and to hold our David's hand—
The wind, wfe ; the wmd, wife ; that blew him out from land.
The wind, wife, the wind : up again, up again !
It blew our David round the world, yet shrieked at our vrindow-
pane ;
And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun. and in snow,
"Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow.
It moans around, it groans around, it wanders with scream and
cry—
The wind, Avife ; the wind, wife ; may it blow hini home to die.
(From "Idyls and Legends of Invcrhurn.'' liy jurnussion of Mr, fUrahan.)
MAUD MULLEB.
J. G, WlIITTIEK.
[Mr. Whittier is an American poot of some standing, still li^ang,]
M.\UD MuLLER, on a summer's day,
Kaked the meadow sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-ofF town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The SY'cet song died, and a vague unrest
And a naniolcss longing tilled her breast —
I
Maud Midler. ^"1
A wisli, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadows across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up.
And filled for him her small tm cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
«' Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quafi"ed."
He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humnung bees ;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whethei
The cloud in the west would bnng toui weather.
And Maud forgot her briar -torn gown,
And her gi-aceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, Hke one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah, me!
That I the Judge's bride might be !
" He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
" My father should wear a broad-cloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
" And I'd feed the hungiy and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he cHmbed the hill.
And saw" Maud MUUer standing still.
172 Readings in Poetry.
" A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
" And her modest answer and graceful air.
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
" Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her a harvester of hay :
" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
And weary lawyers with endless tongues,
" But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health of quiet and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold,
And liis mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing liis heart, the Judge rode on.
And Maud was left in the field alone.
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
\Vhcn he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well.
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell
He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go :
And sweet Maud Miiller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead ;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms.
To dream of meadows and clover blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret paiu :
" Ah, that I were free again !
" Fi'ee as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearned and poor.
And many children played ro\ind her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain.
Left their traces on heart and brain.
Excelsior. 173
And oft, wlien the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring-brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall.
In the shade of the apple-tree again.
She saw a rider draw his rein :
And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately haUs ;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned.
The tallow candle an astral bm-ned,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pij^e and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw.
And joy was duty, and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, " It might have been !"
Alas ! for Maiden, alas ! for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge !
God pity them both ! and pity us all,
Who vamly the th-eams of youth recall.
For of all sad works of tongue or pen.
The saddest are these : " It might have been 1"
Ah, weU ! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes ;
And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away !
EXCELSIOR.
n. ^Y. LOXGFELLOW.
[See page 161.]
TnE shades of night were falling fasf ,
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange deyice,
Excelsior !
] 74 ExcelsioT, \
His brow was sad ; liis eye beneath, i
Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath, \
And like a silver clarion rnng
The accents of that ixnknown tongue, ,
Excelsior !
In happy homes he saw the light i
Of household fires rrleam warm and bright ; 1
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, i
And from his lips escaped a groan, j
Excelsior! ,
" Try not the Pass !'' the old man said ; ;
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead.
The roaring torrent is deep and wide !"
And loud that clarion voice repUed,
Excelsior!
" stay," the maiden said, " and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast !"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye.
But still he answer'd with a sigh.
Excelsior!
"Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch!
Beware the awful avalanche !"
This was the ])easant'8 last Good-night,
A voice replied far up the height,
Excelsior !
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior !
A traveller by the faithful hound
Half-buried in the snow was found.
Still grasping in his hjnd of ice.
That banner with the strange device.
Excelsior !
There in the twilijrht cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful he lay ;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A Yoico full like an evening star.
Excelsior I
The Three Sons. 17*
THE THREE SONS.
Rev. J. Moultrie.
[The E€V. John Moultrie is the rector of Eugby, author ot "My Brother's
Grave," aud other poems (1827), "Lays of tlie English Church, &c." (l8-io),
aud editor of au edition of Gray's iwetical works. He was born about 18C4.]
I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould,
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears.
That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish year.?.
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair ;
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air :
I know his heart is kind aud fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency :
But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills liis
mind,
The food for grave inquiring speech, he everjrwhere doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk,
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed
With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the
next.
Pie kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn, then, are the words whic^x he
will say.
Oh ! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,
A holier and a wiser man, I trust that he will be !
And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ;
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
II)-.v silvery sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee :
1 C.0 not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen ;
Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been ;
But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling,
Aud his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,
Will sj^eak their joy, and bless my boy, who looks so mild and sweet,
t playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone,
He'll sing his little song of love, when left to spoi-t alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love !
] 7G Readings in Poetry. |
A.nd if, beside his grave, the tears our acHng eyes must dim,
liod comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in hini !
I have a son, a third sweet son ! his age I cannot tell,
For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to
dwell.
To us for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given.
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in lieaveu.
I cannot tell what form he has, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow, i
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, j
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal ; '
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. ;
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of tlesh ;
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh,
I know the angels fold him close, beneath their glittering wings,
And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's diviuest
things.
I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I),
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye,
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may hero bo grief and fear, but his is certain peace.
It raay be that tho tennpter's wiles their souls from bUss may sever,
But it our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever.
When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be;
When we muse on that world's perfect bhss and this world's misery;
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain,
Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have liim here again.
THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.
Ebenezee Elliott,
[ilr. Elliott work, d iu tbc iron Iradi', at Shcfluld, for mauy yi^ars. He was
iiusuccessful !it livsf, but pei-sovered auil succci'dcd. He was bom at Ma;»
bjrongh, uear Rotherhaui, 1781, and died 1849.]
Strong climber nf the mountain side,
Though thou the vale disdain.
Yet walk with me whore hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.
High o'er the rushy springs of Don
The stonny gloom is roll'd ;
The moorland hath not yet put on
His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling spreads his wing,
Where dewy daisies gleam ;
And here the sun flower of the spring
Bums bright in morniuar's beam.
TliZ Wonders of the Lane. 177
To mountain Avinds the famisli'd fox
Complains that Sol is slow,
O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw,
liut here the Lizard seeks the sun,
Here coils in light the snake ;
And here the fire-tuft* hath begun
Its beauteous nest to make.
Oh, then, while hums the earliest hevj
Where verdure fires the plam,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
The glories of the lane !
For, oh, I love these banks of rock,
This roof of sky and tree,
These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,
And wakes the earliest bee !
As spirits from eternal day
Look down on earth secure ;
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey
A world in miniature ;
A world not scorn'd by Him who made
Even weakness by his might ;
But solemn in his depth of shade,
And splendid in his light.
Light ! not alone on clouds afar
O'er storm lov'd mountains spread.
Or widely teaching sun and star.
Thy glorious thoughts are read ;
Oh no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land —
A page on which the angels look,
W^hich insects understand !
And here, oh, Light ! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,
Thy bright small hand is here.
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide.
Is Huron, girt with wood ; _
This driplet feeds Missouri's tide —
And that, Niagara's flood.
What tidings from the Andes brings
Yon line of Hquid light.
That down from heav'n in madness flings
The blind foam of its might ?
Do I not hear his thunder roll —
The roar that ne'er is still ?
'Tis mute as death ! — but in my soul
It roars, and ever will.
* Tie Golden-crested Wren.
378 Readings In Poetry.
What forests tall of tiniest moss
Clothe every little stoue !
What pipfmy oaks their foliage toss
O'er pigmy valleys lone!
With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,
Ambitious of the sky,
They feather o'er the steepest edge
Of mountains mushroom high.
Oh, God of mangels ! who can tell
WHiat m)'riad living things
On these grey stones unseen may dwell!
What nations, with their kings !
I feel no shock, I hear no groan
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone —
A hundred ruin'd realms !
Lo ! in that dot. some mite, like mc,
Impelled by woe or whim.
May crawl, some atom dill's to sec —
A tiny world to him !
Lo ! while he pauses, and admires
The work of nature's might,
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires,
And all to him is night !
Oh, God of terrors ! what are we ? —
Poor insects, spark'd with thought !
Thy whisper. Lord, a word from thee,
Could smite us into nought !
But shouldst thoii wreck our fatherland,
And mix it with the deep,
(Safe in the hollow of thy hand.
Thy little nnos would sleep.
HOME AGAIN.
William S.vavvek.
[Mr. Sawjcr was ;i \sill-known poetioal contributor to the leading niagarinrs
of the (lay, includiiig "TlioCoriihill," "Good Words," "Gentleman's jrajazine,"
" Bi'lgravia," and "Temple i!ar." lie also published several small volumes of
virso which exhibit poetical powers of no mean order, including; "Ten Miles
IVoui Town," which has run through two editions. Died 1882.]
Home again! Spared the perils of years,
Spared of i-ough seas and rougher lands.
And I look in your eyes once, once again.
Hear your voices, and grasp your hands !
Not changed the least, least bit in the world !
Not aged a day, as it seems to me !
The same dear faces, the same dear home — •
All the same as it used to be !
The Fairij Child. 179
All ! here is tlie garden ! Here tlie limei?,
Still in their sunset green and gold,
And the level lawn, -with the pattern in't
"Where the grass has been newly roH'd.
And here come the rabbits, lumping along,-—
No ! That's never the same white doe
With the pinky lops and the mnncliing month ;
Yet 'tis like her as snow to snow.
And here's Nep in his old heraldic style,
Erect, chain tightening all he can ;
"With Topsy, wagging that inch of tail, —
What, you know me again, old man ?
The pond, where the lilies float and bloom !
The gold Hsh in it, just the same,
Too fat to stir in the cool, — yes, one
Shoots and gleams, and goes out like flame!
And yonder's the tree with the giant's face,
Nose and chin against the blue ;
And the wide elm branches meeting, bear
Our famous swing between the two !
No change ! Nay, it only seems last night
That I returu'd your fond " Good-byes,"
As I heard the rain drij) from the eaves,
And felt its moisture in my eyes.
Only last night that you throng'd the porch,
While I choked the words I couldn't say,
And poor little Jim's white face peep'd out,
Dimly scon while I stole away.
Poor little Jim ! In this ha]>py hour
His wee, white face our hearts recal,
And I miss a hand and a voice, and see
The little crutch agaiust the wall.
So all hfe's sunshine is fleck'd with shade,
So all delight is touch'd with pain,
So tears of sorrow and tears of joy
Welcome the wanderer home aofain !
THE FAIRY CHILD.
Dr. Axsteu.
[John Anster, LL.D., M.E.I.A., was bom at Cork in 1798, and educated a-i
frinity College, Dublin. He was well known as the translator of "Faust," an(?
coutributed largely to Blackwood's and other leading magazines. Died 1(^67.]
The summer sun was sinking
With a mild liglit calm and melloT\',
It shone on my little boy's bony cheeks,
And his loose locks of yellow ;
The robin was singiug sweetly,
And his song was sad and tomler :
^ 2
180 Readings in Poetry.
And my little boy's eyes, while he heard the song,
Smiled with a sweet soft splendour.
My little boy lay on my bosom,
While his soiil the song was quaffing,
The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek,
And his heart and his eye were laughing.
I sat alone in my cottage.
The midnight needle plying ;
I feared for my child, for the rush's light
In the socket now was dying !
There came a hand to my lonely latch,
Like the wind at midnight moaning :
I knelt to pray, but rose again.
For I heard my httle boy groaning ;
I crossed my brow, and I crossed my breast,
But that night my child departed—
They left a wcakUug in his stead,
And I am broken-hearted !
Oh ! it cannot be my own sweet boy,
For his eyes are dim and hollow,
My little boy is gone — is gone,
And his mother soon will follow !
The dirge for the dead will be sung for mc.
And the mass be chanted meetly,
And I shall sleep with my little boy.
In the moonlight churchyard sweetly.
ODE TO THE ALMIGHTY.. j
G. R. Deuzhatix. I
[Gabriel Eomauovitcb Dcrzhnviu, tho greatest IjTic poet of Eiissia, was bom i
at Kasan in 1743, and died in I.'^IO. The ode has been translated into several *
EaBtem and European languages.]
O Tiiou Eternal One ! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy — all motion guide,
Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight,
Thou only God ! Thei-e is no god beside.
Being above all beings! Mighty One!
Whom none can comprehend and none explore.
Who fiU'st existence with Thyself alone.
Embracing all — ouj^porting — ruling o'er —
Being whom wc call God, and know no more.
In its sublime research, philosophy
May measure out the ocean deep — may count
i
Ode to the Almiglify iSi
The sands or the sxin's rays; but God! for Thee
Thei'e is no weight nor measure ; none can mount
Up to Thy mysteries. Reason's brightest spark,
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ;
And thought is lost ere thought can mount so high.
E'en like past moments in eternity.
Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence. Lord ! on Thee
Eternity had its foundation ; all
Spring forth from Thee ; of light, joy, harmony,
Sole origin — all life, all beauty Thine.
Thy word created all, and doth create ;
Thy splendour iilLj all space with rays divine ;
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be glorious ! great
Life-giving, life-sustaining potentate.
Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround,
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath !
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death !
As sparks mount upwards fi*om the fiery blaze.
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee !
And as the spangles, in the sunny rays.
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantiy
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.
A million torches, lighted by Thy hand.
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss;
They own Thy power, accom]:)lish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them ? Pi^.es of crystal hght ?
A glorious company of golden streams P
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright?
Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to those art as the noon to night !
Yes ! as a drop of water in the sea,
All this magnificence in Thee is lost ; —
AVhat are a thousand worlds compared to Thee ?
And what am I, when heaven's unnumber'd hosi,
Though multiplied by myriads and array'd
In all the glory of sublimest thought,
Is but an atom in the balance weigh'd
Against Thy greatness — is a cypher brought
Against infinity ? What am I then ? — iN'ought.
Thou art ; directing, guiding all. Thou art !
Direct my understanding then to Thee ;
182 Headings in Poetry ■ ]
Control my spirit — guide my wandering heart; li
Though but an atom 'midst imraeusity, ''
Still I am something fashion'd by Thy hand. ,
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth, %
On the last verge of mortal being stand,
Close to the realm where angels have their birtli_
Just on the boundary of the spirit land!
T!io chain of being is complete in me;
In me is matter's last gradation lost,
And the next step is Spirit — Deity !
I can command the lightning, and am dust !
A monarch and a slave ; a worm, a god :
Whence came I here, and how? so marvellonsly
Constructed and conceived I — unknown? This clod
Lives surely throngh some higher energy :
From out itself alone it could not be.
Creator ? yes ; Thy wisdom and Thy word
Created me. Thou source of life and good !
Thou Spirit of my spirit and my Lord !
Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude,
Fill'd me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death, and 1 ale it wear ,
The garments of eternal day, and wing
Its heavenly Hight beyond the little sphere.
Even to its sonrce, to Tlaee, its author, Thee.
thought ineffable ! vision blest .
(Though woiihless our conception all of Thee)
Yet shall Tliy shadow'd image fill our breast.
And waft its homage to thy Deity.
God ! thns alone my lowly thonghts can soar ;
Thus seek Thy presence. Being wise and good !
'Midst Thy vast works, admire, obey, adore.
And when the tongue is eloquent no more.
The soul shall speak in tears its gratitude.
IIOYv MAY WAS FIRST l^IADE.
Thomas Milleii.
[Tlioraas ililk'r was originally .a basket -maker at Guiusborougli, where he
was born in ISilf^. His literary attempts attraetin'f thft attention of Rogers and
Jloore, he was enabled to start as a iniblishor. Died Oct. 28, 1874.]
As Spring upon a silver cloud,
T^ay looking on the world below,
Watcliing the Ijreezes as they bowed
The buds and blossoms to and fro,
Holu May was first raadc. i83
She saw the fields with hawthorns walled-
Said Spring " New buds I will create."
She to a Flower Spirit called,
Who on the month of jMay did wait,
And said " Fetch me a hawthorn spray,
And I will make the buds of May."
Said Spring, " The grass looks green and bright,
The hawthorn-hedges too are green,
I'll sprinkle them with flowers of light,
Such stars as earth hath never seen.
And all through England's velvet vales.
Her steep hill-sides, and haunted streams.
Where uplands dip into the dales,
Where'er the hawthorn stands and dreams,
And thick-leaved trees make dark the day,
I'll light the land with buds of May.
" Like pearly dew-drops, wliite and round,
The shut-up bloom shall first appear.
And in it be such fragrance found
As breeze before did never bear,
Such odours as in Eden dwelt
When angels hovered round its bower.?,
And long-haired Eve at morning knelt
In innocence amid the flowers :
Such perfumes I'll cast every way.
And scent the land throughout with May.
*' And oft shall groups of children come.
Threading their way through shady places,
From many a jieaceful English home,
The sunshine falling on their faces,
Starting with merry shouts the thrush,
As through green lanes they wander singing,
To gather the white hawthorn bush :
While homeward in the eveuing.
With smiling faces they shall say
' There's nothing half so sweet as May.'
" And many a poet, yet unborn.
Shall link its name to some sweet lay;
"vThile lovers oft at early morn.
Shall gather blossoms of the JMa}-;
And eyes bright as the silver dews
Which on the rounded May -buds sleep,
Shall round it looks of love diff'use ;
And beauty's l:)lushes it shall keep.
To warm up all the white away.
Of l:)uds that form the bloom of May."
]S4 Readings in Poetry,
The silver cloud on which she lay
Spring shook, and on the hawthorn spray
It fell, and made the buds of May.
THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DEOrS.
J. E. Caepekter.
" F.vxnER, dear father, why pass they away,
The dew-drops that sparkled at dawning of day —
That glittcr'd like stars by the light of the moon,
Oh, why are those dew-drops dissolving so soon ?
Does the sun, in his wrath, chase their brightness away,
As though nothing that's lovely might live for a day ?
The moonlight has faded — the flowers still remain,
But the dew has dried out of their petals again."
" My child," said the father, " look up to the skies,
Behold yon bright rainbow — those beautiful dyes ;
There — there are the dew-drops in glory reset,
'^lid the jewels of heaven they are glittering 3'et.
Then are we not taught, by each beautiful ra}'.
To mourn not earth's fair things though fleeting away ?
For though youth of its brightness and beauty be riven,
All that witners on earth blooms more brightly in heaven."
Alas for the father ! — how little knew he
The words he had spoken prophetic could be ;
That the beautiful child, — the bright star of his day,
Was e'en then like the dew-drops — dissolving away.
Oh ! sad was the father, when lo, in the skies
The rainbow again spread its beauteous dyes ;
And then he remember'd the maxims he'd given.
And thought of his child and the dew-drops in heaven.
THE NIGHTINGALE'S NEST.
John Clake.
[Jolin Clare, the Noi-tbamptousbiic peasant-poet, was bom at Helpstone, in
1793, and was the son of a poor agricultural labourer, wlio, in Lis latter days,
became an inmate of the parish workhouse. By extra work as a plough-boy,
John contrived to earn enough money to pay for such schooling as could bo
procured in a humble village, and, ha^^ng learned to read the Bible, he saved
enough to purchase a volume of Thomson's " Seasons." lie shortly began to
compose verses : thev were shown from hand to hand, admired, and in 1820 his
first efforts were published, with an account of tlie poet from the pen of the
late Mr. Octavius Gilchrist. In 1817 Clare published another volume by sub-
scription. Tlie critics recognised in it the eflusions of a thoughtful mind,
The Nightingale's ^"esf. 185
relying on itself, and disdaining to paraphrase former jjoefs. By (he aid of the
late Earl Fitzwilliuni, Clare became possessed of an income of about 45/. per
annum, besides a cottage rent free. Shortly after his marriage in 1820, he
became hopelessly, but hamilessly, insane, and he remained au inmate of the
tounly asylum at Northampton until his death in 186-i."l
Up this green woodland ride let's softly rove
And list the Nightingale ; she dwells just here.
Hnsh ! let the wood-gate softly claj^, for fear
The noise might drive her from her home of love ;
For here I've heard her many a merry year,
At morn, at eve, nay, all the livelong da}^
As though she lived on song. Tliis very spot
Just where that old man's-beard all wildly trails
Rude arbours o'er the road, and stojis the way ;
And where the child its bluebell flowers hath got,
Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails ;
There have I hunted like a very bo3%
Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn.
To find Tier nest, and see her feed her young.
And vainly did 1 many hom-s employ :
All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.
And where those crumpling fern-leaves ramp among
The hazel's under boughs, I've nestled down
And watched her while she sang ; and her renown
Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird
Should have no better dross than russet brown.
Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy.
And feathers stand on end, as 'twere with joy,
And mouth wide open to release her heart
Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part
Of Summer's fame she shared, for so to me
Did happy fancies shapen her employ.
But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,
All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain :
The timid bird had left the hazel bush,
And oft in distance hid to sing again.
Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,
Rich ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,
Till envy spuiTcd the emulating Thrush
To start less wild and scarce inferior songs;
For while of half the year Care him bereaves,
To damp the ardour of his speckled breast.
The Nightingale to Summer's life belongs,
And naked trees and Winter's nipping wrongs
Are strangers to her music and her rest.
Her joys are ever green, her world is wide !
Hark ! there she is, as usual. Let's be hush ;
For in this Ijlackthorn clump, if rightly guessed,
Her curious house is hidden. Part aside
Those hazel branches in a gentle way.
186 Readings in Poetry.
1
And stoop right cautious 'ucath the rustling boughs,
For we will have another search to-day,
And hunt this fern-strewni thorn-clump round and round,
And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows
"We'll wade right through ; it is a likely nook.
In such like spots, and often on the ground *
They'll build where rude boys never think to look ;— \
Ay, as I live ! her secret nest is here ! \
Upon this whitethorn stump ! I've searched about *
For hours in vain. There, put that bramble by, — •
Nay, trample on its branches, and get near.
How subtle is the bird ! She stai-ted out, ,
And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh \
Ere we were past the brambles : and now, near
Her nest, she sudden stops, as choking fear,
That might betray her home. So even now
AVe'U leave it as we found it ; safety's guard
Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.
"\Ve will not plunder music of its dower,
Nor turn this spot of hapi)iness to thrall,
For melody seems hid in every flower
That blossoms near thy home. These bluebells all
Seem bowing with the beautiful in song ;
And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,
Seems blushing at the singing it has heard.
How curious is the nest ! No other bird
Uses such loose materials, or weaves
Its dwelling in such spots ! Dead oaken leaves
Are idaced without, and velvet moss within.
And little scraps of grass, and scant and spare,
"What hardly seem materials, down and hair ;
For from men's haunts she nothing seems to win.
Snug lie her curious eggs, in number five,
Of deadened green, or rather ohve-brown.
And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.
So here we'll leave them, still unknown to wrong,
As the old woodland's legacy of song.
TUE GOLDSMliii.S DAUGHTER.
JOHAXN LVDWIG UHLAXD.
[riilaud was born at Tiibiii^en on the 2Gth of April, 1787, and ranks among
llie f^iviitost of tli« poets of (lermaiiy. A lawyor by profession, and haviiic:
tiikou part in tlie various political struggles wbioL agitated the Gennan people,
be was known in "father-laud " as a politician as well as a minstrel ; but it is
in tho latter character that his reputation, which is wond-wide, has been wafted
abroad. His favourite material for writing was the legends aud traditions of
the nations of Western Europe, and these he invested with a strange weird
charm by tho fiuitastic power of his singular geuiue. Uhlaud's principal works
The, GoIdsmifJts DavgJder. 187
HYP — " Eiiiest, Duke uf Sxiabia," a tiaged}'; "Louis the Bavarian," a di-ama ;
" Dramatic Poems ;" " Walter of the Vogehveid," &c. Ilis poems wero lirst
[lublishc'd iu a collected form in 1815, siuce wbeu they have i^uue through many
editions. He W'a.s some time a member of the Wilrtemberg parliament, iu
vihich he occasionally spoke. Died 18G2.]
A GOLDsiriTii stood where slioue around
His pearls and diamonds clear ;
" The brightest gem I ever found
Art thou, my pet, my Helena,
My little daughter dear !"
A dainty knight just then came iu,
" Good day, my i)retty maid :
Good day, my brave old goldsmith, too.
I need a rich set garland
My sweet bride's locks to braid."
Now when the finished garland shone.
And sparkled all so bright,
And Helen could be quite alone,
Upon her arm she hung it.
And saddened at the sight.
" ^Vh ! happy, sure, the bride will be
Who wears this jirctty toy :
A!i ! if the dear knight would give ma
A simple wreath of roses,
0, I should die for joy !"
Ere long the knight came in again,
And close the garland eyed :
"]\Iy good old goldsmitli, make mc, then,
A little ring of diamonds
For my sweet little bride."
And when the finished circlet shone
With precious diamonds liright,
And Helen could be quite alone,
She drew it on her finger
And saddened at the sight.
" Ah ! happy, sure, the bride will be
Who wears this pretty toy.
Ah ! if the dear knight woiild give mo
A little lock of hair, only,
0, I should die for joy !"
Y.V3 long the knight came in again,
And close the ringlet eyed :
" I see, my good old goldsmith, then,
Thou maiv'st quite beautifully
The gifts for my sweet bride."
388 Headings in Poetry.
But that their fitness I may see.
Come, pretty maiden, now,
And let me try at once on thei
The jewels for my dearest,
i'or she is fair as thou."
'Twas early on a Sunday mom ;
And 80 the maiden fair
Had put her very best dress on,
And decked herself for service,
"With neat and comely care.
In pretty shame, with cheek on fire.
Before him did she stand :
He placed on her the golden tire.
The ringlet on her finger,
And pressed her little hand.
" My Helen sweet ! my Helen dear !
The jest is over now ;
^Vhat bride shall claim the pretty gear,
The jewelled gold-bright garland.
And little ring, but thou ?
'•With gold, and pearl, and precious gem,
Hast thou grown up to be —
As. sweet ! thou should'st have learnt from them-
The sharer of high honour,
In after days, with me."
THE SICILLIN YESPEES.
J. G. Whittieb.
[Mr. Wliittier is an AmericAn poet of somo standing ; still living.}
Silence o'er sea and earth
With the veil of evening fell,
Till the convent tower sent deeply forth
The chime of its vesper bell.
One moment, and that solemn sound
Fell heavily on the ear ;
But a sterner echo pass'd aronnd ;
"Which the boldest shook to hear.
The startled monks throng'd up,
In the torchlight cold and dim ;
And the priest let fall his incense cup.
And the virgin hush'd her hymn ;
Ike Sicilian Vesi^ers. i39
For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp,
And a summoning voice were heard,
And fretted -wall, and tombstone damp.
To the fearful echo stirr'd.
The peasant heard the sound.
As he sat beside his hearth ;
And the song and the dance werehush'd around,
With the lireside tale of mirth.
The chieftain shook in his banner'dhall.
As the sound of war drew nigh ;
And the warder shrank from the caatle wall.
As the gleam of spears went by.
Woe, woe, to the stranger, then ;
At the feast and flow of wine.
In the red array of mailed men.
Or bow'd at the holy shrine ; v
For the waken'd pride of an injured land
Had burst its iron thrall :
From the plumed chief to the pilgrim band ;
Woe, woe, to the sons of Gaul !
Proud beings tell that hour,
With the young and passing fair.
And the flame went up from dome and tower,
The avenger's arm was there !
The stranger priest at the altar stood.
And clasp'd his beads in prayer.
But the holy shrine grew dim with blood ;
The avenger found him there !
W^oe, woe, to the sons of Gaul ;
To the serf and mailed lord ;
They were gathered darkly, one and all.
To the harvest of the sword ;
And the morning sun, with a quiet smile.
Shone out o'er hill and glen.
On ruin'd temple and mouldering pile.
And the ghastly fonns of men.
Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled.
As its early glance came forth ;
It had no sympathy with the wild
And terrible things of earth ;
And the man of blood that day might read.
In a language freely given.
How ill his dark and midnight deed
Became the light of heaven.
]90 Readhifjs in Podnj.
THE BATTLE OF MOEGAETEN.
Mrs. Hemans.
[Felicia Dorothea Ilomans was bora at Liverpool, Sept. 25, 1793, but wag
removed with hor family before she had attained the ago of seven to Gwiych,
iu Derbyshire. In this roiuautic regiou she -uTote some very creditable verse
while yet in her twelfth year. Iu 1809 the family removed to St. Asaph, iu
Fliutshire, and in 1812 her "Domestic Affections and other Toems '" were
published. In the sunnmr of this year she was mairied to Captain Hemans,
who, in 1818, left her with five children, " to try the effect of a southern
climate," but his wife never saw him again, there can be little doubt that it
was this paiuful separation which tinged much of her subsequent compositions
with that melancholy feeliug that rendered it so touching, and occasionally,
so monotonouslj' iiathrtic. She may claim to be the first English writer who
made the po<!try of the homo affections adapted to the puqioses of song ; she
beautifif>d and purified musical ballad literature, and bad hundreds of imitators
— the best proof of the originality of her genius. She died at Dublin, May Iti,
1835.]
Tin: wine-mouth shone in its golden prime,
And the red grapes cUistering hung,
But a deeper sound, through the Switzers clime,
Than the vintage-music, rung.
A sound, through vaulted cave,
A sound, through echoing glen,
Like the hollow swell of a rushing wave ;
— 'Twas the tread of steel-girt men.
And a tntnipet, pealing wild and liir,
'Midst the ancient rocks was blown,
Till the Alps replied to that voice of war
"With a thousand of their own.
And through the forest-glooms
Flash'd heiniets to the day.
And the winds were tossing knightly ]>lumes,
Like the larch-boughs in their play.
In Hash's wilds there was gleaming steel,
As the host of the Austrian jiass'd;
And the Schreckhorn's rocks, with a savage peal,
Made mii-th of his clarion's blast.
Up 'midst the Righi snows
The stormy march was heard,
With the charger's tramp, whence fire-sparks rose,
And the leader's gathering word.
But a band, the noblest band of all,
Through the rude Morgarten strait,
With Ijlazou'd streamers, and lances tall.
Moved onwards in princely state.
The Battle of Morgarten. 1 9 1
They came with heavy chains,
For the race despised so long —
But amidst his Alp-domainSj
The herdsman's arm is strong !
The sun was reddening the clouds of morn
When they entered the rock •defile,
And shrill as a joyous hunter's horn
Their bugles rung the while.
But on the misty height,
Where the mountain jieople stood,
There was stillness, as of night,
When storms at distance brood.
There was stillness, as of deep dead night,
And a pause— but not of fear,
While the Switzers gazed on the gathering might
Of the hostile shield and si')ear.
On wound those columns bright
Between the lake and wood,
But they look'd not to the misty height
Where the mountain -people stood.
The pass was fill'd with their serried power,
All helm'd and mail-an-ay'd,
And their steps had sounds like a thunder- shower
In the rustling forest-shade.
There were prince and crested knight,
Hemm'd in by cliff and Hood.
When a shout arose from the misty height
AYhere the mountain-people stood.
And the mighty rocks came bounding down.
Their startled foes among.
With a joyous whirl from the sun\rait thrown —
— Oh ! the herdsman's arm is strong !
They came like lauwine hurl'd
From Alp to Alp in play,
When the echoes shout through the snowy world
And the pines are borne away.
The fir- woods crash'd on the mountain-side,
And the Switzers rush'd from high,
With a sudden charge, on the flower and pride
Of the Austrian chivalry :
Like hunters of the deer,
They storm'd the narrow dell,
And first in the shock, with Uri's spear,
AYas the arm of William Tell.
192 Readings in Poetry.
There was tumult in the crowded strait,
And a cry of wild dismay,
And many a warrior met his fate
From a peasant's hand that day !
And the empire's banner then
From its place of waving free,
Went down before the shepherd-men.
The men of the Forest-sea.
With their pikes and massy clubs they brake
The cuirass and the shield.
And the war-horse dash'd to the reddening lake
From the reapers of the tield !
The field— but not of sheaves —
Proud crests and pennons lay,
Strewn o'er it thick as the birch-wood leaves,
In the autumn tempest's way.
Oh ! the sun in heaven fierce havoc view'd,
"NVlien the Austrian turn'd to fly.
And the brave, in the trampling multitude.
Had a fearful death to die !
And the leader of the war
At eve unhelm'd was seen,
With a hurrying step on the wilds afar,
And a pale and troubled mien.
But the sons of the land which the freeman tills,
Went back from the battle-toil,
To their cabin homes 'midst the deep green lulls,
All burden'd with royal spoil.
There were songs and festal fires
On the soaring Alps that night,
"Wlion children sprung to greet their sires
From the wild JNIorgarten fight.
ODE FOE MUSIC ON ST. CECILLVS DAY.
Alexaxder Pope.
[Alexander Pope was bom in Lombard-street, London, where his father car-
ried on business as a linen-draper, in 1688. Both his parents being llonian
Catholics, he was placed at the age of eight under the care of one Taverner, a
priest, who taught him the rudiments of Greek and Latin. At the age of
twelve he removed with his parents to Binfield, in Windsor Forest ; and about
the same time he wrote his " Ode on Solitude," a most remarkable produrtion
for so young a genius. Here he studied Waller, Spenser, and Dryden, and at
the age of sixteen wrote liis " Pastorals," which attracted the attention of the
leading wits of the time. His " Essav on CriticL^m " was pubhshed in 1/11,
and the " Messiah " appeared on the Tst of September in the same year. Ihis
was followed by the " Ode to St. Cecilia's Day," which appeared originally in
"The Spectator." About the same time he wrote "The Kape of the Lock.
After bringing out " Abelard and Eloisa," "The Tenple of lame." and
Ode for Music on St. Cecilia's Day. 193
""Windsor Forest," he undertook tlie translation of tbe "Iliad," vrhictL lie pub-
lished by Bubscription, and netted above 5,000/. "With a part of this he pur-
chased his house at Twickenham, so long after fondly recognised as ''Pope's
Villa." On the completion of the " Iliad " he undertook the " Odyssey ; " but
a spice of commercial enterprise was mixed up with his literary labours, for he
not only got it subscribed to liberally, but he employed other learned men
(among them Broome, Fenton and Parnell), to assist him in his work. In 17-9
lie published his great ethical epic, the '' Essay on Man."' In 1737 he printed
his "Letters" by subscription, and made money by them, but the publication
was against all the tenets of literary honour and gentlemanly breeding. .\t the
time of his death he was engaged in preparing a complete edition of his works.
He died May 30th, 1744, aged oG.]
Descent), ye Nine ! descend and sing :
The breathing instruments inspire ;
"Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding h^re !
In a sadly-jileasing strain,
Let the warbling lute complain :
Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around
The shrill echoes rebound :
While, in more lengthened notes and slo"W,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow.
Hark I the numbers, soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear ;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,
And fill with spreading sounds the skies ^
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes.
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats ;
Till, by degrees, remote and small,
The strains decay.
And melt away.
In a dying, dying fall.
By music, minds an equal temper know,
Nor swell too high, nor sink too low.
If in the breast tumultuous joys arise.
Music her soft, assuasive voice applies ;
Or when the soul is pressed vrith cares.
Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds ;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds :
Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed.
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,
List'ning Envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage.
And giddy factions bear away their rage.
But when our country's cause provokes to arms,
How martial music eyery bosom warms !
O
194 Readings in Poeti^.
So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais'd his strain,
"While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pel ion to the main.
Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,
Inflam'd with glory's charms :
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheatli'd the shining blade ;
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,
To arms, to arms, to arms I
And when through all the infernal bounds,
"Which ilaming Phlegethou surrounds,
Love, strong as Death, the Poet led
To the pale nations of the dead,
What sounds were heard,
"What scenes appear'd,
O'er all the dreary coasts !
Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires, that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,
Hollow groans,
And cries of tortured ghosts I
But hark ! he strikes the golden lyro ;
And see the tortured ghosts respire.
See shady forms advance I
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stand still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel.
And the pale spectres dance I
The furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.
By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow
O'er th' Elj-sian ilow'rs ;
By those happy souls who dwell
In yellow meads of asphodel,
Or ainarauthino bow'rs ;
By the heroes' armed shades,
Giitt'iing thro' the gloomy glades;
By th ) youths that died for love,
"\Vanderiug in the myrtle grove,
Restore, restore Eurydico to life :
Oh take the liusbaud, or return the wife !
lie sung, and hell-consented
To hoar the poet's prayer :
Stern Proserpine relented,
And gave him back the fair,
Ode for Music on St Cecilia's Day. 195
Thus song could prevail
O'er death and o'er hell,
A conquest how hard and how glorious !
Though fato had fast bound her,
With Styx nine times round her,
Yet music and loye were victorious.
But soon, too soon, the lover turns his eyes :
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies !
How wilt thoix now the fatal sisters move ?
No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Ilebrus wanders,
Eolling in mx'andevs,
All alone.
Unheard, unknown,
He makes his moan ;
And calls her ghost.
For ever, ever, ever lost !
Now with furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded.
He trembles, he glows.
Amidst Rhodope's snows :
See, wild as the winds, o'er the desert ho flies ;
Hark ! Hajmus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries —
Ah see, ho dies I
Yet ev'n in death Eurydice he sung;
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue :
Eurydice the woods,
Eurydice the floods,
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.
Music the fiercest grief can charm,
And Fate's severest rage disarm ;
Music can soften pain to ease.
And make despair and madness please :
Our joys below it can improve,
And antedate the bliss above.
This the divine Cecilia found.
And to her Maker's praise confined the sound
When the full organ joins the tuneful qixiio,
Th' immortal pow'rs incline their ear :
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire.
While solemn aiis improve the sacred fire ;
And angels lean from heav'n to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell ;
To bright Cecilia greater power is giv'n :
His numbers raised a shade from hell,
Hers lift the soul to heav'n.
o2
196 Readings in Poetry,
ALEXANDERS FEAST; OE, THE POWEE OF
MUSIC. '
John Dryden. i
I
[Dryden was born at Aldwinklo, Northampton, in 1631. He was educated at
Winchester School and Trinity (JoUegc, Cambrid<!:e. He came to London in
16o4, and acted as secretary to his relation, Sir Gilbert Pickering, who was one I
of Cromwell's council. Like the celebrated Yicar of Braj-, Drytlcn shifted his I
politics in conformity with the ins and outs of that stirring period ; he wrote
a laudatory ode on the death of the Protector, and a panegyric on the restora- \
tion of Charles II. In 1GG7 he was appointed poet-laureate, ■w'ith a salary of
200/. a year. None of his plays have kept the stage, but his translation of
Yirgil is undying, and has immortalized him. On the accession of James II. ho
became a IJoman Catholic, and, like all perverts, was loudest in the abuse of his \
old faith. It was not until the abdication of James, when he was obliged to
write for bread, that his finest compositions were written. He died in 1700, and ,
was buried in "Westminster Abbey.] j
'TvAS at tho loj'al feast, for Persia won,
By Philip's ■warlike son : I
Aloft in awful state '
The god-liko hero sate j
On his imperial throne : |
His valiant peers wore plac'd around; \
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound : ^
So should desert in arms bo crown'd. J
The lovely Thais by his side ?
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride, '^
In flow'r of yotjth and beauty's pride. I
Happy, happy, happy pair- !
None but the brave.
None but the bravo,
None but the brave deserves the fail*.
Timotheus plac'd on high.
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd tho lyi'O :
The trembling notes ascend the sky.
And heavenlj' joys inspire.
The song began from Jove ;
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love I)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god : '
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode, I
When he to fair Olympia press' d, j
***** I
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the world. i
The list'niug crowd admire the lofty sound, j
A present deity ! they shout around :
A present deity ! tho vaulted roofs rebound. j
i
'}
AUxandeT^s Feast 197
With ravisii'd ears,
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,
Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung ;
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young ;
The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums :
Flush'd with a purple grace
He shows his honest face.
Now give the hautboys breath. He comes, he comes I
Bacchus ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain :
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure ;
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure,
Eich the treasure.
Sweet the pleasure ;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain ;
Fought all his battles o'er again ;
And thrice he routed all his foes ; and thrice he slew the slain.
The master saw the madness rise ;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes :
And while ho heav'n and earth defied,
Ohang'd his hand and check'd his pride.
He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse :
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
PaU'n, fall'n, faU'n, fall'n,
Fall'n from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood :
Deserted at his utmost need.
By those his former bountj^ fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies.
With not a friend to close his ej^es.
With downcast look the joyless victor sat,
Eevolving in his altered soul
The various turns of fate below ;
And now and then a sigh he stole ;
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smil'd, to see
That love was in the next degree ;
'Twas but a kindred sound to move,
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures.
19S Meadmgs in Poetry.
War, lie sung, is toil aud trouble ;
Honour but an empty bubble ;
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying :
If the world be worth thy winning,
Think, O, think it worth enjoying !
Lovely Thais sits besido thee,
Take the good the gods provide theo.
The many rend the skies with loud applause :
So love was crown'd, but music won the cause.
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the fair,
Who caus'd his caro,
Sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :
At length with love and wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish' d victor sunk upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again ;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain,
lireak his bands of sleep asunder,
And rouse him, like a lattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has rais'd up his head ;
As awak'd from the dead.
And amaz'd, he stares ai-ound.
Eeyenge ! revenge ! Timotheus cries,
See the furies arise !
See the snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their hair !
And the sparkles that flash Irom their eyes !
Behold a ghastly band.
Each a torch in his hand !
These are Grecian ghosts, that iu battle were slain,
And unburied remain
Inglorious on the plaiu :
Give the vengeance duo
To the valiant crew.
Behold how they toss their torches on high,
How they point to the I'ersian abodes,
And glitt'ring temples of their hostile gods.
The princes applaud, with a furious joy ;
And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey.
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
Thus, long ago,
In-e heaving bellows learn'd to blow,
While organs yet were mute :
Timotheus to his breathing flute
Cowper^s Grave. 199
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame ;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store,
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length to solemn sounds.
With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.
liet old Timolhcus yield the prize,
Or both divide the crown ;
He rais'd a mortal to the skies ;
She drew an angel down.
COWPER'S GRAVE.
Elizabeth Bakrett Browning.
[See page 142.]
It is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying^-
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying :
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languish !
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.
poets ! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing !
O Christians ! at your cross of hope a hopeless bard was clinging !
men! this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling,
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were
smiling !
And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory.
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights
departed.
He wore no less a loving face becaiise so broken-hearted :
He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation ;
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration :
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken.
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath taken.
With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon nim.
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath won
him —
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His o^vn love to blind him,
But gently led the bUnd along where breath and bird could find him,
And wrpught within his shattered brain, such qiiick poetic senses
As hUls have language for, and stars, harmonious influences !
The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number.
And silent shadows from the trees refreshed him like a slumber.
200 Readings in Foetrij
Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to sliare liis home-Ciiresses,
Uplookiiig to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses ;
The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways
removing, , j i •
Its women and its men became beside him true and lovmg.
But while in blindness he remained unconscious of the guiding,
And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth though phrcnzy desolated—
Nor man nor nature satisfy, whom only God created !
Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother whilst she blesses
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses ;
That turns his fevered eyes around — ''My mother! where's my
mother ?" —
As if such tender words and looks could come from any other ! —
The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him,
Her face all palefrom watchful love, the unweaiy love she bore him ! —
Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which closed in death to save him !
Thus ? oh, not tlms ! no type of earth could image that awaking,
"Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round liira
breaking,
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body part^ed,
But felt those eyes alone, and knew, " My Saviour ! not deserted !"
Deserted ! who hath dreamt that when the cross in dai-kness rested,
Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested ?
"What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops
averted ?
What tears have washed them from the soul, that c?ie should be
deserted ?
Deserted ! God could separate from His own essence rather,
And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son and
Father ;
Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe liath shaken —
It went ujD single, echoless, '" My God, I am forsaken 1"
It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation,
That, of the lost, no son shoiild use those words of desolation,
That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hope, should mar not hope's
fruition,
And 1, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision !
(Bu pennisshn of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)
201
THE SLAVES.
J. E. Cakpentee.
" Come to tlie land where slavery reigus,
To shatter the fetters and bm-st the chains ,
There's a noble ship in the sheltering bay,
It waits bnt for me, and we're hence — away!
My crew, they love not this gloomy shore,
We must be ploughing the sea once more.
" Come, though I speed to the burning skies,
Where the slave, bow'd down, on the parch'd earth liea
Where the slave-ship steals o'er the lurid main,
With her pii-ate crew, for ungodly gain.
'Tis a noble work, and my heart beats now
For a glimpse of that hated vessel's prow.
" There's a land that boasts of its good free will,
But the stripes with its stars are blended still.
Come ! — chase the foul traders from ev'ry sea,
Till the proud earth owns all her people free;
And e'en that land is free — in name —
Shall look on her past with a pang of shame.
*' There is one dark spot on the wave afar,
But to us it shall be as a guiding-star ;
Come ! there's a clank of the black man's chain.
Calling me back to the distant main ;
Shatter those fetters, — away ! with me —
Why should the earth not all be free ?"
" Mariner ! — thine is the lot to be
Borne on the ocean, loving the free ;
But not for me is the wave's loud roar.
Though I am weary of this cold shore.
Though thou tellest things I grieve to hear,
More gloomy and sad is the prospect here.
" I've read of the land where slavery reigns ;
I've heard men speak of the negi'o's chains
I am not deaf to the voice of woe,
I hear it, too frequent, wherever I go !
You go to the slave, — but you leave behind
White slaves — fetter'd in body and mind !
" They wear not the chain, nor the festering ring,_
But they sell themselves— and for what they'll bring ;
And many a strong man bows his head.
And toils for less than his ' daily bread,'
And pines for a bowl of the negro's rice,
For he earns it not in his — market price.
202 Readings in Poetry.
" The negro toils 'neatli the scorching sun,
But he sees him set when the day is done :
Mariner ! thousands of white men here
Never behold his golden cheer ;
Hewing the mines in the earth's dark cell,
Day is all night where the white slaves dwell.
" Digging and delving through life that we
May scatter our wealth, and shout, ' we're free;'
A mind-lilighted, limb-twisted, barbarous race,
Born for their loathsome hiding-place.
Slavery ! boast not its race is o'er,
For it dwelleth close to the goud man's door.
" Slavery ! Mark 3'e that chimney tall,
Those narrow windows in that high wall !
See ye those wheels that go round and round.
With ever the same sharp whizzing sound :
A hundred children, when dajdight's fled,
Go hence, — but not one to a child's happy bed.
"There's slavery there, in that dim-lighted room,
Wliile the streets arc shrouded in midnight gloom ;
In the fair young form, who, with swimming eyes,
By the glare of the lamp her needle plies ;
On — on — no rest ! she must toil away,
Till the task is done, for the coming day.
" Slaveiy ! is it the same dark tale
" On the Afric shore, — in the English gaol?
Liberty ! is it an empty sound ?
Or hath it no meaning on British groimd ?
Oh ! the gaol is the refiu/c the white slave's got,
Tho' he'd covet, without it, the negro's lot.
" Then, mariner, hence ! and God prosper thee,
And strengthen thine arm against slavery !
But when thou art far on some alien strand,
Give back thy thoughts to thy native land ;
And pray that the galling chain be riven.
That the white man's wealth to his kind has given."
THE BELLS.
Edgar Allax Toe.
[Poo was born at Baltimore, U.S.A., about tbn yoar 1811, and loft destitnle
when a mere cliibl by liis parents, wlio were strolling players. Adopted and
Bent to sehool by a Virpiuian planter, ilr. Allan, he was from the first un-
grateful and unmanageable. He was expelled from a military aeademy in
which Mr. Allan placed him ; ho enlisted in the army, then deserted and picked
up a precarious li\'ing by contributing to American periodicals. His genius
The Bells. 203
made him many friends, but he kept none ; he deceived and disgraced all be
came in contact with ; he was morbidlj' reckless, and his diseased imagination
is reflected in his writings. He seems to have written as he lived, in a dream
of intoxication, in which despondency alternated with savage hilarity, and in
which nothing real had a part. He cUed October 7, 18-19, in a hospital a+
Baltimore.]
Hear the sledges with the bells —
Silver hells !
What a world of merriment their melody foretells !
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night !
While the stars that overspriiikle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight.
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear tho mellow wedding bolls,
Golden bells !
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells:
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out l^ieir delight !
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a lic[uid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that Hstens, while she gloats
On the moon !
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells !
How it swells !
How it dwells
On the Future ! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells.
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells J
Hear the loud alarum bells —
Brazen bells !
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells J
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright !
Too much horrified to speak,
They can onl}-- shriek, shriek.
Out of tune,
20 1 Headings in Poetry.
In a clamorous ai^pealiug to tlie mercy of the fire,
lu a mad exijostulatiou with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desii-e,
And a resohite endeavour,
Now — now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells !
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar !
What a horror they outjiour
On the bosom of the jiulpitating air.
Yet the car it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging.
How the danger ebbs • " ^ 'lows;
Yet the ear distinct'
In the janglinc
And the wrangliiii,,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells ;
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bolls, bells, bells, beUs,
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells,
Hear the tolling of the bells —
Iron bells !
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound tliut floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the peo])lc — ah, the people —
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone.
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone.
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone —
They ai-e neither man nor woman —
They are neither brute nor humau-
They are Ghouls :
And their king it is who tolls ;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
La fee Leman by Night 205
A pa3an from tlie bells !
And his merry bosom swells
With the pa3an of the bells I
And he dances and he yells ;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pa3an of the Ijells —
_ Of the bells .-
Keeping time, time, time.
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells — •
Keeping time, time, time,
As ho knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme.
To the rolling of the bells —
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-
Bells, bells, bells —
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
LAKE LEMAN BY NIGHT.
Lord Byrox.
[With Byi-on rose a new, more lofty, and more finished style of poetry than
any that had preceded his, that of Shakspearo and Milton alone excepted. To
the smooth versification oi I'opo ho addod the gi-andeur of imagery and the
power of description. His first efforts, which were certainly but feeble, wero
suL'ured at by the Edinburgh Reviewers. In 18U7, the " Hours of Idleness "
was published ; live years "aftei-wards the opening Cantos of " Cliilde Harold "
had "made him famous." " The Prisoner of Chillon," " Manfred," " Lament of
Tasso," followed in rapid succession; then came the completion of " Childo
Harold;" afterwards "Mazeppa," and the commencement of "Don Juan;" tho
latter defymg public "proprieties," but astonishing the world by its bursts of
poetic grandeur. Then came tho Dramas, never intended for the stage,
but which the cupidity of managers subsequently dragged upon the boards.
Of Byron's ill-starred marriage and subsequent excesses, something too much
lias already been -written. His whole life reads like a romance of the most
startling kind ; his death, an attack of fever, almost an inevitable consequence,
lie died in Greece 1824, at the age of thirty-six, and was bm-ied in the family
vault at Hucknall, near Newstead.]
Clear, placid Leman ! that contrasted lake,
With the ^vild world I dwelt in, is a thing
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spi-ing.
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction ; cnice I loved
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved.
That I with stern delights shc-iild e'er have been so moved.
206 Readings in Poetry.
It is the Imsli of night, and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen,
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear
Precipitously steep ; and dl•a^ving near.
There breathes a Hving fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more.
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill.
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil.
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues.
Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven 1
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven.
That in our aspirations to be great.
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kmdred with you ; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
All heaven and earth are still, though not in sleep,
But breathless as we grow when feeling most ;
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : —
All heaven and earth arc still. From the high host
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast.
All is concenter'd in a life intense.
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being, and a sense
Of that which is of all Creator and defence.
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone ;
A truth, which through our being then doth melt.
And purifies from self: it is a tone.
The soul and source of music, which makes known
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm.
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone,
Binding all things with beauty :— 'twould disarm
The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm.
Not vainly did the early Persian make
His altar the high places and the peak
Elihu. ^207
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and tlms take
A lit and unwall'd temple, there to seek
The spirit, In whose honour shrmes are weak,
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and Cimparo
Columns and Idol-dweUlngs, Goth ex Greek, _
With nature's realms of worship, earth and air.
Nor fi^: on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray r .
ELIHU.
Alice Cauey.
" SAILOR, tell me, tell me true,
Is my little lad — my Elihu^
A sailing in your ship h"
Tlie sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew,
" Your little lad ? your Elihu ?"
He said ^Wth trembling lip ;
" What Httle lad— what ship ?"
What little lad ?— as if there could be
Another such a one as he !
" What little lad, do you say ?"
" Wliy, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him otf my knee.
It was just the other day
The Gray Siucui sailed away."
The other day ? The sailor's eyes
Stood wide open with surprise.
•' The other day ?— the Swnn ?'\
His heart began in his throat to rise._
" Ay, ay, sir ; here in the cupboard lies
The jacket he had on."
" And so your lad is gone ! —
♦' Gone with the Swan." " And did she stand
With her anchor clutching hold of the sand,
For a month, and never stir ?"
" Why, to be sure ! I've seen from the land.
Like a lover kissing his lady's hand.
The wild sea kissing her —
A sight to remember, sir."
♦' But, my good mother, do you know,
All this was twenty years ago ?
I stood on the Gray Sivan's deck,
And to that lad I saw you tlirow^
Taking it off, as it might be SD —
208 ' Headings in Poetry.
The kercliief from your neck ;
Ay, and he'll bring it back.
" And did the little lawless lad,
That has made you sick, and made you sad,
SaU with the Gray Swan's crew ?"
" Lawless ! the man is going mad ;
The best boy mother ever had ;
Be sure, he sailed with the crew —
What would you have him do ?"
" And he has never written line,
Nor sent you word, nor made you sign,
To say he was alive ?"
" Hold — if 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine ;
Besides, he may be hi the brine ;
And could he write from the grave ?
Tut, man ! what woiild you have ?"
" Gone twenty years ! a long, long cruise ;
'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse ;
But if the lad still Hve,
And come back home, think you you can
Forgive him ?" " Miserable man !
You're mad as the sea ; you rave —
What have I to forgive P"
The sailor twitched his shirt so blue,
And from within his bosom drew
The kerchief. She was wild :
" My God ! — my Father ! — is it true ?
My little lad— my Elihu?
And is it ? — is it ? — is it you ?
My blessed boy — my child —
My dead — my living child !"
TO MAEY IN HEAVEN.
PiOBERT Burns.
[Bora in 1759, and dj'ing iu 170G, "more," says Mr. Allan Cunniufrliam, "of
a broken heart than any other illness," lioberl Burus's birth stands on tho
threshold of the Centenary of British Bards whost) writings are most familiar
to the present generation. Tho most convincing proof that the gift of poesy
is not the result of "learning overmuch," is found in the fact that Bums was
born a peasant, and that his education was only iu .accordance with his station.
He threshed in the barn, reaped, mowed, and lield the plougli Ix'foro he w;ii
fifteen. Burns's fugitive pieces naturallj- passed from hand to hand, aui}
attracted the attention of a few discerning individuals: by their aid he was
enabled, in 1786, to pTiblish his first volume. The result was, his name and
fame flashed like sunshine over the land: the shepherd on the liill, the maiden
ftt her wlieeL learnt his songs bj heart, and tho first scholars of ScotIaj;c\
To Mary in Heaven. 209
ftourted his acquaintance. He was taken to Edinburgli, feted, pettea — and
spoiled. Lords and ladies who had invited him to their liouses soon neglected
him, or, when they met him, passed over to the other side of the street. What
ivonder, then, that in the bitterness of disappointed hope, he should speak
koo freely about freedom, and be voted as one who was to be kept do'WTi!
When he failed in that farm for which, by their toadyism, they unfitted hira,
they made him an exciseman, and told him if he would only lick-spittle
their order, he might hope to rise to the rank of a supervisor. He couldu't
do it; the uatural dignity of his genius prevented him. Burns did not "boo
and boo" himself into favour, as he might have done ; his true genius soared
above even this nationality, and he was given to understiud that his hopes of
preferment were blasted — nay, his continuance in office was made dependent
on his silence. He did not survive this degradation long; he never held up
his head again. He died in the summer of 1796; and then — the liou dead,
uprose the chorus of repentant asses ! All Scotland claimed him for her own.j
Thou lingering star with lessening ray
That lov'st to greet the eai-ly morn !
Again thon iisherest in the day,
My Mary from my soul was torn !
O Mary ! dear de]iarted shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
See'st thou thy lover lowl)-- laid ?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?
That sacred hour can I forget ? —
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr, we met
To Hve one day of parting love P
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past !
Thy image at our last embrace —
Ah ! little thought we, 'twas our last !
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebl^led shore,
O'er-hung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amoroiis round the rajitured scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be i?ressed ;
The birds sang love on every s])ray ;
Till, too, too soon, the glowing wost
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with raiser care ;
Time but the impression deeper makes, —
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary ! dear departed shade !
Where is thy blissful place of rest ?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid .''
Hear'st thou t'.-" gi-oans that rend his breast ?
210 Headings in Poetry.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
John Keats.
[See page 167.")
My heart aclies, and ?. drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk :
'Tis not through cnv}'' of thy happy lot.
But being too happy in thy happiness —
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trses,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the coimtry-green.
Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth !
for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushfid Hippocrene,
AVith beaded bubljles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth ;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim :
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite foi'get
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fx'ct,
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gi'ey hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-tlun, and dies ;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs ;
\Vhere Beaixty canuot keep her lustrous eyes, ^
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless ■nnngs of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards :
Already with thee ! tender is the night.
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ;
But here there is no light.
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs uuon the boughs.
The Comet. 211
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wlierewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the frviit-tree wild ;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of Hies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen ; and for many a tinie
I have been half in love with easeful death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme.
To take into the air my quiet breath ;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art ]7ouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy !
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou Avast not born for death, immortal Bird !
No hungry generations tread thee down ;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
Ir. ancient days by emperor and clown :
Perhaps the self-same song that found a ]:)ath
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of i:)erilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream.
Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades :
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ?
Fled is that music : — do I wake or sleep ?
THE COMET.
James Hogg.
[James Ho?:?, Hie Eltrick Shepherd, was bom on the anniversary of the
natal day of Kobert Burns, a coincidence he was jirond of refening to, Jannary
2o, 1782 ; fortunately for tlie young poet, some of his fugitive pieces, wiitteii
at the age of eighteen, were submitted to Sir Walter Scott, who enconraoed
him to proceed. A volume of billads, "The Forest ]\Iiustrel," was sub-
21 2 Headings in Poetry.
Bequentlj'' published ; but it w;is not until ho produced his '■ Q"-i:en's Wake "
that his fame was estalilishod. He became a contributor to "Blackwood's
Magazine," and John Wilson, by introducing him frequently into the "Noctes,"
put the key-stone upon his popularity. Hogg ^^Tote some magnificent songs.
His taste, however, led him more to romance and legendary storj^ : to fairj' lore
and the realms of fancy. These subjects he treated with the feeling of a poet
and the imaghiatiou of a painter. His " Kilmcny " is a fairj- tale worthy of
Spenser. Ii he had not the strencth of Burns, he was more plaj'ful and inven-
tive, and as a master of rhythm liC was unequalled. He died at Altrive Lake,
on the Yarrow, November, 1835.]
Stranger of Heaven ! I bid thee hail !
Shi-ed from the pall of glory riven,
That Hashcst iu celestial gale,
Broad pennon of the King of Heaven !
Art thou the flag of woe and death.
From angel's ensign-staft' nnfurled ?
Art thou the standard of His wrath,
AYaved o'er a sordid, sinful world H
No, from that pui'e pellucid beam,
That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone,
No latent evil we can deem,
Bright herald of the eternal tlu'one !
Whato'er portends thy front of fire,
Thy streaming locks so lovely pale —
Or peace to man, or judgment dire,
Stranger of Heaven ! I give thee hail !
Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?
Why sought these polar paths again,
From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling thy vesture o'er the Wain ?
And when thou scal'st tlie milky way —
And vanishest from human view,
A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray
Through wilds of yon emi33'real l.>lue !
! on thy rapid prow to glide !
To coast through fields of air with thee,
And plough the twinkling stars aside-
Like foam-bells on a tranquil fsea !
To brush the embers from the T;H1,
The icicles from off the pol'^ %
Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and pl:.-_iets roll !
Stranger of Heaven ! O let tiiine eye
I Smde on a rapt enthusiast's dream ;
Eccentric as thy course on high,
And airy TlS thine ambient beam ! k
i
The Ministry of May. 2i:
And long, long may thy silver ray
Our northern arch at eve adoni ;
Then, wheeling to the east awa)%
Light the grey portals of the mora.
THE MINISTEY OF MAY.
T. K. IlEllVEY.
[Thomas Kibblo Hervcy was a nativo of Manchester, born 1804. For many
years he was the editor of the Athciiuam. He was .a frequent contributor to
the annuals, and published " Australia, and other Poems," 182-i ; " The Poetical
Sketch Book," 1829, "Illustrations of Modern Sculpture," 1832, "The English
Helicon," I8il, kc. Died 1850.]
The earth is one great temple, made
For worshi]) everywhere ;
And its Howers are the bells, in glen and glade.
That ring the heart to prayer.
A solemn preacher is the breeze.
At noon or twilight dim —
The ancient trees give homilies,
The river hath a hymn.
For the city bell takes seven days
To reach the townsman's ear,
But he who kneels in Nature's ways
Hath Sabbath all the yea. ,
A worship wath the cowsliii born,
For March is Nature's Sabbath mom —
And hawthorn-chimes, with higher day,
Call up the votaries of Hay !
Out, then, into her holy ways .'
The lark is far on high ;
Oh ! let no other song than thino
Be sooner in the sky !
Lf beauty to the beautiful
Itself be gladness, given,
No happier being should move than thou
Beneath the vault of heaven.
With thee 'tis spring, as with the world,—
When ho])es make sport of fears,
And clouds that gather round the heart
Fall off at once in tears.
And in thy spirit, one by one.
The flowers are gathering to the sun.
Away unto the woodland jDaths !
And yield that heart of thine
To hear the low, sweet oracles
At every livmg shrine 1
^14' Headings in Foetry.
The very lowest of them all
Doth act an angel's part,
And bear a message home from God
Unto the listening heart.
And thou may'st hear — as Adam heard
In Eden's liowery shades,
When angels talked, at falling eve,
Amid its silent glades —
The hallo^ving rush of spirit-wings,
And murmur of immortal strings : —
Truths such as guide the comet cars
On fiery mission driven.
Or in their beauty light the stars
Along the floor of heaven :
One choral theme, below, above.
One anthem near and far —
The daisy singing in the grass.
As through the cloud the star —
And to the wind that sweeps the sky
The roses making low rejily.
For the meanest wild-bud breathes to swell,
Upon immortal cars —
So hear it, ihou, in grove or dell ! —
The music of the spheres.
AN OLD MA^'S IDYLL.
ElCHARD PiEALF.
[Eichard Eealf was born at U<-krRl(l, In Sussex, in 1835. His poetical
talents attracting the uttuution of a lady at Brighton, in whose service he
resided, she was induced to publish for him a volume of his poems, " Guesses
%X the Beautiful," by which he obtained some local repute. Since then he
appears to have led a roving life ; ho was with John Browu at Harper's Ferry,
was reported dead, returned to England, and after being seen at several plac"""
in his native county, suddenly disappeared.]
By the waters of Life we sat together,
Hand in hand, in the golden days
Of the beautiful early summer weather.
When skies were purple and breath was praise —
When the heart kept tune to the carol of birds,
And the birds kejit tune to the songs which ran
Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards,
And trees with voices -i^olian.
By the rivers of Life we walked together,
I and my darling, unafraid ;
A.nd lighter than any linnet's feather
The burdens of Being on us weighed.
An Old Mans Idyll, 213
And love's sweet miracles o'er us tlirew
Mantles of joy outlasting Tune,
And np from the rosy morrows gre^y
A sound that seemed like a marriage chime.
In the gardens of Life we strayed together,
And the luscious apples were ripe and red,
Andthelanguidlilacand honeyed heather
Swooned with the fragrance which they shed.
And under the trees the angels walked.
And up in the air a sense of wings
Awed us tenderly while we talked
Softly in sacred communings.
In the meadows of Life we strayed together,
Watching the waving harvests grow ;
And under the benison of the Father
Our hearts, like the lambs, skipped to and tro.
And the cowslips, hearing our low rephes,
Broidered fliirer the emerald banks :
And "lad tears shone in the daisies eyes.
And the tunid violet glistened thanks.
Who was with us, and what was round us,
Neither myself nor my darling guessed;
Only we knew that somethmg crowned us
Out from the heavens with crowns ol rest ;
Only we knew that something bright
Lino-ered lovingly where we stood,
Clothed with the incandescent light
Of sometliing higher than humanhood.
the riches love doth inherit !
Ah, the alchemy which doth_ change
Dross of body and dregs of spirit
Into sanctities rare and strange I
My flesh is feeble and dry and old.
My darling's beautiful hair is grey ;
But our elixir and precious gold
Laugh at the footsteps of decay.
Harms of the world have come unto us.
Cups of sorrow we yet shall dram ;
But we have a secret which doth show us
Wonderful rainbows in the ram.
And we hear the tread of the years move by,
And the sun is setting behind the hiils ;
But my darling does not fear to die.
And I am happy in what God wiiis.
2i6 Readings in Poetnj. ?
So we sit by our household fires together,
Dreaming the dreams of long ago ;
Then it was balmy summer weather, i
ATid now the valleys are laid in snow. j
Icicles hang from the slippery eaves.
The wind blows cold, 'tis growing late ;
Well, well ! we have garnered all our sheaves^ |
I and my darling, and we wait.
GILDEKOY.
Thomas Campbell.
[Born, 1777 ; died, 1814.]
The last, the fatal hour is come.
That bears my love from me ;
I hear the dead-note of the drum,
I mark the gallows-tree I
The bell has toll" d— it sliakes my heart—
The trumpet speaks thy name ;
And must my Gilderoy depart
To bear a death of shame ?
Ko bosom trembles for thy doom.
No mourner wipes a tear ;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier !
Oh ! Gilderoy, bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in EosUu's lovely glen
You triumphed o'er my heart !
Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter-garb was trim.
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb !
Ah ! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound ;
Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound.
Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue !
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you !
The Three Fishers. 217
A long adieu ! — but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eyo
Regards my woe with scorn ?
Yes, they will mock tliy widow's tears.
And hate thy orphan boy !
Alas ! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.
Then will I seek the di-eaiy mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground
And sigh my heart away !
THEEE FISHEES WENT SAILING.
The Rey. Charles Kingsley.
[The Rev. Charles Kingsley was born, 1819, at Holme Vicarage, near Dart-
moor. He was educated at Kin.<,^'s College, London, and Magdalene College,
Cambridge. From the rector of Eversley, Hampshire, he became, in 1859, Canon
of Chester Cathedral, and, four years later, of Westminster Abbey. His writings
include " The Saint's Tragedy," 1848 ; " Alton Locke," a uovel, 1850 ; " Yeast,
a Problem," 18-51 ; " Westward Ho," a novel ; " Glaucus, or the Wonders of the
Shore;" "Andromeda," and other poems (1858), &c. &c. He was editor of
" Macmillau's Magazine," and professor of Literature in Cambridge University.
Died, 1875.]
Three fishers went sailing out into the West,
Out into the West as the sun went down ;
Each thought on the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the town :
For men must work, and women must weep.
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down ;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown ;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three corpses lie out in the shining sands.
In the morning gleam, as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands.
For those who will never come home to the town.
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
21 S Headings in Poetry.
THE MOTHER'S LAMENT.
Gekald Griffin.
[Sco page 153.J
My darling, my darling, wliile silence is on the moor,
And lone in the sunshine I sit by our cabin door ;
"When evening falls quiet and calm over land and sea,
My darling, my darling, I think of ])ast times and thee.
Here, while on this cold shore, I wear out my lonely hours,
My child in the heavens is s])reading my bed with flowers :
All weary my bosom is grown of this friendless clime.
But I long not to leave it; for that were a shame and crime.
They bear to the churchyard the youth in their health away,
I know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the grave than they ;
But I wish not for death, for my s])irit is all resigned,
And the hope that stays with me, gives peace to my aged mind.
My darling, my darling, God gave to my feeble age
A 2^rop for my faint heart, a stay in my pilgi-iniagc :
My darling, my darling, God takes back his gift again —
And my heart may be broken, but ne'er shall my will complaia.
NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT EEVIEW.
Mery and Barthelemy.
At midnight, from his grave.
The drummer woke and rose,
And beating loud the drum,
Forth on his rounds he goes.
Stirred by his faithful arms,
The drumsticks patly fall,
He beats the loud retreat,
Reveille and roll-call.
So grandly rolls that drum.
So deep it echoes round.
Old soldiers in their graves.
Start to life at the sound.
Both they in farthest North
Stiff in the ice that lay,
And who too warm repose
Beneath Italian clay ;
Napoleon's Midnight Review. 219
Belo%v the mud of Nile,
Aiid 'neath Arabian sand ;
Their burial place they cpit,
And soon to arms they stand.
And at midnight, from his grave,
'1 he trumpeter arose ;
And mounted on his horse,
A loud shrill blast he blows.
On aery coursers then.
The cavalry are seen.
Old squadrons erst renowned,
Gory and gashed, I ween.
Beneath the casque their blanched skulls
Smile grim, and proud their air,
As in their iron hands,
Their long sharp swords they bear.
And at midnight from his tomb
The chief awoke, and rose ;
And followed by his staff,
"With slow steps on he goes.
A little hat he wears,
A coat quite plain has he,
A little sword for arms
At his left side hangs free.
O'er the vast plain, the moon
A solemn lustre threw ;
The man with the little hat
The troops goes to review.
The ranks present their arms,
Deep roll the drums the while 5
Eecovering then— the troops
Before the chief defile.
Marshals and generals round
In circle formed appear :
The chief to the first a word
Then whispers in his ear.
The word goes down the ranks,
Eesounc's along the Seme ;
That word they give, is France,
The answer— Saint Helene :
'Tis there, at midnight hour.
The Grand Review, they say,
Is by dead Caesar held.
In the Champs Elysees.
220 Readings in Poetry.
THE LAST MAN.
Thomas Campbell.
[Seep. 216.]
All worldly shapes shall melt in glocm,
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality !
I saw a vision in my sleep
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time !
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime !
The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man !
Some had expired in fight, — the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands ;
In plague and famine some !
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb !
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood.
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by —
Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis mercy bids thee go ;
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tcai'S,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill ;
And arts that made lire, Hood, and earth,
The vassals of his will ; —
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day :
For all those trophied ai-ts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail' d on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
The Sivord Song. 221
Nor witli thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.
Its piteoiis pageants bring not baekj
!Nor waken flesli upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe ;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire ;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death—
Their rounded gas]-) and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, —
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost !
This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave its heavenly spark ;
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim.
When thou thyself art dark !
No ! ill shall live again and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recall'd to breath,
Who captive led captivity.
Who robb'd the grave of victory,—
And took the sting from death !
Go, sun, whilst mercy holds me up
On nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cu]")
Of grief that man shall taste —
Go, tell the night that hides th}^ face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,
On earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortahty,
Or shake his trust in God !
THE SWOED SONG.
Theodore Korree.
[Tlieodovc Koi-ner, the eminent Gemian iDoet, was born at Dresden in 1791.
After studying; at Leipsic he became secretary to the Court Theatre of Vienna,
and commenced as a dramatist. In 1812 he entered the Prussian army and
signalized liimsclf equally I'V his bravery and his martial songs. For his
conduct at the battle at I.iitzen he was promoted, and afterwards, liaving been
£22 Readings in Poetry.
twice -wounded, was made a licutenaut. Ho was killed in a skii'mish with the
French at Mecklenburg, August 2Gth, 1813. His lyrical poems were published
after his death under the appropriate title of "The Lyre and the Swdvd,"
and his dramas, poems, and literary remains have since been published iu
Germany.]
Tiiou sword upon my belted vest,
What means thy fjlittering polished crest ?
Thou seem'st within my glowing breast
To raise a flame — Hurrah !
" A horseman brave supports my blade,
The weapon of a freeman made ;
For him I shine, for him I'll wade
Through blood and death — Hurrah 1'
Yes, my good sword, behold me free,
I fond affection bear to thee,
As though thou wert betrothed to me,
My earliest bride — Hurrah !
" Soldier of Fortune. I am thine,
For thee alone my blade shall shine —
When, Soldier, shall I call thee mine,
Joined in the field — Hurrah !"
Soon as our bridal mom shall rise,
While the shrill trumpet's summons flies,-
And the red cannon rends the skies.
We'll join our hands — Hurrah J
" sacred union ! — haste away,
Ye tardy moments of delay —
I long, my bridegi-oom, for the day
To be thy bride— Hurrah !"
Why cling' st thou in the scabbard — why ?
Thou iron fair of destiny,
So wild — so fond of battle-cry,
Why cling'st thou so ? — Hurrah 1
" I hold myself in dread reserve,
Fierce — fond in battle-fields to serve.
The cause of freedom to preserve —
For this I wait — Hurrah!"
Rest — stiU in narrow compass rest —
Ere a long space thou shalt be blest,
Within my ardent grasp comprest—
Eeady for fight — Hurrah !
" Oh let me not too long await —
I love the gory field of fate,
Where death's rich roses grow elate
In blooJv bloom — Hurrah''*
CJiilde Harold's Farewetc-. 2£3
Come forth! quick from tliy scabbard fly,
Thou pleasure of the Soldier's eye —
Now to the scene of slaughter hie.
Thy native home — Hiii-rah !
" glorious thus in nuptial tie,
To join beneath heaven's canopy —
Bright as a sunbeam of the sky,
Glitters your bride — Hurrah !"
Then out, thou messenger of strife,
Thou German soldier's plighted wife —
Who feels not renovated life
When clasping thee ? — Hurrah !
When in thy scabbard on my side,
I seldom glanced on thee, my bride ;
Now Heaven has bid us ne'er divide,
For ever joined — Hurrah !
Thee glowing to my lips I'll press.
And all my ardent vows confess —
O cursed be he, without redress,
Who thee forsakes !— Hurrah \
Let joy sit in thy polished eyes,
While radiant sparkles flashing rise —
Our marriage-day dawns in the skies,
My Bride of Steel— Hurrah !
CHILDE HAEOLD'S FAREWELL.
Lord Byrox.
[See page 205.]
'•■ Adieu, adieu ! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue ;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roa:*;
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight ;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land — good night !
"A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth ;
And I shall hail the main and skies.
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall.
Its hearth is desolate ;
Wild weedsare gathering on the wali. ;
My dog howls at the gate.
224 ' Headings in Poetry, I
" Come hither, hither, my Httle page 1
Why dost thou weep and wail ? i
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, |
Or tremble at the gale ?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ;
Our ship is swift and strong :
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily aiong."
" Let winds be shriR, let waves roll high, '. .'
I fear not wave nor wind : ,
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I ^ h
Am sorro^-ful in mind; * j
For I have from my father gone, i^
A mother whom I love.
And have no friend, save these alone, j
But thee — and One above. ^
" My father bless'd me fervently, ":
Yet did not much complain ;
But soi'ely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again." i
•' Enough, enough, my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye ; j
If I thy guileless bosom had, !
Mine own would not be dry. I
" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman \
Why dost thou look so pale ? il
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? *
Or shiver at the gale ?" i-
•' Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ?
" Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; l
But thinking on an absent wife I
Will blanch a faithful cheek. \
" My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, ;
Along the bordering lalfe, I
And when they on their father call, i
What answer shall she make ?" ^
" Enough, enough, my yeoman good, J
Thy grief let none gainsay ; '*,
But I, who am of lighter mood, .,;
Will laugh to flee away. '.
" With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go ^
Athwart the foaming brine ; ii
Nor care what land thou bears't me to.
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves !
And when you fail my sight.
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves i
My native kind ! good ni"ght !"
225
THE DEATH OF THE FIRST-BOEN.
A. A. Watts.
My sweet one, my sweet one, the tears were in my eyea
When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble cries;
For I thought of all that I had Lome as I bent me down to kisa
Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bhss !
I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain,
And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my bodmg braui;
I thought of friends, grown worse than cold — of persecuting foes.
And I asked of heaven if ills hke these must mar tliy youth's repose.
I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears.
Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears ;
Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom that
bound them,
As stars dart down their lovehest fight when midnight skies are
round th'^m.
My sweet one, my sweot one, thy life's brief hour is o'er.
And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever thee no more !
And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at thy birth,
They, too, have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things of
earth !
'Tis true that thou wert young, my child; bat though brief thy
span below,
To me it was a little age of agony and woe ;
For, from thy first faint dawn of fife, thy cheek began to fade.
And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes were
wrapt in shade.
Oh ! the child in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear as thou
wert then,
Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in pain !
And thus 'twas thine to jn-ove, dear babe, when every hope was lost.
Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst cost !
Cradled in thy fair mother's arras, we watched thee day by day,
Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gently waste away ;
And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud,
Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming cloud
It came at length : o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering j
fast.
And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last :
In thicker gushes strove thy breath — we raised thy drooping head:
A moment more— the final pang — and thou wert of the dead !
Q
226 Readings in Poetry.
Tliy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me,
And murmured low of heaven's behests, and bhss attained by thee ;
She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as thine,
Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine !
We laid thee down in thy sinless rest, and from thine infant brow
Culled one soft lock of radiant hair, our only solace now :
Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers, not more fair and
sweet —
Twin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.
Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou,
With all the beauty cf thy cheek, the sunshine of thy brow,
They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst :
They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee, the first !
The first ! Howmanya memory bright that one sweetword can bring,
Of hopesthat blossom'd, droop'd,and died, in life's delight fulspring — •
Of fervid feelings passed away — those early seeds of bhss
That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as this !
My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first !
When 1 think of what thou mightst have been, my heart is like to
burst ;
But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radianee
dart.
And my sighs are hushed, my tsars are dried, when I turn to what
thou art !
Pure as the snow-flake ere it falls and takes the stain of earth,
With not a taint of mortal life, except thy mortal birth,
God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst,
And bliss, eternal bliss is thine, my fairest and my first 1
THE ALMA. ;
The Right Rev. Richard Chenevix Trench, D.D., ]
LATE AUCIIHISHOP OF DlBLIN. ■
[The late Archbishop of Dublin, Dr. Eidiard Chonevix Trench, was the author j
of" Justin Martyr and other Poems," a work which, bovoud the Christian pietv !
inculcated in its pages, is marked by strong poetic power and command of *
versification. When Dean of Westminster, Dr. Trench afforded valuable aid
to the cause of education by lecturing to the members of variois literary insti-
tutions on " The Study of "Words," and the language of our Saxon ancestors.
His works on this subject abound with curious and instructive information.
Bom, 1807; died, 1886.J 1
Though till now ungraced in story, scant although thy waters bo, I
Alma, roll those waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea : '
Yesterday, unnamed, unhonoured, but to wandering Tartar known— i
.Now thou art a voice for ever, to the vs'oiid's four corners blown.
Skipper Ben. 227
In two nations' annals graven, thou art now a deatKless name,
A-nd a star for ever shining in the firmament of fame.
^lany a great and ancient river, crowned with city, tower anA
shrine.
Little streamlet, knows no magic, boasts no potency like thine,
Cannot shed the light thou sheddest round many a living head,
Cannot lend the light thou lendest to the memories of the dead.
Yea, nor all unsoothed their sorrow, who can, proudly mourning,
say-
When the first strong burst of anguish shall have wept itself away —
" He has joass'd from us, the loved one ; but he sleejis with them
that died
By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side."
Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are cold as those
Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose,
Thou on England's banners blazon'd with the famous fields of old,
Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and
bold;
And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be
done.
By that Twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights wera
won.
Oh ! thou river ! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free —
Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the sea.
(^Bi/ j)ermission of the Author.)
SKIPPER BEN.
Lucy Larcom.
Sailing away !
Losing the breath of the shores in May,
Dropping down from the beautiful bay.
Over the sea slope vast and grey !
And the skipper's eyes with a mist are blind ;
For thoughts rush up on the rising wind
Of a gentle face that he leaves behind,
And a heart that throbs through the fog-bank dim,
Thinking of him.
Far into night
He watches the gleam of the lessening light,
Fixed on the dangerous island height
That bars the harbour he loves from sight ;
And he wishes at dawn he coiild tell the tale
Of how they had weathered the south-west gale,
To_ brighten the cheek that had grown so pale
With a sleepless night among spectres grim.
Terrors for him.
Q 2
228 Readings in Poetry.
Yo — heave — yo !
Here's the bank where the fishermen go !
Over the schooner's sides they throw
Tackle and bait to the deeps below.
And Skipper Ben in the water sees,
When its ripples curl to the light land-breeze,
Something that stirs like his api)le-trees,
And two soft eyes that beneath them swim
Lifted to liim.
Hear the wind roar,
And the rain through the slit sails tear and pour \
" Steady ! we'll scud by the Cape Ann shore, —
Then hark to the Beverley bells once more !"
And each man worked witli the will of ten ;
While up in the rigging, now and then.
The lightning glared in the face of Ben,
Turned to the black horizon's rim,
Scowling on him.
Into his brain
Burned with the iron of hopeless pain.
Into thoughts that grapple, and eyes that strain,
Pierces the memory, cruel and vain !
Never again shall he walk at ease
Under his blossoming api^le-trees,
That whisper and sway in the sunset breeze,
While the soft eyes float where the sea-gulls skim,
Gazing with him
How they went down
Never was known in the still old town ;
Nobody guessed how the fisherman Brown,
With the look of despair that was half a frown,
Faced his fate in the furious night —
Faced the mad billows with hunger white,
Just within hail of the beacon light.
That shone on a woman neat and trim,
Waiting for him.
Beverley bells
Bing to the tide as it ebbs and swells !
His was the anguish a moment tells, —
The passionate sorrow death quickly knells ;
But the wearing wash of a lifting woe
Is left for the desolate heart to know
Whose tides with the duU years come and go,
Till hope drifts dead to its stagnant brim,
Thinking of him.
229
THE WAEDEN OF THE CINQUE POETS.
H. "W. Longfellow.
[See pa-e 161.]
A MIST was driving down the British Channel,
The day was just begun,
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon,
And the white sails of ships ;
And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon
Hailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hythe, and Dover,
Were all alert that day,
To see the French war-steamers speeding over,
When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions.
Their cannon, through the night.
Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance.
The sea-coast opposite.
And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations
On every citadel ;
Each answering each, with morning salutations.
That all was well.
And down the coast, all taking up the burden.
Replied the distant forts,
As if to summon from his sleep the Warden
And Lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure,
No drum-beat from the wall,
No morning gun from the black fort's embrazure,
Awaken with its call !
No more, surveying with an eye impartial
The long line of the coast,
Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field-Marshal
Be seen upon his post !
For in the night, unseen, a single warrior,
In sombre harness mailed,
Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer,
The rampart wall has scaled
230 Headings in Poetry.
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper,
The dark and silent room,
And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper,
The silence and the gloom.
He did not pause to parley or dissemble.
Bat smote the "Warden hoar :
Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble
And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited,
The sun rose bright o'erhead ;
Nothing in Nature's asi)ect intimated
That a great man was dead.
THE GOLDEN MADNESS: AN APOLOGUK
Charles Mackat.
[Mr. Charles Maokay is a poet of worth and fanc)'. Many of his ballads, as ]
for example, *' Cheer, boys, cheer," '"There's a Good Time Coiuinjr," and others |
of a like class, liave achieved a popularity that will scarcely ever die. His col- !
lected works, published bj- Frederick Warnc & Co., exhibit tho thoughts of j
fifty years' poetic cultivation.]
By the road-side there sat an aged man, '
Who all day long, from dawn into the night, i
(Counted with weary fingers heaps of stones. '
His red eyes di'opp'd with rheum, his yellow hands j
Trembled with palsy, his pale sunken cheeks
Were mark'd with deep and venerable seams,
His flat bold brow was ever bent to earth, [
His few grey hairs waved to the passing winds, !
His straggling teeth, blacken'd and carious, "
Rattled and tumbled from his bloodless gums ; — ]
I spake him kindly, saying, " Why this toil '
At task like this, cracking thy rotten bones,
To gain nor health, nor recompense, nor thanks ? " j
He made no answer, but went counting on, I
Mumbling and muttering slowly to himself,
Chinking tho stones with melancholy sound ■
I'iece after piece ; looking nor right nor left, i
Nor upwards, but aye down upon tho heap. I
I ask'd again, " What is it that thou dost, ;
Wasting the remnant of thy days in toil,
Without fruition to thj'self or kind, I
As earnestly as if these stones were goM, I
And all thine own to spend and to enjoy ? " I
He look'd upon me with a vacant eye, I
The Golden Madness. 231-
And stopp'd not in his task : " Gold ! didst thou say ?
They are gold — precious, ready-coin 'd and pure,
And all mine own to spend and to enjoy
When I have counted them. So, get thee gone ;
Thou art a borrower, or perchance a thief ! "
And aye he chink 'd the flints a>nd chips of slate.
One after one, muttering their numbers o'er,
At every hundred stopping for a while
To rub his wither'd palms, and eye the heap
With idiot happiness, ere he resumed.
There came a stranger by the way. I ask'd
If he knew aught of this forlorn old man ?
*' Eight well," he said ; " the creature is insane,
And hath been so ever since he had a beard.
He first went mad for greediness of gold."
"Know you his story ? " " Perfectly," said he ;
" Look how he counts his miserable flints
And bits of slate. Twelve mortal hours each day
He sits at work, summer and winter both ;
'Mid storm or sunshine, heat or nipping frost.
He counts and counts ; and since his limbs were young,
Till now that he is crook'd and stiffen'd old,
He hath not missed a day. The silly wretch
Believes each stone a lump of shining gold,
And that he made a bargain with the Fiend
That if he'd count one thousand million coins
Of united gold, audibly, one by one,
The gold should be his own the very hour
When he had told the thousand millionth piece,
Provided always, as such bargains go.
The Fiend should have his soul in recompense.
" Ilnskill'd in figures, but brimful of greed,
He chuckled at his bargain and began ;
And for a year reckon'd with hopeful heart.
At last a glimpse of light broke on his sense,
And show'd the fool that millions — quickly said —
Were not so quickly counted as he thought.
And still he plies his melancholy task,
Dreaming of boundless wealth and curbless power,
And slavish worship from his fellow-men.
" If he could reckon fifty thousand stones
Daily, and miss no day in all the year,
'Twould take him five-and-fifty years of life
To reach the awful millions he desires.
He has been fifty of these years or moi'e
Feeding his coward soul with this conceit.
232 Readings in Poetry.
Exposed to every blast, starved, -uretched, old,
Toothless, and clothed with rags and squalidness,
He eyes his fancied treasure with delight,
And thinks to cheat the devil at the last.
"Look at his drivelling" lips, his bloodshot eyes,
His trembling hands, his loose and yellow skin,
His flimsy rottenness, and own with me
That this man's madness, though a piteous thing,
Deserves no pity, for the avarice
So mean and filthy that was cause of it."
# * * # *
I gazed once more upon his wrinkled face,
Vacant with idiotcy, and went my way
rill'd with disgust and sorrow, for I deem'd
That his great lunacy was but a typo
Of many a smaller madness as abject
That daily takes possession of men's hearts
And blinds them to the uses of their life.
Poor fool I ho gathers stones — they gather gold.
With toil and moil, thick sweat and grovelling thought
He has his flints, and they acquire their coin,
And who's the wiser ? Neither he nor they.
{Bi/ permissio)! of the Publishers.)
I^IEMOEY.
"Walter P. Bearpark.
" Lord ! keep my memory green." — Dickens.
Thou art not less a friend, oh I Memory,
That care is writ with gladness on thy brow ;
Not less a friend if smiling hope on pain.
Or looking colder on the pulse of joy !
Nay, truly, thou art more, for thou art wise.
And in thy friendship dost essay to join
The breath of Reason with the breath of Love !
Friend and preceptor both, thy measured voice
Comes softly thro' the avenues of Time,
"With counsel fashioned to the changeful mood,
And moves the doubtful heart, or sad or gay,
With now a song, and now a holy psalm !
A word— a sign ! and slumb'ring echoes wake
To thrill the soul with half- forgotten chords ;
And countless odours from the flower'd past
Come gently, like the breath of distant fields !
To "warn in evil, and to urge in good,
Poj^es WillouK ^S3
To cheer in grief — in joy to sanctify ;
In thee these offices are nobly blent,
Whose hand has 'svrit the record of our days.
Act after act its proper place assumes,
Which every added word makes more remote,
Till Death completes the record with his name,
And lays the volume at the feet of God !
Aye, thou art friend indeed, if others fail —
Ambition, Love, and striving j^assions all —
May languish with the life that lit the flame —
2'/i)j calm is but the sweeter that they die I
Oh I be thou still my solace and my guide.
Till Time shall leave me in the arms of Death,
For not enough is brightest Hope above,
If thou desert mo here, oh Memory !
(^By permission of the Author.)
POPE'S WILLOW.
James Moxtgomeuy.
[James Montgomery was boru at Irvine, in AjTsliire, November 4, 1771
He commenced his literary career at the ago of twenty as a newspaper editor
His principal poems are, " The Ocean," " The "West Indies," " The World before
the Flood," " Greenland," and "The Pelican Island." In his later j-ears ho
wrote a number of very bcaiitiful "Original Hymns." Died at SheflBel'd, 18o4.J
Ere Pope resign'd his tuneful breath,
And made the turf his pillow,
The minstrel hung his harp in death
Upon the drooping willow ;
That willow, from Euphrates' strand.
Had sprung beneath his training hand.
Long, as revolving seasons flew.
From youth to age it flourish'd,
By vernal winds and star-light dcAv,
By showers and sunbeams nourish'd ;
And while in dust the poet slept.
The willow o'er his ashes wejrt.
Old Time beheld its silvery head,
With graceful grandeur towering.
Its pensile boughs profusely spread,
The breezy lawn embowering,
Till arch'd around, there seeni'd to shoot,
A grove of scions from one root.
Thither, at summer noon, he view'd
The lovely Nine retreating,
Readings in Poetry.
Beneatli its twilight solitude
With songs their poet greeting ;
Whose spirit in the wiUow spoke,
Like Jove's from dark Dodona's oak.
By harvest moonlight there he spied
The fairy bands advancing ;
Bright Ariel's trooji, on Thames's side,
Around the willow dancing ;
Gay sylphs among the foliage played,
And glow-worms glitter'd in the shade.
One morn, .while Time thus mark'd the tree,
In beauty green and glorious,
" The hand," lie cried, "that planted thee,
O'er mine was oft victorious ;
Be vengeance now my calm employ, —
One work of Pope's I loill destroy."
He spake, and stnick a sUent blow
With that dread arm whose motion
Lays cedars, thrones, and temples low,
And wields o'er land and ocean
The unremitting axe of doom.
That fells the forest of the tomb.
Deep to the wUlow's root it went,
And cleft the core asunder,
Like sudden secret Ughtning, sent
Without recording thunder :
From that sad moment, slow away
Began the willow to decay.
In vain did Spring those bowers restore.
Where loves and graces revell'd,
Autumn's wild gales the branches tore,
The thin gray leaves disheveU'd,
And every wasting winter found
The willow nearer to the ground.
Hoary, and weak, and bent with age.
At length the axe assail'd it :
It bow'd before the woodman's rage;
The swans of Thames bewail'd it,
With softer tones, with sweeter breatli,
Than ever charm'd the ear of death.
Oh ! Pope, hadst thou, whose l}Te so lon^
The wondering world enchanted,
Amidst thy paradise of song
This weepmg willow jilanted ;
Among thy loftiest laurels seen,
In deathless verse for ever green,—
The Phantom. 285
Thv chosen tree had stood sublune,
The storms of ages braymg.
Triumphant o"er the wrecks ot time
Its verdant banner waving,
AVhile regal pyramids decay d,
iSempi^-esperish-din its shade.
An humbler lot, oh, tree ! was thine •,-•
Gone down in all thy glory:
The sweet, the mournful task be mine,
To sing thy simple story ; _
Thou-h verse like mine m vam would raise
The tame of thy departed days.
Yet, fallen willow ! if to me _
Such power of song were giveu,
My hpg should breathe a soul through thee.
And call down tire from heaven,
To kindle in this hallow'd urn,
A flame that would for ever burn.
THE PHiVNTOM.
BAYAEn Taylou.
[An American ..vltcr and traveller. Eorn, IS'io ; died, 1878.]
Agvtx I sit -^N-ithin the mansion,
In the old familiar seat ;
And shade and sunshme chase each ntner.
O'er the carpet at my teet.
But the sweet briar's arms have wrestled upwards
In the summers that are past,
And the willow trails its branches lowei
Than when I saw them last.
They strive to shut the sunshine wholly
From out the haunted room—
To fill the house that once was joylul,
AVith silence and with gloom.
And many kind, remembered faces
Within the doorway come—
Voices that make the sweetest music
. Of one that now is dumb.
They sing in tones as glad as ever,
The songs she loved to hear ;
They braid the rose in summer garlands,
Whose flowers to her were dear.
236 Headings in Poetry.
And still, her footstep in the passage,
Her blushes at the door,
Her timid words of maiden welcome,
Come back to me once more.
And all forgetful of my sorrow.
Unmindful of xuy pain,
I think she has but newly left me,
And soon will come again.
She stays without, perchance a momerit,
To dress her dark brown hair ;
I hear the rustle of her garments —
Her light step on the stair I
fluttering heart ! control thy tumult,
Lest eyes profane should see
My cheeks betra}^ the rush of raptuie
Her coming brings to me.
She tarries long, but lo ! a whisper.
Beyond the open door —
And, ghding through the quiet sunshine,
A shadow on the floor !
Ah ! 'tis the whispering pine that calls me.
The vine whose shadow strays :
And my patient heart must still await her,
Nor chide her long delays.
But my heart grows sick with weary waiting,
As many a time before :
Her foot is ever at the threshold,
Yet never passes o'er.
THE FIEST GREY HAIR.
Thomas II.wnes Baixy.
[Thomas Hayncs Baylj* was born at Bath, 1797. Tho failure of a coal-mine,
iu whicli his fortune was invested, together with the mismanagemeu*, by his
agent, of some property in Ireland, obliged Mr. Bayly to rely for a living upon
that which had previously been a source of intellectual recreation — his pen.
He produced a number of burlettas ; among which, "Perfection" and "Tom
Koddy's Secret," still keep possession of tlie st.ige. Many of his fugitive poems
appeared in "Blackwood" and the "New Monthly " magazines. He died 1839.]
TuF. matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow.
Sits gazing on her lovely face — ay, lovely even now:
Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care ?
Why steals that tear across her chefk ? — She sees her first grey
hair.
Phantoms. 237
Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace ;
His touch of thought hath dignilied the Leauty of her face ;
Yet she might miugle in the dance where maidens gaily trip,
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her Hp.
The faded fol-m is often mark'd by sorrow more than years ;
The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears ;
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest,
And the dimness of the eye Ijetray a heart that cannot rest.
But She hath been r. happy wife ; — the lover of her youth
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trii\i of his truth ;
A sense of shght — of loneliness — hath never banished sleep ;
Her life hath been a cloudless one ; — then, wherefore doth she weep?
She look'd upon her raven locks ;— what thoughts did they recall ?
Oh ! not of nights wiion they were deck'dfor banquet or for ball; —
They brought back thoughts of early youth, ere she had learned to
check,
With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.
She seem'd to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair,
And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there;
She seem'd to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch
That sometimes feign'd to steal away the curls she prized so much.
And now she sees her first grey hair ! oh, deem it not a crime
For her to weep — when she beholds the first footmark of Time !
She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,
And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till Hfe itself shall cease.
'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane —
Yet though the blossom may not sigh to bud and bloom again,
It cannot but remember with a feeling of regret,
The Spring for ever gone — the Summer sun so nearly set.
Ah, Lady ! heed the monitor ! Thy mirror tells the truth,
Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wi-eath of youth ;
Go ! — bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou'lt still look fair ;
*Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first grey hair !
PHANTOMS.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
[See page ICl.]
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.
238 Readings in Poetry,.
j
We meet them at tlic doorway, on tlie stair,
Along the passages they come and go, i
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro. j
There are more guests at table than the hosts j
Invited ; the illumiixated hall I
Is thronged with qiiiet, inoffensive ghost.s, ,
As silent as the pictm-es on the wall. '
The stranger at my fireside cannot see 1
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear ; 1
He but perceives what is ; while unto me ,1
AU that has been is visible and clear.
"We have no title-deeds to house or lands ;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates i
From gi-aves forgotten stretch their dusty hands j
And hold in mortmain still theii* old estates.
I
The spirit-world around this world of sense ]
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere j
"Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours denao
A vital breath of more ethereal air. I
Our little lives are kept in equipoise -
By opposite attractions and desires ;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys, j
And the more noble instinct that aspires. |
The perturbations, the perpetual jar r
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of that unseen star, ;
That undiscovered ^danet in our sky.
And as the moon, from some dark gate of clouJ, 1
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of Hght, j
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd, ]
Into the realm of mystery and night ; a
So from the world of sjiirits there descends I
A bridge of Ught connecting it with this, '
O'er whose imsteady flooi*, that sways and bends, 'i
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. i
THE POET AND THE EOSE.
John Gay.
[Jolin Gay, one of the most genial, gentle, and worthiest of our poets and
dramatists was born at Barnstaple, Devon, in 1G68. He came of a good, but
greatly reduced family ; and both parents dying when he was but six years of
The Foet and the Rose. 2S9
ftge, lie "was apprenticed to a silk-mercer in London. Disliking the drudgei-y
of a retail shop, he obtained the cancelling of his indentiires, and devotecl
himself to literature. In ITOfS he jiublished a poem, in blank verse, called
"Wine;" and in 1711 "Eural Sports," a descriptive poem, which he dedicated
ment of Envoy-Extraordinary to Hanover; but Gay was totally unfitted foi*
public employment, and held the situation for two months only. On his
return, he produced several dramatic pieces, with but slight success ; but in
1727 hia " lieggars' Opera " came out, ran for sixty-two successive nights, and
not only became the rage at the time, but has remained ever since one of the
most popular pieces ever produced on the British stage. He soon amassed
3000^ by his writings. This he determined to keep " entii'e and sacred,"
being at the same time received into the house of his early patrons the Duke
and Duchess of Queensberry. Here he amused himself by adding to h'l
"Fables." He died, sudd-'uly, of fever, December 4, 1732, aged 44, and wad
buried in Westmuister Abbey.]
I HATE the man who builds hi.s name
On ruins of another's fame ;
Thus prudes, by characters o'erthi-own,
Imagine that they raise their own;
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride.
With both all rivals are decried :
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister " awkward creature ;"
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
AVhen we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early day,
A poet sought the sweets of IMay,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends,
A rose he pluck'd, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing as the muse inspired :
" Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace !
How happy should I prove,
Might I supi:)ly that envied place
With never-fading love !
There, phoenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die !
Know, hapless flower, that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there,
I see thy withering head reclined
With envy and despair :
One common fate we both must prove,
You die with envy, I with love."
*' Spare your comparisons," replied
An angry rose, who grew beside.
" Of all mankind you should not flout us ;
What can a poet do "without us ?
2-iO Readings in Poetry.
In every love-song roses bloom ;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce
To found her praise on our abuse ?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade ?"
THE MOUENING MOTHER OF THE DEAD BLIND. |
Mas. E. B. Bkowxixo, j
LSee page l'i2.] i
I. \
Dosi thou weep, mourning mother,
For thy blind boy in the grave ? j
That no more with each other J
Purest counsel ye can have ? !
That //(', left dark by nature, 1
Can never more be led
By thee, maternal creature,
Along smooth paths instead ?
That thou can" st no more show him <
The sunshine, by the heat ; \
The river's silver flowing, !
By murmurs at his feet ? '
The foliage, by its coolness ;
The roses, by their smell ; \
And all creation's fulness, [
By Love's invisible?
Weepest thou to behold not j
His meek blind eyes again — !
Closed doorways which were folded, j
And prayed against in vain — i
And under which sate smiling
The child-m oil th evermore, (
As one who watcheth, wiling 1
The time by. at a door ?
And weepest thou to feel not
His clinging hand on thine — t
AVhich, now at dream-time, will not ]
Its cold hands disentwine ?
And weepest thou still ofter, j
Oh, never more to mark |
His low, soft words, made softer i
By speaking in the dark ?
Weep on, thou mourning mother ! 1
11. I
But since to him when living, \
Thou wert both sun and moon, ,
The Mourning Mother of the Dead Blind, 241
Look o'er his gi-ave, surviving,
From a high sphere alone !
Sustain that exaltation —
Expend the tender light,
And hold in mother-passion,
Thy Blessed, in thy sight.
See how he went out straightway
From the dark world he knew ;
Ko twilight in the gateway
To mediate 'twixt the two ;
Into the sudden glory,
Out of the dark he trod,
Departing from before thee
At once to light and GOD !
For the first face, beholding
The Christ's in its divine ;
For the first place, the goldeu
And tideless hyaline :
With trees, at lasting summer,
That rock to tuneful sound,
While angels, the new comer,
Wrap a still smile around.
Oh, in the blessed psalm, now.
His happy voice he tries.
Spreading a thicker palm-bough.
Than others, o'er his eyes ;
Yet still, in all his singing,
Thinks highly of thy song
Which, in his life's first springing,
Sang to him all nightlong.
And wishes it beside him.
With kissing lips thatcool
And soft did overglide him,
To make the sweetness full.
Look up, O mourning mother,
Thy blind boy walks in light !
Ye wait for one another.
Before God's infinite !
But tlioti art noAV the darkest,
Thou, mother left below —
TlwH, the sole blind — thou markest.
Content that it be so, —
Until ye two give meeting
AVhere heaven's pearl-gate is,
And he shall lead thy feet in,
As once thou leddest his 1
Wait on, thou mourning mother !
( Bi/ permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)
242 Readings in Poetry.
THE BURIAL OF MOSES.
Mrs. C. F. Alexander.
[Mrs. Cecil Frances Alexander is well known as the authoress of some of
the most beautiful sacred songs in the language. She is the wife of a learned
divine, resident at Strabane.]
By Nebo's lonely mountam,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab
There lies a lonely grave,
And no man knows that sepulcln-e,
And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God nptnmed the sod,
And laid the dead man there.
That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth :
But no man heard the trampling,
Or saw the train go forth —
Noiselessly as the daylight
Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek
Grows into the great sun.
Koiselessly as the spring-time
Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves ;
So without sound of music.
Or voice of them that wept.
Silently down from the mountain's crown,
The great procession swept.
Perchance the bald old eagle,
On grey Beth-Peor's height.
Out ot his lonely eyrie,
Look'd on the wondrous sight ;
Perchance the lion stalking
Still shuns that hallow'd spot,
For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.
But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war.
With arms reversed and muffled drum,
Follow his funeral car ;
The Burial of Moses. 24)3
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed.
While peals the minute gun.
Amid the noblest of the land
We lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honoiir'd place,
With costly marble drest,
In the great minster transept
Where lights like glories fall,
And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings
Along the emblazoned wall.
This was the truest warrior
That ever buckled sword,
This the most gifted poet
That ever breath'd a word ;
And never earth's ^philosopher
Traced with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honour,-
The hill-side for a pall.
To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall,
And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes.
Over his bier to wave,
And God's own hand in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave ?
In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoifin'd clay
Shall break again, O wondrous thought !
Before the Judgment day.
And stand with glory wrapt around
On the hills he never trod.
And speak of the strife that won our hfe,
With the Incarnate Son of God.
O lonely grave in Moab's land !
O dark Beth-Peor's hiU !
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace.
Ways that we cannot tell ;
He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep
Of him He loved so well.
u 2
244 Readings in Poetry.
A DEEAM.
William Allingham.
[Mr. AlHngbam, one of our sweetest and most successful poets, is a native of
Ireland, and is a resident of Ba'Jyshannon, his native town. His "Day and
Night Songs" were published in 1854, and his "Music Master, and other
Poems," 1855.]
I iiKAKD the dogs howl in the moonlight nigh:,
And I went to the window to see the sight ;
All the dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.
On they pass'd, and on they pass'd ;
Townsfellows all from first to last ;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
And quench'd in the heavy shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd
At soldiers once — but now more staid ;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were dro^vn■d, I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk ; bent and weak too;
And some that 1 loved, and gasj^'d to speak to ;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
And some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd — where each seem'd lonely.
And yet of them all there was one, one only,
That rais'd a head or look'd my way ;
And she seemed to linger, but might not stay.
How long since I saw that fair pale face !
Ah, mother dear, might I only place
My head on thy breast, a moment to rest.
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest !
On, on, a mo%'ing bridge they made
Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade
Young and old, women and men ;
JMany long-forgot, but remember'd then.
And first there came a bitter laughter ;
And a sound of tears a moment after;
And then a music so lofty and ga}*,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recal it if I ma3^
245
TO-DAY AND TO-MOREOW.
Gerald Massey.
[Mr. Massey was born at Tring, 1828, his father being a canal boatman,
earning the humble wages of ten shillings a week. The youthful Gerald was
employed in a silk-mill, and afterwards became a straw-plaiter. At the age of
fifteen he had read but few books, and came to London as an errand boy. Here
he read all the books that came in his waj^, and before he was eighteen he had
t iken to making verses. In 18.53 he published his "Babe Christabel, and other
Lj'rical Poems," and the critics and reading public hailed him as a new poet.
Mr. Massey is now identiiied with the daily press, and holds an acknowledged
position.]
High liopes that burn VI like stars suLlimej
Go down i' the heavens of freedoia ;
And true hearts perish in the time
"VVe bitterliest need 'em !
But never sit we down and say
There's nothing left but sorrow ;
We walk the wilderness to-day —
The promised land to-morrow !
Our birds of song are silent now,
There are no flowers blooming,
Yet life holds in the frozen bough,
And freedom's spring is coming ;
And freedom's tide comes up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow :
And our good bark aground to-day,
Shall float again to-morrow.
Through all the long, long night of years
The peoi^le's ciy ascendeth,
And eai'th is wet with blood and tears :
But our meek sufterance endeth !
The few shall not for ever sway —
The many moil in sorrow ;
The powers of hell are strong to-day,
But Christ shall rise to-morrow !
Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyo£i
With smiling futures glisten !
For lo ! our day bursts up the skies
Lean out your souls and listen !
The world rolls freedom's i-adiantway.
And ripens with her sorrow ;
Keep heart ! who bear the Cross to-day.
Shall wear the Crown to-morrow !
youth ! flame-earnest, still aspire
With energies immortal !
To many a heaven of desire
Our yearning opes a portal ;
8^6 Readings in Poetry,
And though, age wearies by the way.
And hearts break in the furrow —
We'll sow the golden grain to-day —
The harvest reaj) to-morrow !
Build up heroic lives, and all
Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to tiash out at God's call —
O chivalry of labour !
Triumph and toil are twins ; and ay
Joy suns the cloud of sorrow,
And 'tis the martyrdom to-day
Brings victory to-morrow !
THE SANDS OF DEE.
Rev. Charles Kingsley.
[See page 217.]
*' Oil, Mary, go and call tho cattle home,
And call the cattle homo,
And call the cattle home.
Across the sands of Dee."
The western wind was wild and dark with foam,
And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along tho sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand.
And round and round the sand
As far as oj-e could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land,
And never homo came she.
" Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair —
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea r "
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes of Dee.
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungrj* foam,
To her grave beside the sea,
But still the boatmen hear her call tho cattle homo.
Across the sands of Dee.
{Bt/ permission of Messrs. Macmillan.)
OEATOBY:
FORENSIC AND SENATOEIAL.
BENJAMIN DISEAELI ON THE CHAEACTER OP
THE PEINCE CONSOET.
[The Eight Hon. Benjamin Disraeli was bom in London, 1805. He was early
articled to a solicitor, and became an author before completing his majority.
In 1825 his novel of " Vivian Grey " made a sensation, and it was followed by
"The Young Duke," "Henrietta Temple," " Contarini Fleming," and other
brilliant fictions. He entered parliament in 1837 as M.P. for Maidstone, and
adhered to Sir Kobert Peel until that minister became an advocate for free
trade ; following which event Mr. Disraeli led the Conservative party in the House
of Commons. He was Chancellor of the Exchequer under Lord Derby's
administration, and on the retirement of that minister became premier. In
August, 1876, he was j-aised to the peerage, with the title of Lord Beaconsfield ;
from which date, until February, 1878, he held, with the office of First Lord of
the Treasury, that of Lord of the Privy Seal. He died in 1881.]
No person can be insensiLle of tlie fact that the House meets to-night
under circumstances very much changed from those which have at-
tended our assembling for many years. Of late, indeedfor more than
twenty years past, whatever may have been our personal rivalries
and our party strifes, there was at least one sentiment in which we
all acquiesced, and in which we all shared, and that was a senti'
ment of admiring gratitude to that throne whose wisdom and
goodness so frequently softened the acerbities of our free public
Ufe, and so majestically represented the matured intelligence of an
enlightened people. All that has changed. He is gone who was
the comfort and support of that throne. It has been said that
there is nothing which England so much ai")preciates as the
fulfilment of duty. The prince whom we have lost not only was
eminent for the fulfiment of his duty, but it was the fulfil-
ment of the highest duty ; and it was the fulfilment of the
highest duty under the most difficult circumstances. Prince
Albert was the consort of his Sovereign. He was the father of one
who might be his Sovereign. He was the i>rime councillor of a
realm, the political constitution of which did not even recognise his
political existence. Yet, under these circumstances, so difficult and
so delicate, he elevated even the throne by the dignity and purity
of his domestic life. He framed, and jjartly accomj^lished, a scheme
of education for the heir of England which proves how completely
its august projector had contemplated the office of an English king.
In the affairs of state, while his serene spirit and elevated position
248 Oratory.
bore him above all tbe possible bias of our party life, be sliowed,
upon every great occasion, all the resources, all the prudence, and
all the sagacity of an experienced and responsible statesman. I
have presumed, sir, to touch upon three instances in which tbere
was, on the part of Prince Albert, the fulfilment of duty of tbe
highest character, under circumstances of the greatest difficulty. I
will venture to touch upon another point of his character, equally
distinguished by the fulfilment of duty ; but in this instance the
duty was not only fulfilled, but it was created. Although Prince
Albert was adopted by this country, he was, after all, but a youth
of tender years ; yet such was the cliaracter of his mind that he
at once observed that, notwithstanding all those great achievements
Avhich long centuries of internal concord and of public liberty had
permitted the energy and enterprise of Englishmen to accomplish,
thei'e was still a great deficiency in our national character, and
which, if neglected, might lead to the impairing not only of our
social happiness, but even the sources of our public wealth, — and
that was a deficiency of culture. But he was not satisfied in de-
tecting the deficiency, he resolved to supply it. His plans were
deeply laid ; they were maturely considered ; and notwithstanding
the obstacles which they encountered, I am pre):)ared to say they
were eminently successful. What might have been his lot had his
term completed that which is ordained as the average life of man,
it may be presumption to predict. Perhaps he would have im-
pressed upon his age not only his character but his name ; but this
I think posterity will acknowledge, that he heightened the intel-
lectual and moral standard of this country, that he extended and
expanded the sympathies of all classes, and that he most bene-
ficially adapted the productive powers of England to the inex-
haustible resources of science and art. It is sometimes deplored by
those who loved and admired him, that he was thwarted oc-
casionally in his enterprises, and that he was not duly ai:)preciated
in his works. These, however, ai-e not circumstances for regret
but for congratulation. They prove the leading and original mind
which so long and so advantageously laboured for this country.
Had he not encountered these obstacles, had he not been subject to
occasional distrust and misrepresentation, it would only have proved
that he was a man of ordinary mould and temper. Those who
move must change, and those who change must necessarily disturb
and aJarm prejudices ; and what he encountered was only a demon
stration that he was a man superior to his age, and admirably
adapted to carry out the work he had undertaken. Sir, there is one
point, and one point only, on which I would jii'esume for a moment
to dwell ; and it is not for the sake of you, sir, whom I am now
addressing, or for the generation to which we belong, but it is
that those who come after us may not misai)i:)rehend the nature of
this illustrious man. Prince Albert was not a patron. He was not
one of those who, by their smiles and by their gold, reward excel-
lence or stimulate exertion. His contributions to the cause of
progress and improvement were far more powerful and far morq
Victor Hugo on the Liberty of the Press. 249
precious. He gave to it liis tliought, his time, his toil : he gave to
it his life. I see in this House many gentlemen — on both sides, and
in different parts of it — who occasionally entered with the Prince at
those council boards where they conferred and decided ui^on the
great undertakings with which he was connected ; and I ask them,
without the fear of a denial, whether he was not the leading spirit
— whether his was not the mind that foresaw the difficulty, and his
the resources that sui^plied the remedy — whether his was not the
courage to overcome apparently insurmountable obstacles, and
whether every one who worked v/ith him did not feel that ho was
the real originator of those great plans of improvement which they
contributed to carry out. Sir, we have been asked to-night to
condole with the Crown in this great calamity. That is no easy
office. To condole in general is the office of those who, without the
pale of sorrow, feel for the sorrowing ; but in this instance the
country is as heart- stricken as its Queen. Yet, in the mutual
sensibilities of a Sovereign and a people there is something enno-
bling, something that elevates the spirit beyond the ordinary claim
of eartlily sorrow. The counties, and cities, and corporations of the
realm, and those illustrious institutions of learning, of science, of
art, and of skill, of which he was the highest ornament and the in-
sjiiring spirit, have bowed before the throne under this great
calamity. It does not become the Parliament of the country to be
silent. The expression of our feelings may be late, but even in that
lateness some propriety may be observed if to-night we sanction
the expression of the public son-ow, and ratify, as it were, the
record of a nation's woe. It is with these feelings that I shall
support the address in answer to the speech from the throne.
YICTOE HUGO ON THE LIBEETY OF THE PPvESS.
[Marie-Victor, Vicomte Hugo, was born at Besanqon, Feb. 26, 1802 : his
father was a colonel in the army of Napoleon. He commenced his Literary
career, as a poet, in 1819. In 1827 he produced a drama called " CromwuU,*'
and in 1829 his singular work, " Last Days of a Condemned Criminal." M.
Hugo introduced political allusions into the dramas he subsequently wrote,
and was long at war with the authorities. In January, 1832, his play, " Le
Hoi s'amuse," was produced at the Theatre Franqais, and next day inter-
dicted by the Government. He then went still deeper into politics ; was created
a peer of France by Louis Philippe, and elected President of the Peace Con-
gress in 18-19. His celebrated novel, "Notre Dame de Paris," has been
translated into most European languages. After 1852 Victor Hugo, exiled
from France, resided in Jersey and Guernsey, where he completed his works,
"Napoleon le Petit," and " Les Chatimens." He was much respected in his
exile-home, and was very charitable to the poor of the islands. Died 1885.]
" Gentle^ien, — My emotion cannot be expressed. You will be
indulgent if words fail me. If I had only to reply to the honourable
chief magistrate of Brussels, my task would be easy ; I would only
have to repeat what is in all your minds ; I need only be an echo.
But how can I thank the other eloquent and cordial voices -which
250 Oratory,
have spoken of nie ? By the side of those great publishers to whom
we owe the fruitful idea of a universal publishing house — a kind of
preparatory bond between nations — I see journalists, philosophers,
eminent writers, the honour of literature, the honour of the civihzed
continent. I am troubled and confused at finding myself the centre
of such a fete of intellect, and at seeing so much honour I'eflected
upon me, who am but a coi.science accepting a duty, a heart re-
signed to sacrifice. How can I thank you ? how shake hands with
you all together? The means are simple. What do you all —
writers, journalists, publishers, i^rinters, publicists, thinkers — re-
present ? All the energy of intelligence, all the forms of publicity ;
you are mind — Legion — you are the new organ of a new society — ■
you are the press. I propose a toast to the press — to the press of
all nations — to a free press — to a press powerful, glorious, and
fertile. Gentlemen, the press is the light of the social world, and
wherever there is light there is something of Providence. Thought
is something more than a right ; it is the very breath of man. He
who fetters thought strikes at man himself. To s|X!ak, to write, to
print, to pubUsh arc in point of right identical things. They are
circles constantly enlarging themselves from intelligence into action.
They are the sounding waves of thought. Of all these circles — of
all these rays of the human mind — the widest is the ])ress. The
diameter of the press is the diameter of civilization itself. With
every diminution of the liberty of the press there is a corresponding
diminution of civilization. When the free press is checked we may
say that the nutrition of the human family is withheld. Gentle-
men, the mission of our time is to change the old bases of society,
to create true order, and to substitute everywhere realities for
fictions. During this transition of social bases, which is the co-
lossal work of our time, nothing can resist the press, applying its
power of traction to Catholicism, to militaryism, to absolutism, to
the dense blocks of facts and ideas. The press is force. Why ?
Because it is intelligence. It is the living clarion ; it sounds tlie
reveille of nations; it loudly announces the advent of justice; it
holds no account of night, except to salute the dawn ; it becomes
day and warns the world. Sometimes, however, strange occur-
rence ! it is it that gets warnings. This is like the owl repri-
manding the crow of the cock. Yes, in certain countries, the press
is oppressed. Is it a slave ? Ko, an enslaved press is an impos-
sible junction of words. Besides, there are two modes of being
enslaved — that of Spartacus and that of Epictetus. The one
treaks his chains; the other shows his soul. When the fettered
writer cannot have recourse to the fir.st method, the second remains
for him. Is'o ; let despots do what they will ; I call on all those
free men who hear me to witness — there is no slavery for the mind.
Gentlemen, in the age in which we live there is no salvation without
liberty of the press, but, on the contrary, misdirection, shipwreclc,
disaster everywhere. There are at present certain ciuestions which
are the questions of the age, which are before us, and are inevitable.
There is no medium ; we must break upon them or take refuge iu
Victor Hugo on the Liberty of the Press, 251
them. Society is irresistibly sailing on this stream. These ques-
tions are the subject of the painful book of which such splendid
mention has been made just now. Pauperism, parasitism, the pro-
duction and distribution of wealth, money, credit, labour, wages, the
extinction of proletarianism, the progressive decrease of punish-
ments, the rights of women, who constitute half the human race,
the right of a child who demands — I say demands — gratuitous and
compulsory education, the right of soul, which impHes religious
liberty — these are the problems. With a free press they have
light thrown upon them ; they are practicable ; we see the preci-
l^ices about them, and the issues from them ; we may attack them
and solve them. Attacked* and solved they will save the world.
Without the press there is profound darkness. All these problems
Ijccome immediately formidable. We can only distinguish sharp
outhnes; we may fail of finding the entrance, and society may
founder. Quench the pharos, and the port becomes a rock. Gen-
tlemen, with a free press error is not possible ; there is no vacilla-
tion, no groping about in the progress of man. In the midst of
social problems, of the dark cross-paths, the press is the indicating
finger. There is no uncertainty. Advance to the ideal, to justice
and to truth ; for it is not enough to walk, you must walk forward.
How are you going ? That is the whole question. To counterfeit
movement is not to accomplish progress. To make a footprint
without advancing may do for jDassive obedience. To walk about
for ever in the path is but a mechanical movement, unworthy of
man. Let us have an aim. Let us know where we are going. Let
us proportion the effort to the result. Let an idea guide us in each
step we take. Let every step be logically connected with the other.
Let the solution come after the idea, and let the victory come after
the right. Never step backwards. Indecision in movement shows
emptiness of the brain. What is more wretched than to wish and
not to wish ? He who hesitates, falls back, and totters, does not
think. Gentlemen, who are the auxiliaries of the patriot ? The
press. What is the terror of the coward and the traitor ? The
press. I know it : the press is hated, and this is a great reason for
loving it. Every indignity, every persecution, every fanaticism,
denounces, insults, and wounds it as far as they can. I recollect
a celebrated encyclical, some remarkable words of which have re-
mained on my memory. In this encyclical a Pope, our contem-
porary Gregory XVI., the enemy of his age, which is somewhat
the misfortune of Popes — and having ever jjresent in his mind the
old dragon and beast of the Apocalypse, thus described the press
in his monkish and barbarous Latin — gida igtiea, callgo, ■imj'ietus
immanis cum strepitu Itorrendo — (a fiery throat, darkness, a tierce
rush with a horrid noise). I dispute nothing of the description.
The portrait is striking. A mouth of fire, smoke, prodigious
rapidity, formidable noise. Just so. It is a locomotive which is
passing ; it is the press, the mighty and holy locomotive of pro-
gress. Where is it going; where is it dragging civilization?
Where is this powerful pilot engine carrying nations ? The tun-
252 Oratory.
Viel is long, obscxire, and terriljle, for we may say that hiimaiiity ig
yet underground, so much matter envelopes and crushes it, so many
superstitions, prejudices, and tyrannies form a thick vault around
it, and so much darkness is above it. Alas ! since man's birth the
whole of history has been subterranean. We see nowhere the
divine ray ; but in the 19th century, after the French revolution,
there is hope, there is certaint/. Yonder, far in a cbstance, a lumi-
nous point appears. It increases, it increases every moment ; it
is the future ; it is realization ; it is the end of woe, the dawn of
joy: it is the Canaan, the future land where we shall only have
around us brethren and above us Heaven. Strength to the sacred
locomotive ! Courage to thought ; courage to science ; courage to
philosophy. Courage to the press ; courage to all of you writers !
The hour is drawing nigh when mind delivered at last from this
dismal tunnel of GOOO year.s, will suddenly burst forth in all its
dazzling brightness. I drink to the press, to its power, to its glory,
to its efficiency, to its liberty in Belgium, in Germany, in Switzer-
land, in Italy, in Spain, in England, in America, and to its eman-
cipation elsewhere."
HENEY IRVING ON THE ART OF ACTING.
[Mr. Irving was bom Feb. 6, 1838. His debut was made at the Sunderland
theatre, Sept. 29, ISoG. Ilis first ^^rcat imi)rcssion upon the public was achieved
in the cliaractcr of Matthias in tlie " IJcUs," at the Lyceum Tlieatrc, Nov. 20,
1871, under tlie management of Mrs. Bateman ; since which date lie has held his
own as the most painstaking and artistic actor on the English stage.]
(Extract from an Address delivered to the students at Harvard University,
March 30, 1885.)
"We arc sometimes told that to read the best dramatic poetry i^
more educating than to see it acted. I do not thiuk this theory is
very widely held, for it is in conflict with the dramatic instinct,
which everj'body possesses in a greater or loss degree. You never
met a playwright who could conceive himself willing — even if
endowed with tho highest literary gifts — to prefer a reading to a
play-going public. He thinks his work deserving of all tho rewards
of print and publisher, but he will be much more elated if it should
appeal to the world in tho theatre as a skilful representation of
human passions. In one of her letters George Eliot says : " In
opposition to most people who love to read Shakespeare, I like to
see his plays acted better than any others ; his great tragedies
thrill mo, let them be acted how they may." All this is so simple
and intelligible, that it seems scarc'cly worth while to argue that
in proportion to the readiness with which tho reader of Shake-
speare imagines the attributes of the various characters, and is
interested in their personality, ho will, as a rule, bo eager to seo
their tragedy or comedy in action. Ho will then find that very
much which ho could not imagine with any definitcness presents
new images every moment — the eloqueuco of look atid gesture, tho
inexhaustible significanco of the human voice. Thcio are people
Henry Irvmg on the Art of Acting. ^53
(as I have said elsewhere) who fancy they have more music in
their souls than was ever translated into harmony by Beethoven or
Mozart. There are others who think they could paint pictures,
write poetry — in short, do anything, if they only made the effort.
To them what is accomplished by the practised actor seems easy
and simple. But as it needs the skill of the musician to draw the
full volume of eloquence from the written score, so it needs the
skill of the dramatic artist to develoii the subtle harmonies of the
poetic play. In fact, to do and not to dream, is the mainspring of
success in life. The actor's art is to act, and the true acting of any
character is one of the most difficult accomplishments. I challenge
the acute student to ponder over Hamlet's renunciation of Ojahelia
— one of the most complex scenes in all the drama — and say that
he has learned more from his meditations than he could be taught
by players whose intelligence is equal to his own. To present the
man thinking aloud is the most difficult achievement of our art.
Here the actor who has no real grip of the character, but simply
recites the speeches with a certain grace and intelligence, will be
untrue. The more intent he is upon the words, and the less on
the ideas that dictated them, the more likely he is to lay himself
open to the charge of mechanical interpretation. It is perfectly
possible to express to an audience all the involutions of thought,
the speculation, doubt, wavering, which reveal the meditative but
irresolute mind. As the varying shades of fancy pass and repass
the mirror of the face, they may yield more material to the
studious playgoer than he is likely to get by a diligent poring over
the text. In short, as we understand the people around us much
better by personal intercourse than by all the revelations of
written words, — for words, as Tennyson saj's, " half reveal and half
conceal the soul within," — so the drama has, on the whole, infinitely
more suggestion when it is well acted than when it is interpreted
by the unaided judgment of the student. It has been said that
acting is an unworthy occupation because it rei^resents feigned
emotions, but this censure would apply with equal force to poet or
novelist. Do not imagine that I am claiming for the actor sole and
undivided authority. He should himself be a student, and it is his
business to put into practice the best ideas he can gather from tho
general cui'rent of thought with regard to the highest dramatic
literature. But it is he who gives body to those ideas — fire, force,
and sensibility, without which they would remain for most people
mere airy abstractions.
It is often supposed that great actors trust to the inspiration of
the moment. Nothing can be more erroneous. There will, of
coui'se, be such moments, when an actor at a white heat illumines
some passage with a ffiish of i-nagination (and this mental condi-
tion, by the waj^ is impossible to the student sitting in his arm-
chair) ; but the great actor's surprises are generally well weighed
studied, and balai\ced. "We know that Edmund Kean constantly
practised before a mirror effects which startled his audience by
their apparent spontaneity. And it is the accumulation of such
^54 Omiory.
effects which enables an actor, after many years, to present many
great characters with remarkable completeness.
I do not want to overstate the case, or to appeal to anything that
is not within common experience, so I can confidently ask you
whether a scene in some great play has not been vividly impressed
on your minds by the delivery of a single line, or even of one
forcible word. Has not this made the passage far more real and
human to you than all the thought you have devoted to it ? An
accomplished critic has said that Shakespeare himself might have
been surprised had ho heard the '' Pool, fool, fool ! " of Edmund
Kean. And though all actors are not Keans^they have in varjdng
degree this power of making a dramatic character step out of the
page, and come nearer to our hearts and our understandings.
# # « * » • *
You will see that the limits of an actor's studies are very wide.
To master the technicalities of his craft, to familiarize his mind
with the structure, rhythm, and the soul of poetry to be con-
stantly cultivating his perceptions of life around him and of all the
arts — painting, music, sculptui-e — for the actor who is devoted to
his profession is susceptible to every harmony of colom-, form, and
sound — to do all this is to labour in a very large field of industry.
But all your training, bodily and mental, is subservient to the
two great principles in tragedy and comedy — passion and geniality.
Geniality in comedy is one of the rarest gifts. Think of the rich
unction of Falstaff, the mercurial fancy of Mercutio, the witty
vivacity and manly humour of Benedick — think of the qualities,
natural and acquired, that are needed for the complete pourtrayal
of such characters, and you will understand how difiBcult it is for
a comedian to rise to such a sphere. In tragedy, passion or inten-
sity sweeps all before it, and when I say passion, I mean the
passion of pathos as well as wrath or revenge. These are the
supreme elements of the actor's art, which cannot be taught by
any system, however just, and to which all education is but
tributarj'.
Now, all that can be said of the necessity of a close regard for
nature in acting applies with equal or greater force to the pre-
sentation of plays. You want, above all things, to have a truthful
picture which shall appeal to the eye without distracting the
imagination from the purpose of the drama.
To what position in the world of intelligence does the actor's art
entitle him, and what is his contribution to the general sum of
instruction ? _ We are often told that the art is ephemeral : that it
creates nothing, that when the actor's personality is withdrawn
from the public eye, he leaves no trace behind. Granted that his
art creates nothing ; but does it not often restore ? It is true that
he leaves nothing like the canvas of the painter and the marble of
the sculptor, but has he done naught to increase the general stock
of ideas ? The astronomer and naturalist create nothing, but they
contribute much to the enlightenment of the world. I am taking
the highest standard of my art, for I maintain that in judging any
Henry Irving on the Art of Acting. 2§o
calling you should consider its noblest and not its most ignoble
products. All the work that is done on the stage cannot stand
upon the same level, any more than all the -work that is done in
literature. You do not demand that your poets and novelists shall
all be of the same calibre. An immense amount of good writing
does no more than increase the gaiety of mankind ; but when
Johnson said that the gaiety of nations was eclipsed by the death
of Garrick, he did not mean that a mere barren amusement had
lost one of its professors. When Sir Joshua Eeynolds painted
Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic 31use, and said he had achieved immor-
tality by putting his name on the hem of her garment, he meant
something more than a pretty compliment, for her name can never
die. To give genuine and wholesome entertainment is a very
largo function of the stage, and without that entertainment very
many lives would lose a stimulus of the highest value. If recrea-
tion of every legitimate kind is invaluable to the worker, especially
so is the reci'cation of the drama, which brightens his faculties,
enlarges his vision of the jncturesquo, and by taking him for a
time out of this work-a-day world, braces his sensibilities for the
labours of life. Tho art which does this may surely claim to
exercise more than a fleeting influence upon the world's intel-
ligence. But in its highest developments it does more ; it acts as
a constant medium for the diffusion of great ideas, and by throwing
new lights upon the best dramatic literature, it largely helps the
growth of education. It is not too much to say that the inter-
preters of Shakespeare on the stage have had much to do with the
widespread appreciation of his works.' Some of the most thoughtful
students of the poet have recognised their indebtedness to actors,
while for multitudes the stage has performed the office of discovery.
Thousands who flock to-day to see a representation of Shakespeare,
which is the product of much reverent study of the poet, are not
content to regard it as a more scenic exhibition. Without it
Shakespeare might have been for many of them a sealed book ;
but many more have been impelled by the vivid realism of the
Btage to renew studies which other occupations or lack of leisure
have arrested. Am I presumptuous, then, in asserting that the
stage is not onlj' an instrument of amusement, but a very active
agent in the spread of knowledge and taste ? Some forms of stage
work, you may say, are not particularly elevating. True ; and
there are countless fictions coming daily from the hands of printer
and publisher which nobody is the better for reading. You cannot
have a fixed standard of value in any art ; and though there are
masses of people who will prefer an unintelligent exhibition to a
really artistic production, that is no reason for decrying the theatre,
in which all the arts blend with the knowledge of history, manners,
and customs of all people, and scenes of all climes, to aflford a
varied entertainment to the most exacting intellect. I have no
sympathj' with people who arc constantly anxious to define the
actor's position, for, as a rule, they are not animated by a desire
to promote his interests. " 'Tis in ourselves that we are thus and
256 Oratory.
thus ; " and whatever actors deserve, socially and artistically, tkey
are sure to receive as their right. I found the other day in a
•well-circulated little volume a suggestion that the actor was a
degraded being because he has a closely shaven face. This is,
indeed humiliating, and I wonder how it strikes the Eoman
Catholic clergy. However, there are actors who do not shave
closely, and though, alas! I am not one of them, I wisTi them joy
of the spiritual grace which I cannot claim.
It is admittedly unfortunate for the stage that it has a certain
equivocal element, which, in the eyes of some judges, is suflBcient
for its condemnation. The art is open to all, and it has to bear
the sins of man;'. You may open your newspaper, and see a
paragraph headed, " Assault by an Actress." Some poor creature
is dignified by that title who has not the slightest claim to it.
You look into a shop-window, and see photographs of certain
l^eople who are indiscriminately described as actors and actresses,
though their business has no pretence to be art of any kind.
The fierce light of publicity that beats upon us makes us liable,
from time to time, to dissertations upon our public and private
lives, our manners, our morals, and our money. Our whims and
caprices are descanted on A\'ith apparent earnestness of truth, and
seeming sincerity of conviction. There is always some lively con-
troversy concerning the influence of the stage. The battle between
old methods and new in art is waged everywhere. If an actor
were to take to heart everything that is written and said about
him, his life would be an intolerable burden. And one piece of
advice I should give to young actors is this : Don't be too sen-
sitive ; receive praise or censure with modesty and patience. Good,
honest criticism is, of course, most advantageous to an actor, but
he should save himself fi'om the indiscriminate reading of a
multitude of comments, which may only confuse instead of stimu-
lating. And here let me say to young actors in all earnestness :
Beware of the loungers of our calling, the camp-followers who
hang on the skirts of the army, and who inveigle the young into
habits that degrade their character and paralyse their ambition.
Let your ambition be ever precious to you, and, next to your good
name, the jewel of your souls. I care nothing for the actor who is
not alwaj's anxious to rise to the highest position in his particular
walk ; but this ideal cannot be cherished by the young man who is
induced to fritter away his time and his mind in thoughtless
company.
But in the midst of all this turmoil about the stage, one fact
stands out clearly : the dramatic art is steadily growing in credit
with the educated classes. It is drawing more recruits from those
classes. The enthusiasm for our calling has never reached a
higher pitch. There is quite an extraordinary number of ladies
who want to become actresses, and the cardinal difficulty in the
way is not the social deterioration which some people think they
would incur, but simply their inability to act. Men of education
who become actors do not find that their education is useless. If
Hemy Irving on the Art of Acting. 257
they have the necessary aptitude, the inborn instinct for the stage,
all their mental training will be of great value to them. It is
true that there must always be grades in the theatre ; that an
educated man who is an indifferent actor can never expect to reach
the front rauk. If he do no more than figure in the army at
Eosworth Field, or look imposing in a doorway ; if he never play
any but the smallest parts ; if in these respects he Le no better
than men who could not pass an examination in any branch of
knowledge — he has no more reason to complain than the highly
educated man who longs to write poetry, and possesses every
qualification save the poetic faculty. There are people who seem
to think that only irresistible genius justifies any one in adopting
the stage as a vocation. They make it an argument against the
profession that many enter it from a low sphere of life, without
any particular fitness for acting, but simply to earn a livelihood
by doing the subordinate and mechanical work which is necessary
in every theatre. And so men and women of refinement- — especially
women— are warned that they must do themselves injury by
passing through the rank and file during their term of probation
in the actor's craft. Now, I need not remind j'ou that on the
stage everybody cannot bo great, any more than students of music
can all become great musicians; but very many will do sound
artistic work which is of enormous value. As for any question of
conduct. Heaven forbid that I should be dogmatic ; but it does not
seem to me logical that while genius is its own law in the pursuit
of a noble art, all inferior merit or ambition is to be deterred from
the same path bj^ appalling pictures of its temptations.
If our art is worth anything at all, it is worth the honesty
conscientious self-devotion of men and women who, while they may
not achieve fame, may have the satisfaction of being workers in a
calling which does credit to many degrees of talent. "We do not
claim to be any better than our fellows in other walks of life. We
do not ask the jester in journalism whether his quips and epigrams
are always dictated by the loftiest morahty ; nor do we insist on
knowing that the odour of sanctity surrounds the private lives of
lawyers and military men before we send our sons into law and the
army. It is imi^ossible to point out any vocation which is not
attended by temptations that j^rove fatal to many ; but you have
simply to consider whether a profession has in itself any title to
honour, and then — if you are confident of j^our capacity — to enter
it with a resolve to do all that energy and perseverance can accom-
plish. The immortal part of the stage is its nobler part. Ignoble
accidents and interludes come and go, but this lasts on for ever. It
lives, like the human soul, in the body of humanity — associated
with much that is inferior and hampered by many hindrances — but
it never sinks into nothingness, and never fails to find new and
noble work in creations of permanent and memorable excellence.
And I would say, as a last word, to the young men in this assembly
who may at any time resolve to enter the dramatic 23rofession, that
they ought always to fix their minds upon the highest examples j
258 Oratory.
that in studying acting ttey should beware of prejudiced com-
parisons between this method and that, but learn as much as pos-
sible from all ; that they should remember that art is as varied as
nature, and as little suited to the shackles of a school ; and, abovo
all, that they should never forget that excellence in any art is at-
tained only by arduous labour, unswerving purpose, and unfailing
discipline. This discipline is, perhaps, the most difficult of all tests,
for it involves the subordination of the actor's personalitj' in every
work which is designed to be a complete and harmonious picture.
Dramatic art nowadays is more coherent, systematic, and compre-
hensive than it has sometimes been. And to the student who pro-
poses to fill the place in this system to which his individuality and
experience entitles him, and to do his dutj'- faithfully and well, ever
striving after greater excellence, and never yielding to the in-
dolence that is often born of jjopularity — to him I say, with every
confidence, that he wall choose a career in which, if it does not lead
him to fame, he will be sustained by the honourable exercise of
some of the best faculties of the human mind.
{Inserted by the courtesi/ of Mr. Irving.)
LORD MACAULAY'S SPEECH AT THE UNIVERSITY
OF GLASGOW.
[From Lis luaugnral Address, ou lus election as Lord Rector, March 21,
18i9. Born 18U0. Died 18o9.]
Look at the world a hundred years after the seal of Pope Nicholas
the Fifth had been affixed to the instrument which called your Col-
lege nito existence. We find Europe, we find Scotland especially.
m the agonies of that revolution which we emphatically call the
Reformation. The liberal patronage which Nicholas, and men like
Nicholas, had given to learning, and of which the establishment of
this seat of learning is not the least remarkable instance, had pro-
duced an efi'ect which they had never contemijlated. Ignorance was
the talisman on which their power depended, and that tahsman they
had themselves broken. They had called in knowledge as a hand-
maid to decorate superstition, and their error produced its natural
ettect. I need not tell you what a part the votaries of classical
learmng, and especially the votaries of Greek learning, the
Humanists, as they were then called, bore in the great movement
against spiritual tyranny. They formed in fact the vanguard of
that movement. Almost every eminent Humanist in the north of
±.urope was, accordmg to the measure of his uprightness and
courage, a Reformer In a Scottish University I need hardly men-
hon the names of Knox, of Buchanan, of Melville, of Secretary
Maitland. In truth, mmds daily nourished with the best literature
?;rl''^^''''i'^"i ""."^f ''^^''''^'■^yg^'ewtoo strong to be trammelled
Dy the cobwebs of the scholastic divinity; and the infiuence of such
Lord Macaulay's Glasgow Speech. 259
minds was now rapidly felt by the whole commnnity ; for the in-
vention of printing had brought Ijooks within the reach of yeoniey
and of artisans. From the Mediterranean to the Frozen Sea, there-
fore, the public mind was everywhere in a fennent ; and nowhert
was the ferment greater than in Scotland. It was in the midst of
martyrdoms and proscriptions, in the midst of a war between power
and truth, that the first century of the existence of your University
closed.
Pass another hundred years, and we are in the midst of anothei
revolution. The war between Popery and Protestantism had, in
this island, been terminated by the victory of Protestantism. But
from that war another war had sprung, the war between Prelacy
and Puritanism. The hostile rehgious sectswcre allied, intermingled,
confounded with hostile political parties. The monarchical element
of the constitution was an object of almost exclusive devotion to
the Prelatist. The popular element of the constitution was especially
dear to the Puritan. At length an appeal was made to the sworcl.
Puritanism triumphed ; but Puritanism was already divided against
itself. Independency and Kepublicanism were on one side, Pres-
byterianism and limited Monarchy on the other. It was in the very
darkest part of that dark time ; it Avas in the midst of battles,
sieges, and executions ; it was when the whole world was still
aghast at the awful spectacle of a British king standing before a
judgment seat, and laying his neck on a block; it was when the
mangled remains of the Duke of Hamilton had just been laid in
the tomb of his house ; it was when the head of the Marquis of
Montrose had just been fixed on the Tolbooth of Edinburgh, that
your University completed her second century.
A hundred years more, and we have at length reached the be-
ginning of a hapjjier period. Our civil and religious liberties had,
indeed, been bought with a fearful i^rice. But they had been bought.
The price had been paid. The last battle had been fought on British
ground. The last black scaff'old had been set up on Tower Hill. The
evil days were over. A bright and tranquil century, a century of re-
ligious toleration, of domestic peace, of temjierate freedom, of ec[uaj
justice, was beginning. That century is now closing. When we com-
pare it with any equally long period in the history of any othet
great society, we shall find abundant cause for thankfulness to the
'Giver of all good. JSTor is there any place in the whole kingdom
iietter fitted to excite this feeling than the place where we are now
assembled. For in the whole kingdom we shall find no district in
which the progress of trade, of manufactures, of wealth, and of the
arts of life, has been more rapid than in Clj^desdale. Your Uni-
versity has partaken largely of the prosperity of this city and of
the surrounding region. The security, the tranquillity, the liberty,
tvhich have been propitious to the industry of the merchant, and of
the manufacturer, have been also propitious to the industry of the
scholar. To the last century belong most of the names of which
you justly boast. The time would fail nie if I attempted to do jus-
tice to the memory of all the illustrious men who during that period,
s 2
260 Oratory.
taught or learned wisdom within these ancient walls; geometricians,
anatomists, jurists, philologists, metaphysicians, poets; SimjDson
and Hunter, Millar and Young, Reid and Stewart ; Campbell,
whose coffin was lately borne to a grave in that reno\vned transept
which contains the dust of Chaucer, of Spenser, and of Dryden -,
Black, whose discoveries form an era in the history of chemical
science ; Adam Smith, the greatest of aU the masters of political
science ; James Watt, who perhaps did more than any single man
has done, since the " New Atlantis" of Bacon was written, to accom-
plish that glorious prophecy.
Another secular period is now about to commence. There is no
lack of alarmists, who wiU tell you that it is about to commence
under evil auspices. But from me you must exi:»ect no such gloomy
prognostications. I have heard them too long and too constantly
to be scared by them. Ever since I began to make obsei-vations on
the state of my country, I have seen nothing but growth, and heard
of nothing but decay. The more I contemplate our noble institu-
tions, the more convinced I am that they are sound at heart, that
they have nothing of age but its dignity, and that their strength is
still the strength of youth. The hurricane which has recently
overthrown so much that was great, and that seemed durable, has
only jjroved their solidity. They still stand, august and immovable,
while dynasties and churches are lying in heaps of ruin all around
us. I see no reason to doubt that, by the blessing of God on a wise
and temperate policy, on a j^olicy of which the principle is to pre-
serve what is good by reforming in time what is evil, our civil in-
stitutions may be preserved unimpaired to a late posterity, and that
under the shade of our civil institutions our academical institu-
tions may long continue to flourish.
LOED PALMERSTON ON COMPETITIVE
EXAMINATIONS.
There is nothing, pernaps, more remarkable in tlie progress of the
country than the advance which of late years has been made in the
diffusion and in the quality of education. The advance which Eng-
land has made in ]3opulation,in wealth, in everything that constitutes
in common opinion the greatness of a country, is well known and
most extraordinary. But we should, indeed, liave been wanting
in our duties as a nation if we had not accompanied that progress
in wealth and j^opulation by a corresponding progress in the deve-
lopment of the intellectual faculties of the people. There was a
time, now long gone by, when en^^ous critics, who wanted to run
down the Universities of the land, said they might be Likened to
tulks moored in a rapid current, where they served only to mark
the rajjidity of the stream. That has long since ceased to be a true
representation of our Universities. They have improved the course,
the object, and the direction of tlieir studies, and they may now
fearlessly \4e with the academical institutions of any country in
Lord Pahn&i'ston on Competitive Examinations. 261
the world. Certain objections have been made to tbe system oi
competitive examinations. Some people say it leads to cramming.
It often happens that when mankind seize ujDon a word they ima-
p:ine that word to be an argument, and go about repeating it,
thinking they have arrived at some great and irresistible conclusion.
So, when they pronounce the word " cramming," they think they
have utterly discredited the system to winch that word is by them
applied. Some people seem to imagine that the human mind is
like a bottle, and that when you have filled it with anything you
pour it out again and it becomes as empty as it was before. That
is not the natm-e of the human mind. The boy who has been
crammed, to use the j^opular word, has, in point of fact, leai*ned a
great deal, and that learning has accomplished two objects. In
the first place the boy has exercised the faculties of his mind in
being crammed, and in the next place there remains in his mind a
gi'eat portion of the knowledge so acquired, and which probably
forms the basis of future attainment in different branches of educa-
tion. Depend upon it that the boy who is crammed, if he is
crammed successfully, not only may succeed in the examination for
which he is preparing, but is from that time forward more intellec-
tual, better informed, and more disposed to push forward the
knowledge which by that cramming he has acquired. It is also
said that you are teaching yo^lng men a great variety of things
which will be of no use to them in the career which they are destinec]
to i^ursue, and that you are pandering to their vanity by making
them believe they are wiser than they really are. These objections,
also, are in my opinion utterly Intile. As to vanity and conceit,
those are most vain and conceited who know the least. The more
a man knows, the more he acquires a conviction of the extent of
that which he does not know. A man ought to know a great deal
to acquire a knowledge of the immensity of his ignorance. If com-
petitive examination is not liable to objection upon the score that
it tends to raise iindue notions of superiority on the part of those
who go through it, so also it is a great mistake to imagine tliat a
range of knowledge disqualifies a man for the particular career and
profession to which he is destined. Nothing can be more jDroper tlian
that a young man, having selected a particular profession, should
devote the iitmost vigour of his mind to qualify himself for it by
acquiring the knowledge which is necessary for distinction in that
line of life ; but it would be a great mistake for him to confine him-
self to that study alone, and you may be sure that the more aj^oung
man knows of a great variety of subjects, and the moi*e he exercises
his faculties in acquiring a great range of knowledge, the better he will
perform the duties of his particular profession. That sort of general
knowledge may be likened to the gymnastic exercises to which sol-
diers are accustomed. It is not that it can be expected that these
particular movements would be of any use to them on the day of
battle ; but these gymnastic exercises render their muscles flexible,
strengthen their limbs, invigorate their health, and make them
better able to undergo fatigue, and to adajjt themselves to all cir-
262 Oratory.
cumstances. So with a wide range of study; it sharpens the wits;
it infases general knowledge into the mind ; it sets a young man
thinking ; it strengthens the memory and stores it with facts; and
in this way makes him a better and more able man in the particulat
profession which he is intended to pursue. It has betin well said
that in this happy land there is no barrier between classes, and that
the highest positions are attainable by persons starting from the
moyt humble origin. If he has only talent, if he has only acquire-
ments, if he has only perseverance and good conduct, there is
nc.diing within the range of the institutions of the country to which
any man may not aspire, and which any man may not obtain. It
is the peculiar character of this country as distinguished from many
others, that whereas in some countries, unfortunately for them,
men strive to raise the level on which they stand by jjulling othcr\
down, in England men try to raise the level on which they stand,
not by pulling others down but by elevating themselves. Having
stated the advantages which the sy-stem of competitive examination
confers upon those who are successful, I would take leave to say a
word of encouragement to those who may have failed to obtain
certificates. Let not these young men, and let not their parents,
think that they, the unsuccessful competitors, have gained nothing
by the struggle in which they have engaged. Depend upon it, that
although they may not have succeeded in obtaining the distinction
at which they aimed, they have succeeded in acquiring a great deal
ftf iiseful knowledge ; they have succeeded in accpiiring habits of
mind and powers of thought, and of application, which will be of
use to them during the rest of their lives. You all know the old
story of the father who upon his deathbed told his sons that he had
a treasure buried in a certain field, and that if they dug the whole
field through they would find it. The sons, acting upon this advice,
dug the field, but no gold was there. In the next year, however,
there was that which was to them a treasure — a most abundant
and valuable harvest. That was the treasure which the father
wished them to seek for and which they found. So it is with the
imsuccessful competitors. They have not found the treasure which
they sought for — namely, a certificate of attainments from the exa-
miners^jut they have gained a treasure which to them will be
of nifinite value — those habits of mind, those powers of thought,
and that amount of knowledge upon which a larger building may
be erected; and they therefore will have reason to thank their
parents for having sent them to a competitive examination, thus
rendering them better able to struggle through life in whatever
career they may choose to pursue.
ME. O'OONNELL IN DEFENCE OP MR. MA.GEE.
(the law of libel.)
[The great Irish "agitator," Daniel O'Connell, was bom in the county of
Eerry, 177o. He was educated at the CathoUc College of St. Omer and at the
school at Douay. In 179 1 hj became a student of Lincoln's Inn and was
3fr. O'Connell in Defence of Tdv. Magee. 2G3
admitted a barrister in 1798. His practice yielded laim a large income, but
iu 1809 he became couuected with the associations for the emancipation of
the Catholics, and soou became their idol. In 1828 he was retm'ned to pai^
Hament bj' the elcctoi'S of Clare, and presenting himself at the table of tha
House, expressed his willingness to take the oath of allegiance, but refuseif
to take the other oaths. On this he was ordered to withdraw. The Catholic
Kelief Bill, passed in 1829, enabled him to sit. The last years of his life were
devoted to the unprofitable agitation for the repeal of the uniou. As au orator
he stood in the first rank ; his only literary work is his " Memoirs of Ireland."
He died in 1847, aged 72.]
Gentlemen, you are now to pvononnce upon a publication, the
truth of whicli is not controverted. Tlie case is with you : it
belongs to yoi; exclusively to decide it. His Lordship may advise,
but he cannot control your decision; and it belongs to you alone to
say, whether or not, upon the entire matter, you conceive it to be
evidence of guilt, and deserving of punishment. The Statute-law
gives or recognises this j'our right, and imposes it on you as your
duty. No judge can dictate to a jury — no jury ought to allow
itself to be dictated to.
If the contrary doctrine were established, see what oppressive
consequences might result. At some future period, some man may
attain the first place on the bench, through the reputation which
is so easily acquired — by a certain degree of church-wardcning
piet)^ added to a great gravity and maidenly decorum of manners.
Such a man viay reach the bench— for I am putting a mere imagi-
nary case : — He may be a man without passions, and therefore
without vices ; he may be, my loi'd, a man superfluously rich, and
therefore, not to be bribed with money, but rendered partial by his
bigotry, and corrupted by his prejudices : such a man, inflated by
flattery and bloated in his dignity, may hereafter use that character
for sanctity which has served to promote him, as a sword to hew
down the struggling liberties of his country : — such a judge may
interfere before trial, and at the trial be a partisan !
Gentlemen, should an honest jury — could an honest jvtry (if an
honest jury were again found) listen with safety to the dictates of
such a judge ? I repeat, that the law docs not and cannot rec[uire
such submission as has been preached : and at all events, gentlemen,
it cannot be controverted that, in the present instance — that of an
alleged libel, — the decision of all law and fact belongs to you. I
am then warranted in directing to you some observations on tlie
law of libel ; and in doing so, my intention is to lay before you a
shoi-t and rapid view of the causes which have introduced into
courts the monstrous assertion — that tridli is crime!
It is to l3e deeply lamented that the art of Printing was unknown
at the earlier jieriods of our history. If, at the time the barons
wrung the simple Init sublime charter of liberty from a timid, perfi-
dious sovereign— from a violator of his word — from a man covered
(vith disgrace, and sunk in infamy ; if at the time when that charter
was confirmed and renewed, the Press had existed ; it would, I
think, have been the first care of those friends of freedom to have
established a principle of liberty for it to rest upon, which might
264) Oratory.
resist every future assault. Their simple and unsophisticated
understandings could never be brought to comprehend the legal
subtleties by which it is now argued that falsehood is useful aind
innocent, and irutli, the emanation and the tyj^e of heaven, a crime.
They would have cut with their swords the cobweb links of sophistiy
in which truth is entangled ; and they would have rendered it
impossible tore-estabhshthis injustice, without violating a principle
of the constitution.
When the art of Printing was invented, its value to every sufferer,
its terror to every oppressor, was soon obvious ; therefore means
were speedily adopted to prevent its salutary effects. The Star-
Chamber — the odious Star-Chamber — was either created, or at
least, enlarged and brought into activity. Its jjrocecdings were
arbitrary, its decisions were oppressive, and injustice and tyranny
tvere formed into a system. To describe it in one sentence, it was
a iirematwehi pachecl ju-nj. The Star-Chamber was particularly
vigilant over the infant struggles of the Press. A code of laws
became necessary to govern this new enemy to i;)rejudice and
oppression. The Star-Chamber adopted, for this purpose, the civil
law as it is called — the law of Rome : — not the law at the ^^eriods of
her liberty and hei glory, but the law which was promulgated when
she fell into slavery and disgrace, and recognised this j^rinci^ile —
that the will of the prince was the rule of the law. The civil law
was adopted by the Star-Chamber as its guide in proceeding against
and in punisliing libellers ; but, unfortunately, only ]->art of it was
adopted — and that, of course, was the part least favourable to
freedom. So much of the civil law as assisted to discover the con-
cealed libeller, and to punish him, when discovered, was carefully
selected ; but the civil law allowed triith to be a defence— and that
part was carefully rejected.
From the Star-Chamber, gentlemen, the prevention and punish-
ment of libels descended to the courts of common law : and, with
the power, they seem to have inherited much of the spirit of that
tribunal. Servility at the bar, and profligacy on the bench, have
not been wanting to aid every construction unfavourable to freedom :
and, at length, it is taken as granted, and as clear law, that truth
or falsehood is quite immaterial, constituting no part of either guilt
or innocence.
I would wish to examine this revolting doctrine; and, in doing
so, I am proud to tell you that it has no 'other foundation than in
the oft-repeated assertions of lawyers and judges. One servile
writer has stated this doctrine, from time to time, after another—
and one overbearing judge has re-echoed the assertion of a time-
serving predecessor— and the public have, at length, submitted. I
do therefore feel not only gratified in having the occasion, but bound
to express my opinion on the real law of this subject. I know that
opinion is but of little weight. I have no professional rank or
station to give it importance ; but it is an honest and conscientious
opinion, and it is this ;— that, in the discussion of imhlic sithjeds,
Robert Hall's Peroration on War. 205
and of the administration of pnhlic men, truth is a duty and not a
crime.
For my part, I frankly avow that I shudder at the scenes around
me. I cannot, without horror, view this interfering and inter,
meddling with judges and juries : it is vain to look for safety to
person or proj^erty, whilst this system is allowed to pervade our
courts : the very fountain of justice maybe corrujDted at its source;
and those waters which should confer health and vigour throughoiit
the land, can then diffuse nought but mephitic and pestilential
vapours to disgust and to destroy. If honesty, if justice be silent,
yet prudence ought to check these practices. We live in a new
era, — a melancholy era — in which perfidy and lorofligacy are sanc-
tioned by high aiithority : the base violation of plighted faith, the
deep stain of dishonour, nifidelity in love, treachery in friendship,
the abandonment of every i^rinciple, and the adoption of every
frivolity and of every vice that can excite hatred combined with
ridicule, — all, all this, and more, may be seen around us ; and yet
it is believed, it is expected, that this system is fated to be eternal.
Gentlemen, we shall all weep the insane delusion ; and, in the
terrific moments of retaliation, you know not, you cannot know,
how soon or how bitterly " the ingredients of your poisoned chalice
may be commended to your own lips."
Is there amongst you any one friend to freedom ? Is there
amongst you one man who esteems eqiial and impartial justice —
who values the people's rights as the foundation of private happi-
ness, and who considers life as no boon without hberty ? Is there
amongst you one friend to the constitution — one man who hates
oppression ? If there be, Mr. Magee appeals to his kindred mmd,
and expects an acquittal.
There are amongst you men of great religious zeal — of much
public piety. Are you sincere ? Do you believe what you profess ?
With all this zeal, with all this piety, is there any conscience
amongst you ? Is there any terror of violating your oaths ? Are
ye hypocrites, or does genuine religion inspire you? If you are
sinners, if you have consciences, if your oaths can control your
interests, then Mr. Magee confidently expects an acquittal.
If amongst you there be cherished one ray of pure religion — if
amongst you there glow a single spark of liberty — if I have alarmed
religion, or roused the spirit of freedom in one breast amongst you,
Mr. Magee is safe, and his country is served ; but, if there be none,
if you be slaves and hypocrites — he will await your verdict— and
desj^ise it !
EGBERT HALL'S PERORATION" ON WAR.
[The Rev. Robert Hall, IM.A., the eminent dissenting minister, was horn at
Arnsley, near Leicester, 176i. He was educated at Bristol and King's College,
Aberdeen. His works on Divinity and political economy, which are numerous,
2(36 Oratory.
are remarkable for profound thouglit, elegance of style and for the splendour
of their iina°-ery As a preacher he was unrivalled, his congregation were,
it is said " entranced by his fervid eloquence, and melted by the awe and
iervour w'ith which he dwelt on the mysteries of death and eternity. ' His
f ompleto works have been published in six volumes. Died ISdl.J
As far as tlie interests of freedom are concerned,— the most impor-
tant by far of sublunary interests,— you, my countrymen, stand in
the capacity of the federal representatives ot the human race;
for v/ith you it is to determine (under God) in what condition the
latest posterity shall be born ; their fortunes are entrusted to your
care, and on your conduct at this moment depends the colour and
complexion of their destiny. If liberty, after being extinguished
on the Continent, is suffered to expire here, whence is it ever to
emerge in the midst of that thick night that will invest it ? It
remains with you then, to decide whether that freedom, at whose
voice the kingdoms of Europe awoke from the sleep of ages, to run
a career of virtuous emulation in everything great and good ; the
freedom which dispelled the mists of superstition, and invited the
nations to behold their God ; whose magic touch kindled the rays
of genius, the enthusiasm of poetry, and the flame of eloquence ;
the freedom which poured into our lap opulence and arts, and em-
bellished life with innumerable institutions and improvements, till
it became a theatre of wonders : it is for you to decide whether this
freedom shall yet survive, or be covered with a funeral pall, and
wrapt in eternal gloom. It is not necessary to await your deter-
mination. In the solicitude you feel to ap^irove yourselves worthy
of such a trust, every thought of what is alilicting in warfare, every
apprehension of danger must vanish, and you are impatient to
mingle in the battle of the civilized world. Go, then, ye defenders
of your country, accompanied with every auspicious omen ; advance
with alacrity into the field, where God himself musters the hosts
to war. Eeligion is too much interested in your success not to
lend you her aid ; she will shed over this enterprise her selectest
influence. While you are engaged in the field, many will repair to
the closet, many to the sanctuary ; the faithful of every name will
employ that prayer which has power with God ; the feeble hands
which are unequal to any other weapon, will grasp the sword of the
Spirit ; and from myriads of humble, contrite hearts, the voice of
intercession, supplication, and weeping, will mingle in its ascent to
heaven with the shouts of battle and the shock of arms. While
you have everything to fear from the success of the enemy, you
have every means of preventing that success, so that it is next to
impossible for victory not to crown your exertions. The extent of
your resources, under God, is equal to the justice of your cause.
But should Providence determine otherwise, should you fall in this
struggle, should the nation fall, you will have the satisfaction, the
purest allotted to man, of having performed your part ; your names
will be enrolled with the most illustrious dead ; while posterity, to
the eud of time, as often as they revolve the events of this period
Canning on the Latent Power of England. 2G7
—and tliey Avill incessantly revolve tlieni — shall turn to you a re-
verential eye, while they mourn over the freedom which is en-
tombed in your sej^ulchre. I cannot hut imagine the virtuous
heroes, legislators, and patriots, of every age and country, arc bend-
ing from their elevated seats to witness this contest, as if they
were incapable, till it be brought to a favourable issue, of enjoying
their eternal repose. Enjoy that repose, illustrious mortals! Your
mantle fell when you ascended ; and thousands, inflamed with your
sj^irit, and impatient to tread in your steps, are ready "to swear by
Him that sitteth upon the throne, and liveth for ever and ever,"
they will protect Freedom in her last asylum, and never desert that
cause which you sustained by your labours, and cemented wit]/
your blood. And Thou, sole Euler among the children of men, to
udiom the shields of the earth belong, " gird on Thy sword. Thou
J\Iost Mighty ;" go forth with our hosts in the day of battle !
Impart, in addition to their hereditary valour, that confidence of
success which springs from Thy presence ! Pour into their hearts
the spirit of departed heroes ! Inspire them with Thine own ; and,
while led by Thine hand, and fighting under Thy banners, oj^en
Thou their eyes to behold in every valley, and in every jDlain, what
the prophet loeheld by the same illumination — chariots of fire and
horses of fire ! " Then shall the strong man be as tow, and the
maker of it as a spark ; and they shall both biu-n together, and
none shall quench them."
GEOEGE CANNING ON TPIE LATENT POWER OF
ENGLAND.
IThe Eight Hon. Gcore:e Canniua: was bom in London 1770, mid odncated
nt Winchester (Hyde Abbey School), Eton, and Oxford. He entered the bar
at Lincoln's Inn, but abandoned law for politics, and was apijointed by Mi-.
Pitt Under-Secretaiy of State. After filling most of the high offices of Statj
he became Premier. Died 1827.]
Let it not be said that we cultivate peace, either because we fear,
or because we are unprepared for war ; on the contrary, if eight
months ago the Government did not hesitate to proclaim that the
country was prepared for war, if war should be unfortunately
necessary, every month of peace that has since passed has but
made us so much the more capable of exertion. The resources
created by peace are means of war. In cherishing those resources,
we but accumulate those means. Our present repose is no more a
proof of inability to act, than the state of inertness and mactivity
in which I have seen those mighty masses that float in thi?
fvaters above your to^vn, is a proof that they are devoid of strength,
and incapable of being fitted out for action. You well know, gentle-
men, how soon one of those stupendous masses, now reposing
on their shadows in perfect stillness — how soon, upon any call of
patriotism <)r of necessity, it would assume the likeness of an
2G8 ■ Oratory.
animated thing, instinct with life and mation ; how soon it
would ruffle, as it were, its swelling plumage, how quickly
would it put forth all its beauty and its bravery, collect its
scattered elements of strength, and awaken its dormant thunder.
Such as is one of these magnificent machines when springing
from inaction into a display of its might, such is England her-
self, while apparently passive and motionless, she silently con-
centrates the power to be put forth on an adequate occasion.
But God forbid that that occasion should arise. After a war sus-
tained for nearly a quarter of a century, sometimes single-handed,
and with all Europe arrayed at times against her, or at her side,
England needs a period of tranquilhty, and may enjoy it without
fear of misconstruction. Long may we be enabled, gentlemen, to
improve the blessings of our present situation, to cultivate the arts
of i^eace, to give to commerce, now reviving, greater extension, and
new sjDheres of employment, and to confirm the jwosperity now
generally diffused throughout this i.sland. Of the blessings of
peace, gentlemen, I trust that this borough, with which I have now
the honour and happiness of being associated, will receive an ample
share. I trust the time is not far distant, when that noble structure
(i.e. the hreakwater), of which, as I learn from your Recorder, the
box with which you have honoured me, through his hands, formed a
part, that gigantic barrier against the fuiy of the waves that roll
into your harbour, will pi-otect a commercial marine not less con-
siderable in its kind, than the warhke marine of which your port
has been lung so distinguished an asylum; when the town of Ply-
mouth will participate in the commercial prosperity as largely as it
has hitherto done in the naval glories of England.
KOSSUTH'S FAEEWELL TO HIS COUNTRY.
[Louis Kossuth, ex-governor of Hungrary, was bom iu 1807. The events
of his life belong to history rather than literaiy biogi-aphy. At present he i?
in exile.]
Farewell, my beloved country! Farewell, land of the ]\Iagyar !
Farewell, thou land of sorrow ! I shall never more behold the
summit of thy mountains. I shall never again give the name of my
country to that cherished soil where I drank from my mother's
bosom the milks of justice and liberty. Pardon, oh ! pardon him
who is henceforth condemned to wander far from thee, because he
combated for thy happiness. Pardon one who can only call free
that spot of thy soil where he now kneels with a few of the faithful
children of conquered Hungary ! My last looks are fixed on my
country, and I see thee overwhelmed with anguish. I look into the
future ; but that future is overshadowed. Thy plains are covered
with blood, the redness of which pitiless destruction will change to
black, the emblem of moiirning for the victories thy sons have
gained over the sacrilegious enemies of thy sacred soil.
Kossuth's Fareivell to his Country. 269
How many grateful hearts have sent their prayers to the throne
of the Almighty ! How many tears have gushed from their very
depth to implore pity ! How much blood has been shed to testify
that the Magyar idolizes his country, and that he knows how to die
for it ! And yet, land of my love, thou art in slavery. From thy
very bosom will be forged the chains to bind all that is sacred, and
to aid all that is sacrilegious. Oh, Almighty Creator, if thoulovest
thy people to whom thou didst give victory under our heroic an-
cestor, Arapad, I implore thee not to sink them in degradation. 1
speak to thee, my country, thus from the abyss of my despair, and
whilst yet lingering on the threshold of thy soil. Pardon me that
a great number of thy sons have shed their blood for thee on m;y
account. I pleaded for thee — I hoped for thee, even in the dark
moment when on thy brow was written the withering word
"despair." I lifted my voice in thy behalf when men said, " Be
thou a slave." I girt the sword about my loins, and I grasped the
bloody plume, even when they said, " Thou art no longer a nation
on the soil of the Magyar."
Time has written thy destiny on the pages of thy story in yellow
and black letters— death. The Colossus of the North has set his
seal to the sentence. But the glowng iron of the East shall melt
that seal.
For thee, my country, that has shed so much blood, there is no
pity ; for does not the tyrant eat his bread on the hills formed of
the bones of thy children ?
The ingrate, whom thou hast fattened with thy abundance, rose
against thee ; he rose against thee, the traitor to liis mother, and
destroyed thee utterly- Thou hast endured aU ; thou hast not
cursed thine existence, for in thy bosom, and far above all sorrow,
hope has built her nest.
Magyars, turn not aside your looks from me, for at this moment
my eyes flow with tears for you, for the soil on which my tottering
steps stiQ wander is named Hungary.
My country, it is not the iron of the stranger that hath dug thy
grave ; it is not the thunder of fourteen nations, all arrayed against
thee, that hath destroyed thee ; and it is not the fifteenth nation^
traversing the Carpathians, that has caused thee to drop thy arms.
No ! thou hast been betrayed — thou hast been sold, my country ;
thy death sentence hath been written, beloved of my heart, by him
whose love for thee I never dared to doubt. Yes ! m the fervour of
my boldest thoughts I should have almost as soon doubted of the
existence of the Omnipotent, as have believed that he could ever be a
traitor to his country. Thou hast been betrayed by him into whose
hands I had but a little space before deposited the power of our
country, which he swore to defend, even to the last drop of his
heart's blood. He hath done treason to his mother ; for the glitter
of gold hath been for him more seductive than that of the blood shed
to save his country. Base gain had more value in his eyes than his
country, and his God has abandoned him, 05 he had abandoned his
God for his allies of heU.
270 Oratory,
My i^riuciples have not been those of Washington ; nor yet my
acts those of Tell. I desu-ed a free nation, free as man cannot be
made but by God. And thou art fallen ; faded as the lily, but
which in another season puts forth its flower still more lovely than
before. Thou art dead ; for hath not thy winter come on ? but it
will not endure so long as that of thy companion under the
frozen sky of Siberia. ISTo. i'"ifteen nations have dug thy tomb.
But the hosts of the sixteenth will come to save thee. Be faithful,
as thou hast been even to the ]3resent. Lift up thy heart in prayer
for the departed : but do not raise thy own hymu until thou hearest
the thunders of the libera tmg people echo along thy mountains,
and bellow in the depth of thy valleys.
Farewell, beloved companions ! Farewell, comrades, countiymenl
May the thought of God, and may the angels of liberty for ever bo
with you ! I will proclaim you to the ciWlized world as heroes ;
and the cause of an heroic people will be cherished by the freest
nation on earth, the freest of all free people !
Farewell, thou land dyed with the blood of the brave ! Guard
those red marks, they will one day bear testimony on thy behalf.
And thou, farewell, O youthful monarch of the Hungarians !
Forget not that my nation is not destined for thee. Heaven in-
spires me with the confidence that the day wUl dawn when it shall
be proved to thee even on the ruined walls of Buda.
May the Almighty bless thee, my beloved country ! Believe,
hope, and love !
THE EEY. NEWMAN HALL ON THE DIGNITY OF
LABOUR.
Theue is dignity in toil — in toil of the hand as well as toil of the
head — in toil to provide for the bodily wants of an individual lifo,
as well as in toil to j^romote some enterprise of world-wide fame.
All labour that tends to supply man's wants, to increase man's
happiness, to el»vate man's natui'e — in a word, all labour that is
Vouest, is honourable too.
What a concurrent testimony is given by the entire universe to
the dignity of toil. Things inanimate and things irrational com-
bine with men and angels to proclaim the law of Him who made
them all. The restless atmosphere, the rolling rivers, and the heav-
ing ocean, nature's vast laboratory never at rest ; countless agencies
in the heavens above and in the earth beneath, and in the waters
under the earth ; the unwearied sun coming forth from his chamber,
and rejoicing as a strong man to run a race : the changeful moon,
whose never slumbering influence the never-resting tides obey ; the
planets, never pausing in the mighty sweep of their majestic march ;
the sparkling stars, never ceasing to show forth the handiwork oi
Him who bade them shine; the busy swarms of insect Hfe ; the ant
providing her meat m the summer, and gathering her food in the
harvest; the birds exuberant in their flight, pouring forth the
Bev. Newman Ball on ihe Bignity of Labour . 271
melody of their song ; the beasts of the forest rejoicing in the glad-
ness of activity ; primeval man amid the bowers of Eden ; paradise
untainted by sin, yet honoured by toil ; fallen man, with labour still
permitted him, an alleviation of his woe, and an earnest of his re-
covery ; redeemed man, divinely instructed, assisted, encouraged,
honoured in his toil; the innumerable company of angels, never
resting in their service, never wearied in their worship ; the glorious
Creator of the universe, who never slumbereth or sleepeth : all, all,
bear testimony to the dignity of labour !
The dignity of labour ! Consider its achievements ! Dismayed
by no difficulty, shrinking from no exertion, exhausted by no struggle,
ever eager for renewed efforts, in its persevering promotion of human
happiness, " clamorous labour knocks with its hundred hands at
the golden gate of the morning," obtaining each day, through suc-
ceeding centuries, fresh benefactions for the world ! Labour clears
the forest, and drains the morass, and makes " the wilderness re-
joice and blossom as tlie rose." Labour drives the plough and
scatters the seeds, and reaps the harvest, and grinds the corn, and con-
verts it into bread, the staft' of life. Labour tending the pastures and
sweeping the waters, as well as cultivating the soil, provides with
daily sustenance the nine hundi-ed millions of the family of man.
Labour gathers the gossamer web of the caterpillar, the cotton from
the Held, and the fleece from the flock, and weaves it into raiment
soft and warm, and beautiful — the purple robe of the i^rince, and
the gi-ey gown of the peasant, being alike its handiwork. Labour
moulds the brick, and splits the slate, and quarries the stone, and
shapes the column, and rears, not only the humble cottage, but the
gorgeous palace, and the tapering spire, and the stately dome.
Labour, diving deep into the solid earth, brings up its long-hidden
stores of coal to feed ten thousand furnaces, and in millions of
habitations to defy the winter's cold. Labour explores the rich
veins of deeply buried rocks, extracting the gold and silver, the
copper and tin. Labour smelts the iron, and moulds it into a thou-
sand shapes for use and ornament, from the massive pillar to the
tiniest needle— from the ponderous anchor to the wire gai;ze, from
the mighty Hy-Avheel of the steam-engine to the j)olished jrarse-
ving or the glittering bead. Laboixr hews down the gnarled oak,
and shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and guides it over the
deep, plunging through the billows, and wrestling with the tempest,
to bear to our shores the produce of every clime. Labour, laughing
at difficulties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts over marshy
swamps, suspends bridges over deep ravines, pierces the solid moun-
tains, with its dark tunnel, blasting rocks and filling hollows, and
while linking together with its iron but loving grasp all nations of
the earth, verifjdng, in a literal sense, the ancient prophecy, " Every
valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be brought
low :" labour draws forth its delicate iron thread, and stretching it
from city to city, from province to province, through mountains,
and beneath the sea, realizes more than fancy ever fabled, while it
constructs a chariot on which speech may outstrip the wind, com-
272 Oratory.
pete with. the lightning, — for the Telegraph flies as rapidly as thought
itself. Labour, a mighty magician, walks forth into a region unin-
habited and waste ; he looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its
desolation; then waving Lis wonder-working wand, those dreary
ralleys smile with golden harvests ; those barren mountains' slopes
are clothed with foliage ; the furnace blazes ; the anvil rings ; the
busy wheel whirls round ; the town appears ; the mart of commerce,
the hall of science, the temple of religion, rear ?iigh their lofty
fronts ; a forest of masts gay with varied pennons, rises from the
harbour ; representatives of far-off regions make it their resort ;
Science enlists the elements of earth and heaven in its service; Art,
awaking, clothes its strength with beauty ; Civilization smiles ;
Liberty is glad ; Humanity rejoices ; Piety exults — for the voice of
industry and gladness is heard on every side.
Working men ! walk worthy of your vocation ! You have a noble
escutcheon ; disgrace it not ! There is nothing really mean and low
but sin ! Stoop not from your lofty throne to defile yourselves by
contamination with intemperance, licentiousness, or any form of
evil. Labour allied with virtue, may look up to heaven and not
blush, while all worldly dignities, prostituted to vice, will leave their
owner without a corner of the universe in which to hide his shame.
You will most successfully prove the honour of toil by illustrating/
in your own persons its alliance with a sober, righteous, and godly
life. Be ye sure of this, that the man of toil who works in a spirit
of obedient, lo\ang homage to God, does no less than Cherubim and
Seraphim in their loftiest flights and holiest songs !
Yes, in the search after true dignity, you may point me to the
sceptred prince, ruling over mighty empires ; to the lord of broad
acres teeming with fertility; or the owner of coffers bursting with
gold ; you may tell me of them or of learning, of the historian or
of the philosojiher, the poet or the artist ; and while promjjt to
render such luen all the honour which in varying degrees may be
their due, I would emphatically declare that neither power nor
uobihty, nor wealth, nor learning, nor genius, nor benevolence, nor
all combined, have a monojioly of dignity. I would take 3^ou to
the dingy office, where day by day the pen plies its weary task, or
to the shop, Avhere from early morning till half the world have sunk
to sleep, the necessities and luxuries of life are distributed, with
scarce an interval for food, and none for thought — I would descend
farther — I would take you to the ploughman jjlodding along his
furrows ; to the mechanic throwing the swift shuttle, or tending the
busy wheels ; to the miner gro23ing his darksome way in the deep
caverns of earth ; to the man of the trowel, the hammer, or the
forge ; and if, while he diligently j^rosecutes his humble toil, he
looks up with a brave heart and loving eye to heaven — if in what
he does he recognises his God, and expects his wages from on high
■ — if, while thus labouring on earth, he anticii^ates the rest of heaven,
and can say, as did a poor man once, who, when pitied on account of
humble lot, said, taking off his hat, " Sir, I am the son of a King,
I am a child of God, and when I die, angels will carry me from this
Oil the Death of the Duke of Wellhigton. 273
tJnion Workhouse direct to tlie Court of Heaven." Oh ! when I
have shown yon such a spectacle, I ■will ask — " Is there not dignity
in labour ?"
Work ! and pure slumbers shall wait ou thy pillow —
Woi'k! thou shall, ride over care's coming billow —
Lie not down wearied, 'neatli woe's weeping willow, —
But work with a stout heart and resolute will !
Work for some good, be it ever so slowly —
Work for some hope — be it ever so lowly —
Work ! for all labour is noble and holy !
BENJAMIN DISEAELI ON THE DEATH OP
WELLINGTON.
The Chancellor of the Exchequer rose, and while the House lent
him its deepest attention, spoke as follows : —
" The House of Commons is called upon to-night to fulfil a
sorrowful, but a noble duty. It has to recognise, in the face of the
country, and of the civilized woi'ld, the loss of the most illustrious
of oxir citizens, and to offer to the ashes of the great departed the
solemn anguish of a bereaved nation. The princely personagi?
who has left us was born in an age more fertile of great events than
any period of recorded time. Of these vast incidents the most con-
spicuous were his own deeds, and these were performed with the
smallest means, and in defiance of the greatest obstacles. He was
therefore, not only a great man, but the greatest man of a great
age. Amid the chaos and conHagration which attended the end of
the last century there i"Ose one of those beings who seem born to
master mankind. It is not too much to say that Napoleon com-
bined the imperial ardour of Alexander with the strategy of
Hannibal. The kings of the earth fell before his fiery and subtile
genius, and at the head of all the power of Eurojae, he denounced
destruction to the only land that dared to be free. The Providential
superintendence of this woi-ld seems seldom more manifest than in
the dispensation which ordained that the Prench Emperor and
Wellesley should be born in the same year : that in the same year
they should have embraced the same profession ; and that natives
of distant islands, they should both have sought their military edu-
cation iia that illustrious land which each in his turn was destined
to subjugate. During the long struggle for our freedom, our glory,
I may say our existence, Wellesley fought and won fifteen pitched
battles, all of the highest class — concluding with one of those
crowning victories which give a colour and aspect to history. Dur-
ing this period that can be said of him which can be said of no other
captain — that he captured three thousand cannon from the enemy,
and never lost a single gun. The greatness of his exploits was only
equalled by the difficulties he overcame. He had to encounter at
the same time a feeble Government, a factious Opposition, and a dis-
trustful people, scandalous allies, and the most powerful enemy ir:
I
274 vratovy,
tlie world. He gained victories -witli starving troops, and carrier^
on sieges without tools ; and, as if to complete the fatality which
m this sense always awaited him, when he had succeeded in creating
an army worthy of Eoman legions, and of himself, this invincible
host was broken up on the eve of the greatest conjuncture of his life,
and he entered the field of Waterloo with raw levies and discomfited
allies.
" But the star of Wellesley never paled. He has been called for-
tunate, for fortune is a divinity that ever favours those who are alike
sagacious and intrei^id, inventive and j^atient. It was his character
that created his career. This alike achieved his exploits and guarded
him from vicissitudes. It was his sublime self-control that
regulated his lofty fate. It has been the fashion of late years to
disparage the military character. Forty years of peace have hardly
qualified us to be aware how considerable and how complex are the
qualities which are necessary for the formation of a great general.
It is not enough to say that he must be an engineer, a geograi^her,
learned in human nature, adroit in managing mankind ; that he
must be able to perform the highest duties of a minister of state,
and sink to the humblest offices of a commissary and a clerk ; but
he has to display all this knowledge and he must do all these things
at the same time, and iiiider extraordinary circumstances. At the
same moment he must think of the eve and the morrow — of his
flanks and of his reserves ; he must carry with him ammunition,
provisions, hospitals ; he must calculate at the same time the state
of the weather and the moral qualities of man ; and all these
elements, which are perpetually changing, he must combine amid
overwhelming cold or overisowcring heat : sometimes amid famine,
often amid the thunder of artillery. Behind all this, too, is the
ever-present image of his country, and the dreadful alternative
whether that country is to receive him with cypress or laurel. But
all these conflicting ideas must be driven from the mind of the
military leader, for he must think— and not only think — he must
think with the rapidity of lightning, for on a moment more or less,
depends the fate of the finest combination, and on a moment r.:cre
or less, depends glory or shame. Doubtless, all this may be done
in an ordinary manner by an ordinary man ; as we see every day of
our lives ordinary men making successful Ministers or Stat/^.
successful speakers, successful authors. But to do ail this with
genius IS subhme. Doubtless, to think deeply and clearly in t/.3
recess of a Cabinet is a fine intellectual demonstration, tut to think
with equal depth and equal clearness amid bullets is the most com-
plete exercise of the human faculties. Although the military career
ot the Duke of Wellington fills so large a space in history, it was
only a comparatively small section of his prolonged and illustrious
We. Only eight years elapsed from Vimiera to Waterloo, and
Irom the date of his first commission to the last cannon-shot on the
tield of battle scarcely twenty years can be counted. After all his
truimphs he was destined for another career, and, if not in the prime,
certainly in the perfection of manhood, he commenced a civil career
On the Death of the Duke of Wellington. S75
scarcely less eminent than those military achievements which will
live for ever in history. Thrice 'was he the Ambassador of his
Sovereign to those great historic congresses that settled the affairs
of Eui-oj^e ; twice was he Secretary of State ; twice was he
(Jommander-in-Chief ; and once he was Prime Minister of England.
His labours for his country lasted to the end. A few months ago
he favoured the present advisers of the Crown with his thoughts on
the Bm*mese War, expressed in a state paper characterized by all
his sagacity and experience ; and he died the active chieftain of that
famoiTS army to which he has left the tradition of his glor}^.
" There was one passage in the life of the Duke of Wellington
which should hardly be passed unnoticed on such an occasion, and
in such a scene as this. It is our pnde that he was one of ourselves;
it is our pride that Sir Arthur Wellesley sat upon these benches.
Tested by the ambition and the success of ordinary men, his careei
here, though brief, was distinguished. He entered Royal Councils
and held a high ministerial post. Bu.t his House of Commons
success must not be measured by his seat at the Privy Council and
his Irish Secretaryship. He achieved a success here which the
greatest ministers and the most brilliant orators can never hope to
rival. That was a parliamentary success unequalled when he rose
in his seat to receive the thanks of j\Ir. Speaker for a glorious
victory ; or, later still, when he appeared at the bar of this House,
and received. Sir, from one of your predecessors, in memorable lan-
guage, the thanks of a grateful country for accumulated triumphs.
There is one consolation which all Englishmen must feel under this
bereavement. It is, that they were so well and so comisletely
acquainted with this great man. Never did a person of such mark
live so long, and so much in the public eye.
"To complete all, that we might have a perfect idea of this
sovereign master of duty in all his manifold offices, he himself gave
us a collection of administrative and military literature which no
age and no country can rival ; and, fortunate in all things, Wellesley
found in his lifetime an historian whose immortal page already ranks
Vvith the classics of that land which Wellesley saved. The Duke of
Wellington left to his countrymen a great legacy — greater even than
his glory. He left them the contemplation of his character. I will
not say his conduct revived the sense of duty in England. I
would not say that of our country. But that his conduct inspired
public life with a purer and more masculine tone I cannot doubt.
His career rebukes restless vanity, and reprimands the irregular
ebullitions of a morbid egotism. I doubt not that, among all ordera
of EngUshmen, from those with the highest responsibilities of our
society to those who perform the humblest duties, I dare say there
is not a man who in his toil and his perplexity has not sometimes
thought of the duke and found in his example support a^id solace.
" Though he lived so much in the hearts and minds of his
countrymen — though he occupied such eminent posts and fulfilled
such august duties — it was not till he died that we felt what a space
he filled in the feehngs and thoughts of the people of England.
T 2
276 Oratory.
ISTevei- was the influence of real gi-eatness more completely asserted
than on his decease. In an age whose boast of intellectual equality
flatters all our self-complacencies, the world suddenly acknowledged
that it had lost the greatest of men ; in an age of utility the most
industrious and common-sense people in the world could iind no
vent for their woe and no represeirtative for their sorrow hut the
solemnity of a ]7ageant ; and we — we who have met here for sucli
different purposes — to investigate the sources of the wealth of
nations, to enter into statistical research, and to encounka" each
other in fiscal controversy — we present to the world the most sublime
and touching sjDectacle that human circumstances can well produce
— the sjiectacle of a Senate mourning a Hero !"
LOED BROUGHAM'S SPEECH ON THE EEFOEM BILL.
We stand in a truly critical position. If we reject the bill through
fear of being thought to be intimidated, we may lead the life of
retirement and quiet, but the hearts of the millions of our fellow-
citizens ai-e gone for ever ; their affections are estranged ; we, and
our order and its privileges, are the objects of the people's hatred,
as the only obstacles which stand between them and the gratifi-
cation of their most passionate desire. The whole body of the aris-
tocracy must expect to share this fate, anel be exposed to feelings such
as these. For I hear it constantly said that the bill is rejected by all
the aristocracy. Favour, and a good niimbcr of supporters, our
adversaries allow it has among the people ; the ministers, too, are
for it; but the aristocracy, sa}"- thejs is strenuously opposed to it.
I liroadly deny this assertion. What ! my lords, the aristocracy set
themselves in amass against the people ; — they who sprang from the
people — are inseparably connected with the people — are supported
by the people— are the natural chiefs of the people ? The;/ set them-
selves against the people, for whom peers are ennobled, bishops con-
secrated, kings anointed, — the people, to serve whom Parliament
itself has an existence, and the monarchy and all its institutions
are constituted, and without whom none of them could exist for an
hour ? This assertion of unreflecting men is too monstrous to be
endured. As a member of this House, I deny it with indignation
—I repel it with scorn, as a calumny upon us all. And jet there
are those who, even within these walls, speak of the bill augment-
mg so much the strength of the democracy as to endanger the other
orders of the state ; and so they charge its authors with promoting
anarchy and rapine. Why, my lords, have its authors nothing to
fear from democratic spoliation'? The fact is, that there are mem-
bers ot the present cabinet who possess, one or two of them alone,
jar more property than any two administrations within my recol-
lection ; and all of them have ample wealth. I need hardly say, I
mclude not myself, who have little or nonfi. But even of myself
Lord Brougham's Speech on the Reform Bill. 277
I will say, that whatever I have depends on the stability of existing
institutions ; and it is as dear to me as the princely possessions of
any amongst you. Permit me to say, that in becoming a member
of your House, I staked my all on the aristocratic institutions of
the state ; I abandoned certain wealth, a large income, and much
veal power in the state, for an office of great trouble, heavy respon-
sibility, and very uncertain duration. I say, I gave up substantial
power for the shadow of it, and for distinction dependmg upon
accident. I quitted the elevated situation of representative of
Yorkshire, and a leading member of the Commons. I descended
from a position quite lofty enough to satisfy any man's ambition,
and my lot became bound up in the stability of this House. Then,
have I not a right to throw m)'self on your justice, and to desire
that you will not put in jeopardy all I have now left ?
But the populace only, the rabble, the ignoble vulgar, are for the
bill ? Then what is the Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of Eng-
land .5^ "VMiat the Duke of Devonshire? What the Duke of
Bedford ? I am aware it "s irregular to name any noble lord that is a
friend to the measure : its adversaries are patiently suffered to call
Peers even by their Christian and surnames. Then I shall be as
regular as they were, and ask, does my friend John Russell, my
friend William Cavendish, my friend Harry Vane, belong to the
mob or the aristocracy ? Have they no possessions ? Are they
modern names ? Are they wanting in Norman blood, or whatever
else you pride yourselves on ? The idea is too ludicrous to be
seriously refuted ; — that the bill is only a favourite with the de-
mocracy, is a delusion so wild as to point a man's destiny towards
St. Luke's. Yet many, both here and elsewhere, by dint of con-
stantly repeating the same cry, or hearing it repeated, have almost
made themselves believe that none of the nobihty are for the
measure.
My Lords, I do not disguise the intense solicitude which I feel for
the event of this debate, because I know full well that the peace of
the country is involved in the issue. I cannot look without dismay
at the rejection of the measure. But grievous as may be the con-
sequences of a temporary defeat — temporary it can only be ; for its
ultimate and even speedy success is certain. Nothmg now can stop
it. Do not suffer yourselves to be persuaded, that even if the pre-
sent ministers were driven from the helm, any one could steer you
through the troubles that surround you, without reform. But our
successors would take up the task in circumstances far less auspi-
cious. Under them, you would be fain to grant a bill, compared with
which the one we now proffer is moderate indeed. Hear the para-
ble of the S3'bil ; for it conveys a wise and wholesome moral. She
now appears at your gate, and offers you mildly the volumes — the
precious volumes of wisdom and peace. The price she asks is rea-
sonalole ; — to restore the franchise which, without any bargain, you
ought voluntarily to give. You refuse her terms — her moderate
terms ; she darkens the porch no longer. But soon, for you cannot
do without her wares, you call her back. Again she comes, but with
278 Oratory.
diminlslied treasures ; the leaves of the book are in part torn away
by lawless hands — in part defaced with characters of blood. But
the prophetic maid has risen in her demands — it is Parliament by
the year — it is vote by the ballot— it is suffrage by the million !
From this you turn away indignant, and for the second time she
departs. Beware of her third visit ; for the treasure you must have ;
and what price she may next demand, who shall tell ? It may be
even the mace which rests upon that woolsack. What may follow
your course of obstinac3% if jiersisted in, I cannot take upon me to
predict, nor do I wish to conjecture. But this I know full well,
that as sure as man is mortal, and to err is human, justice deferred
enhances the price at which you must purchase safety and peace ;
nor can you more expect to gather in another ci'op than they did
who went before you, if you persevere in their utterly abominable
husbandry of sowing injustice and reaping rebellion.
But among the awful considerations that now bow do^vn my
mind, there is one which stands i)re-eminent above the rest. You
are the highest judicature in the realm ; you sit here as judges, and
decide all causes, civil and criminal, without appeal. It is a judge's
hrst duty never to pronounce sentence, in the most trifling case,
without hearmg. Will you make this the exception ? Are you
really prepared to determine, but not to hear, the mighty cause upon
which a nation's hopes and fears hang ? You are ! Then beware
of your decision ! Rouse not, I beseech you, a peace-loving, but a
resolute people — alienate not trom your body tlie atfecLions of a
whole eni2:)ire. As your friend, as the friend of my order, as the
friend of my country, as the faithful servant of my sovereign, I
counsel you to assist with your utmost efforts in preserving the
peace, and upholding and perpetuating the constitution. Therefore
I pray and I exhort you not to reject this measure. By all you
hold most clear — by all tlic ties that bind every one of us to our
common order and our common country, I solemnly adjure you — I
warn you — I implore you — yea, on my bended knees, I supplicate
you — Reject not this bill !
SIE EGBERT PEEL ON THE CONSTITUTION.
[From his Speech at the Merchant Tailors' Hall, May 11th, 1835. Bora
1788. Died 1850.J
Gentlemen, with the deep feelings of pride and satisfaction by
which I must necessarily be animated, there does mix, as you may
well believe, one painful feeling that springs from the consciousness
that any language of mine must be totally inadequate to express
the intensity of my sensations in addressing you upon the present
occasion. Gentlemen, I well know that these are the trite and ordi-
nary excuses made by all speakers on occasions like the i:)reseirt;
but if 3^ou will onl}'' j^lace yourselves in my situation, if you will only
recollect that I was alone, as it were, in this compan}'^, that I re.
mained seated while all the rest of you were standing, that I ro-
Sir Robert Peel on the Constitution. 279
mained silent while all the rest of you were enthusiastically vocife-
rating your generous approbation, that I was conscious that all
your kindly attention, and consideration, and deep feeling, were
concentrated upon myself; if you will recollect that I am a public
man, that I am a man of the people, that I derive, I wiU not say
my chief, my only strength from public applause and public confi-
dence, that I am moreover a man who looks forward to no reward
for public services excepting only jDublic approbation, who aspires
to no dignity except in all honesty and piirity the good opinion of
his fellow-subjects — the sound good opinion I mean, as distinguished
from the paltry and fleeting poijularity which may be gained at the
moment, even by the weakest and most contemi^tible, in pandering
or succumbing to faction, or even in more meekly and gently at-
tempting at once to flatter and inflame the j^eople's prejudices ; — I
say, then, that if you will take all these considerations and circum-
stances into your attention, you may be well able to believe, that
although the excuse I have offered you for my deficiency in j^ower
adequately to respond to your great kindness may be trite, though
it may be the ordinary ])hraseology of speakers in complimentary
assemblages : yet upon this peculiar occasion it is jjerfectly consis-
tent with truth, that I arn unable to do justice to my feelings, in
pouring forth to you my heartfelt thanks for the honour which you
have conferred upon me.
But let me not be suspected of idle egotism. Let it not be
thought that I have been so misled by the suggestions of personal
vanity as to attribute to myself, or any deserts of mine, the origin
of this meeting, or the feelings which you have this evening ex-
pressed. I agree with our worthy chairman in thinking that the
address which I received from so large a body of the merchants,
bankers, and traders of this city, was a sufficient compliment and
reward for any services and exertions of mine. It asserted the
principle by which I was animated : it bore with it the true reward
of public services — the approbation of my fellow-citizens. I wanted
no other demonstration of public feeling ; and if I had regarded
this meeting as merely a demonsti-ation of personal compliment, I
should almost have discouraged it, as being, after the address, a
superfluous token of pubhc esteem. ISfo, Sir, the object of this
meeting is a demonstration of public feeling in the metropolis. I
do think that public interests may be j^romoted by it. I do think
that the impulse which has been given from this centre of the com-
mercial world, the vital impulse, must thrill to every extremity of
the British empire.
Gentlemen, what I shall say will be spoken by me as one of your-
selves, not as one anxious for triumph as a party man —still less as
a candidate for office : I shall speak to you as a British subject in a
private capacity, feeling a tenfold greater interest in the cause of
good government than in any emoluments or advantages he could
possibly derive from office ; a man who has a tenfold greater desire,
on public grounds, for the maintenance of the principles he ]jrofesses
q,nd conscientiously believes to be essential to the welfare of the coun-
280 Omto)^j.
try, tKan for ai.y benefits, if benefits they can be called, which he could
derive from the acquisition of office. I believe, indeed, that there is
no o-reater mistake than that people situated as I happen to be are
BO very anxious for office. Some fancy that the wholesome rest
Df every politician is broken by his feverish longing for office. If I
were to speak from my o^vn experience, I should tell a different tale.
There is to me and to many others nothing in office, so far as niera
personal feelings or interests are concerned, to compensate for its
labours and its' annoyances, and its deep anxieties, its interruption
of domestic repose and happiness. Away, then. Sir, with the ridicu-
lous assertion that men who are really qualified for the first trusts
of the state would consent to procure them by any dishonest sacrifice
of opinion, by any compromise of character. We_ hear constantly
the professions of great alarm about court intrigue and court
favouritism, and base coalitions of public men for the promotion of
their private ends. The country quite mistakes the real danger in
this respect ; the danger is, not that public men, fit for public trusts,
and worthy of public confidence, will seek office by unworthy means,
but that they will seek excuses for declining it — will refuse to bear
the heavy sacrifices of time, and labour, and repose, which itirnposes.
That office holds out great advantages to the ambitious minds of
some, I will not deny ; but are there not out of office equal, if not
greater, means of distinction in public life ? For myself, in taking
office, in submitting to its drudgery, I was urged by nothing but a
sense of public duty, and by the desire not to shrink from that
obligation which every British subject incurs when called upon to
serve his king, to the utmost of his ability and power. I hope that
his Majesty has not a more devoted servant than I ; but this I can
say with truth, that when I entered the king's ser\'ice I entered it
with the consciousness that I neither sought nor desired any favour,
any honour, any reward which the king has in his power to be-
stow. Office is no doubt a legitimate object of ambition. I think
it anything but a refiection on a public man to seek it, when he can
hold it consistently with his public principles, and when the holding
of it will advance those principles ; but speaking for myself, I repeat
that I do not covet it, and that nothing has reconciled me to it but the
imperative sense of public duty. The chief consolation I have had
in holding it, the chief reward I retain on relinquishing it, is the
proud refiection that I have had the good fortune in being connected
m civil life with that illustrious man* whose fame exceeds that of
any other conqueror — a man from whom I never have been one
moment estranged by any difference on political subjects, and with
whom my connexion never has been embittered by the slightest
infusion of j^altry jealousy. I am gratified by the thought, con-
nected as I have been with him in tlie civil service of the Crown, I
shall have my name transmitted with his to after-ages. This is the
chief pride, the dearest gratification of my heart.
The Duke of Welliugton.
Sir Robert Peel on the Constitution. 281
Allow me to speak to you, not as a party man, but as one of
yourselves, and to submit to you plain opinions in plain language.
I prefer this, and I am sure so will you, to that elaborate concatena-
tion of phrases which is sometimes called eloquence, in Avhich you
have the smallest possible quantity of common sense enveloped in
the greatest multitude of equivocal words. I say to you, then, that
there is danger to the institutions of this country, danger to the
mixed and happily balanced form of government under which we
have lived and pi'ospered. But it is in your power, and in the
power of those who think with you, and fill situations in the country
corresponding to yours, to avert the danger. It is in your power,
by unremitting activity and by the exercise of those functions which
the constitution has left to you, to mitigate, if not altogether to re-
hiove, the evil. My fixed opinion is, that the danger can only be
juet by your gaining for your principles an effectual influence in th<?
popular branch of the legislature. We shall only aggravate the
evil if we attempt to deceive ourselves as to the nature of the instru-
ments we can employ. Let us not indulge in useless lamentations.
Let us waste no time in regretting that which is beyond our remedy.
This is quite idle. The first step towards safety is a knowledge of
the real source of our strength, a just confidence in it, and a firm
resolution to exert it. If we cease to take a desponding view of
I)ublic affairs all will yet be well. Though you may not be able to
exercise that full share of influence to which you ai'e legitimately
entitled, yet hesitate not to strain every nerve to acquire all that
can be acquired. Act like Englishmen, and if you will do so, I am
confident, from the national spirit and indomitable resolution, that
the country mil be rescued from the dangers by which it is at
present threatened. The government of the country, allow me to
tell you, must be mainly conducted with the goodwill and through
the immediate agency of the House of Commons. The royal pre-
rogative, the authority of the House of Lords, are most useful, nay,
necessary, in our mixed and balanced constitution. But you must
not strain those powers. You would not consider that to be worthy
of the name of government, which is nothing but a series of jealou-
sies and hostile collisions between two branches of the legislature.
You wish to see all branches of the legislature maintaining each its
independent authority, but moving, through mutual confidence, in
harmonious concert towards the great end of civil society and civil
government — the public good. I ask you, then, not to imderrate,
not to misunderstand the power and aiithority of the House of
Commons, not to trust to the controlling checks which may theo-
retically exist upon that power and authority ; but to secure, through
the legitimate exercise of constitutional privileges, that degree of
infiuence for your principles in the House of Commons, which will
be ten times more powerful for the establishment of what is good,
and the resistance of what is evil, than any extrinsic control of the
Crown or the House of Loi-ds. Let us stand by the constitution as
it exists at present. Let us never hint at alteration, or by our
conduct raise a secret doubt, even in the minds of the most sus"
282 Oratory.
picious. I venture to prophesy to you that the proposition for
change will not come from you. If it comes, it will come from those
who clamoured most loudly for the Keform Bill, who demanded tho
whole bill and nothing but the bill. Ay, it will come from them,
and the moment, perhaps, is not far distant — the moment that they
have ascertained the bill is not likely to answer the purposes they
had in view— the moment they see it is not potent to exclude the
influence of what we call Conservative j^rinciiDles.
But I have said enough upon this subject ; I do not despair that
if we continiie to exert ourselves, if we here set an example to the
empire, it will, in all its parts, be before long animated by the con-
stitutional and truly English feelings which are here displayed.
How, it will be asked, are you to regain your inlincnce in the Housi^
of Commons ? Not, let me tell you, as your enemies would iniputi
to you, by bribery and corruption and unworthy means, but by
going forth with a frank exposition of your principles, and by
showing that there is nothing selfish in your support of the insti-
tutions under Avhich you live, and your defence of the rights which
you inherited. Let us disclaim all interest in the maintenance of
any abuse — let us declare that we are willing to redress any real
grievance, and to concur in the application of the best remedy wliich
can possibly be devised for that purpose. We hold thau no public
office ought to be maintained for the mere purpose of patronage ;
that public appointments can only be vindicated on the ground of
their being necessary to the public service. We want no sinecures.
We want no greater amount of salary for the reward of iDulilic offi-
cers than that which may be sufficient for securing integrity and
competence in the discharge of important official duties. Above all,
we deny that we are separated by any fancied line of interest, or of
pride, or of privilege, from the middhng classes of the country. If we
ourselves don't belong to the middling classes of society, I want to
know how wide the interval may be that is presumed to separate us?
Speaking in behalf of nine-tenths at least of those assembled within
these walls, I say we disclaim any separation from the middling
classes of society in this country. no, we are bound to them by
a thousand ramifications of direct personal connexion, and common
interests and common feelings. If circumstances may appear
to have_ elevated some of us above the rest, to what, 1 venture
to ask, IS that elevation owing ? It is owing to nothing else but
lo the exercise, either on our own part or on the part of our im-
mediate forefathers, of those qualities of diligence, of the love
ot oi'der ol industry, of integrity in commercial dealings, which
have hitherto secured to every member of the middle class of society
the opportunities of elevation and distinction in this great commu-
nity ; and it is because we stand in our present situation— it is be-
cause we owe our elevation in society to the exercise of those quali-
"es, and because we feel that so long as this ancient form of govern-
ment, and the institutions connected with it, and the princi]iles and
leeungs which they engender, shall endure, the same elevation will
« t-eourea by the same means, that we are resolved, with the blessiuir
Sir Robert Fed on the Constitation. 283
of God, to keep clear for others tliose same avenues that were oj^ened
to ourselves, that we will not allow their course to be obstructed'by
men who want to secure the same advantages by dishonest means— «
to reach, by some shorter cut; that goal which can be surely attained,
but can only be attained through industry, and patient perseverance,
and strict integrity. Gentlemen, what was the charge against
myself? It was this, that the king had sent to Eome lor the son
of a cotton-spinner, in order to make him prime minister of Eng-
land. Did 1 feel that a reflection ? Did it make me discontented
with the state of the laws and institutions of the country ? No ;
but does it not make me, and ought it not to make you, gentlemen,
anxious to preserve that happy order of things under which the same
opportunities of distinction may be ensured to other sons of other
cotton-spinners, provided they can establish a legitimate claim on
the confidence of their king and country ?
At the same time, consistently with these feelings, consistently
with the determination to correct real abuses, and to promote real
economy, we do not disguise that it is our firm resolution to main-
tain, to the utmost of our power, the limited monarchy of this
country, to respect the rights of every branch of the legislature, to
maintain inviolate the united Church of England and Ireland, to
maintain it as a predominant establishment, meaning by j^redomi-
nance, not the denial of any civil right to other classes of the com-
munity, but maintaining the Church in the possession of its property
and of all its just privileges. Such is our firm resolution ; we will
submit to no compromise, and we will exercise every privilege which
the constitution has intrusted to us for the legitimate maintenance
and support of the constitution in Church and State. This is the
appeal we make to the middle classes of the community — to those
who are mainly the depositaries of the elective franchise.
"We tell all, in whatever class of life they may be, that they ought
to feel as deep an interest in the maintenance of those principles as
any of the pohticians or men of property who are now within my
hearing. The encouragement of industry, the demand for pro-
ductive labour, depends on the maintenance of those principles.
The pi-eservation of order depends on them, the maintenance of that
security which has hitherto led men through honest industry to
accumulate property in this country, depends upon them. And now
that the feelings excited by political contests and great changes in the
electoral system have subsided, I cannot help entertaining a sincere
hope and belief, disclaiming any intention of interfering improiserly
with the political franchise, that there isstill that fund of good sense in
this community that will enable us, if not to gain a predominating
influence in the Commons House of Parliament, still to acquire that
degree of influence that shall control and prevent many bad pro-
jects.
* * * * * *
Gentlemen, in conclusion, let me call on you to recollect the asso-
ciations connected with the place where we are now assembled.
284 Oratory,
From this place a voice* issued in 1793 of memorable moment — a
roice in suj^port of the ancient principles of the British monarchy—
a voice which encouraged and enabled the ministers of that day to
check the contagion of democratic and French jmnciples, then in
their ascendant. I call on you to remember the motto under which
you are now assembled, Concordia pai-vce res crescunt : to bear in
mind, that by acting on the advice which it involves, small as your
influence in the public councils may now be, it is capable, by unity
of purpose, by cordial concert, and good understanding — by common
exertions directed to a common end, it is capable of vast expansion
and increase. By your example you wall rally around you a
thousand hearts to fight in the same righteous cause. Proclaim to
the country from this, the metropolis of commerce, that, en-
tertaining princij^les of moderation in public affairs, you will still
stand firm in defence of the ancient walls, and guard the
ancient landmarks of the constitution ; that you will rally round
the monarchy and protect its just jarerogatives ; that you a^oII defend
the independent exercise of the authority of the House of Lords,
and maintain firm and inviolate the rights of the Established
Church ; that you will stand by, in the emphatic language of
the most solemn Acts of Parliament, the Protestant government
and the Protestant religion of this country. Yes, elevate that voice
in the cause of those principles — principles so moderate, so just, so
necessary — and depend upon it, it will be re-echoed from every part
of this country, and the pulsation of the heart of the great corporate
commimity will vibrate through every artery of this mighty empire.
THE MAECH TO MAGDALA.
[From the Chamberlaiu's Oration on the Presentation of tho Freedom of the
City to Lord Napier.]
The pages of history have been vainly appealed to for a precise
parallel to the Abyssinian expedition, -svhich has been, in turn,
compared with the successful extrication by Xenophon of his 10,000
Gi-eeks from an unknown and hostile region ; to the passage of the
Alps and the invasion of Ganl by the African Hanniljal, and to the
advance of Cortez into Mexico. While in some respects these and
other expeditions bear some resemblance to the Abyssinian cam-
paign, yet that undertaking possesses leading features so original
and. unique that it will undoubtedly leave upon history a mark
entirely its own. The advance upon Magdala, if we could divest
our minds and memories of the sanguinary episode at its close,
looks more like a grand geographical exploration, a philanthropic
expedition — such as that imdertaken by Livingstone — on a gigantic
scale, rather than the march of a hostile invader, travelHng in the,
* That of Bm-ke.
The March to Magdala. 285
greatness of liis strength. The method, order, and foresight dis-
played in its organisation, the ahnost mathematical precision and
certainty of every step taken, the conciliatory treatment of the
natives, the absence of undue delay or of excessive haste, the unde-
viatiug and unfaltering pursuit of the plan laid down ; until with
the celerity, suddenness, and certainty of the lion's spring the great
object of the war was obtained ; all these mark the Abyssinian
campaign as altogether exceptional of its kind. Eegarded in
another aspect, the Abyssinian war was remarkable. In it were
brought together, by those who inaugurated and conducted it,
unusual and apparently incongruoias elements, all of which, how-
ever, were found helpful and contributory to the result. The army
— English as well as Indian — the navy and engineers were alike
rej-jresented ; following the example of old Eome in her days of
conquest, territories were used as auxiliaries ; three continents
furnished their respective contingents — the soldiers of Europe,
Mohammedans and Hindoos of Asia, as well as African mule
drivers, made up the motley array, which acted with as much
Unanimity as gallantry, and which your lordship so successfully
handled. A port of debarkation had to be constructed, a base of
sujjply and ojDeration had to be formed, railway and telegraph to be
laid down, two chains of Alpine mountains to be surmounted, and
water to be sought for and obtained at every post along that " bridge
of 400 miles which the soldier constructed as he passed on to \dc-
toiy." To these ends the science of the present was laid imder
contribution, as well as the ruder methods of the past, and the
most scientifically conducted expedition was accompanied by
thousands of eastern beasts of bui-den, — elephants, camels, bidlocks,
and mules — causing it to resemble more the j^rogress of some great
patriarchal Sheik, than that of an army despatched by a State of
Western Europe. The absolute success of the expedition, and the
comj^lete attainment of all its ends, justify, however, the exceiJ-
tional incidents of its inception and conduct. Not one object of
the war remained unsatisfied, not a captive was left behind, sixty
Enropeans in all being delivered from a despotic and arbitrary
tyrant, whose forces were scattered, whose inaccessible " mountaiu
of prey" was spoiled, and whose oppressive rule was brought to an
end. And, as it regards the moral aspects of the war, all was alike
admirable. Undertaken by the Government on the highest ground
of civilization and humanity — a war of liberation rather than of
retribution or acc[uisiticn — it was so conducted as to leave leader
and followers covered with renown. There have been wars dictated
by lower motives, in which success brought no honour ; there have
been struggles against greater odds ; but they have been unduly
sanguinary, and humanity has decided that they were not worth
their cost. Friendly intervention has sometimes resrdted in oppres-
sive occupation; license has been granted to the soldier as the
reward of valour, and severity has sometimes been permitted to
degenerate into cruelty ; thus the scutcheon of many a successful
leader is disfigured by the l'?>;Z'-sinister ; h^h of the Abyssinian expe-
286 Oratory.
dition it may be said witli perfect truth, the men, officers, and
leader alike are absolutely "sans peur et sans reiiroche." Our
motives, also, were justified and honoured in the eyes of foreign
nations, no policy of annexation sullying the military triumph; for
when victory was announced, and the captives were liberated, there
came the simultaneous telegram, "The army is on its return."
For the forethought, good ju^Pgment, discretion, gallantry, and
moderation which your lordship so remarkably manifested, for the
combination of skilful administration, of soldierly daring, and of
diplomatic firmness, which, under Providence, secured the result,
this Court tenders you, in the name of the citizens of London, the
highest compliment at its disposal.
PATEICK HENET'S ADDRESS TO THE AMEEICAN
CONGRESS.
[Henry was an American patriot, who distinguished himself by speeches
opposing Great Britain, at the breaking out of the revohitionai-y war.]
Mr. President, — It is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of
hope ; we are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen
to the song of that syren till she transforms us into beasts. Is
this the part of wise men engaged in a great and arduous struggle
for liberty ? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who,
having eyes, see not, and having ears, hear not, the things which so
nearly concern our temporal salvation P For my part, whatever
anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth ;
to know the worst, and to provide for it.
I have but one lamp, by which my feet are guided ; and that i.s
the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future
but by the ])ast. And judging by the past, I ^vish to know what
there has been in the conduct of the British ministry for the last ten
years to justify those hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased
to solace themselves and the House ? Is it that insidious smile with
which our petition has been lately received ? Trust it not, Sir, it
will prove a snare to your feet ; suffer not j^ourselves to be betrayed
with a liiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our peti-
tion comports with those warlike preparations which cover our watere
and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of
love and reconciliation ? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be
reconciled, that force must be called in to -win back our love ? Let us
not_ deceive ourselves. Sir. These are the implements of war and
subjugation, the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentle-
men, Sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to
force us to submission ? Can gentlemen assign any other possible
motive for it ? Has Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the
world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies ? No,
Sir, she has none. They are meant for us : they can be meant for
no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains
Patrich Henry's Address to Congress. 287
W'hicii the British ministry have been so long forging. And what
have we to oppose to them ? Shall we try argument ? Sir, Ave have
been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to
offer upon the subject ? Nothing. "VVe have held it up in every
light of which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we
resort to entreaty and humble supplication .P What terms shall we
find which have not been already exhausted .'' Let us not, I beseech
you, Sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done everything
that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on.
We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supj^licated, we
have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and implored its inter-
position to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and parlia-
ment. Our petitions have been slighted, our remonstrances have
produced additional violence and insult, our supplications have been
disregarded, and we have been spui'ned with contempt from the foot
of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the foiv'
hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for
hojDe. If we wish to be free, if we wish to preserve inviolate those
inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending,
if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we
have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves
never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be
obtained, we must fight — I repeat it, Sir, we must fight ! An
appeal to arms, and to the God of hosts, is all that is left us !
They tell us, Sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so
formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger ? Will it be
the next week, or the next year .P Will it be when we are totally dis-
armed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house ?
Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction ? Shall wr
acquii'e the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on oiir
backs, and hugging the dehisive phantom of hope until our ( aemies
shall have bound us hand and foot.P Sir, we are not weak, if we
make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath
j^laced in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy
cause of liberty, and in such a countiy as that which we possess, are
invincible hj any force which our enemy can seaid against us.
Besides, Sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just
God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise
up friends to fight our battles for us, The battle. Sir, is not to the
strong alone ; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides,
Sir, we have no electioii. If we were base enough to desire it, it is
now too late to retii-e from the contest : there is no retreat, but in
submission and slavery. Our chains are forged ; their clanking may
be heard on the plains of Boston : the war is inevitable, and let
it come ; I repeat it, Sir — let it come ! It is in vain, Sir, to extenuate
the matter. Gentlemen may cry peace, peace ! but there is no
])eace ! The war is actually begun ! The next gale that sweeps
from the north Avill bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms !
Our brethren are already in the field ! why stand we here idle !
What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life
588 Oratory.
so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purcliasecl at tlie price of cliains
and slavery ? Forbid it, Almighty God ! I know not what course
others may take ; but as for me— give me Hberty, or give me death !
LOED CHATHAM'S PEOTiZST AGAINST THE AMERICAN
WAE.
rWilliara Titt, Earl of Chatham, was bom at Boconock, in Cornwall, 1708.
His grandfather, Thomas Pitt (bom 1653) went to the East Indies as governor
of Fort St. George, where he realized a large fortune, partly by the purchase o!
a diamond for 2U,400/., which ho sold to the King of France for more than fivt
times that sum. He sat in four parliaments, and died in 1726. His eldest sou,
father of the great Lord Chatham, died iu 1727. William Pitt was educated at
Eton and Oxford. On the conclusion of his studies he entered the army, but
being returned to Parliament for Old Samm, he soon made himself conspicuous
as an orator, and the Duchess of Mai-lborough, wlio had a hatred of the minister
he opposed, left him a legacy of 10,000/7 In 1756 he was appointed Secretaiy
of State, and iu 1766 elevated to the peerage. On April 8, 1778, he fell down
in a convulsive fit as he was speaking in the House of Lords in advocacy of a
reconciliation with the American States, the cause in wliich he had long
laboured. He died on the 11th of the following month, and after lying in state,
was buried iu Westminster Abbey, where a superb moniunent was erected to
his memory by the nation.]
I KiSE, my lords, to declare my sentiments on this most solemn
and serioiis subject. It has imposed a load upon my mind, which,
I fear, nothing can remove ; but which impels me to endeavoui* its
alleviation, by a free and unreserved communication of my sen-
timents.
In the first part of the address I have the honour of heartily
concurring with the noble earl who moved it. No man feels sin-
cererjoy than I do ; none can offer more genuine congratulation
on evei'y accession of strength to the Protestant succession. But
I must stop here. My courtly complaisance will carry me no
further. I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and dis-
grace. I cannot concur in a blind and servile address, wliich ap-
proves, and endeavours to sanctify, the monstrous measures which
have heaped disgrace and misfortune upon us. This, my lords, is
a perilotis and tremendous moment ! It is not a time for adulation.
The smoothness of flattery cannot now avail ; cannot save us in
this rugged and awful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the
throne in the language of truth. AVe must dispel the delusion and
the darkness which envelope it : and display, in its full danger and
true colours, the riiin that is brought to our doors.
This, my lords, is our duty. It is the proper function of this
noble assembly, sitting, as we do, upon our honours in this House,
the hereditary council of the crown. WJio is the minister, ivherc in
the mmister, that has dared to suggest to the throne the contrary,
unconstitutional language this day delivered from it ? The accus-
tomed language from the throne has been application to Parlia-
Chatham's Protest against the American War. 289 •
ment for advice, and a reliance on its constitutional advice and
assistance. As it is the right of Parliament to give, so it is the-'
flnty of the crown to ask it. But on this day, and in this extreme
momentous exigency, no reliance is rejjosed on our constitutional
counsels ! no advice is asked from the solder and enlightened care
of Parliament ! but the crown, from itself and by itself, declares an
unalterable determination to jiursue measures — and what measures,
my lords ? The measures that have produced the imminent perils
that threaten us; the measures that have brought ruin to our
doors.
Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a continu-
ance of support in this ruinous infatuation ? Can Parliament be
so dead to its dignity and its duty, as to be thus deluded into the
loss of the one and the violation of the other ? to give an unlimited
credit and support for the steady perseverance in measures not pro-
posed for our parliamentary advice, but dictated and forced upon
us — in measures, I say, my lords, which have reduced this late
flourishing emjDire to ruin and contempt ?
"But yesterday,
And England might have stood against the woi'ld :
Now none so poor to do her reverence."
I use the words of a poet ; but thoiigh it be jDoetry, it is no fiction.
It is a shameful truth, that not only the power and strength of
this country are wasting away and expiring, but her well-earned
glories, her true honour, and substantial dignity are sacrificed.
France, my lords, has insulted you ; she has encouraged and sus-
tained America ; and whether America be wrong or right, the
dignity of this country ought to sj^urn at the officious insult of
French interference. The ministers and ambassadors of those who
are called rebels and enemies are in Paris ; in Paris they transact
the reciprocal interests of America and France. Can thei'e be a
more mortifying insult ? Can even our ministers sustain a more
humiliating disgrace ? Do they dare to resent it ? Do they pre-
sume even to hint a vindication of their honour, and the dignity of
the State, by requiring the dismission of the ]>lenipotentiaries of
America ? Such is the degradation to which they have reduced
the glories of England ! The people whom they affect to call con-
temptible rebels, but whose growing power has at last obtained the
name of enemies ; the people with whom they have engaged this
country in war, and against whom they now command our impUcit
support in every measure of desperate hostility ; this joeople, de-
spised as rebels, or acknowledged as enemies, are abetted against
you, supplied -with every military store, their interests consulted,
and their ambassadors entertained, by your inveterate enemy !
and our ministers dare not interpose with dignity or effect. In
this the honour of a great kingdom ? Is this the indignant spirit
of England, who " but yesterday " gave law to the house of
Bourbon ? My lords, the dignity of nations demands a decisive
conduct in a situation like this,
V
290 Oratory.
My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we
cannot act with success, nor suffer with honour, calls upon us to
remonstrate in the strongest and loudest language of truth, to
rescue the ear of Majesty from the delusions which surround it.
The desperate state of our arms abroad is in part known. No man
thinks more highly of them than I do. I love and honour the
English troops. I know their virtues and their valour. I know
they can achieve anything except impossibilities ; and I know that
the conquest of EngHsh America is an impossibility. My lords,
you cannot conquer America. "What is your present situation
there ? We do not know the worst ; but we know that in three
campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. You may
swell every exjjense, and every effort, still more extravagantly;
pUe and accumulate every assistance you can buy or borrow;
traffic and barter ^vith every little pitifiil German prince that seUsf
and sends his subjects to the shambles of a foreign prince ; your
efforts are for ever vain and impotent ; doubly so from this mer-
cenary aid on which you rely. For it irritates, to an incurable
resentment, the minds of your enemies, to overrun them with the
mercenary sons of rapine and plunder ; devoting them and their
possessions to the rapacity of hireluig cruelty. If I were an
American, as I am an Englisman, while a foreign trooj) was landed
in my country, I never wovdd lay down my arms — never— never —
i-i
never
But, my lords, who is the man that, in addition to these dis-
graces and mischiefs of om* army, has dared to authorize and asso-
ciate to our arms the tomahawk and scalping-knife of the savage ?
to call into civilized alliance the wild and inhuman savage of the
woods ; to delegate to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed
rights, and to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our
brethren ? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and
punishment. Unless thorouglily done away, it will be a stain on
the national character. It is a violation of the constittition. I
believe it is against law.
But, my lords, this barbarous measure has been defended, not
only on the principles of policy and necessity, but also on those of
morality; for, said Lord Suffolk, "it was perfectly justifiable to
use all the means that God and nature put into our hands .'"
I AM ASTONISHED !— shocked ! to hear such principles confessed —
to hear them avowed in this House, or in this country ; principles
equally xuaconstitutional, inhuman, and unchristian !
My lords, I did not intend to have encroached again upon your
attention; but I cannot repress my indignation. I feel myseli
impelled by every duty. My lords, we are called upon as members
of this House, as men, as Christian men, to protest against such
notions standing near the throne, polluting the ear of Majesty.
''That God and nature put into our hands !" I know not what
ideas that lord may entertain of God and nature ; but I know that
such abominable principles are equally abhorrent to religion and
Chathavioti Vrotest against the American War. 291
humanity. What! to attribute the sacred sanction of God an(?
nature to the massacres of tlie Indian scalping knife— to the canni-
bal savage torturing, miu'dering, roasting, and eating ; literally,
my lords, eating the mangled victims of his barbarous battles !
Such horrible notions shock every precej)t of religion, divine or
natural, and every generous feeling of humanity. And, my lords,
they shock every sentiment of honour ; they shock me as a lover of
honourable war, and a detester of murderous barbarity.
These abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal
of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon that
right reverend bench, those holy ministers of the Gospel, and pious
pastors of our church ; I conjure them to join in the holy work, and
vindicate the religion of their God. I appeal to the wisdom and
the law of this learned bench to defend and suj^jDort the justice of
their country. I call upon the bishops to interpose the unsullied
sanctity of their lawn ; upon the learned judges to interpose the
purity of their ermine to save us from this pollution. I call upon
the honour of your lordshii3s to reverence the dignity of your an-
cestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and
humanity of my country to vindicate the national character. I
invoke the genius of the constitution. From the tapestry that
adorns these walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble lord frowns
with indignation at the disgrace of his coimtry. In vain he led
your victorious fleets against the boasted Armada of Sixain; in
vain he defended and established the honour, the liberties, the
religion, the Protestant religion, of this country, against the arbi-
trary cruelties of Popery and the Inquisition, if these more than
Popish cruelties and inquisitorial practices ai-e let loose among us ;
to turn forth into our settlements, among our ancient connections,
friends, and relations, the merciless cannibal, thirsting for the blood
of man, woman, and child ! to send forth the infidel savage —
against whom.'' Against your Protestant brethren; to lay waste
their country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race
and name, with these horrible hell-hounds of savage war ! — hell-
koionds, I say, of savage ivar. Spain armed herself with blood<
hounds to extirpate the wretched natives of America ; and we im-
prove on the inhuman example even of Spanish cruelty: we turn
loose these savage hell-hounds against our brethren and country-
men in America, of the same language, laws, liberties, and religion ;
endeared to us by every tie that should sanctify humanity.
My lords, this awful subject, so important to our honour, our
constitution, and our religion, demands the most solemn and effec-
tual inquiry. And I again call upon your lordshij^s, and the united
powers of the State, to examine it thoroughly and decisively, and
to stamp upon it an indelible stigma of the public abhorrence.
And I again implore those holy prelates of our religion to do away
these iniquities from among us. Let them perform a lustration ;
let them jiurify this House, and this country, from this sin.
My lords, I am old and weak, and at i:)resent unable to say more ;
TJ 2
292 Oratory.
but my feelings and indignation were too strong to have said less.
I could not have slept this night in my bed, nor reposed my head
on my pillow, without giving this vent to my eternal abhorrence of
such preposterous and enormous principles.
EDMUND BUEKE'S PEEOEATION ON THE IMPEACH-
MENT OP WAEEEN HASTINGS.
[Burke was bom in Dublin 1730, and educated at Trinity College in tliat
city. After completing his education he came to Loudon, and entered himself
as a law student in the Temple. At first he applied himself to letters, and
published his " Vindication of Natural Society " and his " Essaj' on the Sub-
lime and Beautiful;" these works introduced him to the best society, and he
then detei-mined to devote hinisclf to politics. Au an orator ho was almost
without a rival. Died 1797.]
My Lords — Wliat is it that we want here to do a great act of
national justice ? Do we want a cause, my lords ? You have the
cause of oppressed princes, of undone women of the first rank, of
desolated provmces, and of wasted kingdoms.
Do you want a criminal, my lords ? When was there so much
iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one ? No, my lords, you must
not look to pimish any other such delinquent from India. Warren
Hastings has not left substance enough in India to nourish such
another delinquent.
My lords, is it a prosecutor you want ? You have before you
the Commons of Great Britain as prosecutors ; and I believe, my
lords, that the sun, in his beneficent progress round the world, does
not behold a more glorious sight than that of men, separated from a
remote people by the material bounds and barriers of nature, united
by the bond of a social and moral community ; all the Commons of
England resenting, as their own, the indignities and cruelties that
are ofi"ered to all the people of India.
Do you want a tribunal ? My lords, no example of antiquity,
nothing in the modern world, nothing in the range of human
imagination, can supply us with a tribunal like this. My lords, here
we see virtually in the mind's eye that sacred majesty of the crown,
under whose authority you sit and whose power 'you exercise. We
see in that invisible authority what we all feel in reality and life,
the beneficent powers and protecting justice of his Majesty. We
have here the heir apparent of the crown, such as the fond wishes
ot the people of England wish an heir apparent of the crown to be.
We have here all the branches of the royal family in a situation
between majesty and subjection, between the sovereign and the
eubject, offering a pledge in that situation for the support of the
rights ot the crown and the liberties of the people, both which ex-
treraities they touch. My lords, we have a great hereditary ]Deerage
Burke's Peroration against Warren Hastings. 293
here ; those who have their own honour, the honour of their ancestors
and of theii' posterity to guard ; and who will justify, as they have
always justified, that provision in the constitution by which justice
is made an hereditary office. ]\Iy lords, we have here a new nobility,
rfho have risen and exalted themselves by various merits, by great
military services, which have extended the fame of this country from
the rising to the setting sun ; we have those who, by various civil
merits, and various civil talents, have been exalted to a situation
which they well deserve, and in which they will justify the favour of
their sovereign and the good opinion of their fellow-subjects, and
make them rejoice to see those vii'tuous characters, that wei'e the
other day iipon a level with them, now exalted above them in rank,
but feeling with them in sympathy what they felt in common with
them before. We have persons exalted from the practice of the law,
from the place in which they administered high, though siibordinate
jvistice, to a seat here, to enlighten with their knowledge, and to
strengthen with their votes, those princi]:)les which have dis-
tiguished the courts in which they have presided.
J\Iy lords, you have here also the lights of our religion ; you have
the bishops of England. My lords, you have that true image of the
^irimitive Church in its ancient form, in its ancient ordinances,
purified from the superstitions and the vices which a long succession
of ages will bring upon the best institutions. You have the repre-
sentatives of that religion which says, that their God is love, thai
the veiy vital spirit of their institution is charity ; a religion which
so nnich hates oppression, that, when the God whom we adore ap-
peai-ed in human form, he did not apjDcar in a form of greatness and
majesty, but in synipathy with the lowest of the people, and thereby
made it a firm and ruling principle, that their welfare was the object
of all government, since the person who was the Master of N'ature
chose to appear in a subordinate situation. These are the con-
siderations which influence them, which animate them, and will
animate them, against all oppression ; knowing that He, who is called
first among them, and first among iis all, both of the flock that is fed
and of those who feed it, made himself " the seiwant of all."
My lords, these are the securities which we have in all the con-
stituent parts of the body of this house. We know them, we
reckon, we rest upon them, and commit safely the interests of India
and of humanity into your hands. Therefore, it is with confidence
that, ordered by the Commons,
I impeach Warren Hastings, Esquire, of high crimes and mis-
demeanors.
I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain
in parliament assembled, whose parhamentary trusi; he has be-
trayed.
I impeach him in the name of all the Commons {i.e. the itcoiile)
of Great Britain, whose national character he has dishonoured.
I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose laws,
rights, and liberties he has subverted, whose properties he has de-
stroyed, whose country he has laid waste and desolate.
294 Oratory.
I impeach him in the name and by virtue of those eternal laws
of justice which he has yiolated.
I imi)each him in the name of human nature itself, which he has
cruelly outraged, injured, and oppressed, in both sexes, in every age,
rank, situation^, and condition of life.
LOED BEOTJGHAM ON NEGEO EMANCIPATION.
My Lords, — I have had my attention directed, within the last
two hours, to the new mass of j^apers laid on our table from the
"West Indies. The bulk I am averse to break, but a sample I have
culled of its hateful contents. Eleven females were punished by
severe flogging— and then put on the treadmill, where they were com-
pelled to ply until exhaiisted nature could endure no more ; — when
faint and al^out to fall off, they were siispended by the arms in a
manner that has been described to me by a most resjiectal^lc eye-
Avitness of similar scenes, but not so suspended as that the
mechanism could revolve clear of their persons ; for the wheels at
each turn bruised and galled their legs, till their sufferings had
reached the pitch when life can no longer even glimmer in the
socket of the weary frame. In the course of a few days these
wretched beings languished, to iise the language of our law — that
law which is thus so constantly and systematically violated — and
" languishing died."
Ask you if crimes like these, murderous in their legal nature,
as well as frightful in their aspect, passed unnoticed — if inquiry
was neglected to be made respecting these deaths in a prison ? No
such thing! The forms of justice were on this head peremptory,
even in the West Indies — and at those forms, the handmaids of
justice were pi-esent, though their sacred mistress was far away.
The coroner duly attended — the jiu-y were regularly empanelled —
eleven inquisitions were made in order — and eleven verdicts re-
turned—Murder? Manslaughter? Misdemeanour ? Misconduct ? No
— but " Died by the Yisitatiox of God !" Died by the Visitation
of God ! _ Ahe ! a perjury ! a blasphemy ! The Visitation of God!
Yes, for it is among the most awful of those visitations by wliicb
the inscrutable purposes of His will are mysteriously accomplished,
that He somel^imes arms the wicked with power to oppress the
guiltless ; and if there be any visitation more dreadful than another;
any which _ more tries the faith and vexes the reason of erring
mortals, it is when Heaven showers down upon the earth the plague
—not of scorpions, or pestilence, or famine, or war— but of unjust
judges and perjured jurors, wretches who pervert the law to wreak
their personal vengeance, or compass their sordid ends, forswearing
themselves on the Gospels of God, to the end that injustice may
prevail, and the innocent be destroyed !
I hasten to a close ; there remains little to add. It is, my lords,
with a view to prevent such enormities as I have feebly pictured
Lord Brougham on Negro Emancipation. 295
before you, to correct the administration of justice, to secure the
comforts of the negroes, to restrain the cruelty of the tormentors,
to amend the discipline of prisons, to arm the governors with local
authority over the police ; it is with these views that I have formed
the resolutions now on your table. These improvements are, how-
ever, only to be regarded as temporary expedients, as mere pallia-
tives of an enormous mischief, for which the only effectual remedy
is the complete emancipation which I have demonstrated by the
unemng and incontrovertible evidence of facts, as well as the
clearest deductions of reason, to be safe and jDracticable, and,
therefore, proved to be our imperative duty at once to i^roclaim.
From the instant that glad sound is wafted across thj ocean,
what a blessed change begins ; what an enchanting jDrosjiect imfolds
itself ! The African jilaced on the same footing with other men,
becomes in reality our fellow-citizen — to our feelings, as well as in
his own nature our ecpial, our brother. No difference of origin or
colour can now prevail to keep the two castes apart. Where the
di'iver and the gaoler once bore sway, the lash resounds no more ;
nor does the clank of the chain any more fall upou the troubled
ear ; the fetter has ceased to gall the vexed limb, and the very mark
disappears which for awhile it had left. I do not deny that danger
exists — I admit it to be not far distant from our path. You have
gone too far if you stop here and go no further; you are in
imminent hazard if, having loosened the fetters, you do not strike
them off — if, leaving them ineffectual to restrain, you let them re-
main to gall, to irritate, and to goad. Beware of that state,
yet more unnatural than slavery itself — liberty bestowed by halves
■ — the power of resistance given — the inducement to submission
withheld.
You have let the slave taste of the cup of freedom ,• while
intoxicated with the draught, beware how you dash the cup away
from his lips. You have produced the pi'Ogeny of liberty, see the
prodigious hazard of swathing the limbs of the gigantic infant,
you know not the might that may animate it. Have a care, I
beseech you have a care, how you rouse the strength that slumbers
in the sable peasant's arm ! Every tribe, every shade of the Negro
race will combine, from the fiery Koramantin to the peaceful Eboe,
and the ghastly shape of colonial destruction meets the astonished
eye.
I turn away from the horrid vision that my eye may rest once
more on the prospect of enduring empire, and peace founded upon
freedom. I regard the freedom of the Negro as accomjDlished and
sure. Why? because it is his right; because he has shown him-
self fit for it ; because a pretext, or a shadow of a pretext, can no
longer be devised for withholding that right from its possessor.
My reliance is firm and unflinching u])on the great change which
I have witnessed— the education of the people, unfettered iDy party
or by sect, witnessed from the beginning of its progress. I may
say from the hour of its birth ; I watched over its cradle, I marked
its growth, I rejoiced in its strength, I witnessed its maturity, 1
296 Oratory.
have been spared to see it ascend the very height of supreme
power, directing the councils of state, accelerating eveiy great
improvement, uniting itself with every good work, propping all
useful institutions, extirjoating abuses in all our institutions, passing
the bounds of our European dominions, and in the new world, as
"well as the old, proclaiming that freedom is the birthright of man,
that distinction of colour gires no title to opj^ression, that the
chains now loosened must be struck off, and even the marks they
have left effaced, proclaiming this by the same eternal law of our
nature which makes nations the masters of their own destiny, and
•which in Europe has caused every tyrant's throne to quake.
But they need feel no alarm at the progress of light who defend
a limited monarchy and support popular institiitions ; who place
their chief pride not in ruling over slaves, be they white or be they
black, but in wearing a constitutional crown, in holding the sword
of justice with the hand of mercy, in being the first citizen of a
country whose air is too pure for slaves to breathe, and on whose
shores, if the captive's foot but touch, his fetters of themselves
fall off. _
The time has come, the trial has been made, the hour is striking ;
yo^x have no longer a pretext for hesitation, faltering, or delay. I
demand^ his rights. I demand his liberty without stint. In the
name of justice and of law, in the name of reason, in the name
ol God, who has given you no right to work injustice, I demand
that your brother be no longer trampled upon as your slave ! I
make my appeal to the Commons who represent the free people
of England, and I require at their hands the performance of that
condition for which they have paid so enormous a price, that con-
dition which all their constituents are in breathless anx-iety to sec
fulfilled ! I appeal to this house. Hereditary judges of the first
tribunal in the world, to you I appeal for justice. Patrons of all
the arts that himianize mankind, under your protection I place
humanity herself. To the merciful sovereign of a free peoi:>le I call
aloud for mercy to the hundreds of thousands for whom half a
million of her Christian sisters have supphcated, I ask that their
cry may not have risen in vain.
Biit first I turn my eye to the throne of all justice, and devoutly
luimblmg myself before Him who is of purer eyes than to behold
such vast inicjuities, I implore that the curse hovering over the
head of the unjust and the oppressor be averted from us, that your
hearts may be turned to mercy, and that over all the earth His
Will may at length be done.
MR. SHERIDAN'S PANEGYRIC ON JUSTICE.
[Illoliai;dBrinsley Sheridan was bora m Dublin 1751, and educated at Harrow
^-n= nn." ,f '^/^o^ed evcrv branch of literature to which he applied himself, and
uas cqaally famous as an orator. His fine comedy, " The Eivals," was produced
Wehstey^'s Euloghim on Washington. 297
in 1775, and subsequently " The School for Scandal." In 1780 he entered Par-
liameut for the borough of Stafford, obtained official employment, distiuguished
himself by his eloquence and was made a j)rivy councillor. He died "in
debt and difficulties," July 6, 1816.]
TusTiCE is not a halt and miserable object ; it is not tbe ineffective
kiuble of an Indian pagod ; it is not the portentous phantom of
despair ; it is not like any fabled monster formed in the eclipse of
reason, and found in some unhallowed grove of sujierstitious dark-
ness and political dismay ! No, my lords.
In the happy reverse of all these, I tui-n from this d^sgusting
caricature, to the real image, — Justice ! 1 have now before me,
august and pure, the abstract idea of all that would be perfect in
the spirits and the aspirings of men ; — where the mind rises ; where
the heart expands ; where the countenance is ever placid and
benign ; where her favourite attitude is — to stoop to the unfortu-
nate ; to hear their cry, and to help them ; to rescue and relieve ;
to succour and save ! Majestic from its mercy ; venerable from its
utility ; U2:)lifted, without pride ; firm, without obduracy ; beneficent
in each preference ; lovely, though in her frown !
On that justice I rely, delibei'ate and sure ; abstracted fi'om all
party purpose and political speculation ; not in words, but in facts.
You, my lords, who hear me, I conjure, by those rights it is your
best privilege to preserve ; by that fame it is your best pleasiire to
inherit ; by all those feelings, which refer to the first term in the
series of existence, the original compact of our nature, our con-
trolling rank in the creation ! This is the call on all to administer
to truth and equity, as they would satisfy the laws and satisfy
themselves, with the most exalted bliss possible or conceivable for
our nature — the self-aj^proving consciousness of virtue, when the
condemnation we look for will be one of the most amjile mercies
accomplished for mankind since the creation of the world.
DANIEL WEBSTEE AT THE CENTENAET CELEBRATION
OF WASHINGTON.
[Daniel "Webster, one of the greatest statesmen and orators of the United
States, was born on the Merrimac River in 1782, and for many j'ears held the
first rank at the American bar. He was elected to Congress in 1813, and in
1827 became a member of the Senate. He visited England in 1839, in 1810
bfcame Secretary of Foreign Affairs under President Harrison, and again in
18o0 under President Fillmore, which office he retained to his death in 1852.]
I KISE, gentlemen, to pi'oi^ose to you the name of that great man,
in commemoration of whose birth, and in honour of whose character
and services, we have here assembled.
I am sure that I express a sentiment common to every one pre-
sent when I say, that there is something more than ordinarily
solemn and affectincr on this occasion.
298 Oratory,
We are met to testify our regard for him, whose name is inti-
mately blended with whatever belongs most essentially to the
prosperity, the liberty, the free institutions, and the renown of our
country. That name was of power to rally a nation, in the hour
of thick-thronging public disasters and calamities ; that name shone,
amid the storm of war, a beacon light, to cheer and guide the
country's friends ; its flame, too, like a meteor, to repel her foes,
That name, in the days of peace, was a loadstone, attracting to
itself a whole people's confidence, a whole i^eople's love, and the
whole world's respect ; that name, descending with all time, spread
over the whole earth, and uttered in all the languages belonging to
the tribes and races of men, will for ever be pronounced with affec-
tionate gratitude by every one in whose breast there shall arise an
aspiration for human rights and human liberty.
We perform this grateful duty, gentlemen, at the expiration of a
hundred years from his birth, near the place so cherished and
beloved by him, where his dust now reposes, and in the capital
Avliich bears liis own immoi'tal name.
All experience evinces, that human sentiments are strongly
aff'ected by associations. The recurrence of anniversaries, or of
longer periods of time, naturally freshens the recollection, and
deepens the imj^ression of events with which they are historically
connected. Renowned places, also, have a power to awaken feeling,
which all acknowledge. No American can pass by the fields of
Bunker Hill, Monmouth, or Camden, as if they were ordinary sjwts
on the earth's surface. Whoever visits them feels the sentiment of
love of country kindling anew, as if the spirit that Ijelonged to the
transactions which have rendered these places distinguished still
hovered round witii power to move and excite all who in future
time may approach them.
But neither of these sources of emotion equals the power with
which great moral examples affect the mind. When sublime vir-
tues cease to be abstractions, when they become embodied in
human character, and exemplified in human conduct, we should be
false to our own nature, if we did not indulge in the spontaneous
effusions of our gratitude and our admiration. A true lover of the
vn-tue of patriotism dehghts to contemplate its purest models ; and
that love of country may be well suspected which affects to soar so
high nito the regions of sentiment as to be lost and absorbed in the
abstract feeling, and becomes too elevated, or too refined, to glow
either with power in the commendation or the love of individunl
benefactors. All this is immaterial. It is as if one should be so
enthusiastic a lover of poetry as to care nothing for Homer or
Milton ; so passionately attached to eloquence as to be indifferent
to TuUy and Chatham ; or such a devotee to the arts, in such an
ecstasy with the elements of beauty, proportion, and expression, as
to regard the masterpieces of Eaphael and Michael Angelo with
coldness or contempt. We may be assured, gentlemen, that he who
really loves the thing itself, loves its finest exhibitions. A true
triend of his country loves her friends and benefactors, and thinks
Webster 8 Eulogium on Washington. 299
it no degradation to commend and commemorate tliem. The volun-
tary out-pouring of public feeling made to-day, from tlie north to
the south, and from the east to the west, jjroves this sentiment to
be both just and natural. In the cities and in the villages, in the
public temples and in the family circles, among all ages and sexes,
gladdened voices to-day bespeak grateful hearts, and a freshened
recollection of the virtues of the father of his country. And it will
be so, in all time to come, so long as public virtue is in itself an
object of regard. The ingenuous youth of America will hold up to
themselves the bright model of Washington's example, and study
to be what they behold ; they will contem2")late his character till all
its virtues spread out and display themselves to their delighted
vision, as the earliest astronomers, the shej^herds on the plains of
Babylon, gazed at the stars till they saw them form into clusters
and constellations, overpowei'ing at length the eyes of the beholders
with the united blaze of a thousand lights.
Gentlemen, we are at the point of a century from the birth of
Washington ; and what a century it has been ! During its course
the human mind has seemed to proceed with a sort of geometric
velocity, accomplishing more than had been done in fives or tens of
centuries preceding. Washington stands at the commencement of
a new era, as well as at the head of the new world. A century
from the l)irth of Washington has changed the world. The country
of Washington has been the theatre on which a great part of that
change has been wrought ; and Washington himself a pi-iucipal
agent by which it has been accomplished. His age and his country
are equally full of wonders, and of both he is the chief.
If the prediction of the poet, littered a few years before his birth,
be true ; if indeed it be designed by Providence that the proudest
exhibition of human character and human afiairs shall be made on
this theatre of the western world ; if it be true that
" The first four acts already past,
A fifth shall close the ckama with the day ;
Time's uoblest offspring is the last,"
how could this imposing, swelling, final scene be appropriately
oj">ened; how could its intense interest be adequately sustained, but
by the introduction of just such a character as our Washington ?
Washington had attained his manhood when that siaark of liberty
was struck out in his own countiy; which has since kindled into a
flame, and shot its beams over the earth. In the flow of a century
from his birth, the world has changed in science, in arts, in the
extent of commerce, in the improvement of navigation, and in all
that relates to the civilization of man. But it is the spirit of human
freedom, the new elevation of individual man, in his moral, social,
and political character, leading the whole long train of other
improvements, which has most remarkably distinguished the era.
Society, in this century, has not made its progress, like Chinese
skill, by a greater acuteness of ingenuity in trifles : it has not
merely lashed itself to an increased speed round the old circles of
800 Oratory.
Ihouglit and action, but it has assumed a new cliaracter, it has
raised itself from beneath governments, to a participation in govern-
ments; it has mixed moral and political objects with the dail5
pursuits of individual men, and, with a freedom and strength before
altogether unknomi, it has aj^plied to these objects the whole power
of the human understanding. It has been the era, in short, when
the social principle has triuiaphed over the feudal principle ; when
society has maintained its rights against military power, and esta-
blished, on foundations never hereafter to be shaken, its competency
to govern itself.
MAZZINI TO THE MEMORY OF THE MARTYRS OF
COSENZA.
[Toscph Maz^^ini was born at Genoa in 1809. He was educated for the law, but
devoted himself to political life. In 1857 he made an attempt to revolutionize
ltal3' ; but the scheme proving abortive, he escaped in disguise. Died 1872.]
When I was commissioned by you, young men, to proffer, in this
temple, a few words consecrated to the memory of the brothers
Bandiera and their fellow-mai-tyrs at Cosenza, I thought that some
one of those Avho heard me might perhaps exclaim with noble in-
dignation, " Why thus lament over the dead ? The martyrs of
liberty are only worthily honoured by winning the battle they have
begun ; Cosenza, the land where they fell, is enslaved : Venice, the
city of their birth, is begirt with strangers. Let us emancipate them,
and until that moment let no words pass our lips save those of war."
But another thought arose and suggested to me, " Whj' have we
not conquered ? Wliy is it that whilst they fight for inde]jendence
in the North of Italy, liberty is perishing in the South ? Why is it
that a war Avhich should have sprung to the Alps with the bound of
a lion, has dragged itself along for four months with the slow un-
certain motion of the scorpion surrounded by the circle of fire ?
How has the rapid and powerful intuition of a people newly arisen
to life been converted into the Aveary helpless effort of the sick man
turning from side to side ?" Ah ! had we all risen in the sanctity
of the idea for which our martyrs died : had the holy standard of
their faith preceded our youth to battle ; had we reached that unitj
of life which was in them so powerful, and made of our every
thought an action, and of our every action a thought; had we de-
voutly gathered up their last words in our hearts, and learned from
them that Liberty and independence are one ; that God and the
People, Coixntry and Humanity, are the two inseparable terms of
the device of every people striving to become a nation ; that Ital-y
can only ex-ist, one and holy, in the equality and love of all hei
children, great in the worship of eternal Truth, and consecrated to
a lofty mission, a moral priesthood among the peoples of Europe—
we should not now have war, but victory ; Cosenza would not be
Mazzini's Oration on the Martyrs of Cosenza. 301
compelled to -venerate tlie memory of lier martyrs in secret, not
Venice be restrained from honouring them with a monument ; and
we here gathered together might gladly invoke those sacred names,
without uncertainty as to our future destiny, or a cloud of sadness
on our brows, and might say to those precursor souls, " Rejoice, for
your spirit is incarnate in your brethren, and they are worthy of
you."
The idea which they worshipped, yoimg men, does not as yet
shine forth in its full i:)urity and integrity ujaon your banner. The
sublime programme which they dying bequeathed to the rising
Italian generation, is yours ; but mutUated, broken up into frag-
ments by the false doctrines which, elsewhere overthrown, have
taken refuge amongst us. I look around, and I see the struggles <>£
desperate populations, an alternation of generous rage and of un-
worthy repose ; of shouts for freedom and of formulse of servitude,
throughout aU parts of our peninsula ; but the heart of the country,
where is it ? What unity is there in this unequal and manifold
movement — where is the word which should dominate the hundred
diverse and opposing counsels which mislead or seduce the multi-
tude ? I hear words usurping the national omnipotence — " the Italy
of the North " — " the League of the States " — " federative com-
pacts between princes ;" but ITALY, where is it ? Where is the
common country — the coiTutry which the Bandiera hailed as thrice
initiator of a new era of European civilization ? Intoxicated with
our first victories, improvident for the future, we forgot the idea re-
vealed by God to those who suffer ; and God has pxmished our for-
getfulness by deferring our triumph. The Italian movement, my
brethren, is, by decree of Providence, that of Europe. We arise to
give a pledge of moral progress to the European world. But neither
political fictions, nor dynastic aggrandizements, nor theories of ex-
pediency, can transform or renovate the life of the peoples. Hu-
manity fives and moves through faith; great principles are the
guiding stars of Europe towards the future. Let us turn to the
graves of our martyrs, and ask from the inspiration of those who
died for us all, the secret of victory in the adoration of a principle
of faith. The Angel of Martyrdom and the Angel of Victory are
brothers ; but the one looks up to heaven, the other looks down to
earth, and it is only when, from epoch to epoch, their eyes meet be-
tween earth and heaven, that creation is embellished with a new
life, and a people arises, evangelist or prophet, from the cradle or
the tomb.
I will now, youngmen, sum up to you, in a few words, the faith
of our martyi-s : their external fife is known to you all, it is now
matter of history ; I need not recall it to you.
The faith of the brothers Bandiera, which was and is our ownj
Was based upon a few simple incontrovertible truths, which few in-
deed venture to declare false, but which are, nevertheless, forgotten
or betrayed by most.
God and the people, — God at the summit of the social edifice ;
the peoiile, the universality of our brethren, at the base. God, the
^02 Oratory.
Father and the educator ; the people, the progressive interpreter of
his law.
No true society can exist without a common belief and a common
aim. Eeligion declares the belief and the aim. Politics regulate
society in the practical realization of that belief, and prepare the
means of attaining that aim. Eehgion represents the principle,
politics the a])plication.
There is but one sun in heaven for all the earth. There is but
one law for those who people the earth. It is alike the law of the
human being, and the law of collective humanity. We are placed
here below, not for the capricious exercise of our own individual
faculties — faculties and liberty are the means, and not ilie end — not
to work out our own happiness uj^on earth ; happiness can only be
reached elsewhere, and there God works for us ; but to consecrate
our existence to the discovery of a portion of the divine law ; to
practise it as far as our individual faculties and circumstances allow,
and to diffuse the knowledge and the love of it among our brethren.
We are here below to endeavour fraternally to build up the unity
of the human family, so that the day may come when it may repre-
sent " a single sheepfold, with a single shepherd ;" the Spirit of
God, the law. To aid our search after truth, God has given to us
tradition, the voice of anterior humanity, and the voice of our own
conscience. Wheresoever these accord is truth, wheresoever they are
opposed is error. To attain a harmony and consistency between
the conscience of the individual and the conscience of humanity, no
saci-ifice is too great. Family, city, country, and humanity are but
different spheres in which to exercise our activity and our power of
sacrifice towards this great aim. God watches from above the in-
evitable progress of humanity, and from time to time He raises up
the great in genius, in love, in thought, or in action, as priests of
His truth, and guides to the multitude on their way.
These principles, indicated in their letters, in their proclamations,
and in their conversation, with a profound consciousness of the mis-
sion entrusted by God to the individual and to humanity, were to
Attilio and Emiho Bandiera and their fellow-martyrs the guide and
comfort of a weary life ; and, when men and circumstances had ahke
betrayed them, sustained them in death, in religious serenity and
calm, and inthe certainty of their immortal hopes in the future of
Italy. The immense energy of theii- souls arose from the intense
love which informed their faith. And could they now rise from
the grave and speak to you, they would, believe me, address you,
though with a power very different from that which is given to me,
m counsel not unHke this which I now offer to you.
Love ! Love is the flight of the soul towards God, towards the
great, the sublime and the beautiful, which are the shadow of God
upon earth. Love your family, the partner of your hfe, those
around you ready to share your joys and sorrows, the dead who
were dear to you, and to whom you were dear. But let your love
be the love taught you by Dante and by us, the love of souls that
aspu-e together ; and do not grovel on the earth in search of a felicity
Mazzini's Oration on the MaHyrs of Cosenza. 803
which it is not the destiny of the creature here to reach ; do not
yield to a delusion which inevitably would degrade you into egotism.
To love, is to promise, and to receive a promise for the future. God
has given us love, that the weary soul may give and receive sup-
port upon the way of life. It is a flower which springs up on the
path of duty, but which cannot change its course. Purify,
strengthen, and improve yourselves by loving. Ever act — even at
the price of increasing her earthly trials — so that the sister soul
united to your own may never need, here or elsewhere, to blush
through you or for you. The time will come when from the height
of a new life, embracing the whole past and comprehending its
secret, you will smile together at the sorrows you have endured, the
trials you have overcome.
Love your country. Your country is the land where your parents
sleep, where is spoken that language in which the chosen of your
heart, blushing, whispered the first word of love ; it is the house
that God has given you, that by striving to perfect yourselves
therein, you may prepare to ascend to Him. It is your name, your
glory, your sign among the peoples. Give to it your thought, your
counsel, your blood. Raise it up, great and beautiful, as foretold
by our great men. And see that you leave it uncontaminated by
any trace of falsehood, or of servitude, unprofaned by dismember-
ment. Let it be one, as the thought of God. You are twenty-four
milHons of men, endowed with active, splendid faculties, with a tra-
dition of glory the envy of the nations of Europe ; an immense
future is before you, your eyes are raised to the loveliest heaven, and
around you smiles the loveliest land in Europe ; you are encircled
by the Alps and the &ea, boundaries marked out by the finger of
God for a people of giants. And you must be such, or nothing.
Let not a man of that twenty-four millions remain excluded from
the fraternal bond which shall join you together ; let not a look be
raised to that heaven, which is not that of a free man. Let Rome
be the ark of your redemption, the temple of your nation. Has
she not twice been the temple of the destinies of Europe ? In Rome
two extinct worlds, the Pagan and the Papal, meet each other like
the double jewels of a diadem ; and you must draw from thence a
third world, greater than the other two. From Rome, the Holy
City, the City of Love (Amor), the purest and wisest among you,
elected by the vote, and strengthened by the inspiration of a whole
people, shall give forth the pact that shall unite us in one, and re-
present us in the future alliance of the peoples. Until then you
have no country, or you have it contaminated.
Love humanity. You can only ascertain your own mission from
the aim placed by God before humanity at large. God has given
you your country as cradle, humanity as mother, and you can only
love your brethren of the cradle in loving your common mother.
Beyond the Alps, beyond the sea are other peoples, now fighting or
preparing to fight, the holy fight of independence, of nationality,
of liberty : other peoples striving by different routes to reach the
same goal — itnerovemezit. association, and the foundation of an au-
304 ■ Oratory,
thority wliicli sliall pixt an end to moral anarcliy, and link again
earth to heaven, and which mankind may .love and obey withont
remorse or shame Unite with them, they will unite with you. Do
not mvoke their aid where your single arm can suffice to conquer ;
but say to them, that the hour wull shortly sound for a terrible
struggle between right and blind force, and that in that hour you
wiU ever be found with thot'^ who have raised the same banner as
yourselves.
And love, young men, love and reverence above everything the
Ideal. The Ideal is the word of God, supei-ior to every country,
superior to humanity ; it is the country of the spirit, the city of the
roul, in which all are brethren who l)eheve in the inviolability of
thought, and in the dignity of our immortal soul ; and the baj)-
tism of this fraternity is martyrdom. From that high sphere spring
the frinciples which alone can redeem the peoples. Arise for them !
and not from imjDatience of suffering, or dread of evil. Auger,
pride, ambition, and the desire of material i^rosperity are arms
common to the peoples and their oppressors ; and, even should you
conquer with them to-day, you will fall again to-morrow ; but i>rin-
ciples belong to the j^eoples alone, and their oppressors can find no
arms to oppose them. Adore Enthusiasm. Worship the dreams of
the virgin soul, and the visions of early youth, for they are the per-
fume of Paradise, which the soul presei-ves in issuing from the
hands of its Creator. Respect above all things your conscience ;
have upon your lips the truth that God has placed in your hearts,
and, while working together in harmony in all that tends to the
emancipation of our soil, even with those who differ from you, yet
ever bear erect your own banner, and boldly promulgate your faith.
Such words, young men, woidd the martyrs of Cosenza have
spoken had they been living amongst you. And here, where per-
haps, invoked by our love, their holy spirits hover near us, I call
upon you to gather them up in your hearts, and to make of them
a treasure, amid the storms that yet threaten you, but which, vath
the name of our martyrs on your lips, and their faith iu your hearts,
you will overcome.
God be with you, and bless Italy !
EICHARD B. SHEMDAN ON TAXATION.
[Tiiken from a speech delivered against the second reading of Mr. Titt's bill
for the New Assessed Taxes, presented to the House of Commons iu 1797.]
A "WISE man. Sir, it is said, should doubt of everjH:hing. It was
this maxim, probably, that dictated the amiable diffidence of the
learned gentleman, who addressed himself to the chair in these re-
markable words — " I rise, Mr. Speaker, if I have risen." Now, to
remove all doubts, I can assure the learned gentleman that he
achially did rise ; and not only rose, but pronounced an able, long,
and elaborate discour.^e, a considerable portion of which was em-
Richard B. Sheridan on Taxation. 305
ployed in an erndite dissertation on the histories of Eome and
Carthage. He further informed the House, upon the authority of
Scipio, that we could never conquer the enemy until we were fii-st
conquered ourselves. It was when Hannibal was at the gates oi
E/Ome, that Scipio had thought the proper moment for the invasion
of Carthage, — what a pity it is that the learned gentleman does not
go with this consolation and the authority of Scipio to the lord
mayor and aldermen of the city of London. Let him say, " Ee-
joice, my friends ! Buonaparte is encamped at Blackheath ! What
hapiDy tidings !" It would be whimsical to observe how they would
receive such joyful news. I should like to see such faces as they
would make on that occasion. Though I doiibt not of the erudition
of the learned gentleman, he seems to me to have somehow con-
founded the stories of Hanno and Hannibal, of Scii^io and the
Eomans. He told us that Carthage was lost by the jDarsimony or
envy of Hanno, in preventing the necessaiy supplies for the war
being sent to Hannibal : but he neglected to go a little further, and
to relate that Hanno accused the latter of having been ambitious —
" Juveuem furentem cupidine regni ;"
and assured the senate that Hannibal, though at the gates of Eome,
was no less dangerous to Hanno. Be this, however, as it may, is
there any Hanno in the British Senate P If there is, nothing can
be more certain than that all the efforts and remonstrances of the
British Hanno could not prevent a single man, or a single guinea,
being sent for the supply of any Hannibal our ministers might
choose. The learned gentleman added, after the defeat of Hannibal,
Hanno laixghed at the senate ; but he did not tell us what he
laughed at. The advice of Hannibal has all the appearance of being
a good one —
" Cai'thaginis moenia Eoma3 niuuerata."
If they did not follow his advice, they had themselves to blame
for it.
From the strain of declamation in which the learned gentleman
launched out, it seems as if he came to this House as executor to a
wan whose genius was scarcely equalled by the eccenti'icities he
.sometimes indulged. He appears to come as executor, and in the
House of Commons, to administer to Mr. Burke's fury without any
of his fire. It is, however, in vain for him to attempt any imitatioji
of those declamatory harangues and writings of the transcendant
author, which, towards the latter jjart of his life, were, as I think,
unfortunately too much ap]3lauded. When not embellished with
those ornaments which Mr. Burke was so capable of adding to all
he either spoke or wrote, the subject of such declamations could
only claim the admiration of a school-boy. The circumstance of a
great, extensive, and victorious repiiblic, breathing nothing but war
in the long exercise of its most successful operations, surroimded
with triumphs, and panting for fresh laurels, to be compared, much
less re-oresented as inferior, to the military power of England, ia
30G Oratoi%
childlsli and ridiculotis. What similitude is fheve between ns
;aid the great Eoman repuhhc in the height of its fame and
glory ? Did you, Sir, ever hear it stated, that the Roman bulwark
was a naval force ? And if not, what comparison can there be
drawn between their efforts and power? This kind of rodo-
montade declamation is finely described in the language of one of
the Eoman poets —
" I, demens, cui-re per Alpes,
Ut piieris place.is, ct declAMATIO fias."
The proper ground upon which this bUl should be opi^osed, 1
conceive to be neither the uncei-tainty of the criterion, nor the in-
justice of the retrospect, though they would be sufficient. The tax
itself will be found to defeat its own purposes. The amount which
an individual jsaid to the assessed taxes last year can be no rule for
what he shall pay in future. All the articles by which the gradations
rose must be laid aside, and never resumed again. Circumstanced
as the country is, there can be no hojje, no chance whatever, that,
if the tax succeeds, it ever will be repealed. Each individual, there-
fore, instead of putting down this article or that, will make a final
and general retrenchment ; so that the minister cannot get at him
in the same way again, by any outward sign which might be used
as a criterion of his wealth. These retrenchments cannot fail of de-
priving thoiisands of their bread ; and it is vain to hold out the
delusion of modification or indemnity to the lower orders. Every
burthen imposed upon the rich in the articles which give the poor
employment, affects them not the less for affecting them circuitously.
It is as much cant, therefore, to say, that by bearing heavily on the
rich, we are saving the lower orders, as it is foUy to suppose we can
come at real income by arbitrary assessment, or by symptoms of
opulence. There are three ways of raising large sums of money in
a State : First, by voluntary contributions ; secondly, by a great
addition of new taxes ; and thirdly, by forced contributions, which
is the worst of all, and wliich I aver the present plan to be. I am
at present so partial to the first mode that I recommend the further
consideration of this measure to be postponed for a month, in order
to make an experiment of what might be effected by it. For this
purpose let a bill be brought in, authorizing the proper persons to
receive voluntary contributions ; and I should not care if it were
read a third time to-night. I confess, however, that there are many
powerful reasons which forbid us to be too sanguine in the success
even of this measure. To awaken a spirit in the nation, the ex-
ample should come from the first authority, and the higher depart-
ments of the State. It is, indeed, seriously to be lamented, that
whatever may be the burthens or distresses of the people, the
Government has hitherto never shown a disposition to contribute
anything; and this conduct must hold out a poor encouragement
to othevs._ Heretofore all the public contributions were ^nade for
.the b-juefit and iirofitof the contributors, in a manner inc nceivable
Richard B. Sheridan on luxation. 307
to more simple nations. If a native inhabitant of Bengal or China
were to be informed, that in the west of Europe there is a small
island, which in the course of one hundred years contributed four
hundred and fifty millions to the exigencies of the State, and that
every individual, on the making of a demand, vied with liis neigh-
bour ui alacrity to subscribe, he would immediately exclaim, " Mag-
nanimous nation! you must surely be invincible." But far dif
ferent would be his sentiments, if informed of the tricks and jobs
attending these transactions, where even loyalty was seen cringing
for its hon us I By a calculation I have made, which I believe cannot
be controverted, it apjoears, from the vast increase of our burthens
during the war, that if peace were to be concluded to-moiTow, we
should have to provide taxes annually to the amount of 28,000,000?.
To this is further to be added, the expense of that system, by which
Ireland is not governed, but ground, insulted, and oppressed. To
find a remedy for all these incumbrances, the first thing to be done
is, to restore the credit of the Bank, which has _ failed, as well in
credit as in honour. Let it no longer, in the minister's hands, re-
main the slave of political circumstances. It must continue in-
solvent till the connection is broken off".
* * * *
It is, Sir, highly offensive to the decency and sense of a commercial
people, to observe the juggle between the minister and the Bank.
The latter vaiintingly boasted itself ready and able to i^ay ; Irat
that the minister kindly prevented, and put a lock. andTcey upon it.
There is a liberality in the British nation which always makes allow-
ance for inability of payment. Commerce requires enterprise, and
enterprise is subject to losses. But I beheve no indulgence was ever
shown to a creditor, saying, " I can, but will not pay you." Such
was the real condition of the Bank, together with its accoiints,_when
they were laid before the House of Commons ; and the chairman
reported from the committee, stating its prosperity, and the great
increase of its cash and bullion. The minister, however, took care
to verify the old saying, " Brag i-J a good dog, but Hold-fast is
better." — "Ah!" said he, "my woi-thy chairman, this is excellent
news, but I will take care to seciire it." He kept his word, took the
money, gave exchequer bills for it, which were no security, and there
was then an end to all our public credit. It is singular enough, Sir,
that the report upon this bill stated that it was meant to secure our
public credit from the avowed intentions of the French to make war
upon it. This was done most efl:ectually. Let the French come
when they please, they cannot touch our pxrblic credit at least. The
minister has wisely provided against it, for he has previously de-
stroyed it. The only consolation besides that remains to us, is Ids
assurance that all will return again to its former state at the con-
clusion of the war. Thus we are to hope, that though the Bank
now presents a meagre sjyedrc, as soon as i^eace is restored the
ijoldcn bust will make its reappearance.
Though, Sir, I have opposed the present tax, I am still conscious
that our existing situation requires great sacrifices to be made, and
X 2
308 Oratory.
that a foreign enemy mnst at all events be resisted. I behold in the
measures of the minister nothing except the most glanng incapacity,
and themost determinedhostility to our liberties ; but we must be con-
tent, if necessary for preserving our independence from foreign attack,
to strip to the shin. " It is an established maxim," we are told, that
men must give up a part for the preservation of tho_ remainder. I
do not dispute the justice of the maxim. But this is the constant
language of the gentleman opposite me. We have already given
up part after part, nearly till the whole is swallowed up. If I had
a pound, and a person asked mo for a shilling, to preserve the rest
I should willingly comply, and think myself obliged to him. _ But if
he repeated that demand till he came to my twentieth, shilling, I
should ask him, — " Where is the remainder ? Where is my found
now? Wliy, my friend, that is no joA-e at all." Upon the whole,
Sir, I see no salvation for the country but in the <;onclusion of a
peace and the removal of the present ministers.
THE EIGHT HON. W. E. GLADSTONE ON THE
FRANCHISE.
[Mr. Gladstone was bom at Liverpool, Dec. 20, 1809. He entered the House
of Commons iu 1832 as a member for Newark. In 1866, on the death of Lord
Palmerston, he became Prime Minister ; since which time he has maintained his
position as leader of the Liberal party.]
I AM not prepared to discuss admission to the franchise as it was
discussed fifty years ago when Lord John Eussell had to state with
almost bated breath that he expected to add in the three kingdoms
half a million to the constituencies. It is not now a question of
nicely calculated less or more. I take my stand ou the broad
principle that the enfranchisement of capable citizens be they few
or be they many, — and if they be many so much the better — gives
an addition of strength to the State. The strength of the modern
State lies in the representative system. I rejoice to think that in
this happy country and under this happy Constitution we have
other sources of strength in the respect paid to various orders of
the State, and in the authority they enjoy, and in the unbroken
course which has been allowed to most of our national traditions ;
but still, in the main, it is the representative system which is tho
strength of the modern State in general, and of the State in thi:i
country m particular. Sir, I may say— it is an illustration which
won't occupy more than a moment— that never has this great
truth been so vividly illustrated as in the war of the American
Republic. The convulsion of that country between 1861 and 1S65
was perhaps the most frightful which ever assailed a national
existence. The efforts which were made on both sides were marked.
The exertions by which alone the movement was put down were
not only extraordinary, they were what would antecedently have
been called impossible, and they were only rendered possible by
the fact that they proceeded from a nation where everv capable
citizen was enfranchised and had a direct and an energetic interest
m the well-being and the unity of the State. Sir, the only question
W. E. Gladstone on the Franchise. 309
that remains in the general argument is, who are capable citizens ?
And, fortunately, that is a question which, on the present occasion,
need not be argued at length, for it has been already settled — in
the first place by a solemn legislative judgment acquiesced in by
both parties in the State, and in the second place by the experience
of the last more than fifteen years. Who, Sir, are the capable
citizens of the State, whom it is proposed to enfranchise ? It is
proposed in the main to enfranchise the county population on the
footing, and according to the measure, that has abeady been
administered to the population of the towns. What are the main
constituents of the county population ? First of all, they are the
minor tradesmen of the country, and the skilled labourers and
artisans in all the common arts of Life, and especially in connection
with our great mining industry. Is there any doubt that these
are capable citizens ? You have yourselves asserted it by enfran-
chising them in the towns, and wo can only say that we heartily
subscribe to the assertion. But besides the artisans and the minor
tradesmen scattered throughout our rural towns we have also to
deal with the peasantry of the country. Is there any doubt that
the peasantry of the country are capable citizens, qualified for
enfranchisement, qualified to make good use of their power as
voters ? This is a question which has been solved for us by the
first and second Eeform Bills, because many of the places which
under the name of towns are now represented in this House are
really rural communities, based upon a peasant constituency. For
m,y part I should be quite ready to fight the battle of the peasant
upon general and argumentative grounds. I beUeve the peasant
generally to be, not in the highest sense, but in a very real sense,
a skilled labourer. He is not a man tied down to one mechanical
exercise of his physical powers. He is a man who must do many
things, and many things which require in him the exercise of
active intelligence. But as I say, it is not necessary to argue on
that ground, first of all because we have got his friends here, from
whom we must anticipate great zeal for his enfranchisement; and
secondly, because the question has been settled by legislative
Authority in the towns, and by practical experience. If he has a
defect it is that he is too ready, perhaps, to work with and to
accept the influence of his superiors — superiors, I mean, in worldly
station. But that is the last defect that you will be disposed to
plead against him, and it is a defect that we do not feel ourselves
entitled to plead, and that we are not at all inclined to plead. We
are ready to take him as he is and joyfully bring him within the
reach of this last and highest privilege of the Constitution. There
is only one other word, Sir, to add on this part of the subject. The
present position of the franchise is one of greater and grosser
anomaly than any in which it has been heretofore placed, because
the exclusion of persons of the same class and the same_ description
is more palpable and more pervading than before, being, in fact,
spread over the whole country, persons being excluded in one
place while the same persons are admitted in another. I wish
810 Oratory.
just to call the attention of the House to an important fact con-
nected -with this part of the question which is of frequent occur-
rence. It is a thing which the house detests, and which we in this
]>ill shall endeavour to avoid — namely, the infliction of personal
disfranchisement. Observe how the present state of the franchise
law brings this about. It is known and well understood that a
labourer must follow his labour. "Where his labour goes, where
the works go in which he is employed, he must follow. He cannot
remain at a great distance from them ; and the instance I will
give — and though X am not personally conversant with it, I believe
there is no doubt about the fact — is an instance which I think
singularly applicable. It is that of the ship-building works on the
Clyde. Those works were within the precincts of the city of
Glasgow, and the persons who laboured in them were able to
remain within the city, being near theii" work, and at the same
time to enjoy the franchise. But the marvellous enterprise of
Glasgow, which has made that city the centre and crown of the
ship-building business of the world, could not be confined within
the limits of the city of Glasgow, and it moved down the river.
As the trade moved down the river the artisans required to move
down the river with it. That was a matter of necessity, and the
obedience to that necessity involves under the present law whole-
sale disfranchisement. That is an argument which is sufficient
for disposing of the general question. The whole population, I
rejoice to think, have liberty of speech, they have liberty of
writing, they have liberty of meeting in public, they have Liberty of
private association, they have liberty of petitioning Parliament.
AH these privileges are not privileges taking away from us,
diminishing our power and security, they are all of them privileges
on the existence of which our security depends. Without them
we could not be secure. I ask you to confer upon the very same
classes the crowning privilege of voting for a representative in
Parliament, and then I say we who are strong now as a nation and
a State shall by virtue of that change be stronger still.
* * * # ♦
_ We propose to establish a new franchise, which I should call —
till a better phrase be disco vered— the service franchise. It will be
given to persons who are inhabitants, and in the sense of inha-
bitancy, who are occupiers. The present law restricts, I believe,
the signification of the term "occupiers" to those who are either
owners or tenants. Our object is to provide a franchise for those
inhabitants who are neither owners nor tenants ; but they must be
householders_ in this sense— either, in the first place, that they are
actual inhabitants ; or, in the second place, that there is no other
inhabitant with them, superseding them or standing in the same
P^^ition with them ; and in the third place, they must either be
inhabitants of an integral house or else of that separate part of a
House which, at any rate, so far as England is concerned, has
already been declared to be a house for electoral purposes. Hon.
gentlemen are aware of the general reasons whicli may be pleaded
W. E. Gladstone on the Franchise. 811
in favour of this enlargement. It is an enlargement absolutely
required by the principle of this Bill, because the principal and
central idea of this Bill is to give every householder a vote. The
householder is just as much a householder, and has just as much
the responsibility of a householder, whether he is in the eye of tho
law an owner or a tenant, or whether he is not, jM-ovided he is au
inhabitant in the sense I have described. And this service fran-
chise is a far-reaching franchise. It goes to men of high class,
who inhabit valuable houses, as the officers of great institutions.
It descends to men of humble class, who are the servants of the
gentry, or the servants of the farmer, or the servants of some other
employer of labour who are neither owners nor tenants, and who,
in many cases, cannot be held as tenants, in consequence of th<
essential conditions intended to be realised through their labours,
but who fully fulfil the idea of responsible inhabitant liouseholders.
*****
This is a measure with results such as I have ventured to sketch
them that ought to bring home to the mind of every man favourable
to the extension of pojiiular liberty, the solemn question what course
he is to piirsue in regard to it. I hope the House will look at it as
the Liberal party in 1831 looked at the Reform Bill of that date,
and determined that they would waive criticism of minute details,
that they would waive particular jsreferences and predelictions, and
would look at the broad scoj^e and general effect of the measure.
Do that upon this occasion. It is a Bill worth having, and if it is
worth having, again I say it is a Bill worth your not endangering.
Let us enter into no byeways which would lead us olf the path
marked out straight before us ; let us not wander on the hill-tops
of speculation ; let us not wander into the morasses and fogs of
doubt. We are firm in the faith that enfranchisement is a good,
that the people may be trusted — that the voters under the Consti-
tution are the strength of the Constitution. "What we want in order
to carry this Bill, considering as I fully believe that the very large
majority of this country are favourable to its principle — what we
want in order to carry it is union and union only. What will
endanger it is disunion and disunion only. Let us hold firmly
together and success will crown our effort. You will, as much as
any former Parliament that has conferred great legislative benefits
on the nation, have your reward, and
" Read your history in a nation's eyes,"
for you will have deserved it by the benefits you will have con-
ferred. You will have made this strong nation stronger still,
stronger by its closer union without ; stronger against its foes, if
and when it has any foes without; stronger within by union
between class and class, and by arraying all classes and all portions
of the community in one solid, compacted mass round the ancient
throne which it has loved so well, and round a Constitution now to
be more than ever powerful, and more than ever free.
DRAMATIC SCENES AND
DIALOGUES.
SCENE FEOM THE MERCHANT OF VENICE.
Shakspeare.
[William Shakspeare, the most illustrious dramatic poet of auy age or
country, was boru at Stratford-ou-Avou ou the 23rd of April, 1564. He was
educated at the Grammar School of his native toNvu ; but, it has been suggested,
/lis father requiring him to assist in his business, that of a wool-dealer aud
butcher, he was taken early from school. At the age of eighteen he married
Ann Hathaway, a farmer's daughter, and subsequently proceeded to Loudon.
The records of his early life are but scant, aud too much has been written
about him on mere conjecture. It is certain that in London ho rapidly acquired
fame aud fortune, aud that his genius enabled him to retire from his professional
career at a comparatively early age. His imperishable works consist of thirty-
seven plays, tragedies aud comedies; his poems "Venus and Adonis," and
"The Kape of Lucreco," with a coUectiou of Sonnets. He died iu his uativj
town, on his birthday, 161G.]
Dulce. Make room, and let him stand before our face. —
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act ; and then, 'tis thought,
Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange
Than is thy strange apparent cruelty.
And, where thou now exact' st the penalty
"Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
Thou ^vilt not only lose the forfeiture.
But, touched with human gentleness, and love.
Forgive a moiety of the principal,
Glancing an eye of pity on his losses.
That have of late brought down such ruin on him,
Enough to press a royal merchant down :
We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.
Shy. I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose ;
And by our holy saljbath have I sworn
To have the due and forfeit of my bond.
If you deny it, let the danger light
Upon your charter, and your city's freedom !
You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
A weight of carrion flesh, than to receive
Three thousand ducats ? I'll not answer that.
But say, it is my hiJinour ! Is it answer'd ?
Scene from the Merchant of Venice. 313
What if my house be troubled with a rat.
And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats
To have it baned ? What, are you answer'd yet ?
Bassanio. This is no answer, thou unfeeUng man,
To excuse the current of thy cruelty.
Shy. I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
Antonio. I pray you, think you question with the Jew !
You may as well go stand upon the beach.
And bid the main flood bate his usual height ;
You may as well use question with the wolf,
Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb,
As try to melt his Jewish heart to kindness.
Bass. For thy three thousand ducats, here are six.
Shy. If ev'ry ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and ev'ry part a ducat,
I would not draw them ; I would have my bond._
BuTce. How shalt thou ho])e for mercy, rendering none ?
Sliy. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong ?
The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
Is dearly bought : 'tis mine ; and I will have it
Enter Poktia, dressed lihe a Boctor of Baios.
Biihe. Give me your hand. Came you from old Bellario ?
For. I did, my lord.
Bitke. You are welcome : take your j)lace_.
Are you acquainted with the cause in question ?
Par. I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ?
Buhe. Antonio, and old Shylock, both stand forth.
For. (To Shylock.) Is your name Shylock ?
Shy. Shylock is my name.
For. (To Antonio.) You stand within his danger, do you not ?
Ant. Ay, so he says.
For. Do you confess the bond ?
A7it. I do.
For. Then must the Jew be merciful.
Shy. On what compulsion must I ? Tell me that.
For. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heav'n,
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest.
It blesses him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest. It becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings.
It is an attribute of God himself ;
And earthly pow'r doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Tho' justice be thy plea, consider this,
That in ttie coui-se of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
814' Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
And that same pray'r dotli teach, us all to render
The deeds of mercy.
Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond.
Bass. For once I beg the court to bend the law
To equity. 'Tis worth a little wrong
To curb this cruel devil of his will.
Por. It must not be. There is no pow'r in Venice,
Can alter a decree established.
'Twill be recorded for a i^recedent,
And many an error by the same example
Will rush into the state. It cannot be.
Shy. A. Daniel come to judgment ! Yea, a Daniel !
wise young judge ! How do I honour thee !
Por. I pray you, let me look upon the bond.
Shy. Here't is, most reverend doctor! Here it is.
Por. Shylock 1 — there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.
Shy. An oath ! an oath ! I have an oath in Heav'n !
Shall I lay perjury on my soul ?
No, not for Venice.
Por. Why, this bond is forfeit,
And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
A pound of Hesh, to be l)y him cut off
Nearest the merchant's heart. — Be merciful,
Take thrice thy money. Bid me tear the bond.
Shy. When it is paid according to the tenor. —
There is no power in the tongue of man.
To alter mo. I stay upon my bond.
Ant. Most heartily do I beseech the court
To give the judgment.
Por. Wliy, then, thus it is ;
You must pre]iare your bosom for his kiaife.
Shy. Ay, his breast ;
So saith the bond ; doth it not, noble judge ?
Nearest his heart. Those are the very words.
Por. It is so. Are there scales to weigh the flesh ?
Shy. I have them ready.
Par. Have here a surgeon, Shylock, at your charge,
To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death.
Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ?
Por. It is not so expressed ; but what of that ?
'Twere good you do so much for charity.
Shy. I cannot find it. 'Tis not in the bond.
Por. A pound of that same merchant's tlesh is thine.
The court awards it, and the law doth give it.
Shy. Most rightful judge !
Por. And you must cut this flesh from off hi& breast.
The law allows it, and the court awards it.
Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence ! Come, prcpai'e.
Por. Tarry a little. There is something else—
iScenefrom the Merchant of Venice. 315
This bond doth give you here no jot of blood.
The words expressly are a pound of flesh.
Then take thy bond. Take thou thy pound of flesh ;
But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are, by the laws of Venice, forfeited.
Gratiano. upright judge ! Mark, Jew! learned judge!
Shy. Is that the law ?
For. Thyself shalt see the act ;
For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd
Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.
Gra. A learned judge ! Mark, Jew ! A learned judge !
8hj. I take his off'er, then. Pay the sum thrice
And let the Christian go.
Bass. Here is the money.
For. Soft!
The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ! — no haste ; —
He shall have nothing but the penalty.
Gra. A second Daniel ! Jew.
Now, infidel, I have full hold of thee.
For. Why doth the Jew pause ? Take the forfeiture
Shij. Give me my principal, and let me go.
Bass. I have it ready for thee. Here it is.
For. He hath refus'd it in the oj^en court.
He shall have merely justice, and his bond.
Gra. A Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel.
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.
Shy. Shall I not barely have my princii:)al ?
For. Thou shalt have nothing, but the forfoiturev
To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.
Shi/. Why then, the devil give him good of it !
I'll stay no longer c|uestion.
For. Stoj) him, guards.
The law hath yet another hold on you.
It is enacted by the laws of Venice, —
If it be jjroved against an aHen,
That by direct, or indirect attempts,
He seek the life of any citizen,
The party 'gainst the wliich he doth contrive,
Shall seize on half his goods. The other lialf
Goes to the privy cofi'er of the state ;
And the ofifender's hfe lies in the mercy
Of the Duke only, 'gainst all other voice, —
In which predicament, I say, thou stand' st;
For it appears by manifest proceeding,
That indirectly, and ciirectly too.
Thou hast contriv'd against the very life
Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd
The danger formerly by me rehears'd.
Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke.
I
316 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Btike. That tliou may'st see tlie difference of our spirit,
I pardon thee thy life, before thovx ask it.
Sliy. Nay, take my life and ah. Pardon not that.
Yon take my hfe, takmg whereon I live.
For What mercy can yon render him, Antonio .-^
Gra. A halter gratis; nothing else ; for God s sake.
Ant. So please my Lord theDnke, and all the court,
To quit the fine for one-half of his goods ;
I shall be well contented, if I have
The other half in use, until his death,
Then to restore it to the gentleman
Who lately stole his daughter.
Buhe. He shall do this, or else I do recant
The pardon that I late pronounced here.
For. Art thou contented, Jew ? What dost thou say 2
Shy. I pray you give me leave to go from hence,
I am not well. Send the deed after me,
And I will sign it.
Duke. Get thee gone. But do it.
WOLSEY AND CEOMWELL.
Shakspeare.
[See page 312.]
Wolsey. So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness !
This is the state of man. To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him.
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost ;
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripeniug, nips his I'oot ;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory.
But far beyond my depth ; my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old -with service, to the mercy
Of a rnde stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new-opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favoui-s !
There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to.
That sweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,
Move pangs and fears than war or women have ;
And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Wolsey and Cromwell. 317
'Enter Crom"wt:ll, standing amazed. "j
Wliy liow now, Cromwell ?
Crovi. I have no power to speak, sir. •
Wol. What! amazed
At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, if you weej),
I'm fallen indeed.
Crom. How does your Grace ?
Wol. Why, well;
Never so truly hapi:»y, my good Cromwell. I
I know mj'self now, and I feel within me J
A peace above all earthly dignities — I
A still and quiet conscience. The King has cured me, j
I humbly thank his Grace : and from these shoulders,
These ruined pillars, out of pity taken
A load would sink a navy — too much honour.
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden j
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven. '
Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it.
Wol. I hope I have. I'm able now, methinks,
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,
T' endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. ^
"What news abroad ?
Crom. The heaviest and the worst
Is your displeasure with the King.
Wol. God bless him !
Crom: The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord Chancellor in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden —
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice
For truth's sake and his conscience ; that his bones.
When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings.
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on liim.
W^hat moi'e ?
Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome;
Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news, indeed ! '.
Crom. Last, that the Lady Ann,
Whom the King hath in secrecy long married.
This day was viewed in open as his Queen,
Going to chapel ; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.
V,'ol. There was the weight that ijull'd me down.
Cromwell,
The King has gone beyond me. All my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever.
No sun shall ever usher forth my honours.
318 £)ramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Or gild again tlie noble troops tliat waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get tliee from me, Cromwell ;
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master. Seek the King.
That sun, I pray, may never set. I've told him
What and how true thou art ; he will advance thee.
Some little memory o^ me will stir him,
I know his noble nature, not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not ; make use, now, and provide
For thine own future safety.
Croiu. O niy lord.
Must I then leave you ? nnist I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master ?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord !
The King shall have my service ; but my prayers
For ever and for ever shall be yours.
Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries ; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our tears, and thus far hear me, Cromwell ;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, ]
And sleep in dull cold mai'ble, where no mention "
Of me must more be heard, say then I taught thee ;
So.y, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honoi;r,
Foiind thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in —
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition :
By that sin fell the angels. How can man, then.
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't ?
Love thyself last ; cherish those hearts that hate thee ;
Corruption wins not more than honesty :
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace.
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy coimtiy's,
Thy God's, and truth's ; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the King ;
And — prithee, lead me in.
There, take an inventory of all I have :
To the last penny 'tis the King's. My robe,
And my integrity to heav'n, is all
I dare now call my own. Cromwell, Cromwell !
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my King, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies !
Crom. Good sir, have patience
Wol. So I have. E'arewell
The hopes of court. My ho]3eib in heav'n do dwell.
819
PROTEUS AND VALENTINE.
Shakspeare.
[See page 312.]
Pro. Wilt thou be gone ? Sweet Valentine, adieu !
Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest
Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel.
Wish me partaker in thy happiness.
When thou dost meet good hap ; and, in thy danger,
If ever danger do environ thee,
Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.
Val. And on a love-book pray for my success.
Pro. Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.
Val. That's on some shallow story of deep love
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.
Pro. That's a deep story of a deeper love ;
For he was more than over shoes in love.
Val. 'Tis true ; for you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swam the Hellespont.
Pro. Over the boots ? nay^ give me not the boots.
Val. No, I'll not, for it boots thee not.
Pro. What ?
Val. _ To be
In love, when scorn is bought with groans ; coy looks
With heart-sore sighs ; one fading moment's mirth,
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights.
If haply won, perhaps, a hapless gain
If lost, why then a grievous labour won ;
However, but a folly bought with wit.
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
Pro. So by your circumstance, you call me fool.
Val. So by your circumstance, I fear you'll jirovc.
Pro. 'Tis love you cavil at ; I am not Love.
Val. Love is your master, for he masters you ;
And he that is so yoked by a fool.
Methinks should not be xihronicled for wise.
Pro. Yet writers say, As in the sweetest bud
The eating canker dwells, so eating love
Inhabits in all the finest wits of all.
Val. And writers say, As the most forward bud
Is eaten by the canker, ere it blow.
Even so by love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly ; blasting in the bud.
Losing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee ?
Thou art a votary to fond desire.
320 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Once more adieu : roy father at the road
Expects me coming, there to see me shipp'd.
Pro. And thither will I bring thee, "Valentine.
Val. Sweet Proteus, no ; now let us take our leave.
Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in MUan !
Val. As much to you at home ! and so farewell !
SCENE FEOM "EVEEY MAN IN HIS HUMOUE."
Ben Jonson.
[Bom 1574, Ben Jonsou appeared as a dramatist in his twentieth year. His
father was a clergjiuan, but died before his bu-th ; and his motlier marrying, a
second time, a bricklayer, Ben was taken from Westminster school at an carl^
age, and put to the same cmplojnnent. Disliking this oci'upatiou, he enlisted
as a soldier, and sei'ved in the Low Countries, and is reported to have " killed
his man " in single combat, in view of both aimies. On his return to England,
he eutei-cd St. John's College, Cambridge ; his stay there must have been
limited, for when about twenty, he married the daughter of a London actor,
making Ids debut at a low theatre near Clerkenwcll ; at tlie samo time he com-
menced wi-itiug for the stage. About this time he quaiTelled Avith a brother
actor ; they fought a duel with swords, and again Jonsou killed his antago-
nist. He was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but discharged
without a trial. In 1596 he produced his still celebrated comedy, "Every
Man in his Humour ;" this was followed by " Eveiy Man out of his Humour."
In 16U3 " Sejauus," a classic drama; and, subsequently, three comedies, — viz.,
"Volpone," "The Alchemist," and "Epicene; or, the Silent Woman." His
second classical tragedy, " Catiline," appeared in 1611. In 1619 he was
appointed Poet Laureate, and by virtue of his office he had to supply the court
masques, in Avhich he displayed much fancy, feeling, and sentiment. Jonson
was a member of the Mennaid Club, founded bj* Sir Walter Ealeigh, of which
Shakspeare, Beaumont aud Fletcher, and other poets were also members. An
attack of palsy embittered Jouson's later days, and he was compelled to •write
when his pen had lost its vigour. Jonson died in difficulties, 1637. He was
buried in Westminster Abbey — the only inscription on his grave-stone being,
for long afterwards, " Eake Bex Jonsox ! J
CHARACTERS :
Captaix BoB.iDiL, a Braggadocio. Master Matthew, a Simpkion.
Scene — TJie mean and obscure lodging q/'Bobadil.
BoBADiL discovered. Enicr io him Master Matthew.
Mat. Save you, sir ; save you, captain.
_ Boh. Gentle Master Matthew ! Is it you, sir ? Please you to
sit down.
Mat Thank you, good captain, you may see I am somewhat
audacious.
Boh. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper last night by a sort
of gallants, where you were A\dsh'd for, and drunk to, I assure you
Mat. Youchsafe me, hj whom, good captain ?
Bob. Marry, by young Wellbred and others. Why, hostess, a
stool here for this gentleman.
/Scene from "Every Man In his Humour." 321
Mat. ISTo haste, sir ; 'tis very well.
Boh. Body o' ine ! — it was so late ere we parted last iiiglit, 1 can
scarce open my eyes yet ; I was bnt new risen, as j^ou came : how
passes the day abroad, sir ? — you can tell.
Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven : now, trust me, you have
an exceeding fine lodging here, very neat and private !
Boh. Ay, sir ; sit down, I jiray you. Mr. Matthew (in any case)
])ossess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging.
Mat. Who! I sir?— no.
Boh. Not that I need to care who know it, for the cabin is cou-
venient, but in regard I would not \)Q too popular, and generally
visited as some are.
Mat. True, captain, I conceive you.
Bob. Tor, do you see, sir, by the heart of valour in me (except it
be to some j^eculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am extraordinarily
engaged, as yourself, or so), I could not extend thus far.
Mat. Lord, sii-, I resolve so.
Boh. I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, above all the
tumult and roar of fortune. What new book ha' you there?
What ! Go by, Hieronymo !
Mat. Ay, did you ever sec it acted ? Is't not well j^enn'd ?
Boh. AVell penn'd ! I would fain see all the poets of these times
pen such another play as that was ! — they'll prate and swagger and
keep a stir of art and devices, when (as I am a gentleman), read
'em, they are the most shallow, pitiful, l^arren fellows, that live
upon the face of the earth again.
Mat. Indeed ; here are a number of fine speeches in this book.
" eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears !'' There's a
conceit ! — fountains fraught with tears ! " life, no life, but lively
form of death !'' Another ! " O woi'ld, no world, but mass of
public wrongs !'' A third ! " Confused and fiU'd with murder and
misdeeds!" A fourth! O, the muses! Is't not excellent? Is't
not simply the best that ever you heard, captain ? Ha I how do
like it ?
Boh. 'Tis good.
Mat. " To thee, the purest object to my sense,
The most refined essence heaven covers.
Send I these lines, wherein I do commence
The happy state of turtle-billing lovers.
If they prove rough, unpolish'd, harsh, and rude,
Haste made the waste. Thus mildly I conclude."
Boh. Nay, proceed, proceed. Where's this ?
[BoBADiL is making Ithii ready all tMswliile.
Mat. This, sir ? a toy o' mine own, in my nonage ; the infancy
of my muses ! But when will you come and see my study ? Good
faith, I can show you some very good things I have done of late.
That boot becomes your leg passing well, captain, methinks.
Boh. So, so ; it's the fashion gentlemen now use.
Mat. Troth, captain, and now 3rou speak o' the fashion. Master
Wellbred's elder In-other and I are fallen out exceedingly. This
822 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
other day, I happened to enter into some disconrse of a hanger,
which, I assure you, both for fashion and workmanship, was most
peremptory -beautiful and gentleman-Hke ; yet he condemned and
cried it down for the most pyed and ridiculous that ever he saw.
Boh. Squire Downright, the half-brother, was't not ?
Mat. Ay, sir, he.
Bob. Hang him, rook, he ! why, he has no more judgment than a
malt-horse. By St. George, I wonder you'd lose a thought upon
such an animal ; the most peremptory absurd clown of Christendom,
this day, he is holden. I protest to you, as I am a gentleman and
a soldier, I ne'er changed words with his like. By his discourse, he
should eat nothing but hay : he was born for the manger, pannier,
or pack-saddle ! He has not so much as a good phrase in his belly,
but all old iron and rusty proverbs !— a good commodity for some
smith to make hob-nails of.
3Iat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood still,
where he comes : he brags he will gi me the bastinado, as I hear.
Bob. How ? he the bastinado ? How came he by that word,
trow P
Mat. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me ; I term'd it so for my more
grace.
Boh. That may be, for I was sure it was none of his word ; but
when ? when said he so ?
Mat. Faith, yesterday, they say : a young gallant, a friend of
mine, told me so.
Bob. By the foot of Pharaoh, an' twere my case now, I should
send him a chartel presently. The bastinado ! A most proper and
sufficient dependance, warranted by the great Caranza. Come
hither; you shall chai'tel him; I'll show you a trick or two you
shall kill him with at pleasure ; the first stoccata, if you will, by
this air.
Mat. Indeed; you have absolute knowledge i' the mystery, I
have heard, sir.
Bob. Of whom ? — of whom ha' you heard it, I beseech you ?
Mat. Troth I have heard it spoken of divers, that you have very
rare, and un-in-one-breath-utter-able skill, sir.
Bob. By heav'n, no not I; no skill i' the earth; some small
rudiments i' the science, as to know my time, distance, or so : 1
have profest it more for noblemen and gentlemen's use than mine
o^vn practice, I assure you. Hostess, accommodate us with another
bed-staif here rpiickly : lend us another bed-staff: the woman does
not understand the words of action. Look you, sir, exalt not your
point above this state, at any hand, and let your poniard maintain
your defence, thus (give it the gentleman, and leave us) ; so, sii*.
Come on. O twine your body more about, that you may fall to a
more sweet, comely, gentleman-like guard ; so, indifferent ; hollow
your body more, sir, thus ; now, stand fast o' your left leg, note
your di?tance, keep your due proiwrtioTi of time. 0, you disorder
your point most irregularly !
Mat. How is the bearing of it now, sir ?
Ccito and Decius. 323
Bub. 0, out of meaaure ill I— a well-experienced hand would jiass
upon you at pleasure.
Mat. How mean you, sir, pass upon me ? i
Boh. Why, thus, sir (make a thrust at me) ; come in upon the
answer, control your point, and make a full career at the body ; the
best practis'd gallants of the time name it the passado ; a most
desperate thrust, beheve it !
3Iat. Well, come, sir.
Boh. Why, you do not manage your weapon with any facility or
grace to invite me ! 1 have no spirit to play with you ; your dearth
of judgment renders you tedious.
Mat. But one venue, sir.
Boh. Venue! B.i; most gross denomination as ever I heard. 0,
the stoccata, while you live, sir, note that ; come, put on j'our cloak,
and we'll go to some private place where you are acquainted — some
tavern or so — and have a bit ; I'll send for one of these fencers, and
he shall breathe you, by my direction, and then I will teach you
your trick; you shall kill him with it at the first, if you i)lease.
Why, I will learn you by the true judgment of the eye, hand, and
foot, to control any enemy's point i' the world. Should your
adversary confront you with a pistol, 'twere nothing, by this hand ;
you should, by the same rule, control his bullet, in a line, excejit It
were hail shot, and spread. What money ha' you about you,
Master Matthew ?
Mat. Faith, I ha' not past a two shillings, or so.
Boh. 'Tis somewhat with the least ; but come ; we will have a
bunch of radish, and salt to taste our wine, and a pipe of tobacco,
to close the orifice of the stomach ; and then we'll call upon young
Wellb ed : perhaps we shall meet the Coridon, his brother, there,
and put him to the ciuestion. ^Exeunt.
CATO AND DECIUS.
Joseph Addisox.
[See p. 117.1
Dec. Ctesar sends health to Cato
Cafo Could he send it
To Cato's slaughter'd friends, it would be welcome.
Are not your orders to address the senate ?
Diic. My business is with Cato ! Caesar sees
The straits to which you are driven : and, as he knows
Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life.
Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Eome.
Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country.
Tell your dictator this ; and tell him, Cato
Disdains a lite which he has power to offer.
Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Caesar;
Her gen'rals and her consuls are no more,
Y 2
324 Dramatic Sceneo and Dlalogucf!.
Who cLeck'd lils conqacst.-;. and denied his triumph :
Why will not Cato be this Caesar's friend ?
Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged forbid it. w*
Dec. Cato, I've orders to expostulate, ^ \
And reason with you as from friend to friend :
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head,
And threatens ev'ry hour to burst upon it.
Still may you stand high in your country's honours ;
Do but comply and make your peace with Cajsar, •
Home will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato,
As on the second of mankind.
Cato. N'o more :
I must not think of life on such conditions.
Di'c. Ca3sar is well acquainted with your vu'tucs.
And therefore sets this value on your life.
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship,
And name your terms.
Cato. Bid him disband his legions,
Restore the commonwealth to libert\',
Hubmit his actions to the public censure, .
And stand the judgment of a Roman senate :
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend.
I)cc. Cato, the world talks boldly of your wisdom. —
Cato. Nay more — tho' Cato's voice was ne'er employed
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes.
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour
And strive to gain his 2)ardon from the peojjle.
Bee. A style like this becomes a conqueror.
Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman.
Dec. What is a Roman that is Cassar's foe ?
Cato. Greater than Ca?sar : he's a friend to virtue.
Dec. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica,
And at the head of your own little senate :
You don't now thunder in the capitol,
With all the mouths of Rome to second 3"0U.
Catn. Let him consider that, who drives us hither;
'Tis Caisar's sword has made Rome's senate little,
And thinn'd its ranks. Alas ! thy dazzled eye
Beholds this man in a false glarnig light,
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him ;
Didst thou but view him right, thou'dst see him black
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes
That strike my soul with horror but to name them.
I know thou look'st on me as on a wretch,
Beset with ills and cover'd with misfortunes
But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds
Should never buy me to be like Ca'-sar.
Dec. Does Cato send this aiiswer back to Caesar.
For all hisgen'rous cares and proffer'd friendship ?
(kdn. His cares for me are insolent and vain :
1
Scene from Venice Preserved. 325
Presiimptuous man ! tlio gods take care of Cato.
Would Ca3sar show the greatness of his soul,
Bid him emjjloy his care for these my friends,
And make good use of his ill-gotten pow'r,
13y shelf ring men much better than himself.
Dec. Your high imconquer'd heart makes you forget
You are a man ; you rush on your destruction.
But I have done. A7hen I relate hereafter
The tale of this iinha2:)py embassy.
All Kome will be in tears.
SCENE FROM VENICE PRESERVED.
Thomas Otw.\y.
[Otway was bom at Ti'otting, Sussex, iu 1(J51, aud was educated at WIu-
cljt'Ster and Oxford, lie made some ineffectual attempts to become au actor,
aud then commenced as a writer for the stage. Iu 1G75 his first tragedy,
" Alcibiades," was produced, followed in the next year by his "Don Carlos,"
which was very successful. He then served for a short time in a cavalry regiment
iti Flanders, but returned to resume his favourite occupation. His tragedy of
" Venice Preserved " is a model for force and feeling, combined with tlie deep
pathos that is alwaj-s associated with scenes of domestic distress when touched
by a master hand. Ho died at a publichouse in Tower-hill, where be had
secreted himself from his creditors, aud in a literally starving couditioD, iu
1685 being then only in liis 3ith ycar.J
CIIARACTEES :
The Duke of Vexice. riavLi, a Senator.
-Jaefieu. I'ikkue. •
CAPTAIX of the CilAKHS.
ACT IV.
Scene W.— Thc Duke of Venice, Piuuli, and other Senafors,
sitting.
Dulce. Anthony, Priuli, senators of Venice,
Speak, -why are we assembled here this night ?
What have you to inform us of, concerns
The state of Venice' honour, or its safety ?
Fri. Could words express the story I've to tell you,
Fathers, these tears were useless, these sad tear.^
That fall from my old eyes ; but there is cause
We all should weep, tear off these .purple robes,
And wrap ourselves in sackcloth, sitting down
On the sad earth, and cry aloud to hoav'n:
Heav'n knows, if yet there be au hour to come
Ere Venice be no more.
Duke. How!
Pri. Nay, we stand
Upon the very brink of gaping ruin.
Within this city's forni'd a dark consjuracy,
32G Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
To massacre us all, our wives aud cliilclren,
Kindred and friends; our palaces and temples
To lay in ashes : nay, the hour too fix'd ;
The swords, for aught I know, drawn e'en this moment,
And the wild waste begun. From unknown hands
I had this warning ; but, :f we are men,
Let's not be tamely butcher'd, but do something
That may inform the world, in after ages,
Oar virtue was not ruin"d, though we were.
[.1 noise withoxit.
C-nit. Room, room, make room for some prisoners.
'■ ^Without
Balcc. Give 'em entrance.
Eii/t'c Jaffier, muZ Captain of the Guards.
Well, who are you?
Jaf. A villain !
Would every man, that hears me.
Would deal so honestly, and own his title.
Dalce. 'Tis rumour'd that a plot has been contriv'd
Against this state, and you've a share in't too.
If you are a villain, to redeem your honoxir
Unfold the truth, and be restor'd with merc3\
Jaf. Think not that I to save my life came hither ;
I know its value better ; but in pity
To all those wretches whose unhappy djoms
Are fix'd and seal'd. You see me here before you,
The sworn and covenanted foe of Venice:
But use me as my dealings may desei've,
And I may prove a friend.
Di'he. The slave capitulates;
Give him the tortures.
/('/. That you dare not do;
Your fear wont let you, nor the longing itch
To hear a story whicli you dread the truth of:
Truth, which the fear of smart shall ne'er get from me.
Cowards are scar'd with threat'nings : boys are whipp'd
Into confessions ; but a steady mind
Acts of itself, ne'er asks the body's counsel.
Crive him the torture.^ I Name but such a thing
Again, Ijy heav'n I'll shut these liyis for ever.
Not all your racks, your engines, or your wheels,
Sliall force a groan away, that you may guess at.
Dnlci'. Name your conditions.
Jdf. For mvself full pai-don,
B.'sides the lives of two-and-twenty friends,
AVhose names aie here enroU'd. Nay, let their crimes
Be ne'er so monstrous, I must have the oatlis
And sacred promises of this reverend council,
That, ui a full assembly of the senate
Scene from Venice Preserved. Sz7
The thing I ask be ratified. Swear this,
And I'll unfold the secret of your linger.
Duhe. Propose the oath.
Jaf. By all the hopes
Ye have of peace and happiness hereafter,
3 wear. Ye swear ?
All Sen. We swear. {All fhr Council hoiv.)
Jaf. And, as ye keep the oath,
May you and your posterity be bless'd
Or curs'd for ever.
All Sen. Else be curs'd for ever. {They low again.)
Jaf. Then here's the list, and with't the full disclose
Of all that threatens you. {Delivers a j)(Tj)cr to the Ojjicer, xvlio
gives it to the Duke.)
Now, fate, thou hast caught me.
Dulce. Give order that all diligent search be made
To seize these men ; their characters are public.
{The Duke gives the first iia per to the Ojjiccr.)
The paper intimates their rendezvous
To be at the house of a fam'd Grecian courtezan
Call'd Aquilina; see that place secur'd.
You, Jafher, must with patience bear till morning
To be our prisoner.
Jaf. Would the chains of death
Had bound me safe ei*e I had known this minute !
Dulce. Captain, withdraw your prisoner.
Jaf. Sir, if possible.
Lead me where my o^^^l thoughts themselves may lose me ;
Where I may doze out what I've left of life,
Forget myself, and this day's guilt and falsehood.
Criiel remembrance ! how shall I appease thee ?
[E.rif, guarded.
Offi,. {Without.) More traitors ; room, room ! make room there.
Dulic. How's this ? guai'ds !
Where are your guards .^ Shut up the gates ; the treason's
Already at our doors.
Enter Officer ivith Pierre in fetters.
Offi. My lords, more traitors,
Seiz'd in the very act of consultation ;
Furnish'd with arms, and instruments of mischief.
Pier. You, my lords, and fathers
(As you are pleas'd to call yourselves) of Venice ;
If you sit here to giiide the course of justice,
Why these disgraceful chains upon the limbs
That have so often labour'd in jowr service ?
Ai-e these the wreaths of triumijli ye bestow
On those that bi-ing j^ou conquest home, and honours ?
Duke. Go on ; you shall be heard, sir.
Pier. Are these the trophies I've deserv'd for fi;clitina:
328 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Your battles with confederated powers ?
"When winds and seas conspir'd to overthrow you ;
And brought the fleets of Spain to your own harbours ;
When you, great duke, shrunk trembling in your palace,
And saw your wife, the Adriatic, plough'd,
Like a lewd dame, by bolder prows than yours ;
Stepp'd not I forth, and tcught your loose Venetians
The task of honour, and the way to greatness '''
Kais'd you from your capitulating fears
To stipulate the terms of sued- for peace ?
And this my recompense ! If I'm a traitor,
Produce my charge ; or show the wretch that's base
And brave enough to tell me I'm a traitor.
Duke. Kuow j'ou one Jaffier ?
Fier. Yes, and know his virtue.
His justice, truth, his general worth, and sufferings
From a hard father, taught me first to love him.
Duke. See him brought forth.
Enter Jaffiee, guarded.
Pier. My friend, too, bound ! nay, then
Our fate has conquer'd us, and we must fall.
Why drops the man whose wellfare's so much mine,
They're but one thing ? These reverend tyrants, Jaffier,
Call us traitors ; art thou one, my brother ?
Jaf. To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave
That e'er betraj-ed a generous, trusting friend,
And gave up honour to bo sure of ruin.
All our fair hopes which morning was t' have crowned,
Has this curst tongue o'crthrown.
Pier. So, then, all's over.
Venice has lost her freedom, I my life.
No more : farewell I
Duke. Say : will you make confession
Of your vile deeds, aud trust the senate's mercy ?
Pier. Curs'd be your senate ! curs'd your constitution :
The curse of growing factions and divisions
Still vex your counsels, shake your public safety,
And make the robes of government you wear
Hateful to you, as these l)ase chains to me.
Duke. Pardon, or death ':'
Pier. Death ! honourable death !
Dttke. Break up the council. Captain, guard your prisoners.
Jather, you re free, but these must wait for judgment.
[The Captain takes off Jaffier's c/uiins. The Dl'KR
and Council go aivai/. The Conspirators, all hut
Jaffier and Pierre, go off, guarded.
Pier. Come, where's my dungeon Y Lead me to my straw:
It will not be the first time I've lodg'd hard
To do the senate service.
Scene from Venice Preserved. 329
Jiif. Hold, one moment.
Ficr. Who's he disputes the judgment of the senate?
Presumptuous rebel! [Strikes JxrYiLii.) On! {To OfiC'-r.)
Jaf. By heav'n, you stir not !
I must be heard; I must have leave to speak.
Thou hast disgrac'd me, Pierre, by a vile blow :
Had not a dagger done thee noljler justice ?
But use me as thoxi wilt, thou canst not wrong me ;
For I am fallen beneath the basest injuries :
Yet look upon me with an eye of mercy,
With pity and with charity behold me :
And as there dwells a godlike nature in thee,
Listen with mildness to my supplications.
Pi'er. What whining monk art thou.'' Avhat holy cheat,
That wouldst encroach upon my credulous ears,
And cant'st thus vilely ? Hence ! 1 know thee not:
Leave, hypocrite!
Jaf. Not know me, Pierre ?
Pier. No, I know thee not. "What art thou ?
Jaf. Jaffier, thy friend ; thy once-loved, valued friend ;
Though now deservedly scorn'd, and us'd most hardl3\
Pii.'r. Thou. Jafher ! thou, my once-loved, valued friend !
By heavens, thou liest ! the man so call'd, my friend.
Was generous, honest, faithful, just, and valiant;
Noble in mind, and in his person lovely ;
Dear to my eyes, and tender to my heai-t :
But thou, — a wretched, base, false, worthless coward,
Poor even in soul, and loathsome in tlij'' aspect !
All eyes must shun thee, and all hearts detest thee.
Prythee avoid; nor longer cling thus round me,
Like something baneful, that my nature's chill'd at.
/('_/". I have not wroug'd thee ; l)y these tears I h.ave not.
Tier. Hast thou not wrong'd me ? Dar'st thou call thj'self
That once-loved, valued friend of inine,
And swear thou hast not wrong'd me ? Whence these chains?
Wheuce the vile death which I may meet this moment ?
Whence this dishonour, l.)ut from thee, thou false one ?
Jaf. All's true, yet grant one thing, and I've done asking.
F'ier. What's that ?
Jaf. To take thy life, on such conditions
The council have pi'opos'd : thou and thy friends
May 3^et live long, and to be better treated.
Fier. Life ! ask my life ! confess ! record myself
A villain, for the privilege to breathe !
And carry up and down this curs'd cit}-,
A discontented and repining spirit,
Burthensome to itself, a few years longer ;
To lose it, may be, at last, in a lewd quarrel
For some new friend, treacherous and false as thou art !
No, this vile world and I have long been jangling,
830 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
And cannot part on better terms than now,
When only men hke thee are fit to live in't.
Jaf. By all that's just
Pier. Swear by some other powers,
For thou hast broke that sacred oath too lately.
Jaf. Then, by that hell I merit, I'll not leave thee
Till to thyself at least tliLu'rt reconcil'd,
However thy resentment deal with me.
Pier. Not leave me.
Jaf. No, thou shalt not force me from thee.
Use me reproachfully, and like a slave ;
Tread on me, buffet me, heap wrongs on wrojigs
On my poor head ; I'll bear it all with patience
Shall weary out thy most unfriendly cruelty :
Lie at thy feet, and kiss 'em though they spurn mo,
Till wounded by my sufferings, thou relent,
And raise me to thy arms with dear forgivene3.3.
Pier. Art thou not
Jaf What?
Pier. A traitor ?
Jaf Yes. _
Pier. A villain ?
Jaf. Granted.
Pier. A coward, a most scandalous coward ;
Spiritless, void of honour ; one who has sold
Thy everlasting fame for shameless life ?
Jaf All, all and more, much more : my faults are niimberless.
Pier. And would'st thou have me hve on terms like thine ?
Base as thou art false
Jaf No : 'tis to me that's granted : ^
The safety of thy life was all I aim'd at, ti
In recompense for faith and trust so broken.
Pier. I scorn it more because preserv'd by thee ;
And, as when first my foolish heart took pity
On thy misfortunes, sought thee in thy miseries,
Eelieved thy wants, and raised thee from the state . .
Of wretchedness, in which thy fate had plung'd the?, •' '
To rank thee in my list of noble friends,
All 1 receiv'd, in surety for thy truth.
Were unregarded oaths, and this, this dagger, E
Giv'n with a worthless pledge, thou since hast stol'n :
So 1 restore it back to thee again ;
Swearing by all those powers which thou hast violated,
Never, from this curs'd hour, to hold communion.
Friendship, or interest, with thee, though our ycar3
Were to exceed those limited the world.
Take it ; farewell — for now 1 owe thee nothing.
Jaf Say, thou wilt live then.
Pier. For my life, dispose it
Just a* thou wilt, because 'tis what I'm tir'd with.
i
Scene from the School of Reform. 331
Jaf. Oli, Pierre.
Pier. No more.
/('/. My eyes wont lose sight of tliee,
But languish, after thee, and ache with gazing.
Pier. Leave me. ISTay then, thus, thus I throw thee from me;
And curses, great as is thy falsehood, catch thee.
[^Exit, guarded,
Jaf. Amen.
He's gone, my father, friend, preserver !
And here's the portion he has left me :
{Holds the dagrjer ^qi.)
This dagger. Well remember'd ! with this dagger,
1 gave a solemn vow, of dire importance ;
Parted with this and Belvidera together.
Have a care, mem'ry, drive that thought no farther:
No, I'll esteem it as a friend's last legacy;
Treasure it up within this wretched bosom.
Where it may grow acquainted with my heart.
That when they meet they start not from each other.
So, now for thinking. A blow ! — call'd a traitor, villain,
Coward, dishonourable coward ! faugh !
Oh ! for a long, sound sleep, and so forget it !
SCENE FEOM THE SCHOOL OF EEFOEM.
Thomas Moktox.
[Thomas Morton, the prolific and successful dramatist, was born at Durham
in 17(54. He eutered Lincoln's luu with the intention of following the law as
a profession ; but his first piece proving successful, he continued to write for
the stage. Among his pieces may bo named "Speed the Plough," "The
School of Reform," and '• A Rowland for an Oliver." He died, 183t<.]
Lord Avoxdale, Ferment, Egbert Tyke, an Old Max.
An Apartment in Avondale Castle ; two chairs.
TJnfer Lord Avondale, k. ; he imuses, then proceeds to opfosite door
off stage, and opens /i.— Tyke enters from it.
Ld. A. (r.) Come hither— How is this, Robert? When I left
England you were a youth, whose example was pointed out as an
object of imitation— your morals were pure, your industry exemplary
—how is it, then, that I now fee you an abandoned outcast ?
TyJce. (l.) Ah, sur, it was all along wi" you.
Ld. A. Me ! was not my bounty ample ? did not T give yon inde-
pendence ? . .
Tyke. Ah, that was it —when yon sent me that httle child to take
care on
Ld. A. Hush I
Tyke. Well, well ;— and that big lump of money 1 you see, as I
had not worked for it, it made me quite fidgety ; I always nad my
332 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
liancT in my pocket, scrummeling it about like — so, as all Yovlcsliire
lads like galloping horses, I bouglit one. and took't to races, iip at
oar country side— and, ecod ! I pnlled ^tufi' into my hat as clean as
ninepence. Oh, oh ! says I, I'll make short work of this : I'll go to
t^ewmarkst, where the lords do bring their cattle, and settle matters
in a hnrry. So I went, and mighty pleased i was ; for the jockey
lords called me 'squire, you see — and clapping me on the back, in
this manner, says, 'Squire, your h.orse will beat everything!
Ld. A. Indeed !
Ti/ke. Yes, yes — that was pleasant enough ; but, unluckily, the
jockey lads told me a cursed heap o' lies ; for ma horse always came
in lag last. Then they told ma to hedge ; but it was not the hedg-
ing I had been used to, and somehow I got intid ditch like — So what
Avith that and playing cards at Lamb skinniiigs (for, bless j'oii, I
could not catch them at Suitchums), I was
Ld. A. Ruined.
Tyke. Yes ; as jockey lords said — completely cleaned out.
Ld A. Did you not return to honest labour?
Tyl-e. Oh no, I could not — my hands had got soft and smooth,
and I had a ring girt about my linger ; — no, I could not tak to work.
Ld. A. Go on.
Tyke. Why as I could stay there no longer, I thought it would
not be a bad plan to go away— so I went intid stable, and, would
you believe it? the horse that Ijeat mine somehow coaxed and con-
trived to get me on his back like — and, ecod, galloped oiF wi' me a
matter of a hundred miles. — I thought no more about it myself
Ld. A. But they did ?
TijJie. Yes, dom them, and were very cross indeed ; for they put
me intid castle, and tried me at 'sizes.
Ld. A. What could you saj' to avert your fate ?
I'l/Jce. AVhy, I told the judge— says I, my lord, I hope you'll ex-
cuse my not being used to this kind of tackle — exchange is no rob-
bery, mistakes of this kind will happen ; but, I assure you, I've kept
the best of company with the jockey lords, and such like as your-
sslf. So they all smiled, as miicli as to say, he's one of us, like —
and I thought all was right enough ; but the judge puts him on a
bla"k cap, and, without saying with A'our leave, or onything, orders
ni3 to be hangec'.
Ld. A. Poor wretch!
Tylie. Don't you be frightened ! they did not hang me, man —
don't believe that ; no, bless you, they scut ma to Botany Bay for
fourteen yeai-s.
Ld. A. \\ here, I hope, you remained resigned to your fate.
Tjike. Oh ! quite resigned, for I could not get away— I daresay
I tried a hundred times.
Ld. A. Why did not I know it— had you sent to my house
Tj/lce. 1 did send to your house.
Ld. A. Well !
Tijl-v. Why, they wrote word. I think, that you had been called
up to t other house— but then I did not know where that was— and
Scene from the School of Reform. 333
that yon was sent abroad by government : I was sorry to bear that,
becaiise I knew what that was by myself Hke ; not that it surprised
me, because I heard of your ahvays being at Cockpit, and I guessed
what that would end in.
Lcl. A. Pshaw! Come hither; tell me — I dread to ask it — that
child — where — hush ! we are interrupted. {_E,veiuit, l.
Mu. FjiioiKXT j3('ei)s ilirowjU it., holes ahouf, then enters.
Mr. F. While his lordship is engaged, no harm in taking a jDeep.
Charming rooms ! fit for expanded genius like mine : here I shall
meander through the^e enchanting labyrinths till I reach the closet
— the sanctum sanctorum — the— eh ! somebody in that room .- it
Would be 'j«(f-Z-('j)rf)|;os to stumble on the peer before I'm introducei,
— but he's safe with the general, so nevermind, {lie-enter Tyke, l.)
Sir, your most devoted servant.
fijke. Same to you, sir ; same to you. {crosses to ii.)
Mr. F. Odd figure ! Oh, I see at once who he is — great county
man, in the commission — get well with him— may be useful. Sorry,
sir, the robbery was not brought home to that rascal.
Tyl'o. Are you? Now there we differ. {Tal-cs cliair and sits ii.)
Mr. F. Indeed ! {Sits l.) You, who are used to the sessions, must
know these things better than I. Your friend. Lord Avondale, is a
great character, extremely popular : — Did you hear his last
speech ?
Tyhe. (r.) ISTo; I don't myself much fancy last speeches.
Mr. F. (l.) In the country, perhaps ?
Tyhe. No : I was out of the country.
Mr. F. Abroad ?
Tyhe. Yes.
Mr. F. What, run out a little, eh— rather out at the ell)Ows ?
Tyhe. A good deal.
Mr. F. You'll excuse me ; but I see things in a moment — What
cards, hazard — ah, my dear sir, you should have got some friend to
have tied you up.
Tyhe. You think so ? Why, I could have got that done fast
enough.
Mr. F. But I suppose you were determined to take your swing ?
Tyhe. Not exactly ; but I did not go abroad on that account.
Mr. F. Oh, I know it in a moment — ill health ?
Tyhe. Why I certainly should have died if I had stayed.
Mr. F. Indeed? — Oh, my dear sir, in this world we must all have
our trials, and you have had yours.
Tijhe. I have.
Mr. F. Suffered much coufinement ?
Tyhe. A good deal.
Mr. F. Yoii of course were properly attended : you had good
j adges of your case ?
Tijhe. They were reckoned so : I did not much fancy them myself.
2tr. F. And they said a voyage would save you ?
S34 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Tyhe. To a certainty.
Mr. F. You must have been transiwrted at the news.
Tyke. I was.
Mi: F. "What was your disorder ?
Tylce. A galloping consumption.
Mr. F. Has it cured you ? (Offering a finch of snuff.)
Tylce. I don't know ; I thmk I feel some of my old symptoms —
{Takes the hox) — This is a very pretty box — I've lost mine.
Mr. F. Do me the honour to use that till [Apart) — If he would
butkeapit! (Tyke pats it iti his pocket.) He has — My dear sir,
you have doubtless considerable interest with Lord Avondale ?
Tifke. Why, I believe he would not much like to oifend me.
Mr. F. Iiucky fellow! (Apart.) My name, sir, is Ferment ; by-
and-by I shall be introduced to the peer. You know business— a
word thrown in by you would prevent my being thrown into the
Avrong box — eh ? (Tvke luinks and nods.) I apprehend you.
Ti/lce. You apprehend me, do you? (Alarmed.)
Mr. F. That is, I conceive— 1 understand— ah, sir, you don't know
ma.
Ti/ke. No, I don't, and you don't know mc.
Mr. F. Yes I do ; you are a generous, disinterested gentleman —
I can se3 what others can't.
Tijke. Yes, you can.
Enter Lord Avoxdale unulserved hy Ferment, l.
L I. A. Ah ! whom have we here ? (Apart.)
Mr. F. As for the peer, you'll see how I'll manage him. I'll worm
into his secrets. I say, which is the weak side — where is he ticklish ?
Tyke. Ticklish ! — I'm sure I never tried.
Mr. F. iSTever mind ; I know — between ourselves — see the whole
man as \>\?dn as if he stood before me.
(Lord Avondale has placed himself close to FEnyiEyir'a chair.)
Tyke. Why, for that matter, so do I.
Mr. F. I'll soon find the right place to tickle him.
\_Tarns round, sees Lord Avondale at his elhoiv, u'ho eyes
him ivith severity — Ferment attempts to speak, hut cannot
— Lord Avondale advances — Ferment esccqws r.
LI. A. Worm into my secrets ! — What does he mean ? Who is
he ?
Tyke, (r.) He calls himself Ferment.
Ld. A. 1 shall remember him.
Tyke. He gave me this box to speak a good word for him like —
he seems but a silly bad sort of chap, I think.
Ld. A. At present he is not worth a thought, for I have received
information that alarms — distracts me. Come near— that boy (what
a question for a j^arent !) does he survive ?
Tiike. I don't know.
Ld. A. Not know ?
Tyke. No.
Ld. A. Where did you leave him ?
Scene froon the School of Bcform. 335
Tylce. "Where did I leave him ? AVhy — come, come, talk of some-
thing else. {Seems distarhcil.)
Ld. A. Impossible! — Have you to human being ever told from
whom you received that child ?
Tijke. No.
La. A. Then my secret's safe ?
Ti/lce. I've said so.
Ld. A. Why that frown ? What, not even to your father ?
Tyke. Who? {Starts.)
Ljd. A. What agitates you ? You had a father.
Tyke. Had a father ! Be quiet, be quiet.
{Walks ahonf greatly agitated.)
Ld. A. By the name of Him who indignantly looks down on us,
tell me
Tijke. {Striking his forehead.) Say no more about that, and you
shall hear all. Yes, 1 had a father, and when he heard of my dis-
grace, the old man walked, wi' heavy heart, I warrant, all *h.e way
tid' gaol to see me; and he prayed up to heaven for me {pointing,
but not daring to look iip), just the same as if 1 had still been the
J)ride of his heart. {Speaks ivith difficulty, and sighs heavily.)
Ld. A. Proceed.
Tgke. Presently.
Ld. A. Did you entrust the child to his care ?
Tyke. I did.
Ld. A. Do not pause — you rack me.
Tyke. Rack you !— well, you shall hear the endon't. — I meant to
tell father all about the child ; but, when parting came, old man
coTild not speak, and I could not speak — well, they put me on board
a ship, and I saw father kneeling on the shore with the child in his
arms
Ld. A. Go on.
Tyke. 'Tis soon said {collecting his fortitude). When the signal-
gun for sailing was fired, I saw my old father drop dovra dead — ■
and somebody took up child and carried it away. 1 felt a kind of
dizziness ; my eyes flashed fire, the blood gushed out of my mouth
— I saw no more. {Sinks exhausted into chair, L.)
Ld. A. Horrible ! — What ! record a father's death without a tear ?
Tyke. Tear ! Do you think a villain who has a father's death
to answer for can cry .'' No, no ; I feel a pack of dogs worrying my
heart, and my eyes on fire — but I can't cry. (^1 vacant stare of horror.)
Ld. A. And is this desolation my work ? O, repent ! repent !
Tijke. {Starting up.) Forwhat? is not father dead? an'tlathief?
— cursed — hated — hunted ? Why should I be afraid of the Devil ?
Don't I feel him here ? My mouth's parched
Ld. A. AYithin is wine.
Tyke. Brandy ! brandy !
Ld. A. Compose yourself — follow me — {crosses,!) — you want sleep.
Tyke. Sleep ! ha ! ha ! under the sod I may.
[Toints down, and groans heavily. E,':lt.f Mowing
LoKD Avon DALE
836 Dramaiic Scenes and D'w.Jogues.
Inside of Coifai]i\ — Tallr, and a candU hiirninr/ nn /,'. — Old Ma.n'
seated ii., loolcimj on- a jmrsc. — Tyki; sittunj, l.
0. Man. Pray, sir, who is that generous youtli?
2'i/kc. Why, he's a kind of a foreman like to Lord Avondale, my
friend.
0. Man. Are you the friend of that worthy nobhnnau ?
Tj/he. Yes; between ourselves — I have him under my thumn ;
but I say that oiit of confidence — you understand. That's a smartish
jourse you've got there ; Ijut, I tell you what, 1 don't think it's very
safe, just now.
0. Man. Indeed, sir ! You alarm me !
Tyke. I tell you what — I'll take care of this for you. {Talccs ilic
purse.)
0. Man: Well, sir, you are very kind. You live at the castle ?
Tij* e. Yes, yes !
0. Man. Then, perhaps, you could aid a petition I have presented
to his lordship — my name is
Tyke. Weil, well, let's hear your name.
0. Man. Robert Tyke.
Ti/lce. Eh! — what — speak — no, don't!
0. Man. Robert Tyke !
Tyhe. (Tremhling v'udvnilij, ruslics io tlie iahle, hring-9 down ilia
candle, looks at the Old Man, dashes candle and purse on the [/round,
and tears It is Itair ut agony.) 0, villain! — villain!
O.Maii. What's the matter?
Tgh'.. Don't you know me?
0. Miui. No, sir.
Tijlce. I'ni glad on't — I'm glad on't — Ruin my own father !
O.Man.M\\ did I hear rightly ? Father !- what !' Oh! let me
B33 — ^letmo see? (Tyke, u-ith a countenance strongly iinpressedwifh
sh.ame and sorron\ turns round.) Ah ! it's my son — my long-lost,
dear profligate boy ! Heaven be thanked !— Heaven be thanked !
Tijlce. {Groaning, strlhcs hislreast.) Oh! burst, burst, and ease
me! Eh!— but he's alive— father's aHve ! ha! ha! [Laughs hgs-
ierlrallg.)
0. Man. You terrify me ! Robert, Robert, hear me. Take my
forgiveness — take my blessing !
TgJce. What! — forgive— bless— such a rogue as
{Bursts into a flood of tears.)
0. Man. Be composed.
TgJce. Lot me cry ; it does me good, father— it docs me good.
0. Man. Oh ! if there be holy water, it surely is the sinner's tears.
Tglce. But he's alive. {Bushes into his arms.)
0. Man. Ay! alive to comfort and pardon thee, my poor prodigal,
and Heaven will pardon thee !
Tgl-e. ISTo, don't say that, father, because it can't.
0. Man. It is all-merciful.
Tgl-e Yes, I know it U. I know it would if it could, but not
me ! JN 0, no !
Scene from Vie Earl of Warivich. 837
0. Ilan. Kneel doAvn, and ask its mercy.
Tylxc. I dare not, father ! 1 dare not ! Oh, if I durst hut just
thank it for thy Hfe !
0. Mew. Angels will sing for joy.
Tyke. What !— may I, think you ? May I — may I ?
[By degrees lie tremliU)igJy faJ'Js on Ms liiiiees, a)id clasjis It is
hands ivith energetic devotion.
Scene closes.
SCENE FEOM THE EARL OF WARWICK.
DU. FllAXCKLIX.
[Dr. Thomas Frauckliu was boni iu 1721. lie was educated at Westminster
School aud Trinity College, Cambridge, of which university he subseciuently
became Greek professor. He translated Luciau, Sophocles, and other classic
authors, and wrote "The Earl of Warwick," aud other tragedies. He obtained
successively the livings of Ware, Thuudridge, and Brasted, and was made
King's Chaplain. Died 1781.]
CHAEACTEES :
KixG Edwakd. The Earl of Warwick.
The Earl of (Suffolk
Enter King Edward and the Eaul of SurroLK.
K. Edw. I fear we've gone too far : th' indignant Warwick
111 brook'd our steady purpose ; mark'd you, Suffolk,
With what an eye of scorn he tnrn'd him from us,
And low'r'd defiance : that i^rophetic woman !
Half of her curse already is fulfiird,
And I have lost my friend.
Si'.f. Some friends, perhaps,
Are better lost : you'll pardon me, my liego ;
But, were it fitting, I could tell a tale
Would soon convince yoi: Warwick is as weak. —
K. Edw. As Edward, thou wouldst say.
Suf. But 'twill distress
Thy noble heart too much : I dare not, sir :
Yet one day you must know it.
K Edw. Then, by thee
Let it be told me, Suffolk ! thy kind hand
^Vill best administer the bitter draught :
Go on, my Suffolk ; speak, I charge thee, speak.
8iif. That rival whom thou wish'st me to discover
K. Edv}. Aj, what of him ? quick, tell me hast thou found
The happy traitor ? give me but to know.
That I may wreak my speedy vengeance on him.
Siif. Suppose that rival were the man whom most
You lov'd, the man, perhaps, whom most you fear'd ;
Suppose 'twere — Warwick.
K. Edit). Ha ! it cannot be :
338 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
I would not tliiuk it for a thousand vv-oiids.
Warwick in love with lier, impossible !
jSTow, SuiFolk, do i fear thou speak'st from envj
And jealous hatred of the noble Warwick,
Not from the love of justice or of Edward :
Wh3r3 didst thou learn this falsehood?
8ii.f. From the lips
Of truth, from one whose honour and whose word
You will not question : from — Elizabeth.
K. Ediij. From her ! nay, then, I fear it must be so.
S'tf. When last I saw her, for again I went
B7 your command, though hopeless of success,
With all the little eloquence that I
Was master of, I ui-g'd your ardent passion ;
Told her how much, how tenderly you lov'd her,
And prass'd with eagerness to know the cause
Of her unkind refusal; till at length,
EsUictautly, with blushes she coufess'd
There was a cause : she thank'd j'ou for your goodness,
'Twas more, she said, much more than she deserv'd,
Sh3 ever should revere her king : and if
She hal a heart to give, it should be — Edward's.
K. El'v. So kind, and yet so cruel : well, go on.
Snf. Then told me all the story of her love.
That Warwick long had woo'd her : that her hand
Was promis'd ; soon as he return'd from France,
Though ones her father cruelly oppos'd it,
They were, by his consent, to be united.
K. ElIw. dh ! never Suffolk, may I live to see
That dreadful hour ! Designing hypocrite !
Are these his arts, is this the friend I lov'd ?
By heaven ! she shall be mine ; I will assert
A sov'relgn's right, and tear her from him. What
If he reb?l — another civil war !
'Tls terrible. Oh ! that I could shake off
This cumbrous garb of majesty that clings
So close around me, meet him man to man,
And try who best deserves her : but when kings
Grow mad, their guiltless subjects pay the forfeit.
Horrible thought ! Good Suffolk, for awhile
I would be private ; therefore, wait without;
Let me have no intruders; above all,
Keep Warwick from my sight. [E,cU Suffolk
Enter the Eaul of Warwick.
War. Behold him here ;
No welcome guest, it seems, unless I ask
My Loi-d of Suffolk's leave : there was a time
When Warwick wanted not his aid to gain
Admission here.
Scene from the Earl of Wariuich. 339
K. Edw. There was a time, perhaps,
Wlien Warwick more d3sir"d and more deserv'd it.
War. Never ; I've l^een a ioohsh faithful slave :
All my best years, the morning of my life,
Hath been devoted to yonr service : what
Are now the fruits ? disgrace and infamy ;
My spotless name, which never yet the breath
Of calumny had tainted, made the mock
For foreign fools to carp at : but 'tis fit
Who trust in jirinces should be thus rewarded.
K. Edw. I thoxight, my lord, I had full weW repaid
Your services with honours, wealth, and pow'r
Unlimited : thy all-directing hand
Guided in secret ev'ry latent wheel
Of government, and mov'd the whole machine :
Warwick was all in all, and pow'rless Edwai'd
Stood like a cipher in the gi-eat account.
War. Who gave that cipher worth, and seated thee
On England's throne? thy imdistinguish'd name
Had rotted in the dust from whence it sj^rung,
And moulder'd in oblivion, had not Warwick
Dug from its sordid mine the useless ore,
And stamp'd it with a diadem. Thou know'st,
This wretched country, doom'd, perhaps, like Kome,
To fall by its own self-destroying hand,
Tost for so many years in the rough sea
Of civil discord, but for me had perish'd.
In that distressful hour I seiz'd the helm,
Bade the rough Avaves subside in ])eace, and steer'd
Your shatter'd vessel safe into the harboui*.
You may despise, perhaps, that ixseless aid
Which you no longer want ; but know, proud youth,
He who forgets a triend, deserves a foe.
K. Edw. Know, too, reproach for benefits receiv'd,
Pays ev'ry debt, and cancels oljligation.
War. Why, that, indeed, is frugal honesty,
A thrifty saving knowledge, when the debt
Grows burthensome, and cannot be discharg'd,
A sponge will wipe out all, and cost you nothing.
K. Edw. "Wlien you have counted o'er the numerous train
Of mighty gifts your bounty lavished on me,
You may remember next the injuries
Which I have done you, let me know them all,
And I will make you ample satisfaction.
War. Thou canst not ; thou hast robb'd me of a jewel
It is not in thy power to restore :
I was the first, shall future annals say,
That broke the sacred bond of jjxiblic trust
And mutual confidence ; ambassadors,
In after times, mere instruments, perhaps
340 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Of venal statesmen, shall recall my name
To witness that they want not an example,
And plead my guilt to sanctify their own.
Amidst the herd of mercenary slaves
That haunt your court, could none be found but Warwick
To be the shameless herald of a lie ?
K. Ediu. And wouldst t?iou turn the vile reproach on me?
If I have broke my faith, and stain'd the name
Of England, thank thy own 2:)ei'nicious counsels
That urg'd me to it, and extorted fi-om me
A cold consent to what my lieart abhorr'd.
War. I've been abiis'd, insulted, and betray'd ;
My injur'd honour cries aloud for vengeance ;
Her wounds will never close !
K. Ediv. These gusts of passion
Will but inflame them ; if I have been right
Inform'd, my lord, besides these dang'rous scars
Of bleeding honour, you have other wounds
As deep, though not so fatal ; such, perhaps,
As none but fair Elizabeth can cure.
War. Elizabeth !
K. Edw. Nay, start not, I have cause
To wonder most : I little thought, indeed,
When War^vick told me I might learn to love.
He was, himself, so able to instruct me :
But I've discover'd all.
War. And so have I ;
Too well I know thy breach of friendshi}) there ',
Thy fruitless, base endeavours to supj^lant me.
K. Edw. I scorn it, sir ; Elizabeth hath cliaru.^,
And I have equal right with you t' admire them :
Nor see I aught so godlike in the form,
So all-commanding in the name of Warwick,
That he alone shoidd revel in the charms
Of beauty, and monopolize jierfectioi).
I knew not of your love.
War. By heav'n ! 'tis false ;
You knew it all, and meanly took occasion,
Whilst I was busied in the noble office
Your grace thought fit to honour me withal.
To tamper with a weak, unguarded woman.
To bribe her passions high, and basely steal
A treasure which your kingdom could not j^urchase.
K. Edw. How know you that ? But be it as it mav;,
I had a right, nor will 1 tamely yield
My claim to happiness, the privilege
Tochoose the pai-tner of my throne and bed :
It is a branch of my prerogative.
War. Prerogative ! what's that ? the boast of tyrants ;
A bo^row'd jewel, glitt'ring in the crown
Norval and Glenalvon. " 341
With specious lustre, lent but to betray ;
You liad it, sir, and hold it from the people.
K. Edw. And therefore do 1 prize it ; I would guard
Their liberties, and they shall strengthen mine :
But when proud faction and her rebel crew
Insult their sov'reign, trample on his laws,
And bid defiance to his pow'r, the people,
Injustice to themselves, will then defend
His cause, and vindicate the rights they gave.
War. Go to your darling people, then ; for soon,
If I mistake not, 'twill be needful ; try
Their boasted zeal, and see if one of them
Will dare to lift his arm up in your cause,
If I forbid them.
K. Edw. Is it .so, my lord ?
Then mark my words : I've been your slave too long,
And you have rul'd me with a rod of iron ;
But henceforth know, proud peer, I am thy master,
And will be so : the king who delegates
His pow'r to others' hands but ill deserves
The crown he wears.
War. Look well, then, to your own ;
It sits but loosely on your head ; for know.
The man who injur'd Warwick never pass'd
Unpunish'd yet.
K. Edw. Nor he who threaten'd Edward :
You may rejient it, sir. My guards, there ; seize
This traitor and convey him to the Tower !
There let him learn obedience.
Enter Guards.
War. Slaves, stand off;
If I must yield my sword, I'll give it him
"Whom it so long has serv'd ; there's not a part
In this old faithful steel that is not stain'd
With English blood in grateful Edward's cause.
Give me my chains, they are the bands of friendship,
Of a king's friendship ; for his sake, awhile,
I'll wear them.
K. Edvi. Hence : away with him.
War. 'Tis well :
Exert your pow'r, it may not last yoii long ;
For know, though Edward may forget his friend.
That England will not. [Exit the King, E.
Now, sir, I attend you. [Exeunt Warwick and Guards, L.
NORVAL AND GLENALYON.
The Rev. John Home.
[John Home was born in Roxburghshire in 1724. He was educated for the
Church, but iu the rebellioa of 1745, entered the Royal army, and was taken
842 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
prisoner at the battle of Fallcirk. He contrived to escape, and was ordained
minister of Athelstaneford, in East Lothian, 1750. His tragedy of " Douglas "
was performed with great success in Edinburgh; but the fact of a ck^rgyniaa
writing a play at all so offended the presbytery, that he was compelled to resign
his living. He died, aged 85, 1808.J
GlenahoH. His port I love : lie's in a proper mood
To chide the thunder, if at him it roar'd. lAside.
Has Nerval seen the troops ?
Norual. The setting sun
With yellow radiance lighten'd all the vale ;
; And, as the warriors moved, each polish'd helm,
Corslet, or sj^ear, glanced back his gilded beams.
The hill they chm'b'd ; and halting at its top,
Of more than mortal size, towering, they seem'd
An host angelic clad in burning arms.
Gle)i. Thou talk'st it well : no loader of our host
In sounds more lofty talks of glorious war.
Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name,
My speech will be less ardent. Novelty
Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration
Vents itself freely, since no part is mine
Of praise pertaming to the great in arms.
Gleii. You wrong yourself, 1)rave sir ; your maiiial deedft
Have rank'd you with the great. But mark me, Norval :
Lord Randoljih's favour now exalts your youth
Above his veterans of famous service.
Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you.
Give them all honour ; seem not to command ;
Else they will hardly brook j^our late si^rung power,
AVhich nor alliance pro2:)s nor birth adorns.
Kori). Sir, I have been accustom'd all my days
To hear and speak the plain and simple truth ;
And, though 1 have been told that there are men
AVho borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn,
Yet in such language I am little skill'd,
Therefore I thank Glenalvou for his counsel.
Although it sounded harshly. Why remind
Me of my birth obscure ? Why slur my power
With such contemptuous terms ?
Gloi. I did not mean
To gall your pride, which I now see is great.
Now. My pvide !
Glen. Suppress it, as you wish to prosper.
Your pride's excessive. Y^'et for Randolph's sake,
I will not leave you to its rash direction.
If thus you swell and frown at high-born men,
Will high-born men endui-e a shepherd's scorn ?
Non\ A shepherd's scorn !
Glen. Yes ! if you presume
To l)end on soldiers these disdainfid eyes.
Novval and Glencdvon. 843
As if you took the measure of tlieir minds,
And said in secret, you're no match for me;
What will become of you ?
Now. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuoi;^ self ?
Glen. Ha ! dost thou threaten me P
Now. Didst thou not hear P
Glen. Unwillingly I did : a nobler foe
Had not been question'd thus ; but such as thee — I
Now. Whom dost thou think me ? '•
Glen. Norval. .
Now. So I am —
And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes ? ;
Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy ; I
At best no more, even if he speaks the truth.
Now. False as thou art, dost tliou suspect my truth ?
Glen. Thy truth ! thou'rt all a he ; and false as guiia
Is the vainglorious tale thou told'st to Randolph. j
Now. If I were chain'd, iiuarm'd, or bed-rid old, j
Perhaps I should revile ; but, as I am, i
I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval {
Is of a race who strive not but with deeds. '
Did I not fear to freeze thy shallow valour !
And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword, :
I'd tell thee — what thou art ; I know thee well.
Glon. Dost thou not know Glenalvou, born to commarid
Ten thousand slaves like thee ? :
Now. Villain, no more.
Draw and defend thy life. I did design
To have defied thee in another cause : '
But heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. j
Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs ! I
Lord E(t)i. {E)iters.) Hold, I command you both.
The man that stirs makes me his foe.
Norv. Another voice than tline
That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph.
Glen. Hear him, my lord, lie's wondrous condescending:
Mark the humility of Shepherd Norval ! ' j
Now. Now you may scoff in safety. [_Sheathes ins oivord
Lord Ban. Speak not thus,
Taunting each other ; but unfold to me
The cause of quarrel ; then I judge betwixt you.
Now. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you muclis
j\Iy cause I plead not, nor demand j^our judgment.
I blush to speak, I will not, cannot speak
The oj^probrious words that I from liim l~a7S borne.
To the liege lord of my dear native land
I owe a subject's homage ; but even liira •■
And his high arbitration — I'd reject.
Within my bosom reigns another lord ; 'I
Honour, sole judge and iimpire of itself. \ '\
844 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
If my free speech offend you, noble Randolph,
Revoke your favours ; and let Norval go
Hence as he came, alone, but not dishonour'd !
Lord Ban. Thiis far I'll mediate with impartial voice,-
The ancient foe of Caledonia's land
Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields.
Suspend your purpose, till your country's arms
Repel the bold invader : then decide
The private quarrel.
Glen. I agree to this.
Norv. And I.
Glen. Nerval,
Let not our variance mar the social hour ;
Nor wrong the hospitality of Randolph.
Nor frowning anger, nor yet wrinkled hate,
Shall stain my coi;ntenance. Smooth thou thy brow,
Nor let our strife disturb the gentle dame.
Norv. Think not so lightly, sir, of my resentment :
When we contend again, our strife is mortal.
SCENE FROM TEE IRON CHEST.
George Colmax, the yovxger.
[George Colmau, the younger, was born 17G2, aud died 1836. He was tbe
aiithor of twenty-six plays, including ''John Bull," "The Iron Chest," and
"Bluebeard;" also of several volumes of comic verse. Towards tbo end of hig
career he held the office of licenser aud examiuer of plays.]
CHAEACTERS :
WiLFOED. Sm Edward Mortimer.
Sir E. Wilford, approach me. — What am I to say
For aiming at your life ? — Do you not scorn me.
Despise me for it ?
Wilf. 1 ! Oh, sir !
^"' E. _ You must ;
For I am singled from the herd of men,
A vile, heart-broken wretch !
^^'^'¥- Indeed, indeed, sir,
You deeply wrong yourself. Your equal's love.
The poor man's prayer, the orphan's tear of gratitude,
All follow you : — and I — 1 owe you all !
I am most bound to bless you.
, ,'*='''■'■ E. Mark me, Wilford :—
1 know the value of the orphan's tear.
The poor man's prayer, respect from the respected;
i teel, to merit these and to obtain them.
Is to taste here below that thrilling cordial
Scene from the Iron C'hesi. 345
WhicK the remunerating Angel draws
From the eternal fountain of delight,
To pour on blessed souls that enter Heaver
I feel this : — I !— How must my nature, theii,
Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand
In human blood ! — and yet, it seems, this day
I sought your life. — Oh ! I have suftered madness !
None know my tortures, — pangs ! — But I can end then. ;
End them as far as appertains to thee.
I have resolved it. — Fearful struggles tear me :
But J have pondered on't, — and I must trust thee.
WiJf. Your confidence shall not be
Sir E. You must swear.
Wilf. Swear, sir ! — will nothing but an oath, then
Sir E. Listen.
May all the ills that wait on frail humanity
Be doubled on your head, if you disclose
My fatal secret ! May your body turn
Most lazar-like and loathsome ; and your mind
More loathsome than your body! May those fiends,
Who strangle babes for very wantonness,
Shrink back, and shudder at your monstroixs crimes,
And, shrinking, curse you ! Palsies strike your youth !
And the sharp terrors of a guilty mind
Poison your aged days ! while all your nights.
As on the earth you lay your houseless head,
Out-horror horror ! May you quit the world
Abhorred, self-hated, hopeless for the next.
Your life a burden, and your death a fear !
Wilf. For mercy's sake, forbear ! you terrify me !
Sir E. Hope this may fall upon thee : — swear thou hopest it,
By every attribute which heaven or earth
Can lend, to bind and strengthen conjuration,
If thou betrayest me.
Wilf. Well, I {Hesifatinc/.)
Sir E. No retreating.
117//. {After a pause.) I swear, by all the ties that bind a man.
Divine or human, never to divulge !
(SV?' E. Remember, you have sought this secret : — Yes,
Extorted it. I have not thrust it on yoti.
'Tis big with danger to you ; and to me,
While I prepare to speak, torment unutterable.
Know, Wilford, that torture !
Wilf Dearest sir !
Collect yourself. This shakes jow horribly :
You had this trembling, it is scarce a week.
At Madam Helen's.
Sir E. There it is Her uncle
Wilf. Her uncle I
Sir E. Him. She knows it not ; — none know it—
840 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
You are the first ordained to hear me say,
1 am his murderer !
Wllf. horror !
Sir E. His assassin.
Wilf. What ! you that — mur — the murderei* lam choked.
Sir E. Honour! thou blood-stained god! at Avhose red altar
Sit war and homicide : O ! to what madness
Will insult drive thy votaries. In truth,
In the world's range, there does not breathe a man
Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe
With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy.
Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me,
Stained me — Oh, death and shame ! — the Avorld looked on,
And saw this sinewy savage strike me down,
Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro,
On the base earth, like carrion. Desperation,
In every fibre of my brain, cried Vengeance !
I left the room which he had c[uitted. Chance,
(Curse on the chance ! ) while boiling with my wrongs,
Thrust me against him, darkling, in the street
I stabbed him to the heart and mj' oppressor
Rolled lifeless at my foot.
Tl'7//. Oh ! mercy on me !
How could this deed be covered ?
Sir E. Would you think it?
E'en at the moment when I gave the blow,
Butchered a fellow-creature in the dark,
I had all good men's love. But my disgrace.
And my opponent's death thus linked with it.
Demanded notice of the nlagistraC3^
They summoned me, as friend would summon friend,
To act of import and communication.
W^e met — and 'twas resolved, to stifle rumour.
To put me on my trial. No accuser.
No evidence aj^peared, to urge it on
'Twas meant to clear my fame. How clear it then ?
How cover it? you say. — Why, by a lie-
Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast,
AVhich Truth once made her throne, to foi'ge a lie,
This tongue to utter it; — rounded a tale.
Smooth as a seraj^h's song from Satan's mouth;
So well compacted, that the o'erthronged court
Disturbed cool Justice in her judgment-seat.
By shouting "Innocence!" Ere 1 had finished.
The court enlarged me; and the giddy rabble
Bore me, in triumph, home. Ay !— look niion me.
I know thy sight aches at me.
TT7(/'. Heaven foi-give you ! It may be wrong-
Indeed I pity you.
Sir E, I disdain all pity.—
S'-ene from The School for Scandal. 347
I ask no consolation. Idle boy !
Think" st tliou tha^ this compulsive confidence
Was given to move thy pity ? — Love of fame
(For still I cling to it) has urged me, thus
To quash thy curious mischief in its birth.
Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour,
Drove me to murder— lying : — 'twoiild again !
My honesty, — sweet peace of mind, — all, all.
Are bartered for a name. 1 will maintain it.
Should Slander whisper o'er my sepulchre.
And my soul's agency survive in death,
I could embody it with heaven's lightning,
And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit
Should strike the blaster of my memor}^
Dead, in the churchyard. Boy, I would not kill thee ;
Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger !
To check them, there was no way left but this
Save one — your death : — you shall not be my victim.
WHf. My death ! What, take my life ?— My life ! to prep
This empty honour ?
Sir E. Empty ? Grovelling fool !
Wilf. I am your servant, sir, child of your bounty,
And know my obligation. I have been
Too curious, haply : 'tis the f.iult of youth—
I ne'er meant injury : if it would serve you,
I would lay down my life ; I'd give it freely :
Could you then have the heart to rob me of it?
You could not — should not.
S!r E. How !
Wilf. You dare not.
^irE. Dare not?
Wilf. Some hours ago, you durst not. Passion moved ycu,
Eefiection interposed, and held your arm.
But, shoiild reflection prompt you to attemjtt it,
My innocence would give me strength to struggle,
And wrest the murderous weaj^on from yoiir hand.
How would j'ou look to find a peasant boy
Return the knife you levelled at his heart ;
And ask you which m heaven would show the best,
A rich man's honour, or a poor man's honesty ?
THE PIGTUEE SALE-" THE SCHOOL FOE SCANDx\L."
II. B. SHEiiinAX.
[See p. 296.]
CHARACTERS:
Charles Schface, Sir Oliveii Surface, Moses, Careiess.
Charles. Walk in, gentlemen ; pray walk in ; here they are, the
family of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest.
348 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Sir 0. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection.
Charles. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of porti'ait-
painting: no volontier r/mce or expression. Not like the "works of
your modern Eaphaels, who give 5'ou the strongest resemblance,
j^et contrive to make your portrait independent of you ; so that you
may sink the original, and not hurt the picture. No, no ; the merit
of these is the inveterate likeness ; all stiff and awkward as the
originals, and like nothing in human nature besides.
Sir 0. Ah ! wc shall never see such figures of men again.
Charles. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium, what a
domestic character I am ; here I sit of an evening surrounded by
my family. But, come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer ; here's
an old gouty chair of my grandfather's will answer the purpose.
Care. Ay, ay ; this will do. But, Charles, J have not a hammer ;
and what's an auctioneer without his hammer V
Charles. Egad I that true : {taldiKj jicdigrce doioi) what parchment
have we here? Oh! our genealogy in full. Here, Careless, you
shall have no common bit of mahogany ; here's the family tree for
you, you rogue ! this shall be your hammer, and now you may
knock down my ancestors with their own pedigree. [{Aside.)
Sir O. What an unnatural rogue I an ex post facto parricide.
Care. Yes, yes; here's a list of your generation, indeed ; 'faith I
Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could have found
for the business, for 'twill not onlj' serve for a hammer, but a
catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin: a-going, a-going, a-
going!
Charles. Bravo, Careless ! Well, here's my great uncle, Sir
Eichard Raveline, a marvellous good general in his day, I assure
j-ou. He served in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, and
got that cut over his eye at the Battle of Malplaquot. "What say
you, Mr. Premium ? look at him : there's a hero, not cut out of
his feathers, as your modern clipped cai)tains are, but enveloped
in wig and regimentals, as a general should be. What do you
bid?
»S'/;' 0. {Apart tn Muses.) Bid him speak.
il/oses. Mr. Premium would have you speak.
Charles. Whj', then, he shall have him for ten pounds ; and I'm
sure that's not dear for a staif-officer.
Sir 0. Heaven deliver me ! his famous uncle Eichard for ten
pounds ! (Aside.) Very well, sir, I take him at that.
Charles. Careless, knock down my uncle Eichard. Here, now, is
a maiden sister of his, my great aunt Deborah ; done by Kneller in
his best manner, and esteemed a very formidable likeness. There
she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding' her flock. You shall have her
for five pcmnds ten : the sheep are worth the money.
Sir 0. Ah ! poor Deborah I a woman who set such a value on
herself ! {Aside.) Five pounds ten : she's mine.
Charles. Knock down my aunt Deborah, Careless I This, now,
is a grandfather of my mother's, a learned judge, well known oa
the western circuit. What do 5'ou rate him at, Moses ?
Scene from The ScJiool for Scandal. 349
Moses. Four guineas.
Charles. Four guineas ! Gad's life ! you don't bid me the price
ofliis wig. Mr. Premium, you have more respect for the woolsack ;
do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen.
Sir 0. By all means.
Care. Gone !
Charles. And there are two hrothers of his, William and "Walter
]!lunt, Esquires, both members of parliament, and noted speakers ;
and what's very extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they
were ever bought or sold.
*SV/- 0. That is very extraordinarj', indeed, I'll take them at your
own price, for the honour of parliament.
Care. Well said, little Premium ! I'll knock them down at
forty.
Charles. Here's a jolly fellow — I don't know what relation, but he
was mayor of Norwich : take him at eight pounds.
Sir U. No, no ; six will do for the mayor.
Charles. Come, make it guineas, and I throw the two aldermen
there into the bargain.
8ir 0. They're mine.
Charles. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen. But
plague on't ! we shall be all daj' retailing in this manner : do let us
deal wholesale : what say you, little Premium ? Give me three
hundred pounds, and take all that remains, on each side, in a
lump.
Care. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.
Sir 0. Weil, well ; anything to accommodate you ; they are
mine. But there is one portrait which you have always passed
over.
Care. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee !
Sir 0. Yes, sir, I mean that ; though I don't think him so ill-
looking a little fellow, bj^ any means.
Charles. What that ? Oh ! that's my uncle Oliver ; 'twas done
before he went to India.
Care. Your uncle Oliver I Gad ! then, you'll never be friends,
Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue as ever I
saw ; an unforgiving eye, and a d — d disinheriting countenance ! an
inveterate knave, depend on't. Don't you think so, little
Premium ? {Slapping him on the shoulder)
Sir 0. Upon my soul, sir, I do not ; I think It as honest a look-
ing face as any in the room, dead or alive ; but I suppose uncle
Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber ?
Charles. No, hang it ! I'll not part with poor Noll. The old
fellow has been very good to me, and, egad ! I'll keep his picture
while I've a room to put it in.
Sir 0. {Aside.) The rogue's my nephew after all. But, sir, I
have somehow taken a fancy to that picture.
Charles. 1 am sorry for it, for yoH certainly will not have it.
Cons I haven't you got enough of them ?
Sir 0. I forgive him everything. {Aside.) But, sii-, whcu I
850 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
take a -whim in my liearl I don't value money. I'll give yon as
much for that as for all the rest.
Charles. Don't tease me, master broker ; I tell you I'll not part
•with it, and there's an end of it.
Sir 0. How like his father the dog is ! (Aside.) Well, well, I
have done. — I did not perceive it before, but I think I never saw
such a resemblance. {Aside.)— Reve is a draught for your sum.
Charles. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds.
Sir 0. You will not let Sir Oliver go i"
Charles. Zounds! no; I tell you once more.
Sir 0. Then never mind the difference; we'll balance that
another time ; but give me your hand on the bargain ; you are an
lionest fellow, Charles — 1 beg pardon, sir, for being so free. Come,
Moses.
Charles. Egad ! this is a whimsical old fellow ! But harkye !
Premium, you'll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen ?
Sir 0. Yes, yes ; I'll send for them in a day or two.
Charles. But, hold ! do now send a genteel conveyance for them ;
for I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in their own
carriages.
Sir 0. I will, I will— for all but Oliver.
Charles. Ay, all but the little nabob.
Sir 0. You're fixed on that ?
Charles. Peremptorily.
Sir 0. A dear, extravagant rogue ! (Aside.) Good day I Come,
Moses. Let me hear now who dares call him profligate. lEcennt.
Care. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met with.
Charles. Egad I he's the prince of brokers, I think. I wonder
how the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a fellow. But,
hark I here's Eowley ; do, Careless, say I'll join the company in
a few moments.
SCENE FEOM THE MAN OF THE WOULD.
CUAKLES MACKLIX.
[Macklin, whose real name was Mac Laugliliu, was bora at Westme.itb,
Ireland, 1G90. He was au actor of liigli re^vito, rcmaiDcd ou the stage six y-
foiir j-ears, and died 1797, aged 1< 7. As a dramatist he was very successful ;
his comedy " The Man of the World" still keeps ^wssession of the stage.]
CHARACTERS :
Silt Peetixax Macsycophaxt. Egeutox (his Sou)
Scene— .1 LiUranj.
Elder Sir P£UTIXAx and Egerton".
Sir P. (In warm resentment). Zounds ! sir, I will not hear a word
about it : I insist upon it, you are wrong ; you should have paid
Scene from the Man of the Wovldj. 351
your court till my lord, and not have scrupled swallowing a bumper
or twa, or twenty, till oblige him.
Eger. Sir, I did drink his toast in a bumper.
Sir P. Yes, you did ; but how, how ? just as a bairn takes physic,
with aversions and wry faces, which my lord observed : then, to
mend the matter, the moment that he and the Colonel got intill a
drunken dispute about religion, you shly slunged away.
Eijer. I thought, sir, it was tune to go, when my lord insisted
upon half-pint bumpers.
Sir P. Sir, that was not levelled at )rou, but at the Colonel, in
order to try his bottom ; but they aw agreed that you and I should
drink out of sma' glasses.
Ef/er. But, sir, 1 beg pardon : I did not choose to drink any moi'e.
Sir P. But, zoons! sir, 1 tell you there was a necessity for your
drinking more.
Eger. A necessity ! in what respect, pray, sir !
Sir P. Why, sir, I have a certain ]ioint to carry, independent of
the lawyers, with my lord, in this agreement of your marriage ;
about which I am afraid we shall have a warm squabljle ; and there-
fore I wanted your assistance in it.
Eger. But how, sir, could my drinking contribute to assist you in
your squabble ?
Sir P. Yes, sir, it Avoiild have contributed — and greatly have
conti'ibuted to assist me.
Eger. How so, sir ?
Sir P. Nay, sir, it might have prevented the sciuabble entirely ;
for as my lord is proud of you for a son-in-law, and is fond of you',
little French songs, your stories, and your bon-mots, when you are
in the humour ; and guin you had but staid, and been a little jolly,
and drank half a score bumpers with him, till he had got a little tipsy,
I am sure, when we had him in that mood, we might have settled
the point as I could wish it, among ourselves, before the lawyers
came ; but now, sir, I do not ken what will be the consequence.
Eger. But when a man is intoxicated, would that have been a
reasonable time to settle business, sir ?
Sir P. The most seasonable, sir ; for, sir, when my lord is in his
cups, his suspicion is asleep, and his heai't is aw jollity, fun, and
guid fellowship : and, sir, can there be a hapj^ier moment than that
for a bargain, or to settle a disjoute with a friend ? AVliat is it you
shrug up your shoulders at, sir ?
Eger. At my own ignorance, sir ; for I understand neither the
philosophy nor the morality of your doctrine.
Sir P. I know you do not, sir ; and, what is worse, you never wull
understand it, as you proceed : in one word, Charles, I have oftan
told you, and now again I tell you, once for aw, that the.manoeuvres
of pliability are as necessary to rise in the world as wrangling and
logical subtlety are to rise at the bar. Why you see, sir, 1 have
acquired a noble fortune, a princely fortune ; and how do you thin);
I raised it ?
Eger. Doubtless, sir, by yoiir aljilities.
r,o2 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Sir r. Doubtless, sir, you are a blockhead : iiae, sir, 111 tell you
how I raised it : sir. 1 raised it — by booing {hows ridiculously loiv]
—by booing. Sir, I never could stand straight in the presence of a
great mon, but always booed, and booed, and booed — as it were by
instinct.
Ef/er. How do you mean by instinct, sir ?
Sir P. How do I mean by instinct ! Why, sir, I mean by—by—
by the instinct of interest, sir, which is the universal instinct of
mankind. Sir, it is wonderful to think what a cordial, what an
amicable — nay, what an infallible influence booing has upon the
pride and vanity of human nature. Charles, answer me sincerely,
have you a mind to be convinced of the force of my doctrine %
example and demonstration ?
Eger. Certainly, sir.
Sir P. Then, sir, as the greatest favour I can confer upon you,
I'll give you a short sketch of the stages of my booing, as an excite-
ment, and a landmark for you to boo by, and as an infallible nos-
trum for a man of the world to rise in the world.
Er/cr. Sir, I shall be proud to profit by your experience.
Sir P. Vary weel, sir; sit ye down then, sit you down here.
{Thcij sit doini). And now, sir, you must recall to your thoiights
that your grandfather was a mon, whose penurious income of cap-
tain's half-pay was the sum total of his fortune; and, sir, aw my
provision fra him was a modicum of Latin, an expertness in arith-
metic, and a short system of worldly counsel ; the principal ingre-
dients of which were, a persevering industry, a rigid economy, a
smooth tongue, a pliability of temper, and a constant attention to
make every mon well i)leased with himself.
Er/er. Very prudent advice, sir.
Sir P. Therefore, sir, 1 lay it before you. Now, sir, with these
materials, I set out a raw-boned stripling fra the North, to try my
fortune with them here in the South, and my first step in the Avorld
was a beggarly clei'kship in Sawney Gordon's counting-house here,
in the city of London ; which you'll say afforded but a barren sort
of a prospect.
Ef/er. It was not a very fertile one, indeed, sir.
Sir P. The reverse, the reverse. Weel, sii*, seeing myself in this
unprofitable situation, I reflected deeply : I cast about my thoughts
morning, noon, and night, and marked every mon and every mode
of prosperity ; at last, I concluded that a matrimonial adventure,
prudently conducted, would be the readiest gait I could gang for
the bettering of my condition : and accordingly I set about it. Now,
sir, in this pursuit beauty, beauty, ah ! beauty often struck my een,
and played about my heart ; and fluttered, and beat, and knocked,
and knocked ; but the devil an entrance I ever let it get : for I
observed, sir, that beauty is, generally, a proud, vain, saucy, ex-
pensive, impertinent sort of a commodity.
Eger. Very justly observed.
Sir P. And therefore, sir, I left it to prodigals and coxcombs,
that could aftbrd to pay for it ; and in its stead, sir, mark !— I
Scene from the Man of the World. 353
looked out for an ancient, weel-jointured, superannuated dowager;
a consumptive, toothless, phtliisicy, wealthy widow ; or a shrivelled,
cadaverous piece of deformity, in the shape of an izzard, or an
appersi, and — or, in short, ainything, ainything that had the siller
— tlie siller, for that, sir, was the north star of my aftections. Bo
you take me, sir ? was nae that right ?
Egcr. ! doubtless, doubtless, sir.
Sir P. Now, sir, where do you think I ganged to look for this
woman with the siller ? nae till cjurt, nae till playhouses or assem-
blies ; nae, sir, I ganged till the kirk, till the anal^aptist, the inde-
liendent, Bradlonian, and IMuggletonian meetings : till the morning
and evening service of churches and. chapels of ease, and till the
midnight, melting, conciliating love feasts of the methodists ; and
there, sir, at last, I fell upon an old, slighted, anticj^uated, musty
maiden, that looked — -ha, ha, ha ! she looked just like a skeleton in
a surgeon's glass case. Now, sir, this miserable object was reli-
giously angry with herself and aw the world ; had nae comfort but
in metajihysical visions and supernatural deliriums — ha, ha, ha !
Sir, she was as mad — as mad as a Bedlamite.
Eger. Not improbable, sir : there are niunbers of poor creatures
in the same condition.
Sir P. ! numbers — numbers. Now, sir, this cracked creature
used to pray, and sing, and sigh, and groan, and weep, and wail,
and gnash her teeth constantly, morning and evening, at the taber-
nacle in Moorfields. And as soon as I found she had the siller,
aha ! guid traith, I plumped mo down upon my knees, close by her
— cheek by jowl — and prayed, and sighed, and sung, and groaned,
and gnashed my teeth as vehemently as she could do for the life of
her; ay, and turned up the whites of mine een, till the sti'ings aw-
most cracked again. I watched her motions, handed her till her
chair, waited on her home, got most religiously intimate with her
in a week ; married her in a fortnight, buried her in a month ;
touched the siller; and with a deep suit of mourning, a melancholy
port, a sorrowful %usage, and a joyful heart, I began the world
again ; {rises) and this, sir, was the first boo, that is, the first
effectual boo, I ever made to the vanity of human nature. Now,
sir, do you understand this doctrine ?
Eger. Perfectly well, sir.
Sir P. Ay, but was it not right ? was it not ingenious, and weel
hit off?
Eger. Certainly, sir : extremely well.
Sir P. My next boo, sir, was till your ain mother, whom I ran
away with fra the boarding-school, by the interest of whose family
I got a guid smart jjlace in the treasury ; end, sir, my vary next
step was into jaarliament ; the which I entered with as ardent and
determined an ambition as ever agitated the heart of Ca3sar himself.
Sir, I booed, and watched, and hearkened, and ran about, backwards
and forwards, and attended, and dangled upon the then great mon,
till I got intill the vary bowels of his confidence ; and then, sir, I
wriggled and ^vrought, aud wriggled, till I wriggled myself timonc:-
A A
8")4 LramatiG Scenes and Dialogues.
the very thick of them. Ha ! I got my snack of the clothing-, the
foraging, the contracts, the lottery tickets, and aw the political
bonuses ; till at length, sir, I became a mnch wealthier man than
one-half of the golden calves I had been so long a booing to : and
was nae that booing to some purpose?
Eger. It was indeed, sir.
Sir P. But are you convinced of the guid effects and of the utility
of booing ?
Eger. Thoroughly, sir.
Sir P. Sir, it is infallible. But, Charles, ah ! while I was thus
booing, and wriggling, and raising this i^rincely fortune, ah ! 1 met
with many heart-sores and disappointments fra the want of litera-
ture, eloquence, and other popular abeeleties. Sir, guin I could
but have spoken in the House, I should have done the deed in half
the time ; but the instant I opened my mouth there they aw fell a
laughing at me ; aw which deficiencies, sir, I determined at any
expense, to have supplied by the poUshed education of a son, who I
hoped would one day raise the house of Macsycophant till the
highest pitch of ministerial ambition. This, sir, is my plan : I
have done my part of it ; Nature has done hers ; you are po]:)ular,
you are eloquent ; aw parties like and respect you : and now, sir,
it only remains for you to be directed — completion follows.
SCENE FEOM THE EOAD TO ETJIN.
Thomas Holcroft,
[Thomas Holcroft was born iu Loudon 1745, Lis father following the humble
trade of a shoemaker, iu which Tlioraas sometimes assisted. lie tlien became
a strolling player, and ultimately got a footing in Drury Lane Theatre. All
this time he was a quiet and imknowu student. He became a translator of French
and German books, and obtained employment from the booksellers. He wrote
more than thirty dramatic pieces, of which " The Eoad to Kuin " was the most
popular. One of his pieces produced him more than 6U0/. ; and there is uot on
record a more remarkable instance of what au entirely self-educated man cau
iccomplish by perseverance. Ho died March 3, 1809.]
CHAEAOTEES :
Mr. Dornton, a rich Banlcer. Mr. Silky, Dornton's Managing Clerk.
Harry Dornton, Ids Son. Mr. Smith, a Laicger,
Mr. Milford, a Profligate. FooTMAX.
Scene — An Apartment in Dorxton's House. A Table, Cliairs, (tc.
Enter Harry Dorxtox, Milford, and Footman.
Footman. My old master is in a bitter j^assion, sir.
Ham/. I know it.
Footman. He is gone down to turn the servant out of doors that
lot you in.
Harry. Is he ? Then you go and let your fellow- servant in again.
Scene from the Road to Euin. 855
Footman. I dare not, six*. He inquired who was with my young
master.
Mil/ord. Well.
Footman. And when he heard it was you, sir, he was ten times
more furious. [_ExU.
Ham/. All's well that ends well. This has been a losing voyage,
Miltord'.
Mllfonl. I am a hundred and fifty in.
Harry. And I ten thousand out.
Milforcl. I believe I had better avoid your father for the present.
Harry. I think you had. Dad considers you as my tempter : the
cause of my ruin.
Milford. And I being in his debt, he conceives he may treat me
without ceremony.
Harr)/. Nay, Jack, do him justice. It is not the money you luid
of him, but the ill advice he imputes to you, that galls him.
Milford. I hear he threatens to arrest me.
Harry. Yes ; and he has threatened to strike my name out of
the firm, and disinherit me, a thousand times.
Milford. Oh ! but he has been very serious in menacing me.
Harry. And me too.
Mil/ord. You will be at the tennis-coi;rt to-morrow ?
Harry. No.
Milford. What, not to see the grand match ?
Harry. No.
Milford. Oh yes, you will.
Harry. No ; I am determined.
Milford. Yes, over night ; you'll waver in the morning.
Harry. No ; it is high time. Jack, to grow prudent.
Milford. Ha, ha, ha ! My plan is formed : I'U soon be out of
debt.
Harry. How will you get the money ?
Milford. By calculation.
Harry. Ha, ha, ha !
Milford. I am resolved on it. How many men of rank and honour
having lost their fortunes, have doubly recovered them.
Harry. And very honourably ?
Milford. Who doubts it ?
Harry. Ha, ha, ha ! Nobody, nobody.
Milford. But pray, Harry, what is it you find so attractive in my
late father's relict ?
Harry. Ha, ha, ha ! What, the Widow Warren !
Milford. She seems to think, and even reports, you are to marry
her.
Harry. I would rather be a post-horse : nay, the brute that drives
a post-horse, than the base thing thou hast imagined-
Milford. Then why are you so often there ?
Harry. Because I can't keep away.
Milford. AVhat, it is her daughter, Soj)hia?
Harry. JjOT'eiy bewitching innocent !
A A 2
35G Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Milford. The poor young thing is fond of you ?
Harnj. T should be half mad if I thought she was not; yet am
obliged to half hope she is not.
MiJford. Why ? _
Harry. What a question. Am I not a profligate; and in all
probability ruined? Not even my father can overlook this last
affair.
Milford. The loss of my father's will, and the mystery made
of its contents by those who witnessed it, are strange circum-
stances.
Hitrrij. In which the widow triumphs.
Mllfurd. She refuses even to pay my debts.
Harry. And the worthy alderman, your father, Ijeing overtaken
by death in the south of France, carefully makes a will, and then as
carefully hides it where it is not to be found ; or commits it to the
custody of some mercenary knave, who has made his market of it to
the widow. So, here comes the supposed executor of this supposed
will.
Enter Mr. Sulky.
My dear Mr. Sulky, how do you do ?
Sidlaj. Very ill.
Harry. Indeed ! I am very sorr}-. What's youi' disorder ?
Snil-y. You.
Harry. Ha, ha, ha !
Sidhy. Ruin, bankru])tcy, infamy.
Harry. The old story.
Sulky. To a new tune.
Harry. Ha, ha, ha !
Sulhy. You are
Harry. What, my good cynic .°
Sulky. A fashionable gentleman.
Harry. I know it.
SidJi-y. And fashionably ruined.
Harry. No : I have a father.
Snll-y. Who is ruined likewise.
Harry. Ha, ha, ha ! Is the Bank of England ruined ?
Sulky. I say rumed. Nothing less than a miracle can save the
house. The purse ot Fortunatus could not supply you.
Harry. No; it held nothing but gumeas. Notes, bills, paper,
tor me. ^
Sulky. Such effrontery is insufferable. For these five years, sir
you've been driving to ruin more furiously than
Harry. An ambassador's coach on a birth-night. I saw you
were stammering for a simile.
Sulky. Sir!
Harry. ^ Youth mounts the box, seizes the reins, and jehus head-
long on mthe dark; Passion and Prodigality blaze in the front,
bewi der the coachman, and dazzle and blind the passen^rers;
Wisdom, Irudence, and A^irtue are overset and maimed, or mur-
Scene from the Road to Uuin. 3o7
dered ; and at last Repentance, like tlie footman's flambean lagginr
behind, lights us to dangei-s when they are past all remedy.
SuUnj. Your name i.s struck off the firm. I was the adviser.
Harry. You were very kind, Mr. Sulky.
Sulky. Your father is at last determined.
Harry. Ha, ha, ha ! Do you think so ?
Sulky. You'll find so. And what brought you here, sir ? [To
MiLFORD.)
Mllford. A chaise and four.
Sulky. It might have carried you to a safer place. When do you
mean to pay your debts ?
Milford. When my father's executor prevails on the Widow
"Warren to do me justice.
Sulky. And which way am I to j^revail ?
Milford. And which way am 1 to pay my debts ?
Sulky. You might have more modesty than insolently to come
and brave one of your principal creditors, after having rained his
son by your evil coimsel.
Harry. Ha, ha, ha ! Don't believe a word on't, my good grumbler;
I ruined myself! I wanted no counsellor.
Milford. My father died immensely rich ; I ought not to starve.
Sulky. You have had iive thousand j^ounds, and are five more in
debt.
Milford. Yes, thanks to those who trust boys with thousands.
Sidky. You would do the same now that you think yoiirself a
man.
]\rilford. {Firmly.) Indeed I would not.
Sulky. Had yon been watching the widow at home, instead of
galloping after a knot of gamljlers and pickpockets, you might
perhaps have done yourself more service.
Milford. Which wajs sir ?
Sulky. The will of your late father is found.
Milford. Found !
Sulky. I have received a letter, from which I leani it was at last
discovered, carefully locked up in a private drawer ; and that it is
uow a full month since a gentleman of Montpelier, coming to Eng-
land, was entrusted with it. But no such gentleman has yet
appeared.
Milford. If it should have got into the hands of the widow !
Sulky. Which I suspect it has. You are a couple of pretty gen-
tlemen. But beware ! Misfortune is at your heels. Mr. Dorntcn
vows vengeance on you both, and jtistly. He has not gone to bed ;
and, if you have confidence enough to look him in the face, I would
have you stay where you are.
Milford. I neitlier wish to insult, nor be insulted. [Exit.
Sulky. Do you know, sir, your father turned the poor fellow into
the street, who compassionately opened the door for j^ou ?
Harry. Yes.
Sulky. Very well, sir. Your fame is increasing dail3\
Harry. I am glad to hear it.
858 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Sulky. Humpli ! Then perhaps you have paragraphed yourself r
Harry. Paragraphed? What? Where?
Sidliij. In the St. James's Evening.
Harry. Me ?
Sulky. Stating the exact amount.
Harry. Of my loss ?
Sidky. Yours. You march through every avenue to fame, dhty
or clean.
Harry. Well said. Be witty when you can, sarcastic you must
be, in spite of your teeth. But I Like you the better. You are
honest. You are my cruet of Cayenne, and a sprinkling of you is
excellent.
Sull-y. Well, sir, when 3^ou know the state of your own affairs,
and to what you have reduced the house, 3'ou will perhaps be less
ready to grin.
Harry. Reduced the house ! Ha, ha, ha!
Enter Mr. Dorxtox, ivith a neivspai^er in his hand.
Dornton. So, sir!
Harry. (Boiving.) I am happy to see you, sir.
Dornton. You are there, after having broken into my house at
midnight; and you are here (pointing to the 2^nper) after having
ruined me and my house by your unprincii^led prodigahtj^ Are
\ou not a scoundrel ?
Marry. No, sir ; I am only a fool.
Sulky. Good night to you, gentlemen. (Going.)
Dornton. Stay where you are, Mr. Sulky. I beg you to stay
where you are, and be a witness to my solemn renunciation of him
and his vices.
Sulky. I have witnessed it a thousand times.
Dornton. But this is the last. Are you not a scoundre], I say ?
(To Harry.)
Harry. I am your son.
Dornton. (Calling off.) Mr. Smith ! Bring in those deeds.
Enter Mr. S.MiTir, ivith papers.
You will not deny that you are an incorrigible squanderer ?
Harry. I will deny nothing.
Dornton. A nuisance, a wart, a blot, a stain upon the lace of
nature ?
Harry. A stain that will wash out, sir.
Dornton. A redundanc}' ; a negation ; a besotted sophisticated
incumbrance ; a jumble of fatuity ; your head, your heart, your
words, your actions, all a jargon ; incoherent and unintelligible to
yourself, absurd and offensive to others.
Harry. I am whatever you please, sir.
Dornton. Bills never examined, everything bought on credit, the
price of nothing asked. Conscious you were weak enough to wish
for baubles you did not want, and pant for ])leasures you could not
6'^j'^y> yo^^ -i^d not the effrontery to assume the circumspect caution
Scene from the Road to Ruin. 359
of common sense ; and to youi' otlier destnictive follies you must
add the detestable vice of gaming.
Harry. These things, sir, are much easier done than defended.
Dorntou: But here — give me that parchment ! [To Mr. Smith.)
The partners have all been summoned. Look, sir ! Your name has
been formally erased.
Harry. The partners are very kind.
Dorntou. The suspicions already incurred by the known profli-
gacy of a principal in the firm, the immense siams you have drawn,
this paragraph, the run on the house it will occasion, the conster-
nation of the whole city
Harry. All very terrible, and some of it very true. {Half aside.)
Bondon. {Passionately.) If I should happily outlive the storm
J'ou have raised, it shall not be to sii]>port a prodigal, or to reward
a gambler. \_E,vit Mr. Smith.] You are disinherited. Eead.
Harry. Your word is as good as the Bank, sir.
Dornton. I'll no longer act the doting father, fascinated by your
arts.
Harry. I never had any art, sir, exce^^t the one you taugK
me.
Dornton. I taught you ! "What ! Scoundrel ! What !
Harry. That of loving you, sir
Dornton. Loving me !
Harry. Most sincerely.
Dornton. {Forgetting his passion.) Why, can you say, Harry-
rascal ! I mean, that you love me ?
Harry. I should be a rascal indeed if I did not, sir.
Dornton. Harry! Hany! {Struggling ivith Ms feelings.) No;
confound me if I do ! Sir, j^ou are a vile
Harry. I know I am.
Dornton. {Going.) And I'll never sjDeak to you more !
Harry. Bid me good night, sir. Mr. Sulky here will bid me good
night, and you are my father ! Good night, Mr. Sulky.
Sulhy. Good night. \_Exit
Harry. Come, six-
Dornton. {Struggling with ^^ossion.) I wont. If I do
Harry. Eeproach me with my follies, strike out my name ; disir*
herit me; I deserve it all, and more; but say, "Good night,
Harry !"
Dornton. I wont ! I wont ! I wont !
Harry. Poverty is a ti-ifle ; we can whistle it oflP; but enmity
Dornton. I will not.
Harry. Sleep in enmity ? And who can say how soundly ? Come.'
good night.
Dornton. 1 wont ! I wont ! {Buns off.)
Harry. Say you so ! Why then, my noble-hearted dad, I am
indeed a scoundrel.
Die-enter Mr. Dornton.
Dornton. Good night ! [Exii.
Barrij. Good night ! lExiL
S6D l)ramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
SCENE FEOM MONEY.
Ed-ward Bulwek Lytton.
[The literary careev of Lovd Bulwer Lj-ttou afforded a striking; example of the
value of perseverance and a deterninatiou to succeed. In the various cajjacities
of poet, dramatist, novelist, essayist, orator and politician, he achieved more or
less distinction. Notwithstanding the temptation to lead the life of a mere
dilettante, his industry was unflagging. At the time of his deatli, though
suffering from acute pain, ho was engaged upon three works of a widely distinct
character. He died literally in harness in the year 1873, at the advanced age
ofsevcuty.]
CHARACTERS :
Alfred Evelyn. Sii.vkp. Graves.
Evelyn, All parties alike, nothing but Money versus Man !—
Sharp — (Sharp rises and goes to him) — corao here — let mo look at
you ! You are my agent, my lawj'er, my man of business. I
believe you honest ; — but what is honesty ? — where docs it exist ?
• — -in what part of us ?
Sharp, (l.) In the heart, I suppose, sir.
Euclyn. (c.) Mr. Sharp, it exists hero in the pocket! Observe:
I lay this piece of j^ellow earth on the table— I contemplate you
both ; — the man there — the gold here ! Now, there is many a man
in those streets honest as you are, who moves, thinks, feels, and
reasons as well as we do ; excellent in form — imperishaljle in soul ;
who, if his pockets were three days cmptj% would sell thought,
reason, body, and soul, too, for that little coin ! Is that the fault
of the man ? — no ! it is the fault of mankind ! God made man ;
behold what mankind have made a god ! When I was poor 1
hated the world ; now I am rich I despiso it ! Fools, knaves,
hypocrites ! By the bye, Sharp, send ,£100 to tho poor brick-
layer whose house was burnt down yesterday
[Enter ToKE, R., announces Mr. Graves. Exit, R.
Enter Graves, r.
Ah, Graves, my dear friend ! what a world this is !
Graves. It is an atrocious world !^But, astronomers eay that
there is a travelling comet which must set it on fire one day, — and
that's some comfort !
Evelyn. Every hour brings its gloomj^ lesson — the temper sours
— ^the affections wither — the heart hardens into stone ! Zounds,
Sharp ! {Crosses t^ Sharp, r. c. Graves places his hat on desk, E.)
What do you stand gaping there for ?— why don't yoii go and see
to the bricklayer ? lEa:it Sharp, r.
Evelyn. Graves, of all mj'new friends — and their name is Legion
— you are the only one I esteem ; there is sympathy between us —
we take the same views of life. I am cordially glad to see you I
\ Graves. [Groanincj.) Ah ! why should you bo glad to see a man
so miserable ?
Evelyn, Because I am miserable myself I
Graves. You ! Pshaw ! you have not been condemned to lose a
Wife!
Scene from Money. 361
Evelyn. But, plague on it, man, I may be condemned to tako
one ! — Sit down, and listen. (Evelyn goes vp and brings chairs
doivn, they sit). I want a confidant ! — Left fatherless when yet a
boy, my poor mother grudged herself food to give me education.
Some one had told her that learning was better than house and
land — that's a lie, Graves.
Graves, (l. C.) A scandalous lie, Evelyn !
Evelyn, (k. c.) On the strength of that lie I was put to school —
sent to colh'ge, a sizar. Do you know what a sizar is ? In pride
be is a gentleman — in knowledge he is a scholar — and he crawls
about, amidst gentleman and scholars, with the livery of a pauper
on his back ! I carried off Che great prizes — I became distinguished
— I looked to a high degree. One day a young lord insulted me —
I retorted — he struck me — refused ajjology — refused redress. I
was a sizar I — a Pariah ! — a thing to be struck ! Sir, I was nt
least a man, and I horsewhijiped him in the hall before the ej'cs of
the whole college ! A few days, and the lord's chastisement was
forgotten. The next day the sizar was expelled — the career of a
life blasted. That is the difference between rich and jwor : it
takes a whirlwind to move the one — a breath may uproot ithe
other ! I came to London. As long as my mother lived I had one
to toil for ; and I did toil — did hope — did struggle to be something
yet. She died, and then, somehow, my spirit broke— I resigned
myi^elf to my fate. At last I submitted to bo the poor relation —
the hanger-on and gentleman-lackev of Sir John Vesey. But I
had an object in that — there was oiie in that house whom I had
loved at the first sight.
Graves. And were you loved again ?
Evelyn. I fancied it, and was deceived. Not an hour before I
inherited this mighty wealth, I confessed my love, and was rejected
because I was poor. Now, jnark ; you remember the letter which
Sharp gave me when the will was read ?
Graves. Perfectly. What were the contents ?
Evelyn. After hints, cautions, and admonitions — half in irony,
half in earnest (Ah, poor Mordaunt had known the world I), it
proceeded — but I'll read it to you : — "Having selected you as my
heir, because I think money a trust to be placed where it seems
likely to be best employed, I now — not impose a condition, but
ask a favour. If you have formed no other and insuperable attach-
ment, I could wish to suggest your choice. My two nearest female
relations are my niece Georgina, and my third cousin, Clara
Douglas, the daughter of a once dear friend. If you could see in
either of these one whom you could make your wife, such would
be a marriage that I would seek to bring about before I die." My
friend, this is not a legal condition — the fortune does not rest on it ;
yet, need I say that my gratitude considers it a moral obligation ?
Several months have elapsed since thus called upon — I ought now
to decide ; you hear the names — Clara Douglas is the woman who
rejected me ! {They rise and push chairs back).
Graves. But now she would accept you !
362 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Evelyn. And do you think I am. so base a slave to passion that I
would owe to my gold what was denied to my affection ?
Graves. But you must choose one, in common gratitude ; you
ought to do so — yes, there you are right. Besides, you are con-
;6tantly at the house — the world observes it ; you must have raised
hopes in one of the girls. Yes, it is time to decide between her
whom you love and her whom you do not !
Evelyn. Of the two, then, I would rather marry where I should
exact the least. A marriage, to which each can bring sober esteem
and calm regard, may not be happiness, but it may be content.
But to marry one whom you could adore, and whose heart is
closed to you — to yearn for the treasure, and only to claim the
casket — -to worship the statue that you never may warm to life —
Oh ! such a marriage would be a hell the more terrible because
Paradise was in sight.
Graves. Georgina is jjretty, but vain and frivolous. {Aside) But
he has no right to be fastidious — he has never known Maria !
{Aloud) Yes, my dear friend, as you are sui'e to be miserable when
you are married, you ivill bo as wretched as myself! — When you
are married we will mingle our groans together ! Georgina is
pretty, but vain and frivolous !
Evelyn. You maj'- misjudge Georgina ; she may have a nobler
nature than appears on the sui'face. On the day, but before the
hour, in which the "^dll was read, a letter, in a strange or disguised
hand, signed ''From an unhnoivn friend to Alfred Evelyn,''^ and
enclosing what to a girl would have been a considerable sum, was
sent to a poor woman for whom I had implored charity, and whose
address I had only given to Georgina.
Graves. AYhy not assure yourself ?
Evelyn. Because I have not dared. For sometimes, even against
my reason, I have hoped that it might be Clara ! {Takinej a letter
from his bosom and looking at it.) No, I can't recognise the hand.
Graves, I detest that girl. {Crossing L, and hack.)
Graves. Who P Georgina ?
Evelyn. No ; Clara 1 But I've already, thank Heaven ! taken
some revenge upon her. {Aside) I'll not 'mention it. Yes, Graves,
come nearer. ( WJtisjiers) I've bribed Sharp to say that Mordaunt's
letter to me contained a codicil leaving Clara Douglas £20,000.
Graves. And didn't it F
i-'reZ^H. Not a farthing. One of his caprices. Besides, Sir John
wrote him word that Lady Franklin had adopted her. But I'm
glad of it — I've paid the monej' — she's no more a dependant. No
one can insult her now — she owes it all to me, and does not guess
it, man — does not guess it ! — owes it to me, me, whom she rejected ;
— me, the poor scholar! — Ha I ha I — there's some sj^ite in that, eh ?
Graves. You're a fine fellow, Evelyn, and we understand each
other. Perhaps Clara may have seen the address, and dictated
this letter, after all !
Evelyn, Do you think so ? — I'll go to the house this instant I
Bcene from John Bull. 363
Graves. EK ? Humpli! Then I'll go \ntli yon. Tliat Lady
Franklin is a fine woman! If slie were not so gay, I think — T
could
Evelyn. No, no; don't think any such thing; women are even
worse than men.
Graves. True ; to love is a boy's madness !
Evelyn. To feel is to suffer I
Graves. To hope is to be deceived.
Evelyn. I have done with romance !
Graves. Mine is buried with Maria !
Evelyn. If Clara did but write this I
Graves. Make haste, or Lady Franklin will be out I — A vale of
tears — a vale of tears !
Evelyn. A vale of tears, indeed ! \Exeiud, R.
Re-enter Graves /or his Imt.
Graves. And I left my hat behind me ! Just like my luck ! If
I had been bred a hatter, little boys would have come into the
world without heads. [Exit, R.
SCENE FEOM JOHN BULL.
G. COLMAN THE YOUNGEE.
[See pcage ^4.]
CHAKACTERS :
Sm Simon IvOChdale. Peregrine. Job Thornberri'. John Bur.
An apartment in Job Tliornherry' s house.
Enter Job Thornberry, l., in a dressing gown, folloivcd hy
John Btjk.
Bur. Don't take on so — don't you now ! Pray listen to reason !
Joh. I wont !
Bur. Pray do !
Joh. I wont I Eeason bid me love my child and help my friend ;
— what's the consequence ? My friend has run one way, and
broke up my trade ; my daughter has run another, and broke
my No ! she shall never have it to say she broke my heart. If
I hang myself for grief, she shan't know she made me.
Bvr. Well, but, master
Joh. And reason told me to take yoii into my shop, when the
fat churchwardens starved you at the workhouse — hang them for
their want of feeling ! — and you were thumped about, a poor, unof-
fending, ragged boy as you were ! — I wonder you haven't run
away from me too !
Bur. That's the first real unkind word you ever said to me.
I've sprinkled your shop two-and-twenty years, and ne^-er missed
a morninc!,-.
864 DramatiG Scenes and Dialogues.
■Joh. The haiMs are below, clearing tlie goods ; you wont have
the trouble any longer.
Bur. Trouble ! — Look ye, old Job Tbornberry
Joh. Well ! What, are you going to be saucy to me now I'm
ruined ?
Bur. Don't say one cutting thing after another. You have been
as noted all round our town, for being a kind man as being a
blunt one.
Joh. Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them look at my
ledger — they'll find it right. I began upon a little ; I made that
little great by industry : I never cringed to a customer to get hini
into my books, that 1 might hamper him with an overcharged bill
for long credit ; I earned my fair profits ; I paid my fair way ; I
break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend shall be
seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman in
England may clap his hand on his heart and say as much, when he
asks a creditor to sign his certificate.
Bm: 'Twas I kept your ledger all the time.
Joh. I know you did.
Bur. From the time that you took me out of the workhouse.
Joh. Pshaw ! Rot the workhouse !
Bur. You never mentioned it to me j^onrself till to-day.
Joh. I said it in a hurry.
Bur. And I've always remembered it at leisure. I don't want
to brag, but I hope I've been faithful. It's rather hard to tell poor
John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing, feeding, and making
him your man of trust for t\vo-and-tweaty years, that you wonder
he don't run away from you now you're in trouble.
Joh. {Affected). John, I beg your pardon.
IStretchinr/ out hU hand.
Bur. {Tahing Ms hand). Don't say a word more about it.
Joh. I
Bur. Pray, now, master, don't say any more ! — come, be a man !
get on your things, and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the
goods.
Joh. I can't, John — I can't. My heart's heavier than all the
iron and brass in my shop.
Bur. Nay, consider what confusion ! Pluck up a courage — do,
now !
Joh. Well, I'll try.
Bur. Ay, that's right; here's your clothes. {Tal-inr/ them from
\ho hack of a chair.) They'll play the deuce with all the pots and
pans, if you arn't by. Why, I warrant you'll do ! Bless you, what
should ail you ?
Joh. Ail me ! do you go and get a daughter, John Bur ; then let
her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me. [Crosses to R.
Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. {Goinrj to help him
on with his clothes). This is the waistcoat young mistress worked
with her own hands, for your bii-thday, five years ago. Come, get
into it, as quick as you can.
Scene from John Bull. 363
Joh. [Tliroiving it on the floor violeiiihj). I'd as lieve go into my
coffin ! slie'll have me there soon. Pshaw ! rot it ! I'm going to
snivel ! Bur, go and get me another.
Bur. Are you sure you wont put it on ?
Job. No, I wont. (Bvii imuses). ISTo, I tell you ! — (Exit Buk, l.)
How proud I was of that waistcoat five years ago ! I little thought
what would happen now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table,
with all my neighbours to celebrate the day. There was CoUop on
one side of me, and his wife on the other, and my daughter Mary
sat at the further end, smiling so sweetly — like an artful good-for-
nothing 1 shouldn't like to throw away the waistcoat neither —
I may as well put it on. Yes, it would be poor spite not to i^ut it
on. (Futting his arms into it). She's breaking my heart ! but I'll
wear it, I'll wear it! — {Buftoning it as he speaks, and crying in-
voluntarily). It's my child's — she's undutiful, ungi-ateful, barba-
rous — but she's my child, and she'll never work me another.
Re-enter Joiix Buk, l.
Bur. Here's another waistcoat, but it has laid by so long, I tliink
it's damp.
Joh. I was thinking so myself, Bur ; and so
Bar. Eh ? What ! you've got on the old one ? Well, now, I
declare I'm glad of that ! Here's your coat. {Patting it on him).
'Sbobs ! this waistcoat feels a little damp about the top of the
bosom.
Joh. (Confused). Never mind, Bur, never mind. A little water
has dropped on it ; but it wont give me cold, I Ijelieve.
[^1 noise ivithout, e.
Biir. Heigh ! they are playing up old Harry below ! I'll run
and see what's the matter. Make haste after me — do now !
lExit, B.
Joh. I don't care for the bankruptcy now ; I can face my cre-
ditors like an honest man ; and I can crawl to my grave afterwards,
as poor as a church mouse. What does it signify ! Job Thornberry
has no reason now to wish himself worth a groat; the old iron-
monger and brazier has nobody to hoard his money for now ! I was
only saving for my daughter ; and she has run away from her do-
ting, fooUsh father, and struck down my heart — flat— flat!
Enter Peregeine, e.
Well — who are you ? '.
Per. A friend ",
Joh. Then I'm sorry to see you. I have just been ruined by a
friend, and never wish to have another friend again as long as I
live ; no, nor any ungrateful, undutiful Poh!— I don't recollect
your face.
Per. Climate and years have been at work on it. While Euro-
peans are scorching under an Indian sun, time is doiibly busy in
fanning their features with his wiiigs. But do you remember no
trace of me ?
866 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Joh. No, I tell you. If you have anything to say, say it. _ I have
something to settle below with my daughter — 1 mean, with the
people in the shop ; they are impatient ; and the morning has half
run away before she knew I should be up — I mean, before I have
had time to get on my coat and waistcoat, she gave me — I mean —
I mean, if you have any business, teU it at once.
Per. I will teU it at once. You seem agitated. The harpies
whom I i^assed in your shop mformcd me of your sudden misfor-
tune ; but do not despair yet.
Joh. Ay, I'm going to be a bankrupt ; but that don't signify.
Go on ; it isn't that ; they'll find all fair — but go on.
Per. 1 will. 'Tis just thirty years since I left England.
Jol). That's a little after the time I set up in the hardware
business.
Per. About that time a lad of fifteen years entered your shop :
he had the api^earance of a gentleman's son, and told you he had
heard, by accident, as he was wandering through the streets of
Penzance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thornberry's
goodness to persons in distress.
Job. I believe he told a lie there.
Per. !Not in that instance, though he did in another.
Joh. 1 remember him ; he was a fine bluff boy.
Per. He had lost his parents, he said ; and, destitute of friends,
money, and food, was making his way to the next port, to offer
himself to any vessel that would take him on board, that he might
work his way abroad, and seek a livelihood.
Joh. Yes, yes, he did : I remember it.
Per. You may remember, too, when the boy had finished his tale
of distress, you jDiit ten guineas in his hand. They were the first
earnings of your trade, you told him, and coiild not be laid out to
better advantage than in relie\ang a helpless orphan ; and giving
him a letter of recommendation to a sea captain at Falmouth, you
wished him good spirits and j-ti-osperity. He left you with a i)ro-
mise that if fortune ever smiled upon him, you should one day
hear news of Peregrine.
Joh. Ah, poor fellow ! poor Peregrine ! He was a pretty boy ;
I should like to hear news of him, 1 own.
Per. I am that Peregrine.
. Joh. Eh ? what ! you are— no ! let me look at you again. Are
you the pretty boy that Bless us, how you are altered !
Per. I have endured many hardships since I saw you — many
\iirns of fortune : but I deceived you (it was the cunning of a truant
fad) when I told you I had lost my parents. From' a romantic
folly, the gro\vth of boyish brains, I had fixed my fancy on being a
sailor, and had run away from my father.
Joh. {With great emotion). Rnn away from your father ? If I
had known that, I'd have horsewliipped you Avithin an inch of your
Per. Had you known it, you had done right, perhaps.
Joh. Right ! ah ; you don't know what it is for a child to run
Scene from John Bull. oG7
away fi-om a fatter ! Eot me ! if I wouldn't have sent you back to
bun, tied neck and heels, in the basket of a stage-coach !
Fer. I have had my compunctions — have expressed them bj
/etter to my father ; but I fear my penitence had no eifect.
Joh. Served you right.
Per. Having no answers from him, he died, I fear without for-
giving me. [Sighs.
Joh. {Starthiff.) "What ! died withoiit forgiving his child ! — Come !
that's too much ! I couldn't have done that, neither. But go on ;
I hope you've been prosperous. But you shouldn't have quitted
your father.
Per. I acknowledge it; yet I have seen pros2Derity, though I
traversed many co^intries on my outset in pain and jioverty.
Chance at length raised me a friend in India, by whose interest
and my own industry I amassed considerable wealth in the factory
at Calcutta.
Joh. And have just landed it, I suppose, in England?
Per. I landed one hundred pounds last night in my purse, as I
swam from the Indiaman, which was splitting on a rock, half a
league from the neighljouring shore. As for the rest of my proj^erty,
bills, bonds, cash, jewels, the whole amount of my toil and applica-
tion, are, by this time, I doubt not, gone to the bottom : and Pere-
grine is returned, after thirty years, to pay his debt to you, almost
as poor as he left you.
Joh. I wont touch a ]Denny of your hundred pounds — not a
penny !
Per. I do not desire you ; I only desire you to take your own.
Joh. My own ?
Per. Yes ; I plunged with this box, last night, into the waves.
You see, it has your name on it.
Joh. " Job Thoruberry," sure enough ! And what's in it ?"
Per. The harvest of a kind man's charity ; the produce of your
bounty to one whom you thought an orphan. I have traded these
twenty years on ten guineas (which from the first I had set apart
as yours), till they have become ten thousand ; take it — it could
not, I find, come more opportunely. {Giving Mm the hox). Your
honest heart gratified itself in administering to my need ; and I
experience that burst of pleasure a grateful man enjoys, in reliev-
ing my reliever.
Joh. {Sqneezing Peregrine's hand, returning the hox, and seeming
almost nnahle to utter). Take it again.
Per. Why do you reject it ?
Joh. I'll tell you as soon as I'm able. T'other day I had a friend
pshaw! rot it! I'm an old fool ! (Wiping his eyes). I lent a
friend t'other day the whole profits of my trade, to save him from
sinking. He walked off" with them, and made me a bankru^it.
Dou.'t you think he is a rascal ?
Per. Decidedly so.
Joh. And what should I be if I took all you have saved in the
world, and left you to shift for yoiu'self ?
oG8 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Per. But the case is different. This money is, in fact, your own.
I am inured to hardships; better able to bear them, and am
younger than you. Perhaps, too, I still have prospects to
Job. I wont take it. I'm as thankful to you as if I let you starve,
but I wont take it.
Per. Remember, too, you have claims upon you which I have
not. My guide, as I came hither, said you had married in my ab-
sence : 'tis true, he told me you were a widower ; but, it seems, you
have a daughter to jorovide for.
Job. I have no daughter to provide for now.
Per. Then he misiu formed me.
Job. No he didn't. I had one last night, but she's gone.
Per. Gone !
Job. Yes ; gone to sea, for what I know, as you did. Run from
a good father as you did. This is a morninij to remember ; my
daughter has run out, and the bailiffs have run in ; I shan't soon for-
get the day of the month.
Per. This morning did you say ?
Job. Ay, before daybreak ; a hard-hearted, base
Per. And covild she leave you, during the derangement of your
affairs ?
Job. She didn't know what was going to happen, poor soul ! I
wish she had now. I don't think Mary would have left her old
father in the midst of his misfortunes.
Per. {Aside.) ]\Iary ! it must be she ! AVhat is the amount of the
demands upon you ?
Job. Six thousand : but I don't mind that ; the goods can nearly
cover it — let 'em take 'em — rot the gridirons and warming-pans !
I could begin again, but now my Mary's gone, I haven't the heart;
but I shall hit upon something.
Per. Let me make a proposal to you, my old friend. Pei*mit me
to settle with the officers, and to clear all demands upon you. Make
it a debt if you please ; I will have a hold, if it must be so, on your
future profits in trade; but do this, and I promise to restore your
ilaughter to you.
Job. What ! bring back my child ? Do you know where she is ?
— Is she safe? — Is she far off? — Is
Per. Will you receive the money ?
Job. Yes, yes, on these terms — on these conditions — but where is
Mary ?
Per. Patience — I must not tell you yet I but in four-and-twenty
hours I pledge myself to bring her back to you.
Job. ^Vhat here ? to her father's house, and safe ? — Oh 'shut !
when I see her safe, what a thundering passion I'll be in with her !
But you are not deceiving me ? You know the first time you came
into my shop, what a bouncer you told me, when you were a boy.
Per. Believe me, I would not trifle with you now. Come, come
down to your shop, that we may rid it of its present \asitants.
Job. 1 believe you dropped from the clouds, all on a sudden, to
comfort an old, broken-hearted brazier. [Exeunt.
S60
SCENE FEOM THE LADY OF LYONS.
Edward Bulaa'er Lytton.
[See p. 360.]
CHAKACTERS :
General Damas and Claude Melnotte.
Damas. Tho man wlio sets his heart uj^on a woman
Is a chamelion, and doth feed on air;
From air he takes his colours, — holds his life, —
Changes with every wind, — grows lean or fat,
Rosy with hope, or green with jealoiisy,
Or pallid with despair— just as the gale
Varies from north to south — from heat to cold !
Oh, v/oman ! woman ! thou should' st have few sins
Of thine own to answer for ! Thou art tho author
Of such a book of follies in a man.
That it would need the tears of all the angels
To blot the record out !
Enter Melnotte, j^/alc and agitated, u. 2 E.
I need not tell thee ! Thou hast heard
Mel. The worst !
I have !
Damas. Be cheer'd ; others are fair as she is !
Ilel. Others ! — The world is crumbled at my feet !
She was my world ; fill'd iip the whole of being-
Smiled in the sunshine — walk'd the glorious earth —
Sate in my heart — was the sweet life of life.
The Past was hers : I dreamt not of a Future
That did not wear her shape ! Mem'ry and Hope
Alike are gone. Pauline is faithless ! Henceforth
The universal space is desolate !
Damas. Hope yet.
McI. Hope, yes I — one hoj)e is left me still —
A soldier's grave ! " Glory has died with Love ;
" I look into my heart, and, where I saw
" Pauline, see Death ! "
{After a jxiuse.) — But am I not deceived ?
I went but by the rumour of the town ;
Eumour is false, — I was too hasty ! Damas,
Whom hast thou seen ?
Damas. Thy rival and her father.
Arm thyself for the truth — He heeds not —
iMel She
Will never know how deeply she was loved !
" The charitable night, that wont to bring
" Comfort to-day, in bright and eloquent dreams,
B B
370 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
" Is henceforth leagued witli misery ! Sleep, farewell.
" Or else become eternal ! Oh, the waking
" From false oblivion, and to see the sun,
" And know she is another's ! "
Damas. Be a man !
McL I am a man ; — it is the sting of woe
Like mine that tells U3 we are men '
Dumas. The false one
Did not deserve thee.
Md. Hush I — -No word against her !
Why should she keep, through years and silent absence,
The holy tablets of her virgin faith
True to a traitor's name ? Oh, blame her not !
It were a sharper grief to think her wortliless
Than to he what I am ! To-daj', to-day !
They said " To-day I " This day, so wildly welcomed —
This day, my soul had singled out of time
And mark'd for bliss I This day ! oh, could I see her,
See her once more unknown ; but hear her voice.
' ' So that one echo of its music might
" Make ruin less appalling in its silence."
Damas. Easily done ! Uome with me to her house ;
Your dress — your cloak — moustache — the bronzed iiucs
Of time and toil — the name you beai- — belief
In your absence, — all will ward away suspicion.
Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have you come.
There may be hope I Paulino is yet so young,
They may have forced her to these second bridals
" Out of mistaken love."
McL " No," bid mo hoi-)e not !
Bid me not hope ! I could not "bear again
To fall from such a heaven ! One gleam of sunshine,
And the ice breaks and I am lost ! Oh, DamaSj
There's no such thing as courage in a man ;
The veriest slave that ever crawled from danger
Might spurn me now. When first I lost her, Damas,
I bore it, did I not ? I still had hope,
And now I — I {Bursts into an arjony of fjrief).
Damas. What, comrade I all the women
That ever smiled destruction on brave hearts
Were not worth tears like these !
Md. 'Tis past — forget it.
" I am prepared ; life has no further ills !
*' The cloud has broken in that stormy rain,
" And on the waste I stand, alone with Heaven."
Damas. " His very face is changed ; a breaking heart
Does its work soon ! " — Come, Meluotte, rouse thyself:
One effort more. Again thou'lt see her.
ilM. Secher!
There ia a passion in that simple sentence
The First Act of London Assurance. 371
That shivers all the j)ride and power of reason
Into a chaos !
Bamas. Time wanes ; — corae, ere yet
It be too late.
Mel. Terrible words—" Too late ! "
Lead on. One last look more, and then
Damas. Forget her I
Mel. Forget her, yes ! — For death remembers not,
\_Exeurit, L.
— — ♦ —
THE FIRST ACT OF LONDON ASSUEANCE
Dion Boucicault.
[i[r. Boucicault is, without doubt, the most prolific English dramatist of our
own or any other epoch. His constructive skill is extraordinary, and his power
of delineating character in a few lines remarkable. Amongst his best-known
works wliich arc destined to live, and have held the stage with unabated succe-s
for many years, may be enumerated "The Colleen Bawn," " Arrah-na-Pogue,"
" The Shaughraun,'' and " The Streets of London." His earliest play "London
Assurance," was produced in 1841, when the author was barely out of his teens.
The first Act of this play emjiloj-s male characters only.]
CHARACTERS :
Sir Harcoukt Courtly, Max Harkaway, Charles Courtly,
Dazzle, Cool, Martin.
Scene. — An ante-room in Sir Harcourt Courtly's house in BeJgrave
Square, doors, R. l. and c. Four iicat chairs, table.
Enter CoOL, R. door.
Cool. Half-past nine, and Mr. Charles has not yet returned : I
am in a fever of dread. If his father happen to rise earlier than
usual on any morning, he is sure to ask first for Mr. Charles.
Poor deluded old gentleman — he little thinks how he is deceived.
Enter ^Mahtin, lazily, D. L. 2 E.
Well, Martin, he has not come home yet ?
Martin. No ; and I have not had a wink of sleep all night — I
cannot stand this any longer ; I shall give warniDg. This is the
fifth night Mr. Courtly has remained out, and I am obliged to
stand at the hall window to watch for him.
Cool. You know if Sir Harcourt was aware that we connived at
his son's ii'regularities, we should all be discharged.
Martin. I have used up all my common excuses on his duns — •
" Call again," " Not at home," and " Send it down to you," won't
serve any more ; and Mr. Crust, the wine-merchant, swears ho
will be paid.
Cool. So they all saj'. "Why he has arrests out against him
already. I've seen the fellows watching the door — {loud knock and
ring heard, L.)— there he is just in time — -quick, Martin, for I
expect Sir Harcourt's bell every moment [small bell, E. rings) — and
there it is. {Exit Martin, sloivly, R.) Thank heaven ! he will
B B 2
372 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
return to college to-morrow, and this heavy responsibility will be
taken off my shoulders. A valet is as difficult a post to fill properly
as that of j^rime minister. Exit, c.
Charles Courtly, [zuithont, L.) Hollo !
Dazzle, {tuithout) Steady !
Enter CnARLES Courtly and Dazzle, l.
Courtly. Hollo-o-o
Dazzle. Hush ! what are you about, howling like a Hottentot.
Sit down there, and thank heaven you are in Belgrave Square,
instead of Bow Street.
Courtly. D — D — Damn Bow Street.
Dazzle. Oh, with all my heart I — you have not yet seen as much
of it as I have.
Courtly. I say — let me see — what was I going to say P— oh, look
here — {he pulls end a large assortment of knockers, bell-pulls, (be., from
his poc^ket). There ! dam 'me I I'll puzzle the postmen — I'll deprive
them of their right of disturbing the neighbourhood. That black
lion's head did belong to Old Vampire, the money-lender ; this
bell-pull to Miss Stitch, the milliner.
Dazzle, And this brass griffin
Courtly. That ! oh, lot me see — I think — I twisted that off our
own hall-door as I came in, while you were paying the cab.
Dazzle. What shall I do with them ?
Courtly. Be kind to 'em — pack 'em in a small hamper, and send
'em to the sitting magistrate with my father's compliments ; in the
mean time come into my room, and I'll astonish you with somo
Burgundy, {they rise.)
Enter Cool, c. door.
Cool (r.) Mr. Charles^—
Courtly, (c.) Out! out! not at home to any one.
Cool. And drunk
Courtly. As a lord.
Cool. If Sir Harcourt knew this he would go mad, he would
discharge me.
Courtly. You flatter yourself, that would bo no proof of his
insanity.— -(^0 Dazzle, l.) — This is Cool, Sir, Mr. Cool; he is the
best liar in London — there is a pungency about his invention, and
an originality in his equivocation, that is perfectly refreshing.
Cool, {aside) Why, Mr. Charles, where did you pick him up ?
Courtly. You mistake, ho picked me up. {hell riuys, R.)
Cool. Here comes Sir Harcourt — pray do not let him see you in
this state.
Courtly. State ! what do you mean ? I am in a beautiful state.
Cool. I should lose my character.
Courtly. That would be a fortunate epoch in your life. Cool.
Cool. Your father would discharge me.
Courtly. How dare you get drunk — sir ?
Cool. Retire to your own room, for heaven's sake, Mr. Charle?
The First Act of London Assurance. 373
Courtly. I'll do so for my own sake, {io Dazzle) I say, old
fellow, [staggeriny) just hold the door steady while I go in.
Dazzle. This way. Now then ! — take care I
{helps him into the room, R.)
Enter Sir Harcourt Courtly in an, elegant dressing-gown, and
Greek scull-cap and tassels, &c., <&c., D. R.
Sir H. (c) Cool, is breakfast ready ?
Cool, (r.) Quite ready, Sir Harcourt.
*S'(V H. Apropos. I omitted to mention that I expect Squire
Harkaway to join us this morning, and you must prepare for my
departure to Oak Hall immediately.
Cool. Leave town in the commencement of the season, Sir
Harcourt ? So unprecedented a proceeding.
Sir H. It is. I confess it, there is but one power could effect
such a miracle — that is divinity.
Cool. How !
Sir H. In female form of course. Cool, I am about to present
society with a second Lady Courtly ; young— blushing eighteen ;
— lovely! I have her portrait; — rich I I have her banker's
account ; — an heiress, and a Venus !
Cool. Lady Courtly could be none other.
Sir H. Ha ! Ha ! Cool, your manners are above your station.
— Apropos, I shall find no further use for my brocaded dressing
gown.
Cool. I thank you, Sir Harcourt; might I ask who the fortunate
lady is ?
Sir H. Certainly ; Miss Grace Harkaway, the niece of my old
friend Max.
Cool. Have you never seen the lady, sir ?
Sir H. Never — that is, yes — eight years ago. Having been, as
3'ou know, on the Continent for the last seven years, I have not
had the opportunity of paying my devoirs — our connection and
betrothal was a verj^ extraordinary one. Her father's estates were
contiguous to mine ; — being a penurious, miserly, ugly old scoundrel,
he made a market of my indiscretion, and supplied my extravagance
with large sums of money on mortgages, his great desire being to
unite the two properties. About seven years ago he died, leaving
Grace, a girl, to the guardianship of her uncle, with this will : if on
attaining the age of nineteen she would consent to marry me, I
should receive those deeds, and all his property as her dowry ; if
she refused to comply with this condition, they should revert to my
heir presumptive or apparent. — She consents.
Cool. Who would not ?
Sir H. I consent to receive her fifteen thousand pounds a year.
Cool, (aside) Who would not ?
Sir H. So prepare, Cool, prepare, (crosses to R.) But where is
my boy ? where is Charles ?
Cool. Why — oh, he is gone out, Sir Harcourt ; yes, gone out to
take a walk.
374 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Sir H. Poor child ! A perfect child in heart — a sober, placid
mind — the simplicity and verdure of boyhood, kept fresh and
xinsuUied by any contact with society. Tell me, Cool, at what
time was he in bed last night ?
Cool. Half-past nine. Sir Havcourt.
Sir H. Half-past nine ! Beautiful ! "What an original idea !
Eeposing in cherub slumbers, while all around him teems with
drinking and debauchery. Primitive sweetness of nature ! No
jnlot-coated bear-skinned brawling.
Cool. Oh, Sir Harcourt !
Sir H. No cigar smoking
Cool. Faints at the smell of one.
Sir H. No brandj'-and- water bibbing
Cool. Doesn't know the taste of anything stronger than barley-
water.
Sir H. Never heard the clock strike twelve, except at noon. In
fact, he is my son, and became a gentleman by right of paternity.
He inherited mj' manners.
Kilter M-VETix, L.
Martin. Mr. Harkaway.
Enter Max Harkaway, l.
Max. Squire Harkaway, fellow, or ^lax Harkaway, another
time. [Martin' hows and exit, r.
Ah ! ha ! Sir Harcourt, I'm devilish glad to see ye. Gi' me your
fist. Dang it, but I'm glad to see ye. Let me see — six — seven
years, or more, since wo have met. How quickly they have
llown.
Sir H. [throiving off his studied manner) Max, Max I give me
you hand, old. boy. (aside) Ah ! he is glad to see me ; — there is
no fawning pretence about that squeeze. Cool, you may retire.
[Kelt Cool, r.
Max. Whj', you are looking quite rosy.
Sir H. Ah, ah, rosy ! Am I too florid ?
Mux. Not a bit ; not a bit.
Sir H. I thought so. (aside) Cool said I had put too much on.
Max. (l.) How comes it, Courtly, that you manage to retain
your youth ? See, I'm as grej' as an old badger, or a wild
rabbit— while you are as black as a young rook. I say, whose
head grew your hair, — eh ?
Sir H. Permit me to remark that all the beauties of my person
are of home manufactui'e. Why should you be surprised at my
youth? 1 have scarcely thrown off the giddiness of a very boy
— elasticity of limb — buoyancy of soul. Picmark this position
(throius himself into an attitude) ; I hold that attitude for ten
minutes at Lady Acid's last reunion, at the express desire of one
of our first sculptors, while he was making a sketch of me for the
Apollo.
The First Act of London Assurance. 375
Max. (aside) Making a butt of thee for their gibes.
Sir H, Lady Sarah Sarcasm started up, and, pointing to my
face, ejaculated, " Good gracious ! Does not Sir Harcourt remind
you of the countenance of Ajax, in the Pompeian portrait P ''
Mux. [aside) Ajax I — humbug !
Sir H, You are complimentary.
Max. I'm a plain man, and always speak my mind. What's in
a face or figure ? Does a Grecian nose entail a good temper ?
Does a waspish waist indicate a good heart '■! or, do oily perfumed
locks necessarily thatch a well-furnished brain ?
Sir H. It's an undeniable fact, jilain people always praise the
beauties of the mind.
Max. Excuse the insinuation; I had thought the first Lady
Courtly had surfeited you with beauty.
Sir 11. No ; she lived fourteen months with me, and then eloped
with au intimate friend. Etiquette compelled me to challenge the
seducer ; so I received satisfaction, and a bullet iu my shoulder
at the same time. However, I had the consolation of knowing
Ihat he was the handsomest man of the age. She did not insult
me, by running away with a d d ill-looking scoundrel.
Max. That certainly was flattering.
Sir 11. I felt so, as I pocketed ten thousand pounds damages.
Max. That must have been a great balm to your sore honour.
Sir H. It was — Max, my honour would have died without it ;
for on that year the wrong horse won the Derby — by some mistake.
It was one of the luckiest chances, — thing that does not happen
twice in a man's life, — the oj^portunity of getting rid of his wife
and his debts at the same time.
Max. Tell the truth, Courtly ! Did you not feel a little frayed
in your delicacy ? — your honour, now ? Eh ?
Sir H. Not a whit. 'Wh.j should I ? I married money and I
received it, — virgin gold ! My delicacy and honour had nothing
to do with hers. The world pities the bereaved husband, when it
should congratulate. No, — the aft'aii' made a sensation, and I was
the object. Besides, it is vulgar to make a parade of one's feelings,
however acute they may be : impenetrability of countenance is the
sure sign of your highly-bred man of fashion.
Max. So, a man must, therefore, lose his wife and his money
with a smile, — iu fact, everything he possesses but his temper.
Sir H. Exactly, — and greet ruin with vive la lagutelle ! For
example, — your modish beauty never discomposes the shape of her
features with convulsive laughter. A smile rewards the hon. mot,
and also shows the whiteness of her teeth. She never weeps im-
promptu — tears might destroy the economy of her cheek. Scenes
are vulgar, — hysterics obsolete : she exhibits a calm, placid, im-
penetrable lake, whose surface is reflexion, but of unfathomable
depth, — a statue, whose life is hypothetical and not a jjr/?/z«/ac/e
fact [crosses to L.).
Max. Well, give me the girl that will fly at your eyes in an
argument, and stick to her point like a fox to his Qwn tail,
876 Dramatic Scenes and Dkdogues.
Sir H, But, etiquette I Max, remember etiquette.
Max. Damn etiquette ! I have seen a man who thoufjlit it
sacrilege to eat fish with a knife, that would not scruple to rise up
and rob his brother of his birthright in a gambling-house. Your
thorough-bred, well-blooded heart, will seldom kick over the
traces of good feeling. That's my opinion, and I don't care who
knows it.
Hir II. Pardon me, — etiquette is the pulse of societj-, by regu-
lating which the body politic is retained in health. I consider
myself one of the faculty in the art.
Max. Well, well, you are a living libel upon common sense, for
you are old enough to know better.
.S'(> //. Old enough ! What do you mean ? Old I I still retain
all my little juvenile indiscretions, which your niece's beauties
must teach me to discard. I have not sown my wild oats yet.
Mux. Time you did, at sixty-three.
Sir 11. Sixty-three I Good gracious I —forty — 'pon my life!
forty, next March.
Max. Why, you are older than I am.
*S'//' //. Oh I you are old enough to bo iwy father.
Max. Well, if I am, I am ; that's etiquette, I suppose. Poor
Grace ! how often I have pitied her fate ! That a young and
beautiful creature should be driven into wretched splendour, or
miserable poverty I
.S'i> H. Wretched ! Wherefore ? Lady Courtly wretched I Im-
possible !
Max. Will she not be compelled to marry you, whether she likes
you or not ? — a choice between you and poverty {aside). And hang
me if it isn't a tie ! But why do you not introduce your sou
Charles to me ? I have not seen him since he was a child. You
would never permit him to accept any of my invitations to spend
his vacation at Oak Uall, — of course, wo shall have the pleasure of
his company now.
Sir H. He is not fit to enter society yet. Ho is a studious, sober
boy.
Max. Boy I Why, he's five and twenty.
Sir H. Good gracious I Max, you will permit mo to know my
own son's age, — ho is not twenty.
Max. I'm dumb.
Sir H. You will excuse me while I indulge in the process of
dressing. Cool !
Enter CoOL, K.
Prepare my toilet. [^Exit CoOL, c.
That is a ceremony which, with me, supersedes all others. I con-
sider it a duty which everj- gentleman owes to society, to render
himself as agreeable an object as possible ; and the least compli-
ment a mortal can pay to nature, when she honours him by
bestowing extra care in the manufacture of his person, is to dis-
play her taste to the best possible advantage ; and so, au revoir.
[Exit E. c.
The First Act of London Assu7'ance. 377
3Iax {sits R. of table). That's a good soul I — lie has his faults, and
•who has not ? Forty years of age ! Oh, monstrous ! — but he does
look uncommonly young for sixty, spite of his foreign locks and
complexion.
Enter Dazzle, e. 2 e.
Dazzle. Who's my friend, with the stick and gaiters, I wonder —
one of the family — the governor maybe.
Max (r. c). Who's this ? {rises) Oh, Charles — is that you, my
boy ? ITow are you ? (aside) This is the ho}/.
Dazzle. He knows me — he is too respectable for a bailiff, ((doud)
How arc you ?
Max. Your father has just left me.
Dazzle, {aside) The devil he has, he's been dead these ten years.
Oh ! 1 see, he thinks I'm young Courtly, (aloud) The honour you
would confer on me, I must unwillingly disclaim, — I am not
Mr. Courtly.
3fax. I beg pardon — a friend, I suppose.
Dazzle. Oh, a most intimate friend — a friend of years — distantly
related to the family — one of my ancestors married one of his.
(aside) Adam and Eve.
Max. Are you on a visit here ?
Dazzle. Yes. Oh ! yes. (aside) Eather a short one, I'm afraid.
3Iax. (aside) This appears a dashing kind of fellow — ash e is a
friend of Sir Harcourt's I'll invite him to the wedding, {(doud)
Sir, if you are not otherwise engaged, I shall feel honoured by your
company at my house — Oak Hall, Gloucestershii'e.
Dazzle. Your name is
Max. Harkaway — Mr. Harkawaj'.
Dazzle. Harkaway — let mo sec — I ought to be related to the
Harkaways, somehow.
Max. A wedding is about to come off — will you take a part on
the occasion ?
Dazzle. With pleasure ; — any part but that of the husband.
Max. Have you anj' previous engagement ?
Dazzle. I was thinking — eh ! Whj', let me see. (aside) Promised
to meet my tailor and his account to-morrow ; however, I'll post-
pone that, (aloud) Have you good shooting ?
Max. Shooting ! Why there's no shooting at this time of the
year.
Da::zle. Oh ! I'm in no hurry — I can wait till the season, of
course. I was only speaking precautionally — you have good
shooting ?
Max. The best in the country.
Dazzle. Make j'ourself comfortable ! Say no more — I'm your
man — wait till you see how I'll murder your preserves.
Max. Do you hunt ?
Dazzle. Pardon me — but will you repeat that ? (aside) Delicious
and expensive idea.
Max. You ride ?
378 Dramat'iG Scenes and Dialogues.
Dazzle. Anytliing I — eveiythiug ! From a blood to a broom-
stick. Only catch me a Hash of lightning', and let me get
on the back of it, and dam'mo if I -wouldn't astonish the ele-
ments.
Max. Ha! Ha!
Dazzle. I'd put a girdle round about the earth, in very consider-
ably less than forty minutes.
Max. Ah ! ah ! We'll show old Fiddlesti-ings how to spend the
day. He imagines that Nature, at the earnest request of Fashion,
made summer days long for him to saunter in the Park, and winter
nights, that ho might have good time to get cleared out at hazard
or at whist. Give me the yelping of a pack of hounds before the
shuffling of a pack of cards. What state can match the chase in
fnll cry, each vying with his fellow which shall be most happy ?
A thousand deaths fly by unheeded in that one hour's life of
extasy. Time is outrun, and Nature seems to grudge our bliss in
making the day so short.
Dazzle. No, for then rises up the idol of my great adoration.
Max. Who's that?
Dazzle. The bottle; that lends a lustre to the soul, when the
world puts on its nightcajj and extinguishes the sun — then comes
the bottle. Oh, mighty wine ! Don't ask mo to apostrophise.
Wine and lovo are the only two indescribable things iu Nature ;
but I prefer the wine, because its consequences are not entailed,
and are more easily got rid of.
3Iax. How so ?
Dazzle. Love euds in matrimony, wine in soda water.
Max. Well, I can promise you as fine a bottle as ever was
cracked.
Dazzle. Never mind the bottle, give mo the wine. Say no more,
but, when I arrive, just shako one of my hamls, and put the key of
the cellar into the other, and if I don't make myself intimately
acquainted with its internal organisation — well, I say nothing,
time will show.
Max. I foresee some happy days.
Dazzle. And I some glorious nights.
Max. It musn't be a Hying visit.
Dazzle. 1 despise the word — I'll stop a month with you.
Max. Or a year or two.
Dazzle. I'll Hve and die with you.
Max. Ha ! ha ! Eomember, Max Harkaway, Oak Hall,
Gloucestershire.
Dazzle. I'll remember — fare ye well. (Max is going, E.) I say,
holloa ! — Tallyho — o — o — o !
Max. Yoicks !— Tallyho— o—o—o ! lExit L. door.
Dazzle. There I am, quartered for a couple of years at the least.
The old boy wants somebody to ride his horses, shoot his game,
and keep a restraint on the morals of the parish : I'm eligible.
What a lucky accident to meet young Courtly last night ! Whq
could have thought it ?— yesterday, I could not make certain of a
The First Act of London Assurance. 379
dinner, except at my own proper peril ; to-day, I would flirt with
a banquet.
Ent(^' Chaeles Courtly, e. 2 e.
Courtly. "What infernal row was that ? Why (seeing Dazzle),
are you here still ?
Dazzle. Yes. Ain't you delighted ? I'll ring and send the
servant for my luggage.
Courtly. The devil you will ! AVhy, you don't mean to say you
seriously intend to take up a permanent residence here ? {he rings
hell)
Dazzle, Now that's a most inhospitable insinuation.
Courtly. Might I ask your name ?
Dazzle. With a deal of pleasure — Eichard Dazzle, late of the
Unattached Volunteers, vulgarly entitled the Dirty Buffs.
Enter Martin, l.
Courtly. Then, Mi-. Eichard Dazzle, I have the honour of wish-
ing you a very good morning. Martin, show this gentleman the
door.
Dazzle. If he does, I'll kick Martin out of it. — No offence.
{Exit Martin, l.) Now, Sir, permit me to place a dioramic \-iew
of your conduct before you. After bringing you safely homo this
morning — after indulgently waiting whenever you took a passing
fancy to a knocker or bell-pull — after conducting a retreat that
would have reflected honour on Napoleon — you would kick me
into the street, like a mangy cur ; and that's what you call grati-
tude. Now, to show you how superior I am to petty malice, I
give you an unlimited invitation to my house— my country house —
to remain as long as you please.
Courtly. Your house !
Dazzle. Oak Hall, Gloucestershire — fine old place — for further
particulars see Eoad Book ; that is, it noiniiially belongs to my old
friend and relation, Max Harkaway ; but I'm privileged — capital
old fellow — say, shall we be honoured ?
Courtly. Sir, permit me to hesitate a moment, {aside) Let me
see — I go back to college to-morrow, so I shall not be missing ;
tradesmen begin to dun.
{A noise off L. between Martin and Is.\^\.cs ; Cool has
entered c, crosses, and goes off', L.)
I hear thunder ; here is shelter ready for me.
He-enter CoOL, L.
Cool. Oh, Mr. Charles, Mr. Solomon Isaacs is in the hall, and
swears he will remain till he has arrested you !
Courtly. Does he ! — sorry he is so obstinate — take him my com-
pliments, and I will bet him five to one he will not.
Dazzle. Double or quits, with my kind regards.
Cool. But, Sir, he has discovered the house in Carzon Street; he
380 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
says, lie is aware the furnitui-e, at least, belongs to you, and he
will put a man. in immediately.
Courtly. That's awkward — what's to le done ?
Dazzle. Ask him whether he couldn't make it a woman ?
Courthj. I must trust that to fate.
Dazzle. I will give you my acceptance, if it will bo of any use to
you ; it is of none to me.
Courtly. No, Sir ; but in reply to j'our most generous and kind
invitation, if you be in earnest, I shall feel dchghted to accept it.
Dazzle. Certainly.
Courthj. Then, off we go— through the stables — down the mews,
and so slip through my friend's fingers.
Dazzle. But, stay, you must do the polite ; say farewell to him
6efore you part. Hang it, don't cut him.
Courtly. You jest !
Dazzle. Here, lend me a card. (Courtly (jfurs him one) Now,
then, {writes) " Our respects to !Mr. Isaacs — sorry to have been
prevented from seeing him." — Ha I ha !
Courtly. Ha ! ha !
Dazzle. We'll send him up some game.
Courtly. Don't let my father see him. [_Exeurit R.
Coo/. What's this?— "Mr. Charles Courtly, P.r.C, returns
thanks for obliging inquiries." \^E.i:it L.
Note.
[Our reproduction of the First Act of " London Assurance " is by the special
permission of Messrs. Samuel French ^ Son, 89, Strand, who must be com-
municated with, and a fee arranged for, whenever publicly represented, where
money is charged for admission.]
SCENE FEOM BEOKEN HEARTS.
W. S. GiLliERT.
[Mr. "William Scliwcnck Gilbert has been for many }"eai-s associated with
theatrical fame. His first productions for the stage were pantomimes and bur-
lesques, which attained various des:rees of success. His first serious dramatic
effort was a piece called " An Old Score ; " but the nlay which placed him in the
foremost rank of modern dramatists was the now world-famed "Palace of Truth."
Latterly he has turned his attention to operatic libretti, written to the music of
Sir Arthur Sullivan. Mr. Gilbert's " Bab liallads " are too well known to need
comment.]
CHAEACTERS :
Prince Florian. Movsta.
Mous. I left him sleeping soundly in my hut,
He did not drink the wine — but still he sleeps.
(Producing veil.) I stole it from his pillow "
Poor devil that I am — whose only hoijo
Of meeting other men on equal terms.
Lies in his chance of keeping out of sight I
Ha ! someone comes. I'll hide thee carefully.
{Places it under a stone of dial.)
Some day, maybe, thou'lt do as much for me !
Sce?ie from Brohen Hearts. 381
Enter FloriAN, angrily.
Flor. So here you are : I've sought you everywhere —
Mous. Ay, I am here. You're early from your bed —
Well, it's rio bed for such fine folk as you ;
I'm very sorry, but 'twas all I had.
Flor. The bed was well enough. I have been robbed.
Mous. Ay, ay ? And how was that ?
Flor. There is a thief
Upon this isle.
Mous. It's very possible.
"When people come and go invisibly
It's hard to say who ie or is not here.
What has the villain robbed ? a woman's heart ?
Two women's hearts ? How many women's hearts ?
If there's a thief here, it is you or I,
It comes to that. Now, what is it you've lost ?
Flor. My Talisman.
Mom. Your Talisman ? Oh, ho !
Flor. I see no cause for jest.
Mous. You don't ! Observe —
A prince, or someone who so styles himself,
AVith power to make himself invisible.
Employs that power to gain admission to
An isle where certain ladies dwell — when there
His Talisman is stolen and he stands
Revealed before their eyes, the helpless butt
Of all their ridicule, with nought to say
But *' Ladies, pray forgive mc — I had thought
To enter unobserved — to wander hei-e
And watch your movements, also unobserved ;
And when grown weary of this novel sport
To take my leave of you — still unobserved ;
But as I've failed, so pray you pardon me."
And off he goes, his tail between his legs
Like a well-beaten hound !
Flor. (seizing him) Misshapen imp,
Have you so little care for such dog- life
As warms your twisted carcase, that you dare .■
To bandy jests with me ?
Mous.' Eelease me, sir I
Had I 3'our Talisman, do you suppose
I should be here before your eyes ":' Oh, no —
Whoever has the veil is using it.
There were but six of us besides myself,
If one of these is missing, why, be sure
That one has taken it. I'll go and see. [Ex it MouST A.
Flor. The imp is right, and yet the Talisman
Was safe with me Tast night. * * *
382 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
There's but one clue to this strange mystery :
She has the Talisman ! By what strange means
It found its way into her spotless hands
I've yet to learn.
\_Ue-enter MouSTA.
Mous. Let me assist you, sir,
I stole it from youi- piUow as you slept,
And used it for my ends. I took your place
Beside the fountain, and I woo'd her there.
And there she pledged herself to be my -wife—
And, as a token, gave this ring to me.
{showing ring.)
Fhr. Why, miserable ape, hast thou then lost
The mere life-seeking instinct that inspires
The very meanest of thy fellow-beasts,
That thou hast come to say these things to me ?
Mous. I have ! I say these things to you because
I want to die I I' ve tried to kill myself —
But I'm no hero, and my courage failed.
[Farioushj.) She's gone from you for ever — and I come
To work the bitter blighting of your life —
To chuckle at the aching misery
That eats your heart away ! I come to spit
!My hate upon you — If mj' toad's mouth held
The venom of a toad, I would spit that I
Come — have I said enough ^ Then draw thy sword
And make an end of me — 1 am prepared !
Flor. {drawing swonl) I needed no assurance, j'ca or nay.
That some foul planning of thy leper heart
Had worked this devilry ! Thou lovest her ?
Thoih lovest her ? Is there no blasphemy
That devils shrink from ? Ilast thou seen thyself.
{Sei::iug MousTA cnul holding his head over the pool.)
Look in the fountain — bend thy cursed head I
Look at it — dog face !
(MouSTA strugghs.)
Shrink not back appalled —
It will not harm thee, coward — look at it !
AYhat do we do with such a thing as that,
When it dares claim a common right with Man ?
We crush it underfoot — wo stamp it down,
Lest other reptiles take their clue from it.
And say, " If he is human, so are we."
{Flinging him on ground.)
Mous. {crouching on ground) Spare me your tongue, I know
well what I am,
And what I've done. My life is forfeited.
Strike at the heart ! Be quick — I am prepared !
Flor. Hast thou no prayer to utter ?
Mous. No, not I.
Bcene from It's Never Too Late to Mend. 383
Curse you, be quick, I say. Yet stay — one word.
Before you j^ass your sword between my ribs,
IjQok at yourself, sir knight, tben look at me !
You, comely, straight-limbed, fair of face and form —
(/ say not this to court your favour, sir —
The Devil take your favour I) I, a dwarf,
Crooked, humpbacked, and one-eyed — so foul a thing
That I am fain to quote my love for women
To prove that I have kinship with mankind.
Well, we are deadly rivals, you and I.
Do we start fair, d'you think ? Are you and I
So nicely matched in all that wins a woman
That 1 should hold myself in honour bound
Ey laws of courtesy ! But one word more,
And I have done. Had I those shapely limb?.
That fair, smooth face, those two great, god-like eyes
(May lightning blast them, as it blasted mine I),
Believe me, sir, I'd use no talisman !
Now kill me — I'm prepared. I only ask
One boon of you — strike surely, and be quick I
{F lor i an pauses for a moment — then sheaths his sword.)
Flor. Go, take thy life, I'll none of it ! with one
Which Heaven hath so defaced, let Heaven deal.
I will not sit in judgment on thy sin !
My wrath has faded— when I look vipon
The seal that Heaven hath sot upon thy brow,
Why, I could find it in my heart to ask
Thy pardon for the fury of my words !
Go, take thy life, make fairer use of it.
Mous. (miKJi moved) I thank you, sir — not for my blighted
life.
But for the pitying words in which you grant it.
{With emotion.)
You've moved me very deeply {places the ring that Hilda gave
Mm on Florian's finger — tlien kisses his hand). Curse
these tears.
I am not used to weep, my lord — but then
I am not used to gentleness from men.
[Exit MousTA.
Flor. Unhappy creature, go thy ways in peace.
Thou hast atoned.
{Si/ 2J<-'rt)iissio>i of the Author.)
SCENE rnOM IT'S NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND.
Charles Eeade.
[The work of genius which placed Mr. Charles Eeade in the first rank of English
novelists was " Peg Woffington." This was in the year 18o2. Later novels of
signal merit were " Christie Johnstone," "The Course of True Love," "Love
884 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues,
the following extract is taken was written prior to the novel to which it owes
its name. It was produced under the title of "Gold," and the plot of this
drama was simplified into the great novel, "It's Never Too Late to Mend."
The success of the latter excited the cupidity of hack playwTights ; the author
then, to protect himself from pir. /^y, wrote the drama in its present form. On
its first production at the Trmcess's Theatre, it gave rise to a riot, in conse-
quence of the openly-expressed resentment of certain criticasters ; but the public
set the seal of its approval on the play, and for twenty years it has held the
stage without any prospect ofabatemeat in its popularity. Born 1814. Died 1885.]
CHAEACTERS :
Me.vdo-\vs, Is.\.vc Levi, George Fielding.
Meadows (solus). Hallo I hero comes another curse I am putting
out of my waj', the old Jew.
Enter IsA^vc Levi leaning iqwn his staff and howing low.
Levi. Good morning, .sir.
Mead, [ahruptly). Good morning. K it's about that house, you
may keep your breath to cool your broth; the house is mino
now.
Levi. It is, su" ; but I have lived there twenty years. I pay a
fair rent, but if you think anyone would give more, you shall loso
nothing by me. I will pay a little more, and you know your rent
is sure.
Mead. I do.
Levi. Thank you, sir. Well, then
Mead. Well, then, next Lady-day you turn out, bag and
baggage. _ , . ,
Levi. Nay, sir, hear me, for you are younger than I ; m the
house you have bought, two children were born to me and died
from me ; and there my Leah died also ; and there are times in the
silent hours I seem to hear their voices and their foot. In another
house I shall never hear them — I shall be quite alone. Have pity
on me, sir, an aged and a lonely man. Tear me not from the
shadows of my dead. {Pause.) Let me prevail with you.
Mead. No.
Zei't. No ? Then you must be an enemy of Isaac Levi.
Mead. Yes. You lend money.
ZerK A little, sir, now and then ; a very Little.
Mead. Well, what you do on the sly, old sixty-per-cent.
Levi. The world is wide enough for us both, good sir.
Mead. It is, and it lies before you, for the little town of Farn-
borough is not wide enough for me and any man that works my
business for his own pocket
Levi. This is not enmity, sir ; it is but a matter of profit and loss.
Let me stay here, and I swear to you, by the tables of the law, you
shall not lose one shilling per annum by me. Trust me !
Mead. I'll trust yoit as far as I can fling a bull by the tail. You
Scene from It's Never Too Late to Mend. 385
gave me your history — here's mine. I have always put my foot on
whatever has stood in my path. I was poor — I am rich — and that
is my policj'.
Levi. It is frail policy. Some man will be sure to put his foot on
you, sooner or later.
Mead. "What ! Do you threaten me ?
Levi. No, sir. I but tell you what these old eyes have seen in
every nation, and read in books that never lie. Goliath defied
armies, yet he fell by a shepherd-boy's sling. Samson tore a lion
with his hands, but a woman laid him low. No man can defy his
kind. The strong man is sure to find one as strong and more skil-
ful ; the cunning man one as adi'oit and stronger than himself. Be
advised, then ; do not trample on one of my people. Those that
oppress us never thrive. Let me rather have to bless you. An old
man's blessing is gold. See these grey hairs ! My sorrows have
been as many as they are. I have been di'iven to and fro like a
leaf many years, and now I long for rest. Let me rest in my little
tent till I rest for ever. Oh, let me die where those I loved have
died, and there let me be buried !
Mead. If you like to hang yourself before next Lady-day, I give
you leave ; but after Ladj'-day no more Jewish dogs shaU die in
my house, or be buried for manure in my garden.
Levi {giving way to his pent-up ivrath.) Irreverent cur! D'ye
rail on the afflicted of Heaven ? {He drops his staff and raises his
hands.) I spit on ye, and I curse ye ! Be accursed ! (Throws his
haiids up.) Whatever is the secret wish of your black heart,
Heaven wither it ! Ha ! ha ! ye wince already ? — all men have
secret wishes. May all the good luck you have be wormwood for
want of that — that — that ! May you be near it — close to it — upon
it — burn for it — and lose it ! May it sport, and smile, and laugh,
and play with you, till Gehenna burns your soul upon earth !
Mead, {whose wrath has been visibly rising). I'll smash your viper's
tongue !
lAims a blow at Levi with his stick, luhen George Fielding
dashes in and receives the blow on his riding-ivhip.'\
Field, {coolly). Not if I know it. {Pause.) You are joking,
Master Meadows. Why the man is twice your age ; and nothing
in his hand but his fist. {To Levi.) Who are you, old man, and
what do you want ?
Mead. Who is he ? A villainous old Jew.
Levi. Yes, young man, I am Isaac Levy, a Jew. {To Meadows.)
And what are you ? Do you call youi'self a heathen ? Ye lie, ye
cur ! The heathen were not without their starlight from Heaven ;
they respected sorrow and grey hairs.
Field. Now don't you be so aggravating, daddy. And you,
Master Meadows, should know how to make light of an old man's
tongue. It is like a woman's — it is all he has got to hit with.
Levi. See — see ! he can't look you in the face. Any man that
has read men from East to West can see "lion " in your eye, and
•' cowardly wolf " in his.
386 DramatiG Scenes and Dialogues,
Mead, (tremhling tuith rage). Lady-day, Master Isaac, Lady-
day !
Field. Lady-day! Confound Lady- day, and every day of the
sort. There, don't you be so spiteful, old man. Why, if he isn't
all of a tremble ! {Gives him his staff, MEADOWS (joes up to gate.)
Now, so into my house, and forget your trouble by my fireside, my
poor old man {pointing R. Ii.).
Levi. I must not eat with you ; but I thank you, young man.
Yes, I will go in and compose myself ; for passion is unseemly at
my years. {Ooes towards house, and at the threshold suddenly stops
and raises his hands.) Peace be under this roof, and comfort and
love follow me into this dwelling. {Turns suddenly and offers his
hand.) Isaac Levi is your friend. {Exit into house. Geoege looks
after him.)
Mead. (asnZe). One more down to j'our accoimt. {Exit.)
Field. The old man's words seem to knock against my breast.
Meadows has everybody's good word, parson's and all ; but
somehow I never thought he was the right stuff, and now I'm
sure.
(i?y pcnnis;siun of Chas. L. Jteade, Esq.)
SCENE FEOM CHAELES THE FIRST.
W. G. Wills.
[That Mr. Wills, of all our modern dramatists, possesses the purest dramatic
instinct, is a matter about which there can scarcely be two opinions. It is cer-
tainly a fortuitous circumst;mce for the peculiar bent of his genius th;it he should
have become so intimately associated with the greatest actor of our time. The
scene here quoted from what is perhaps his finest work, probably caused, at the
time of its hrst production, more controversy than any other dramatic work of
the present century. His first play was " The Man o' Airlie ; " later dramatic
triumphs were " Olivia," "Jane Shore," " Medea," and " Faust." It may not
be generally known that Mr. Wills is an artist of some repute.]
CHAEACTERS :
Charles I. Cuomwell. Ireton.
BCENE. — Whitehall Falacc, in the presence of the King.
Enter Attendant.
Attendant. Two gentlemen, your Majesty.
[Exit Attendant.
Enter Cromwell and Ireton.
King. You are welcome. Master Cromwell, I believe.
Crom. The same, so please you.
King. Pray be seated.
Crom. Nay, so please you.
King. {Sitting.) I pray you. (CkomWELL sits.)
Lord Huntly often has commended you
As oae who shows high promise of the statesman.
Scene from Charles the First. 387
One, wLo with lusty speech can rule a throng ;
Holding their passions in his hands , like reins,
To guide them, I believe and hope to good.
Crom. I cannot tell. I know not. If this meeting,
So please youi' Majesty, is to bear fruit,
I must not wear the muzzle of a courtier.
Under your favour, I am rough of speech
King, Albeit a gentleman.
Crom. And little used to kingly pi'esence, save,
If 1 may dare to bo so humbly bold.
That Kingly presence before whom thyself
And I are equal subjects.
KiiKj. Sir, I do trust in this we feel alike ;
Touching this meeting, I have but one motive,
And briefly, when you are possessed of that,
Avoiding all irreverent discourse.
Upon that issue I would challenge candour ;
To touch the very nerve, howe'er it pain.
Ire. (Aside.) Ay, though the iron entereth the soul.
King. The merit of these unhappy questions
Which stand between me and my Parliament,
I would be left untouched ; this is the past.
Crom. So please you 'tis the knot to be untied.
Ki7ig. Oh, let us not cleave through it with the sword ;
With every sacrifice a King might make,
With what abasement may consist with honour ;
I would avert this woful civil war.
Crom. (Rising — sternly.) And yet the first blood-guiltiness was
thine !
Prince Rupert has already stain'd his sword ;
The Queen has
King. {Interrupting.) I pray you first — Come you in
privacy,
As by Lord Huntly I have been advised,
Or with the cognizance of Parliament ?
Crom. At a word, I am their ambassador !
King. {Calmhj.) Oh! their ambassador ?
Crom. 'Twould scarce befit
My duty or my ofiice to be private ;
So please you, as a private man, no weight
Attaches to my words, and honesty
Might pass lor disrespect.
King. {Points to paper in CromiuelVs hand.) That paper — what
is it ?
Crom. Haply 'tis of some import to your Majesty,
And haply not, as this discourse may savom*.
King. Then, sir, of it anon.
The footing of our meeting somewhat alters ;
Addressing you, am I to understand
That I address my Commons ?
c 2
388 DramatiG Scenes and Dialogues.
Crom. If it so please you.
King. {Rising, and ivith dignity.) Then, sir, avert the dangerous
mistake —
Savin.i? much time, and fence, and vain manoeuvre —
That this, my overture, is sign of weakness.
Pray, sir, note this ; my cause is prosperous I
The good, the brave, the loyal, throng in thousands
Around my standard.
It is not, then, distrust of my good cause_
Which urged me, at some risk, to seek this meeting ;
But from a single motive — a pure hope,
That we, at any cost, may purchase peace.
Crom. Your Majesty, I do not question it.
Towards you we are all love and tenderness,
To the confusion of your evil counsellors.
I, too, may be permitted to set forth
The ^'igoul• of your faithful Parliament,
To wit : my lord of Essex has gone forth —
It boots not to say whither — with an aimy
Of foui-teen thousand men, who have one mind —
The stout defence of King and Parliament !
King. Defence, sir, of the King ?
Ci-om. Against himself and evil counsellors !
Northumberland is Admii-al of England ;
And the fleet lies — where, boots it not to say.
Well mann'd, provision'd, watchful off the coast,
For the defence of King, of Parliament !
Ki}^g. Methinks to ask the King's leave were as well.
Crom. The train-bands and militia wait our bidding ;
And our enlistments outstrip estimate ;
All animate, leaven'd with liberty.
Bold in defence of King and Parfiament.
King. Nay, sir, enough of this
Crom. London declares for us.
King. More shame for London !
Now, sir, be brief.
Crom. Please you to hear a message from your Commons?
King. Sir, I am at their service. Pray be seated.
Crom. Your Commons who have never turned aside
From reconcilement with your Majesty,
Have charged me even now, with words of love.
King. So far, sir, it looks fair. Forgive my haste.
Crom. Truly your Commons have a righteoiis jealousy
Of the false counsellors about your person.
Here is a goodly oak strangled with ivy '
Lop off the ivy — lo ! a stately tree !
And we accept its comfortable shade.
Ire. {Aside.) Or peradventure lay the axe to its root.
{Aside to Cromtvell as he pam9.)
Nay, not too smooth •with him.
Scene from Charles the First. 889
King. So far in courtesy I have heard you out ;
*Io business, sii% I pray you. {As he displays a 'parchment.)
These are the articles, nineteen in all,
Call'd by the Commons a remonstrance ?
Crom. I know it, having help'd to draw it up.
It is the same.
King. To stay the civil war now imminent,
All these I sign and seal.
Crom. So please yovir Majesty
And 'twere well done. Thus many grievous burdens
Shall drop from us. To quote your Majesty,
These propositions bear upon the past !
King. Your meaning, sir ?
Crom. It was as I may say the gracious seedtime,
"When from your hand might fall the germs of freedom,
Or the rank grain of Popery and poison.
The seeds fall anywhere, broadcast about.
Some hopeful sprouts perchance reward the sower ;
But I will take the humble boldness here
To tell you, many poison-seeds were mingled ;
Malignant seeds of evil counselling,
And who will now distinguish — who with candle
Of holy writ will search throughout the fields
To espy and root them out ?
Ire. And least of all,
That enemj' that came and sowed the tares !
Crom. Yea, who will now ?
King. Sir, in the cloudiest sky is some faint light,
"Which hints the sun behind ; but through thy speech-fogS
There shines no light of true sincerity.
Crom. Your Majesty invites me to be plain.
Your ill-advisers have begun the war !
Blood hath been shed, and crieth out against them.
And for your Majesty's late acts of treason
King. [Rising in anger.) Treason ! Su", you forget. I am
your King.
Crom. Now thovi hast set a lion in my path —
That word, "the King " — but I will cope with it.
"The King " is a word of might
When he is a friend and father to the Commons.
The King, distinct from us is but a simple man !
Kiiig. Your language, sir, swells to such insolence,
Our interview had better close at once.
You take advantage of my condescension.
'Tis not for you to limit or set forth
The right divine of an anointed King.
Crom. A people's rights I And are they not divine ?
Bethink thee, what concerns the King of kings
The most — a nation, or a crowned man ?
King. The people's rights, sir, are indeed divine ;
390 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
Not so the wrong of rebels.
The crowned man hath from the King of kings
Eeceived his seal and mission.
(Cromwell turns away incredulous.)
Dost thou scoff
At rights the hand of God himself indorsed ?
Hast thou no reverence for the marble pile
Of England's past ? O sir, 'tis such as thou
Deface the fairest monuments of history,
Inscribing with coarse sacrilege their names
Ou its most sacred tablets ; scarring beauty
That it took centuries to make, and but an hour to mar.
Crom. I mean but this. A king has err'd ere now.
We treat this error as we treat disease —
As we might put restraint on the insane.
So, give me leave to saj' we now are justified
In taking arms against our counsellors,
And in large sense, sooth, to defend the King.
KiiKj. Oh, SU-, I've noted
"When men are bent on a deliberate wrong.
They seldom are at a loss to justify it ;
To thieve with a most honourable pretext,
And murder with a moral.
Under the cry of evil counsellors.
You aim your thrusts at me, and call it loyalty.
So they stabb'd Ca?sar for the love of Eome,
And then fell to, to cutting Roman throats !
I am responsible for all my acts.
That scroll contains r
Crom. Further securities
And pledges to your Commons, of good faith.
King. So, sir ; I still mnst yield, must yield my right.
Wronging ourself, and wronging our succession
Until my office is an empty shell.
And I have nothing but the name of king.
Ire, That too, may pass, e'en as a tale that's told,
If we are put to it.
King. Who is this rude gentleman ?
Crom. A gentleman of trust and piety ! {Turns to IrETON.)
Ireton, restrain the movement of thy spirit.
For fitting time and place. {To ChARLES.)
Those are the propositions of the Commons,
Most humbly offer'd to your Majesty.
King. (Reads a paper in midiered surprise; then aloud.)
"Lastly that all friends and counsellors
Should straight be handed over, to be dealt with
According to the strictest inquisition."
Even as you did for my good angel. Strafford !
And is this all ?
Crom. At present, all. More as the needs shall grow.
Scene from Charles the First 391
As for the safety of your royal person,
1 ain commanded to assure j'our Majesty
King, Yes ; my friends murder'd, I have leave to live.
{Jtising.)
No. Tender thou my thanks to Parliament.
Our interview is ended.
Crom. {To the King.) Pray you a moment ?
Ireton, give us room. (Ireto:^^ retires up at hack.)
Your Majesty in our commenced discourse
"Was pleased to bear your gracious testimony
To the most modest -weight and influence,
" Humble in outward show, albeit more felt,
Because it underlies — I say th' acknowledged weight "
My voice and vote obtain'd in Westminster.
King. "Well, sir: well, well?
Crom. I speak that I do know, the humble burgess
Of Cambridge hath a reach which doth extend
(Within the bounds of conscience) to the aid
And comfort of your gracious Majesty,
Yea, to the restitution of thy shorn prerogative.
King. What's your price ?
Crom. Your Majesty is much too short with me.
I do not say that I have any price.
King. Then, sir, your motive ?
Crom. In pointing to your Majesty's just rights,
If I might venture, I would couple mine.
King. I'm at a loss
Crom. The Earl of Essex, General of the Commons,
Is without issue, nor is ever like.
By four descents I draw my pedigree
Straight from Joan Cromwell, who was only sister
To the first Earl of Essex, Thomas Cromwell,
Who married Morgan Williams.
King. Well, sir, well ?
Crom. Their son retain'd the noble name of Cromwell ;
Heaven knows I say not this vaingloriously.
King. Well, sir ?
Crom. Should Essex die — that cold friend to the King
King. Sir — if I see your drift — and yet such arrogance
May well surpass belief. I
Crom. I mean nothing, nothing — nothing I
If Essex die still have the Commons generals,
That's all I mean.
King. And hast thou borne till now so bold a front,
And look'd me in the face, this in thy heart ?
So, the demands and troubles of the people
Before they reach me filter through a medium
Both faithless and corrupt.
Send me some fearless honourable man,
And let him tell mo all the round of wrongs
392 Dramatic Scenes and Dialogues.
My people suffer, I Trill take that scroll
And place it on the altar of my memory,
Till with a bounteous will all be redressM.
But for this false concoction of pure malice,
Brought to me here by such a messenger —
Thee, who dost truckle for the wealth and title
Which you denounce so roundly from the hustings —
A mouthing patriot with an itching palm ;
In one hand menace, in the other greed —
For such a lie its proper place is there.
{Dashes paper on the flour and stamps on it.) It
There is a trust placed in my hand by God ;
I will not barter it to hirelings !
Crom. If we be hirelings, we do not flee
When the wolf cometh. Yea, wo shall stand fast.
Treaties on treaties have wo offer'd thee ;
And thou hast palter'd with us year by year.
" Thou chosen champion of our holy Church
Hath ope'd the back door to the Jesuit.
Thy letters havo been seized upon the sea,
And out of thine own lips shall wo impeach thee :
Thou art the rotten keystone in the arch
Of English liberty. Thou art the patch
On our new garment —
Beware, or we shall hew that keystone out ;
Take heed, or we shall rend that patch away,
And cast it in tho fire, if needs we must ! " {Puts on his hat.)
King. Uncover in the presence of the King !
(Cromwell sullenhj uncovers.)
Under our favour, sir, you have spoken much,
Too much, and with a noisy license here
Had cost a better gentleman his head.
Thou hast done more to brace my arm anew
And raise my sinking heart, than thou canst wot of.
If I believed by yielding up my crown,
Peace would descend on this unhappy land,
I think — I know, I should not shrink from it.
But no, the sacrifice were worse than vain.
Now thou art pleased to drop thy patriot mask
Methinks I see a modern Attila I
One, who if once our dynasty should wane,
Would rally to the front with iron truncheon ;
A tyrant, maundering and merciless ;
Anarch of Liberty ! At heart a slave !
A scourge, tho Commons' plait to lash themselves ;
A heel to tramp their constitution down.
Thou and thy dupes have driven me to war,
And on thy conscience fall its fell account !
Crom. Charlis Stuart ! Thyself shalt bear this message back.
(Treton beckons on Soldiers.)
Scene from Charles the First. 393
Ring. Traitor ! Is this thy faitli ? {Drcnvs Jiis sword.)
Crom. Advance ! Do him no violence.
King. {Throwing down his sivord.) I am alone ! and will not
call my friends.
Which of you touches his anointed King ? (Soldiers hold lack.)
Crom. {Drawing.) lu God's name, that "will I.
Enter the QxJEEX.
Queen. {Waving her handkerchief.) God save the King !
Enter HuntlY and strong force 0/ Cavaliers.
Cavaliers. God save the King !
[Cromwell and his tSoldiers form on one side, HvsTLX
and his Cavaliers on the other.
{Bi/ jJcrmission of the Author.)
THE EEPROACn OF CHAELES THE FIRST TO HIS
BETEAYER.
W. G. WiLxs.
[See p. 386.]
[Moray approaches with doivncast head, and graducdhj sinks
on his knee before the King, during his speech.
I SAW a picture once by a great master,
'Twas an old man's head.
Narrow and evil was its wrinkled front —
Eyes close and cunning : a dull vulpine smile.
'Twas called a Judas ! Wide that painter erred.
Judas had eyes like thine, of candid blue;
Bis skin was smooth, his hair of youthful gold ;
Upon his brow shone the white stamp of truth ;
And lips like thine did give the traitor kiss !
The King, my father, loved thine — and at his death
He gave me solemn charge to cherish thee.
And I have kept it to my injury.
It is a score of years since then, my lord.
Hast waited all this time to pay me thus ?
[Charles turns to Ceomwell.
Sir, you demand my sword. I yield it you !
{Bi/ perminsion of the Author.)
SPEECHES AND SOLILOQUIES.
DEAMATIC.
HAMLET'S ADYICE TO THE PLAYEES.
Shakspeare.
[Sec page 312.]
Spkak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly
on the tongue ; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I
had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the
air too much with your hand, thus ; but use all gently ; for in the
very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of passion, you
must acquire and beget a temperance, that may give it smoothness.
! it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious periwig-pated
fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of
the groundlings ; who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumb shows, and iioise ; I would have such a fellow
whipped for o'erdoing Termagant ; it outherods Herod ; pray you
avoid it.
Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor :
Buit the action to the word, the ■n ord to the action, with this special
observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of natm-e ; for any-
thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both
at the first, and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up
to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image,
and the very age and body of the time, his form and pressure.
Now, this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful
laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of which
one must, in your allowance, o'erweigh a whole theatre of others.
! there be players, that I have seen play — and heard others
praise, and that highly — not to speak it profanely, that, neither
having the accent of Clu-istians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan,
nor man, have so strutted, and bellowed, that I liave thought some
of nature's journeynien had made them, and not made them well,
they imitated humanity so abominably.
O ! reform it altogether. And let those, that play your clowns,
speak no more than is set down for tliem : for there be of them,
that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of baiTcn spec-
tators to laugh too : though in the meantime some necessary
question of the play be then to be considered : that's villanous, and
shows a, most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it.
395
OTHELLO'S ADDRESS TO THE SENATE.
SirAKSPEARE.
[See page 312.]
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approved good masters, —
Tnat I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true ; true, I have married her ;
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more, llude am I in my speech,
And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace;
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field ;
And little of this great world can I speak,
More than pertains to feats of broils and battle ;
And therefore httle shall I grace my cause.
In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnished tale deliver
Of my whole course of love ; what driigs, what charms,
What conjuration, and what mighty magic
(For such proceeding I am charged withalj,
I won his daughter.
I do beseech you,
Send for the lady to the Sagittary,
And let her sjoeak of me before her father :
If you do find me foul in her report,
The trust, the office, I do hold of you,
Not only take away, but let your sentence
Even fall upon my life.
Ancient, conduct them : you best know the place.
And, till she come, as truly as to heaven
I do confess the vices of my blood,
So justly to your gi-ave ears I'll present
How I did thrive in this fair lady's love,
And she in mine.
Her father loved me ; oft invited me ;
Still questioned me the story of my life,
From year to year; the battles, sieges, fortune,
That 1 have passed,
I ran it through, even from my boyish dayf?,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it.
Wherein 1 spoke of most disastrous chances :
Of moving accidents by flood and field ;
Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach. ;
Of being taken by the insolent foe
And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence,
396 Speeches and Soliloquies.
And portance. In my traveller's history
(Wherein of antres vast, and desarts idle,*
Eongh quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak), such was my process ; —
And of the Cannibals that each other eat.
The Anthropophagi, and men ^\^hose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear
Would Desdemona seriously incline ;
But still the house affairs would draw her thence ;
Which ever as she could wHith haste despatch,
She'd come again, and with a greedy ear _
Devour up my discourse ; which I observing,
Took once a pliant hour ; and found good means
To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart,
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels she had something heard,
But not intentively : I did consent:
And often did beguile her of her teai's.
When I did speak of some distressful stroke
That my youth suffered. My story being done.
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs :
She swore, — In faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing Strang'?;
'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful :
She wished she had not heard it ; yet she wished
That heaven had made her such a man : she thanked me :
And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. UiDon this hint I spake :
She loved me for the dangers I had passed ;
And I loved her that she did pit}' them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used ;
Here comes the lady, let her witness it.
HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF THE FOP.
Shakspeake.
[See page 312.]
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword.
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dress'd.
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reap'd,
Show'd like a stubble-land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner ;
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
* Sterile, ban-eu.
Brutus to the Romans. 337
A poTincet-box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose. —
And still he smil'd and talk'd ;
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies hj.
He call'd them " untaught knaves, unmannerly
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse,
Betwixt the wind and his nobility,"
With many holyday and lady terms
He question'd me ; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting with my wounds, being cold.
To be so pester'd with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly — I know not what —
He should or he should not ; for he made me mad
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet.
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman
Of guns, and drums, and wounds (Heaven save the mark ')
And telling me the sovereign' st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise ;
And that it was great pity (so it was)
This villanous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly : and but for these vile guns
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, disjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said ;
And, I beseech yoii, let not his report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
BEUTUS TO THE EOMANS.
Shakspeare.
[See page 312.]
Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! hear
me for my cause ; and be silent, that you may hear ; believe me for
mine honour ; and. have respect to mine honour, that you may be-
lieve : censure me in your wisdom ; and awake your senses, that you
may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear
friend of Caesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' lovt to Ctesar was no
less than his. If then that friend demand, why Brutus rose against
Caesar, this is my answer, — ISTot that I loved Cgesar less, but that ]
loved Rome more. Had you rather Cassar were living, and die all
slaves ; than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men ? As Csesar
loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as
89S Speeches and Soliloquies.
he was valiant, I honour him : but as he was ambitious, I slew
him. There is tears, for his love ; jo3% for his fortune ; honour, for
his valour ; and death, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that
would be a bondman? If any, speak: for him have I offended. "Wlio
is here so rude, that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak ; for him
have I oifcndcd. Who is here so vile, that will not love his country ?
If any, speak ; for him have I offended. I pause for a replj'
Then none have I offended. I have done no more to C^sar than you
shall do to Brutus. The questionof Ixis death is enrolled in the Capitol;
his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy; nor his ofiences en-
forced, for which he suffered death Here comes his body,
mourned by Mark Antony : who, though he had no hand in his
death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the common-
wealth : as vrhich of you shall not :' AVith this I depart : that, as 1
slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger
for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.
THE PROGRESS OF LIFE.
Shakspeake.
■ [See page 312.]
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely play'rs;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in liis time plays many parts ;
His acts being seven ages. First the infant,
Muling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel.
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard.
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel.
Seeking the bubble reputation
Ev'n in the annon's mouth. And then the justice.
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
AVith eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances ;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on tide ;
His 3'outhful hose, well sav'd, a world too -wide
For his shrunk shank : and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all.
That ends this strange eventful history,
la second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sa.^3 teeth, sajaa eyes, sans taste, sans ev'ry thing.
m
MABK ANTONY'S ORATION OVER CiESAR'S BODY.
SlIAKyPEAUE.
[See page 312.]
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ;
I come to bury Ceesar, not to praise him.
'J'he evil that men do lives after them ;
The good is oft interred with their bones :
So let it be with CtEsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Ctesar was ambitious :
If it were so, it was a grievous fault ;
And grievously hath Cassar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honourable man ;
So are they all, all honourable men) ;
Come I to speak in Ca3sar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and Just to me :
But Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honoui-able man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome
Whose ransoms did the gener;il joffers fill : /
Did this in Cffisar seem ambitious ?
When that the poor hath cried, Cassar hath wept :
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff;
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious ;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown.
Which he th]-ice refused. Was this ambition ?
Yet Brutus says, he was ambiticx"'s ;
And, sure, he is an honoural^lc man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause ;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts.
And men have lost their reason ! — Bear with me ;
My heart is in the coffin there with Cgesar,
And 1 must jjause till it como back to me
But yesterday, the word of Ceesar might
Have stood against the world : now Hes he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
masters ! if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wi'ong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men :
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you,
400 /Speeches and Soliloquies.
Than I will -.rrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Coesar,
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will :
Let but the commons hear this testament,
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read),
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds.
And dip their najikins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their vnHs,
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy,
Unto their issue
Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ;
It is not meet you know how Ccesar loved 3^011.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; ^
And, being men, hearing the wiU of Caesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad :
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, oh, what would come of it! . . .
You will compel me then to read the will ?
Then make a ring about the corpse of CjEsar,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend ? And will you give me leave? . • •
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. »
You all do know this mantle : I remember,
The first time ever C^sar put it on :
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent ;
That day he overcame the Nervii : —
Look ! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through :
See, what a rent the envious Casca made ;
ThroiTgh this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ;
And, as he iilucked his cursed steel awa}',
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it.
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutuj so unkindly knocked, or no ;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel ?
Judge, you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him !
This was the most unkindest cut of all :
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms.
Quite vanquished him ; then burst his mighty heart ;
And, in his mantle muflling up his face,
Ev3n at the base of Pompey's statua.
Which all the while ran blood, great Cassar fell.
0, what a fall was there, my countrymen !
Then I, and you, and all of lis fell down.
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
0, now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel.
The dint* of pity : these are gracious drops :
* Impression.
Oassius Instigating Brutus to Oppose CcBsar. 401
Kind souls, what, weep yoti when you but behold
Our CjEsar's vesture wounded ? Look you here,
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. . . ,
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable ;
What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not,
That made them do it ; they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts ;
I am no orator as Brutus is ;
But as you know me all, a plain blunt man,
That love my friend ; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
I^or I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood : I only speak right on .-
I tell you that which you yoiirselves do know ;
Show you sweet CiBsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me : but, were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruifle up your spirits, and put a tongiie
In every wound of CjEsar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. . . .
Yet, hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak. . . •
Why, friends, you go to do you know not Avhat :
Wherein hath Cresar thus deserved yoi;r love^ ?
Alas ! you know not— I must tell you then :—
You have foi'got the will I told you of.
Here is the will, and under Ctesar's seal.
To every Roman citizen he gives, —
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
Moreover, he hath left you all his walks.
His jirivate arbours, and new-planted orchards.
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you.
And to your heirs for ever ; common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Ctesar ! When comes such another ?
CASSIUS INSTIGATING BRUTUS TO OPPOSE U^SAE.
Shakspeare.
[See page 312.i
HoNOUE is the subject of my story :
I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life, but for my single self,
I'd rather not be, as liv* to be
402 Speeches and Soliloquies.
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
I was born free as Cassar. So were you.
Ws both have fed as well, and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he.
For once upon a raw and gusty day,
The troubled Tiber chafing with his shores,
Ctesar says to me, "Dar'st thou, Cassius, uuv/
Leap in with me into this angry tiood,
And swim to yonder point?" Upon the wor.l,
Accoutred as I was, 1 plunged in,
And bade him follow ; so indeed he did.
The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside.
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But ere wc could arrive the point propos'd,
Ca3sar cry'd " Help me, Cassius, or I sink."
Then as ^neas, our great ancestor.
Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulders
The old Au''hises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber
Did I the tired Ca)sar : and this man
Is now become a god, and Cassius is
A wretched creature, and must bend his body
If Ciesar carelessly but nod on him.
He had a fever when he was in Spain,
And when the fit was on him, I did mark
How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake :
His coward lips did from their colour fly,
Aiid that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose its lustre : I did hear him groan :
Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas ! it cry'd, " Give me some drink, Titinius " —
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone !
Why, man, he doth bestride the naiTOAV world,
Like a Colossus, and we sorry dwai-fs
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about,
To find ourselves dishonourable graves.
Men sometimes have been masters of their fates ;
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars.
But in ourselves, that we are underlings.
Brutus and Cassar ! A\niat should be in that Ccesar ?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name ;
Soimd them, it doth become the moutli as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy : conjure with them,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Ciesar.
!^'ow, in the name of all the gods at once,
I
On the Tmraortality of the Soul. 40S
Upon what meats dotli this our Ca3sai' feed,
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art sham'd ;
Rome, thou hast lost the bi-eed of noble bloods !
When went there by an age, since the Great Flood.
But it was fam'd with more than wth one man ?
When could they say, till now, who talk'd of Rome.
That her wide walls encompass'd but one man ?
Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say,
There was a Brutus once, that would have brook'd
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome,
As easily as a king !
IIAMI^EI'S SOLILOQUY ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE
SOUL.
Shakspearb.
[See page 312].
To be— or not to be ? — that is the question. —
WTiether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them ? — to die — to sleep — •
'No more — and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natiiral shocks
That flesh is heir to — 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die — to sleep —
To sleep ? — perchance to dream — ay. "ihere's the rub !
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this moi'tal coil.
Must give us pause.- — There's the respect.
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of Time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely.
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns i
That patient merit of the unworthy takes —
When he himself might his quietus make.
With a bare bodkin ? Who would fardels bear, '
To groan and sweat under a weary life, "
But tha,t the dread of something after death —
That nndiscover'd country from whose bourne
No traveller returns ! — puzzles the will ;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have.
Than fly to others that we know not of !
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all :
A.nd thus the native hue of resolution
D D 2
404 Speeches and Soliloquies.
Is sicklied o'er witli tlie pale cast of tliought ;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action !
CLARENCE'S DEEAM.
SHAKSPEARE.
[Sec p. 312.]
Brakenhuni. Whj' looks your grace so heavily to-day ?
Clarence. O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night,
Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days ;
So full of dismal terror was the time.
Bral: What was your dream, ray lord ? I pray you tell mo.
Clar. Methought, that I had broken from the Tower,
And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy,
And, in my company, my brother Gloster :
Who, from my cabin, tempted me to walk
Upon the hatches ; thence we look'd toward England,
And cited up a thousand heavy limes,
During the wars of York and Lancaster
That had befallen us. As we ]iaced along
Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,
Methought that Gloster stumbled ; and, in falling,
Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard,
Into the tumbling billows of the main.
O Lord ! methought, what pain it was to di'own I
What fearful noise of waters in mine ears !
What sights of uglj- death within mine eyes I
Methought, I saw a thousand fearful wrecks ;
A thousand men, that fishes gnaw'd upon ;
Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,
Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels,
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men's skulls ; and in those holes
Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept
(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,
That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep.
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scattered by.
BraJx. Had j^ou such leisure in the time of death
To gaze upon the secrets of the deep ?
CJar. Methought I had, and often did I strive
To yield the ghost ; but still the envious flood
Kept in my soul, and would not let it fortli
To seek the empty, vast, and wand'ring air,
Clarence's Dream. 405
But smother'd it within my panting bulk,
Which almost burst to cast it in the sea.
Brak. Awaked you not with this sore agony ?
Clar. 0, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life;
0, then began the tempest to my soul !
I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood,
With that grim ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night ;
The first that there did greet my stranger soul,
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick;
Who cried aloud, — tvhat scourge for perjury
Can this dark rnonarchij afford false (Jlarence }
And so he vanish'd : Then came wand'ring by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood : aud he shriek'd out aloud —
Clarence is come, — false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,
That stahVd me in the field of Tewkesbury ; —
Seize on him, furies, take him to your tormerds !
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling waked, and, for a season after.
Could not believe but that I was in hell ;
Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No mai vel, lord, though it affrighted you ;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.
Clar. O, Brakeuburj', I have done these things.
That now give evidence against my soul, —
For Edward's sake ; and, see, how he requites me I
God ! if my deep pra3'ers cannot appease thee.
But thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds.
Yet execute thy wi'ath on me alone :
0, spare my guiltless wife, and my poor children ! —
1 pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me ;
My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.
Brak. I will, my lord ; God give your grace good rest !
(Clarexce reposes himself on a chair.)
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours.
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories.
An outward honour for an inward toil ;
And, for unfelt imaginations,
They often feei a world of restless cares :
So that, between their titles, and low name.
There's nothing differs but the otitward fame.
406 Speeches and Soliloqiues.
GLOSTER'S SOLILOQUY.
SUAKSPEARE.
See p. 312.]
Glos. Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious suuiuior by this son of York ;
And all the clouds that low'r'd upon oui- house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths ;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings ;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front ;
And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass ;
I, that am curtail' d of this fair proportion,
Deform'd, uufiaish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up.
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them ;
Why, T, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformitj' :
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
Plots have I laid, by prophecies and dreams.
To set my brother Clarence and the King
In deadly hate, the one against the other.
Dive, thoughts, down to my soul : here Clarence comes.
DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
Rev. John Home.
[Sec page 341.]
My name is Nerval. On the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks ; a frugal swain,
"Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home ;
Mordaunt to Lady 3IaOel. 407
For I had heard of battles, and I longed
To follow to the field some warlike lord :
And Heavsn soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,
Had not yet filled her horns, when, l)y her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rushed, hke a torrent, down upon the vale.
Sweeping our fiocks and herds. The shepherds fied
For safety and for succour. I alone.
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hovered about the enemy, and marked
The road he took ; then hasted to my friends ;
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe.
We fought — and conquered ! Ere a sword was drawn,
An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdained
The shei^herd's slothful life ; and, having heard
That our good king had summoned his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,
I left my father's house, and took with me
A chosen servant to conduct my steps —
Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers ;
And, heaven-directed, came this day, to do
The happy deed, that gilds my humble name.
MORDAUNT TO LADY MABEL.
"the patrician's D.\L'GHTER."
J. Westland Marstox, LL.D.
[Dr. Marston was bora at Boston, Lincolnshire, Jan. 30, 1820. He was
articled to a solicitor in London, but relinquished the law for the more genial,
though frequently less profitable, profession of literature. His fine tragedy,
"The Patrician's Daughter," produced some years ago, at one; stamped hi'm
as a dramatist of the highest order. He has since produced " Tho Heart and
the World," a plaj' ; " Strathmoi'o," a tragedy; ''Ann Blake," a play ; "A
Life's Ransom,'* a play; and, in 18G3, "Pure Gold," a play. Dr. Marston is
tho author of several novels ; and has contributed many charming IjtIcs to the
Athenceum, of which journal he is understood to be one of the critics.]
Stay !
Before we part, I have a word or two
For Lady Mabel's ear. — I know right well
The world has no tribunal to avenge
An injitry like mine ; you may allure
The human heart to love, warm it with smiles,
408 SpQeches and Soliloquies.
To aspirations of a dream-lilce bliss,
From which to wake is madness ; and when spells
Of your enchantment have enslaved it quite,
Its motives, feehngs, energies, and hopes,
Abstracted from all objects save yourself.
So that you are its world, its light, its life.
And all beside is void, and dark, and dead:
I say, that very heart, brought to this pass.
You may spurn from your path, pass on and jest.
And the crowd will jest with you ; you will glide
With eye as radiant, and with brow as smooth,
And feet as light, through your charmed worshipp'^r-;
As though the avigel's pen had failed to trace
The record of your crimes ; and every night
Lulled by soft Hatteries, you may calmly sleep.
As do the innocent ; — but it is crime.
Deep crime, that you commit. Had you, for spoi't,
Trampled iipon the earth a favourite rose.
Pride of the garden, or, in wantonness,
Cast in the sea a jewel not your own,
All men had held you guilty of offence.
* * * * * * *
And is it then no sin,
To crush those flowers of life, our freshest hopes.
With all the incipient beauty in the bud,
AVhich know no second growth ? — to cast our faith
Tn humankind, the only amulet
By which the soul walks tearless through the world,
Into those Hoods of memoried bitterness.
Whose awful depths no diver dares explore ; —
To paralyse the expect_.it mind, while jx't
On the world's threshold, and existence' self
To drain of all save its inert endurance ?
To do all this unpi-ovoked, 1 put it to you,
Is not this sin ? To the iinsleeping eye
Of Him who sees all aims, and knows the wrongs
No laws save Hi::; redress, 1 make appeal
To judge between us. There's an hour will come,
Not of revenge, but righteous retribution !
ii
CLAUDE MELNOTTE ON PRIDE.
Edward Bulweu Lyttox.
[See p. 3G0.]
Mel. Pauline, by pride —
Angels have fallen ere thy time : by pride-
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould —
The evil .'spirit of a bitter love,
Claude Melnotte on Fride. 409
And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee :
I saw thoe midst the flow'rs the lowly boy
Tended, unmark'd by thee — a spirit of bloom,
And joy and freshness, as if Spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape !
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy.
And from that hour I grew — what to the last
I shall be — thine adorer ! Well ; this love.
Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope ;
I thought of tales that by the winter hearth
Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung from Kings,
Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how Love like Death,
Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook
Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my home
In the soft palace of a fairy Future !
My lather died ; and I, the peasant-born.
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate ;
And, with such jewels as the exploring Mind
Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin gaolers of the daring heart —
Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image,
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men ! For thee I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages !
For thee I sought to borrow from each Grace,
And every Muse, such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
And Passion taught me poesy — of thee.
And on the painter's canvas grew the life
Of beauty ! — Art became the shadow
Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes I
Men call'd me vain — some mad — I heeded not ;
But still toil'd on — hoped on — for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy thee !
At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee— such a tribute, ladj'.
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name — appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name,
That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn
That very hour — when passion, turned to wi'ath.
Resembled Hatred most — when thy disdain
!Made mv whole soul a chaos — in that hour
410 Speeches and Soliloquies.
The temi^ters found me a revengeful tool
For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the "svorm-
It turu'd and stung thee I
EICHELIEU'S SOLILOQUY.
Edward Bul^ver Lvxtox.
[See p. 360.]
Rich, (readiiif/). "In silence, and at night, the conscience feels
That life should soar to nobler ends than Power."
So sayest thou, sage and sober moralist I
But wert thou tried ? Sublime Philosophj',
Thou wert the Patriarch's ladder reaching heaven,
And bright with beck'niug angels — but alas I
We see thee, like the Patriarch, but in dreams,
By the first step — dull-slumbering on the earth.
I am not happy I — with the Titan's lust
I woo'd a goddess, and I clasp a cloud.
When I am dust, my name shall, like a star.
Shine thro' wan space, a glory — and a prophet
Whereby pale seers shall from their aery towers
Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil.
That make the potent astrologue of Kings.
But shall the Future judge me by the ends
That I have wrought — or by the dubious means
Through which the stream of my renown hath run
Into the many voiced unfathom'd Time ?
Foul in its bed lie weeds — and heaps of slime.
And with its waves — when sparkling in the sun,
Ofttimes the secret rivulets that swell
Its might of waters — blend the hues of blood.
Yet are my sins not those of CIUCUMSTAXCE,
That all-pervading atmosphere, wherein
Our spirits, like the unsteady lizard, take
The tints that colour, and the food that nurtures ?
O I ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tranquil sands
In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell ;
Ye, whose untempted hearts have never toss'd
Upon the dark and stormy tides where life
Gives battle to the elements, — and man
Wrestles with man for some slight plank, whose weight
Will bear but one — while round the desperate wretch
The hungry billows roar — and the fierce Fate,
Like some huge monster, dim-seen through the surf,
Waits him who drops ; ye safe and formal men,
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish hand
Weigh in nice scales the motiyes of the Great,
Gloster's Soliloquy . 41 X
Ye cannot know what ye have never tried.
History jH-eserves only the fleshless bones
Of what we are — and by the mocking skull
The would-be wise pretend to guess the features I
"Without the roundness and the glow of life
How hideous is the skeleton ! Without
The colourings and humanities that clothe
Our errors, the anatomists of schools
Can make our memory hideous !
CATO'S SOLILOQUY.
Joseph Addison.
[See page 117.]
It must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well I —
Else, whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality ?
Or, whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught ? — Why shrinks the soul
Back on hei'self, and startles at destruction ? —
'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us ;
'Tis Heav'n herself, that points out an hereafter,
And intimates Eternity to man.
Eternity I — thou pleasing, dreadful thought !
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass !
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me ;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold : If there's a Power above us —
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works — He must delight in virtue.
And that which He delights in, must be happy.
But when ! or where ! This world was made for Ctesar !
I'm weary of conjectures — This must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.
Thus am I doubly arm'd. My death, my life,
My bane and antidote are both before me.
This — in a moment, brings me to an end ;
Whilst this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secur'd in her existence, smiles "
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. —
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth.
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds.
il2 Speeches and Soliloquies.
CHARLES THE FIRST'S FAREWELL.
W. G. Wills.
[See p. 386.]
King. Oh, my loved solaco on my thorny road,
Sweet clue in ail my labyrinth of sorrow,
What shall I leave to thee ?
To thee do I consign my memory I
Oh, banish not my name from off thy lips
Because it pains awhile in naming it.
Harsh grief doth pass in time into far music :
Red-eyed Regret that waiteth on thy steps
Will daily grow a gentle, dear companion.
And hold sweet converse with thee of thy dead.
I fear me I maj'- sometime fade from thee,
[QUKEN presses to him.
That when the heart expelleth gray-stoled grief
I live no longer in thy memory ;
Oh ! keep my place in it for ever green,
All hung with the immortelles of thy love.
That sweet abiding in thine inner thought
I long for more than sculptured monument
Or proudest record 'mong the tombs of kings.
[Soldiers enter, drawing tip on either side of door. Bell
tolls. Whilst the QuEEN seems to stiffen in grief,
CiiARLES Jaieels, kisses her and goes to door,
lM<nrrnfuUi/.] REMEMBER !
{1)1/ pprnnasion of the Author.)
SPEECH OF LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS.
OVER THE DEAD BODY OF LUCRETIA.
John Howard Payne.
[Mr. Payne was an American by birth, long settled in England. He wrote
•Brutus," a Tragedy, and si^-eral other successful dramatic pieces; among
them " Clari, the Maid of Milan," in \vhich occurs the ever popular song of
*'Horae, sweet homo." Bnni 1793 ; died 1852.]
Thus, thus, my friends, fast as our breaking hearts
Permitted utterance, we have told our story :
And now, to say one word of the imposture —
The mask necessity has made me wear !
When the ferocious malice of your king —
King-, do I call him !— When the monster, Tarquin,
Slew, as you most of you may well remember.
My father Marcus, and my elder brother,
Envying at once their A-irtues and their wealth,
How_ could I hope a shelter from his power.
But in the false face I have worn so lonof ?
Speech of Lucius Junius Brutus. 413
Would you know why I have summoii'd you together ?
Ask ye what brings me here ? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore ! Behold that frozen corse !
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death !
She was the mark and model of the time —
The mould in which each female face Avas form'd —
The very shrine and sacristy of vii'tue !
Fairer than ever was a form created
By youthful fancy when the blood stra3's wild,
And never-resting thought is all on tire !
The worthiest of the worthy ! Not the nymph
Who met old Nunia in his hallow'd walks,
And whispered in his ear her strains divine,
Can I conceive beyond her : — The young choir
Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'Tis wonderful.
Amid the darnel, hemlock, and bas5 weeds
Which now spring rife from the luxurious compot^t
Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose ; —
How from the shade of those ill-neighbouring plants
Her father shelter'd her, that not a leaf
Was blighted ; but, array'd in purest grace.
She bloom'd unsiiUied beauty. Such perfections
Might have call'd back the torpid breast of age
To long-forgotten rapture : — such a mind
Might have abash'd the boldest libertine.
And turn'd desire to reverential love
And holiest affection ! Oh, my countrymen,
You all can witness that when she went forth
It was a holiday in Rome; — old age
Forgot its crutch, labour its task — all ran ;
And mothers, turning to their daughters, ci-ied,
" There, there's Lucretia !" Now, look ye, where she lies,
That beauteous flower — that innocent sweet rose,
Torn up by ruthless violence — gone ! gone ! gone !
Say, would ye seek instruction ? Would ye ask
AVhat ye should do ? Ask ye j'on conscious walls,
Which sav.- his poison'd brother ! — saw the incest
Committed there, and they will cry— Revenge !
Ask yon deserted street, where TuUia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry — Revenge!
Ask yonder Senp^te-house, whose stones are jDurple
With human blood, and it will cry — Revenge !
Go to the tomb where lies his murder'd wife,
And the poor queen, who lov'd him as her son ;
Their unapj^eased ghosts will shriek — Revenge !
The temples of the gods — the all-viewing heavens—
The gods themselves — shall justify the cry,
Au'l swell the general sound — Revenge ! Revenge I
414 Speeches and Soliloquies.
WILFRID DENVER'S DREAM— ''THE SILVER KING."
Denver. Stay. I fell asleep. Jaikes, you don't kno-w what a
murderer's sleep is ? It is the waking time of conscience ! It is
the whipping- post she lies him to while she lashes and stings and
maddens his poor helpless guilty soul ! Sleep r It is a bed of
spikes and horrors ! It is a precipice for him to roll over, sheer
upon the jags and forks of memory ! It is a torchlight procession
of devils raking out every infernal sewer and cranny of his brain !
It is ten thousand mirrors dangling round him to picture and re-
picture to him nothing but himself I Sleep I Oh God there is no
hell but sleep !
Jaikes. Master Will I My poor Master Will.
Denver. That's what my sleep has been these four years past. I
fell asleep and I dreamed that wo were over in Nevada, and wo
were seated on a throne, she and I, and all the people came to offer
us theu- homage and loving obedience. And it was in a great hall
of justice, and a man was brought before me charged with a crime;
and just as I opened my movith to pronounce sentence upon him,
Geoffrey Ware came up out of his grave with his eyes staring,
staring, staring, as they stared on me on that night, and as they will
stare at me till my dying day ; and he said "Comedown! Come
down you whited sepulchre ! How dare you sit in that place to judge
men ? " And he leapt up in his grave-clothes to the throne where
I was, and seized me by the throat and dragged me down, and we
struggled and fought like wild beasts. We seemed to be fighting
for years, and at last I mastered him, and hold bim down and
throttled him, and rammed him tight into his grave again, and
kept him there and wouldn't lot him stir, and then I saw a hand
coming out of the sky, a long bony hand with no flesh on it, and
nails like eagle's claws, and it came slowly out of the sky reaching
for miles it seemed : slowlj', slowly, it reached down to the verj' place
where I was and it fastened in my heart, and it took me and set me
in the justice hall in the prisoners' dock, and when I looked at mj'
judge it was Geoffrey Ware I And I cried out for merc}% but there
was none ! And the hand gripped me again as a hawk grips a
wren, and set me on the gallows, and I felt the plank fall from
under my feet, and I dropped, dropped, dropped, — and I awoke I
Jaikes, For mercy's sake. Master AVill, no more.
Denver. Then I knew that the dream was sent for a message to
tell me that though I should fly to the uttermost ends of the earth,
as high as the stars are above, or as deep as the deepest sea bed is
below, there is no hiding-place for me, no rest, no hope, no shelter,
no escape!
{By pcrmhsivn of Mr. Vihuii Bur re ft.)
RECITATIONS.
THE LIFEBOAT.
George R. Sims.
[Mr. Sims is essentially a ^oet for the people. From the commencement of
his career he has identified himself with the masses, their lives, sufferings, and
recreations. His works, "How the Poor Lire," "The Social Kaleidoscope,''
"Rogues and Vagabonds," and 'The Ring o' Bells," are typical of a style of
■writing which has endeared him to the great body of the nation. His " Dngonet
Ballads" are very popular with reciters. His plays, comprise "The Lights o'
London," "The Romany Rye," "The Last Chance," "In the Ranks," and
" The Harbour Lights," the two last-named written in conjunction with another
dramatist.]
Been out in the lifeboat often ? Ay, ay, sir, often enough. !
When it's rougher than this ? Lor' bless you ! this ain't what we
calls rough !
It's when there's a gale a-blowing, and the waves run in and break
On the shore with a roar like thunder and the white cliffs seem to
shake ;
When the sea is a hell of waters and the bravest holds his breath
As he hears the cry for the lifeboat — his summons may be to death
That's when we call it rough, sir ; but, if we can't get her afloat,
There's always enough brave fellows ready to man the boat.
You've heard of the Eoyal Helen, the ship as was wrecked last
year ?
Yon be the rock she struck on — the boat as went out be here ;
That night as she struck was reckoned the worst as ever we had.
And this is a coast in winter where the weather be awi'ul bad,
The beach here was strewed with wreckage, and to tell you the
truth, sir, then
Was the only time as ever we'd a bother to get the men.
The single ohaps was willin', and six on 'em volunteered
But most on us here is married, and the wives that night was
skeered.
Our women ain't chicken-hearted when it comes to savin' lives,
But death that night looked certain — and our wives be only
wives ;
Their lot ain't bright at the best, sir, butliere, when a man lies dead,
'Tain't only the husband missin', it's the children's daily bread ;
So our wom-u bcs^m to whimper and beg o' tlie chairs to stay
■416 Becitatioiis.
I only heerd on it after, for that night I -was kept away;
I was up at my cottage, yonder, where the wife lay nigh iier end,
She'd been ailiu' all the winter, and uothin' 'ud make her mend.
The doctor had given her up, sir, and I knelt by her side and
prayed,
With my eyes as red as a babby's, that death's hand might yet be
stayed,
I heerd the wild wind howlin' and I looked on the wasted form,
And thought of the awfid shipwreck, as had come in the ragin'
storm ;
The wreck of my little homestead — the wreck of my dear old wife.
Who sailed with me forty years, sir, o'er the troublous waves
of life.
And I looked at the eyes so sunken, as had been my harbour
lights.
To tell of the sweet home haven in the wildest, darkest nights.
She knew she was sinkin' quickly — she knew as her end was nigh,
But she never spoke o' the troubles as I knew on her heart must lie.
For we'd had oue gre it big sorrow with Ja.k, our oulj' son —
He'd got into trouble in London, as lots o' the lads ha' done ;
Then he bolted, his masters told us — he was alius what folk call
wild.
From the day as I told his mother, her dear face never smiled.
We heerd no more about him, we never knew where he went,
And his mother pined and sickened for the message he never sent.
I had my work to think of; but she had her grief to nurse,
So it eat away at her heartstrings, and her health grew worse and
worse.
And the night as the Eoyal Helen went down on yonder sands,
I sat and watched her dyin', holdiu' her wasted hands.
She moved in her doze a little, when her eyes were opened wide,
And she seemed to be seekin' somethin', as she looked from side
to side,
Then half to herself she whispered, " where's Jack, to say
good-bye ?
It's hard not to see my darlin', and kiss him afore I die ! "
I was stoopin' to kiss and soothe her, while the tears ran down my
cheek,
And my lips were shaped to whisper the words I couldn't speak,
When the door of the room burst open, and my mates were there
outside
With the news that the boat was launchin'. " You're wanted ! "
their leader cried.
"■ You've never refused to go, John ; you'll put these cowards right,
There's a dozen of lives may be, John, as lio in our hands
to-night ! "
The Lifeboat. 417
'IVas old Ben Brown, the Captain ; he'd laughed at the women's
doubt,
"We'd always been first on the beach, sir, when the boat was
goin' out.
I didn't move, but I pointed to the white face on the bed—
" I can't go, mate," I murmured, "in an hour she may be dead,
I cannot go and leave her to die in the night alone."
As I spoke Ben raised his lantern, and the light on my wife was
thrown ;
And I saw her eyes fixed strangely with a pleading look on me,
While a tremblin' finger pointed through the door to the ragin' sea* '
Then she beckoned me near, and whispered, " Go, and God's will
be done !
For every lad on that ship, John, is some poor mother's son."
Her hpad was full of the boy, sir — she was thiukin' may be,
some day
For lack of a hand to help him his life might be cast away,
' ' Go John, and the Lord watch o'er you ! and spare me to see the
light,
And bring you safe," she whispered, " out o' the storm to-night."
Then I turned and kissed her softly, and tried to hide my tears.
And my mates outside, when they saw me, set up three hearty
cheei's ;
But I rubbed my eyes wi' my knuckles, and turned to old Ben and said>
" I'll see her again, may be lads, when the sea gives up its dead."
We launched the boat in the tempest, though death was the goal
in view.
And never a one but doubted if the craft could live it through ;
But our boat she stood it bravely, and, weary and wet and weak
We drew in hail of the vessel we had dared so much to seek.
But just as we came upon her she gave a fearful roll.
And went down in the seethin' whirlpool with every livin' soul 1
We rowed for the spot, and shouted, for all around was dark —
But only the wild wind answered the cries from our plungin' bark.
I was strainin' my eyes and watchin', when I thought I heard
a cry.
And I saw past our bows a somethin' on the crest of a wave dash by;
I stretched out my hand to seize it. I dragged it aboard, and then
I stumbled, and struck my forrud, and fell like a log on Ben.
I remember a hum of voices, and then T knowed no more
Till I came to my senses here, sii- — here in my home ashore.
My forehead was tightly bandaged, and I lay on my little bed.
I'd slipp'd so they told me arter, and a ruUock had struck my head.
Then my mates came in and whispered ; they'd heard I was comin'
round ;
At first I could scarcely hear them, it seemed like a buzzin' sound ;
E E
418 Hecitations.
But as soon as my head got clearer, and accustomed to hear 'em
speak.
I knew as I'd lain like that, sir, for many a long, long vreek.
I guessed what the lads was hidiu', for their poor old shipmate's
sake,
I could see by their puzzled faces they'd got some news to break ;
So I lifts my head from the pillow, and I says to old Ben, " Look
here !
I'm able to bear it now, lad — tell me, and never fear."
Not one of 'em ever answered, but presently Ben goes out,
And the others slinks away like, and I says, " What's this about ?
Why can't they tell me plainly as my poor old wife is dead ? "
Then I fell again on the pillows, and 1 hid my achin' head ;
I lay like that for a minute, till I heard a voice cry, " John ! "
And I thought it must be a vision as my weak eyes gazed upon ;
For there by the bedside standin' up and well was my wife ;
And who do ye think was with her ? Why, Jack, as large as life.
It was him as I'd saved from drownin' the night as the lifeboat went
To the wreck of the Eoyal Helen ; 'twas that as the vision meant.
They'd brought us ashore together, he'd knelt by his mother's bed
And the sudden joy had raised her like a miracle from the dead ;
And mother and son together had nursed me back to life,
And my old eyes woke from darkness to look on my son and wife.
Jack ? He's our right hand now, sir ; 'twas Providence pulled him
through —
He's alius the first aboard her when the lifeboat wants a crew.
{£1/ permission of the Author.)
A TALE OF THE DOVER EXPEESS.
Clement W. Scott.
[Mr. Clement W. Scott has, witliiu a romparativcly short time, raised himself
to a position of considerable eminence in the world of letters. His published
works comprise " Lays of a Londoner," " Poppy Land," and " Round About the
Isles;" he has -vnitten and adapted numerous productions for the stage with
conspicuous success.]
How did I do it ? Well, sit you down, if you're got ten minutes
to spare.
And I'll tell you the tale how it happened to me — well to me and
my mate out there.
Don't put it all down to our boast and brag, for I'll take my oath
we try,
We engine fellows, to stick to the rail, if we happen to live or
• *^^f '
It isn't because with filth and grease we are covered from fool to
head
A Tate of the Dover Express. 419
That we haven't got pluck like soldier Bill in his uniform smart
and red.
We haven't got bands to tootle to u?, nor women, nor mates to
cheer,
"We march at the sound of the station-bell, and the scream of the
wind in our ear ;
We have gals to love us, and children, too, who cling to the face
and neck,
Though lue're never called to the grand parade, or march'd to the
hurricane deck,
A man's a man when he does his work — well, it may be more or
less,
But in Fenian days you should say your prayers when driving the
Dover Express I
We started off — 'twas a night in June — and the beautiful moon
shone bright
Through the silent glass of the station, when our guard sang out
" All right ! "
He was in charge of the train, the Guard — but me and my mate
just then
Had taken in pledge, for good or for ill, the lives of the women and
men.
Away we went at a splendid pace when we'd coupled and left
Heme Hill,
Behind was the roar of a city on fire, in front was the country
still.
Then we came to a point where we always turn, and mutter a sort
of pray'r
For the wife, and the young 'uns asleep in the town, from the men
in the engine's glare.
It wasn't like that in the train, I bet; did anyone trouble a
rap ?
The honeymoon couples were locked in fast, and the others were
playing at ' nap ; '
Papers, and smoking, and gossip, and chaff ; does it ever strike
them that a nervo
Is required from the men who must drive in the dark an express
round the Chatham curve ?
1 looked at my watch, we were up to time, and the engine leapt
and sped
To the river we cross as it runs to the sea, with the Eochester lights
ahead !
I often think of the train behind and the passengers fast asleep,
As we slow on the pace just to tackle the curve round Strood and
Eochester Keep.
It puzzles those foreigner chaps who cross where the river in
silence flows,
With the Castle one minute miles away and the next right under
your ni se.
E E 2
420 Recitations.
You have felt the jerk ? Well, that's no odds, may be you'd have
felt more odd
"With a mate by your side at the engine-fire, who suddenly cried,
"My God!
There's something ahead on the six-foot v:ax ! Look there ! " And
I held my breath.
A something ! And what ! on the rails ahead — we must drive for
our lives or death I
There wasn't a second to pause or think, though I saw by the light
of the train
The river, the viaduct, scenes of home we never should visit again.
"What shall you do?" Then I tui-ned and saw Tom's piteous
face and sad.
" What shall I do ? Held fast, my boy ! I shall cram on the pace
like mad ! "
Oil with the brake, and shove on the steam — in a second a crash, a
leap.
Eight into the iron the engine tore, with the passengers fast
asleep.
It reeled at the shock did their devilish snare, to the rush and the
roar and the beat,
Before was dear life and the light and the ail* ; behind was the dust
of defeat !
Away to the rear went Eochester town, its danger, its storms and
stress,
We'd taken a pledge, and we kept it, sii', in saving the Dover
Express !
They're sending the hat round I thank you, kind, for me and my
mate, yoa say.
Well, the monej' will come in easy like, when we're laid on the
shelf some day.
It's only right that the women and men who arrived at Dover town,
And were saved that night round Eochester curve should cheerfully
"plank it down."
But we don't want money for what we've done — there's something
far better than gain
If a man can earn his Victoria Cross in charge of a railway train ! '
If a man can prove he has plentj- of pluck, and is thoroughly
English made,
As well in front of a fierce express as in rear of a bold brigade !
But there's something far better than money to me, though it's
terrible hard in Town
To give the young'uns their annual shoes, and the missus a decent
gown,
I'd give youi" money up every cent, and the moment I'd gladly bless
When you hand us the villain who wanted to wi-eck oih' lives on
the Dover Express I
{By permission of the Author.)
421
THE DEATH OF ABSALOM.
N. r. Willis.
[Nathaniel Parker Willis was bom in Portland, U.S.A., January 20, 1817.
Many of his sacred poems were written when he was in the seventeenth year cf
his age. He died 1867.]
The waters slejit. Night's silvery veil hung low
Oa Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curl'd
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.
The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow-leave?,
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems,
"Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse,
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And lean'd in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells,
By its light heed of human suffering.
That it was fashion'd 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 rest
Upon the shores of Jordan . The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and ho bared his brow
To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and he 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
Eose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bow'd his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh I when the heart is full— when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance.
And the poor common words of courtesy'
Are such an empty mockery — how much
The bursting heart niaj' pour itself in prayer !
He pray'd for Israel — and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He pray'd 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 cherish'd him — for him he pour'd
In agony that would not be controU'd,
Strong supplication, and forgave him there.
Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.
422 Recitations.
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straighten'd for the grave ; and, as the folds
Sank to the still proportions, they betray'd
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they sway'd
To the admitted air, as glossy now
As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing
The snowy fingers of Judea's daughters.
." His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soil'd
I With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid,
Eeversed, beside him ; and the jewell'd hilt,
Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade,
Rested, like mockery, on his cover'd brow.
The soldiers 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 fear'd the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him. He grasp'd his blade
As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form
Of David enter'd, 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 stiU features of his child.
He bow'd his head upon him, and l)roke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe :
' ' Alas ! my noble boy I that thou should'st die I
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fail' !
That death should settle in thy glorious eye.
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair I
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 hari^-string, yearning to caress thee
And hear thy sweet ' Mi/ Father .' ' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom !
" But death is on 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 mv heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
Tlie Inclicape Roch. 423
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token !
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom !
" And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up ; —
With death so like a slumber on thee ; —
And thj"- dark sin ! — Oh ! I could drink the cup.
If from this woo its bitterness had won thee.
May God have call'd thee, like a wanderer, home,
My lost boy, Absalom ! "
He cover'd up his face, and bow'd himself
A moment on his child ; then, giving him v
A look of melting tenderness, he clasji'd
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.
THE INCHCAPE EOCK
K. SOUTHEY.
[See p. 110.]
No stir in tno air, no stir in the sea.
The ship was as still as slie could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sigh or sound of their shock
The waves tiow'd over the Inchcape Eock ;
So little they rose, so httle they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape beU.
The worthy Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Eock;
On a Inioy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
AMicn the rock was hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell',
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was sliining gay.
All thmgs were joyful on that day ;
Tlie sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.
424 Recitations.
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A dark speck on the ocean green ;
Sir Ealph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering jwwer of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing ;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float ;
Quoth he, " My men put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape rock.
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrcthok.''
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape rock they go ;
Sir Ralph l^ent over from the boat.
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sotmd.
The bubbles rose and burst around ;
Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away.
He scour'd the seas for many a day ;
And now grown rich with pliinder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high ;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon.
For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
" Canst hear," said one, "the breakers' roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore."
" Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no sound, the swell is strong ;
Though the wind hath fallen they drift along,
Till the vessel sti-ikes with a shivering shock, — '
" Oh ! heavens ! it is the Inchcape rock !"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair ;
He curst himself in his despair ;
The waves rush in on every side.
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
I
Belli Gelert. 425
But even now, in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcajia bell
The devils in triumph were ringing his knell.
BETH GELEET.
Hon. Wm. Robert SpE^oEE.
LWas the younger son of Lord Charles Spencer, and was educated at HaiTow
and Oxford. In 17i)6, ho published a translation of Eiirger's '' Lenore." Ho
held the appointment of Commissioner of Stamps. Born 1770 ; died 1834.]
The spearman heard the bugle soi;nd,
And cheerily smiled the morn ;
And many a Israeli, and many a houncL,
Attend Llewellyn's horn :
And stiU he blew a louder blast,
And gave a louder cheer :
" Come, Gelert ! why art thou the last
Llewellyn's horn to hear?
" Oh! where doth faithful Gelert roam?
The flower of all his race !
So time, so brave ; a lanili at home,
A lion in the chase !"
In sooth, he was a peei'less hound.
The gift of royal John ;
But now no Gelert could be found,
And all the chase rode on.
And now, as over rocks and dells
The gallant chidings rise,
All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
With many mingled cries.
That day Llewellyn little loved
The chase of hart or hare ;
And small and scant the booty proved.
For Gelert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat.
His truant Gelert he espied.
Bounding his lord to greet.
But when he gain'd the castle door.
Aghast the chieftain stood ;
The hound was smeared with gouts of gore,
His lips and fangs ran blood !
426 Recitations.
Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise,
Unused such looks to meet :
His favourite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewellyn pass'd—
And on went Gelert too —
And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shock'd his \aew !
O'erturn'd his Infant's bed, he found
The blood-stain'd covert rent ;
And all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.
He call'd his child— no voice replied ;
He search'd— with terror wild ;
Blood ! blood ! he found on every side.
But nowhere found the child !
" Hell-hound ! by thee my child's devoured 1"
Tlie frantic father cried ;
And, to the hilt, his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side !
His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart ;
But still his Gelert's dying yell
Pass'd heavy o'er his heart.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh,
"What words the parent's joy can tell.
To hear his iufant cry !
Conceal'd beneath a mangled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
His cherub-boy he kissed !
Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread —
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gi-eat wolf, all torn and dead —
Tremendous still in death !
Ah ! what was then Llewellyn's pain !
For now the truth was clear :
The gallant hound the wolf had slain.
To save Llewellyn's heir.
A-^ain, vain, was all Llewehyn's woe;
" Best of thy kind, adieu !
The frantic deed which laid thee low.
This heart shall ever rue !"
The Glove and the Liouc, 4 27
And now a gallant tomb tliey rais3,
AVith costly sculpture deck'd ;
And marbles storied with his praise.
Poor Geleii's bones protect.
Here never could the spearman pass
Or forester unmoved ;
Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Lewellyn's sorrow proved.
And here he hung his horn and si^ear ;
And oft, as evening fell,
In fancy's piercing sounds would hear
J^oor Gelerf s dying yell !
THE GLOVE A;N'D THE LIONS.
Leigh Hvnt.
[Bom Oct. 19, 1784, aud educated at Christ's Hospital. He commenced
writing at tweuty-oue, aud finished only at his death, August 28, 1859.J
King Fkaxcis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court :
The nobles till'd the l>enches round, the ladies by their side.
And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his
bride:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that cro'vvuing show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ;
They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with
their paws ;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled one on another,
Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother;
The bloody foam al)ove the bars came whizzing through the air;
Said Francis then, " Good gentlemen, we're better here than there !"
De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively dame,
With smiling li^DS, and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the
same :
She thought, " The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can ])e ;
He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me !
King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the chance is wondrous fine ;
I'll drop my glove to prove his love ; great glory will be mine I"'
She dropp'd her glove to prove his love : then looked on him and
smiled ;
Ho bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild !
428 Recitations.
The leap was quick , return was quick ; lie soon regained his place
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's lace !
" Well done ! " cried Francis, " bravely done ! " and he rose from
where he sat: - , vi ii, i i »
*' No love," quoth he, " but vanity sets loye a task like that !
THE EAVEN.
Edgau Allax Toe.
[See p. 202.J
^)NCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak ajid weary.
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore —
While I nodded, nearly nappiug, suddenly there came a tapping.
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door ;
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah ! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor ;
Eagerly I 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 for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purj^le curtain
Thrilled me — fiUed 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 \'isitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ;—
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer,
'' Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I imjilore;
Uut the fact is, I was najiping, and so gently you came rap]iing,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chaml>er door,
Jhat 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 mortal ever dared to dream before ;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token.
And the only word there sjioken, was the wlus]Dered word
" Lenore!" —
Thus I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.
The Raven. 42»
iBack into the chamber turning, all my soul within me biiraing,
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 mysteiy 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 Kaven, of the saintly days of 3^ore :
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 above 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 stei*n decorum of the countenance 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."
]\Iuch I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore ;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door —
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as " Nevennore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour;
Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feather 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,
Canght from some imhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore —
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boi'e,
Of " Nevei' — 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 ;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
430 Recitations.
Fancy into fancy, tliinVing what tliis omiuous 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 syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now liurned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet Hning. that the lamp-light gloated o'ei-,
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore !
Then methought the aii- grew denser, perfiuned from an unseen
censer
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
" Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he
hath sent thee,
Eespite — respite and nepenthe from th}- memories of Lenore !
Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore !"
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."
" Prophet," said I ; " thing of evil 1— prophet still, if bird or devil !
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore.
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted —
On this home by horror haunted — tell me truly, 1 implore —
Is there — is there balm in Gilead? — tell me I tell me, I implore V'
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."
"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil !— prophet still, if bird or devil f
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 angels name Lenore !" —
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."'
Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, up-
starting —
"Get thee back mto the tempest and the night's Plutonian shoro ;
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 c5" r/.Y
door !" J -
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting.
Uu the ]3alhd bust of PaUas, just above my chamber door ;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is drea^irp-.
.Indthe lamp-light, o'er him streaming, thi-ows his shadow on tie
floor ;
And my soul from_out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor.
Shall be lifted — nevermore.
431
THE BEIDGB OF SIGHS.
Thomas Hood.
[Thoirns Hood was the sou of a bookseller, cue of the finn of Venior and
Hood, of the Poultry, City of Londou, where he was born ou the 23rd May,
179D. He was apprenticed to an engraver ; but his health failing, was sent to
a relation in Scotland. Ou his return to London, in 1821, he became sub-
editor of the " London Magazine," and from this time his literary avocations
commenced. His collected works have enjoyed a large sale since his deatli,
but in his lifetime ho was constantly struggling with want and difficulties. He
died in 1845, and was buried in Ki-nsal Green, where a handsome monument
erected by public subscription, is placed over his remains.]
OxF, more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate.
Gone to her death !
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair.
Look at her garments.
Clinging like cerements ;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing :
Take her up instantly.
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully ;
Think of her mournfully :
Gently and humanly ;
Not of the stains of her ;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers.
One of Eve's family.
Wipe those poor lips of hers,
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses,
Escaped from the comb.
Her fair auburn tresses ;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home ?
i
Recitations.
Who was lier father ?
Who was her mother ?
Had she a sister ?
Had she a brother ?
Or was there a dearer one - ?
Still, or a nearer one
Yet, than all other ?
Alas ! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun !
Oh ! it was pitiful,
Near a whole city full,
Home had she none !
I
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly, j
Feelings had changed ; |
Love, by harsh evidence
Thrown from its eminence,
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
When the lamps quiver
So far in the river.
With many a light
From many a casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of Marcli
Made her tremble and shiver
But not the dark arch
Or the black flowing rivei'.
Mad from life's history.
Glad to death's mystery
Swift to be hurl'd,
Anywhere ! anywhere
Out of the world !
In she plung'd boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran ;
Over the l^rink of it,
Picture it — think of it,
Dissolute man !
Lave in it — drink of it
Then, if you can.
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with cai-e,
Hohenlinden. 433
Fashioii'd so slenderly.
Young, and so fair.
Ere ter limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly.
Decently, kindly
Smooth and compose them ;
And her eyes, close them.
Staring so blindly !
Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As when with the daring,
Last look of despairing,
Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Si^urned by contumely,
Bold inhiimanity,
Burning insanity.
Into her rest ;
Cross her hands humbly.
As if praying dumbly,
Over her bi-east !
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And lea\ang, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour.
(_Li/ pa'i7iiss'ion of Messrs. Moxon and Co.y
HOHENLINDEN.
Thomas Campbell.
[See page 216.]
On Linden when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow.
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight.
When the drum beat at dead of night.
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadfiU revelry.
F I-
434 Recitations.
Then sliook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flashed the red artiller}'.
But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hilis of stained snow ;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun.
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry !
Few. few shall part where many meet !
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THE WOMEN OF MUMBLES HEAD.
Clement "W. Scott.
[See p. 418.]
Bring, novelists, your note-book ! bring, dramatists, your pen !
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only a tale of a lifeboat, the dying and the dead,
Of a terrible storm and shipwreck, that happened off Mumbles
Head !
Maybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it north and
south ;
Maybe you are friends with the " natives" that dwell at Oyster-
mouth !
It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual
way,
And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea
Bay.
Well ! it isn't hke that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands
alone,
In the teeth of Atlantic breakers, that foam on its face of stone.
It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, or the storm-bell
tolled, or when
The Women of Mumbles Head. 435
There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launch'd, and a despe-
rate cry for men.
When in the world did the coxswain shirk ? a brave old salt was he !
Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,
Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who about the coast, 'twas
said,
Had saved some hundred lives apiece — at a shilling or so a head !
So the father launch'd the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,
And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at
the oar.
Out to the wreck went the father I out to the wreck went the sons !
Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns,
Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors
love,
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above !
Do you murmur a prayer, mj' brothers, when cosy and safe in bed.
For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles
Head ?
It didn't go well with the lifeboat ! 'twas a terrible storm that blew !
And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning
crew ;
And then the anchor parted — 'twas a tussle to keep afloat I
But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old
boat.
Then at last on the poor doom'd lifeboat a wave broke mountains
high!
"God help us, now!" said the father. "It's over my lads.
Good bye ! "
Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves.
But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry
waves.
Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure — a fighting form,
Tt might be a grey -haired father, then the women held their breath,
It might be a fair-haii-ed brother, who was having a round with
death ;
It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea
in ships ;
They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst,
and more ;
Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the light-
house, straight to shore.
There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand.
Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the
land.
'Twas only aid he wanted, to help him across the wave,
But what are a couple of women with onl^- a man to save ?
F F 2
436 Recitations.
What are a couple of ^\-omen ? Well, more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—
and then
Off went the women's shawls, sir ; in a second they're torn and rent,
Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they
went !
" Come back," cried the lighthouse-keeper, "for God's sake, girls,
come back ! "
As they caught the waves on their foreheads^ resisting the fierce
attack.
" Come back ! " moaned the grey-haired mother ; as she stood by
the angry sea,
"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nothing left to me."
" Come back ! " said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint
and pale,
"You will drown if you face the breakers ! you ■will fall if you
brave the gale ! "
"Comeback!" said the girls, " we will not, go tell it to all the
town.
We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown ! "
" Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess ! give one strong clutch
of your hand !
Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to
land!
Wait for the next wave, darling, only a minute more,
And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him safe
to shore."
Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,
They caught and saved a brother alive ! God bless us, you know
the rest
Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed.
And many a glass was toss'd right off to "The Women of Mumbles
Head!"
{Bij 2)crmission of the Antlior.)
THE FIREMAN'S WEDDING.
W. A. Eatox,
["The Fireman's "Wedding," and one or two other pieces by tliis Author, have
been popular on the platform for several yeai-s. Thev are certaialy well adapted
lor oral delivery.]
" What are we looking at, guv'nor ?
Well, you see those carriages there ?
It's a wedding— that's what it is, sir ;
And aren't they a beautiful pair ?
Tlie Fireman's Wedding. 437
" They don't -n-ant no marrow-bone music,
There's the fireman's band come to play ;
It's a fireman that's going to get married, ^
And you don't see such sights every day .
" They're in the church now, and we're waiting
To give them a cheer as they come ; _
And the grumbler that wouldn't join in it
Deserves all his lite to go dumb.
" They won't be out for a minute,
So if you've got time and will stay,
I'll tell you rioht from the beginning
About this 'ere wedding to-day.
" One night I was fast getting drowsy,
And thinking of going to bed,
"When I heard such a clattering and shouting—
' That sounds like an engine ! ' I said.
" So I jumped up and opene 1 the window :
< It's a fire sure enough, wife,' says I ;
For the people were running and shouting,
And the red glare quite lit up the sky.
" I kicked of? my old carpet slippers
And on with my boots in a jitf ;
I hung up my pipe in the corner
Without waiting to have the last whiff.
" The wife, she just grumbled a good "un,
But I didn't take notice of that.
For I on with my coat in a minute,
And sprang down the stairs like a cat !
" I followed the crowd, and it brought me
In front of the house in a blaze ;
At first I could see nothing clearly.
For the smoke made it all of a haze.
" The firemen were shouting their loudest.
And unwinding great lengths of hose ;
The ' peelers,' were pushing the people,
And treading on every one's toes.
"I got pu^jhed with some more in a corner.
Where I couldn't move, try as I might ;
But little I cared for the squeezing
So long as I had a good sight.
438 Recitations.
"Ah, sir, it was graud ! but 'twas awful !
The flames leaped up higher and higher :
The wind seemed to get underneath them,^
Till they roared like a great blacksmith's fire !
" I was just looking lound at the people,
With their faces lit up by the glare, _
When I heard some one cry, hoarse with terror,
' Oh, look ! there's a woman up there ! '
" I shall never forget the excitement,
My heart beat as loud as a clock ;
I looked at the crowd, they were standing
As if turned to stone by the shock.
" And there was the face at the window,
With its blank look of haggard despair—
Her hands were clasped tight on her bosom,
And her white lips were moving in prayer.
' ' The staircase was burnt to a cinder,
There wasn't a fire-escape near ;
But a ladder was brought from the builder's,
And the crowd gave a half- frightened cheer.
" The ladder was put to the window,
While the flames were still raging below :
I looked, with mj'^ heart in my mouth, then,
To see who would oiler to go !
" When up sprang a sturdy young fireman.
As a sailor would climb up a mast ;
We saw him go in at the window,
And we cheered as though danger were past.
' ' We saw nothing more for u moment,
But the sparks flying round us like rain ; ,.
And then as we breathlessly waited.
He came to the window again.
' ' And on his broad shoulder was lying.
The face of that poor fainting thing,
And we gave him a cheer as we never
Yet gave to a prince or a king.
Jtie got on tiie top ot the ladder — . i^
I can see him there now, noble lad ! j' i:
nd the flames underneath seemed to know it, * "'
For they leaped at that ladder like mad.
•y
Over the Hill to the Poor-House. 439
" But just as li9 got to the middle,
I could see it begin to give way,
For the flames had got hold of it now, sir !
I could see the thing tremble and sway.
" He came but a step or two lower,
Then sprang with a cry to the ground ;
And then, you would hardly believe it.
He stood with the girl safe and sound.
' ' I took oft" my old hat and waved it :
I couldn't join in with the cheer,
For the smoke had got into my eyes, sir,
And I felt such a choking just here.
" And now, sir, they're going to get married,
I bet you, she'll make a good wife ;
And who has the most right to have her ? —
Why, the fellow that saved her young life !
"A beauty ! ah, sir, I believe you !
Stand back, lads I stand back ! here they are !
"We'll give them the cheer that we promised,
Now, lads, with a hip, hip, hurrah ! "
(Bi/ pi r mission of thv Author.)
OVEE THE HILL TO THE POOE-HOUSE.
"Will Cakleton.
[Will Carleton, the poet, must not be confounded with the author of " Traits
of the Irish Peasantry," bearuig the same name. The latter was an Irishman,
born 1798, died 1869. The former an American, still living, is best known by
his " Farm Ballads," " Farm Festivals," and " Farm Legends."]
Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way —
I, a woman of seventy, an' only a trifle grey —
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years 1 told.
As many another woman that's only half as old.
Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't quite make it clear —
Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so horrid queer !
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame ?
Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ?
True, I am not so supple, not yet so awful stout,
But charity ain't no favour, if one can live without.
I
4,40 Recitations.
I am willin' and anxious and ready any day
To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way ;
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,
If anybody only is willin' to have me round.
Once I was young an' han'some — I was, upon ray soul,
Once my cheeks was roses, and my eyes as black as coal ;
And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.
'Tain't no use a-boastin', or talkin' overfree,
But many a house an' home was open then to me ;
Many a han'some offer have I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.
And when to John I was married sure he was good an' smart,
And he and all the neighbours would own I'd done my part ;
For life was all before me. an' I was young, an' strong,
I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.
And so we worked together ; and life was hard but gay,
With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way ;
Till we had half a dozen and all growed clean and neat.
And went to school Like others, an' had enough to eat.
So we worked for the children an' raised them every one ;
Worked for 'em summer an' winter, just as we ought to 'vo
done;
Only perhaps we humoured 'em, which some good folks condemn,
But every couple's children's a heap the best to them.
Strange, how much we think of our blessed little ones I —
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons ;
And God he made that rule of love ; but when we 're old aud gi'ey,
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.
Strange, another thing ; when our boys an' girls was grown.
And when, excepting Charlie, they'd left us there alone ;
When John he nearer and nearer come, and dearer seemed to I c, ^
The Lord of Hosts he come one day and took him away from me. w
Still I was bound to struggle, and never to cringe or fall —
Still I worked for Charlie, for Charlie was now my all ;
And Charlie was pretty good to me, with a scarce a word or frown,
iiU at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.
She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile—
bhe was conceity, and carried a heap o' style ;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know ;
but she was hard an' proud, an' I couldn't make it go.
She had an edication, an' that was good for her.
But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carrying things too fur ;
Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 441
And I told liei' once, 'fore company (an' it almost made lier sick),
That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.
So 'twas only a few days before the thirg was done —
fhey was a family of themselves, an' I another one ;
And a very little cottage, one family will do.
But I never seen a house that was big enough for two.
An' I never could s^jeak to suit her, I never could please her eye,
An' it made me independent, and then I didn't tr}^ ;
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
I When Charlie tui'ned agin me, an' told me 1 could go.
I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small.
And she was always a- bin tin' how snug it was for us all ;
And what with her husband's sisters, an' what with children three,
'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.
And then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got.
For Thomas's buildiu»s 'd a cover the half of an acre lot ;
But all the children was on me — I couldn't stand their sauce —
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.
An' then I wrote to Eebecca, my girl who lives out West,
And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty miles at best ;
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for anyone so old,
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.
So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about —
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out ;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,
Till Charlie went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house — my childr'n dear, good bye !
Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh ;
And God '11 judge between us ; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.
{By pcrmlsslo)i of Messrs. Sampson Low ^- Co.)
MAEY, THE MAID OF THE INX.
Egbert Southey.
[Sec page 110.]
Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharg'd to express ?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs :
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.
442 Recitations.
jSTo aid, no compassion the maniac ^-ill seek ;
Cold and hunger awake not her care.
Through her rags do the winds of the winter blow bleai
On her poor wither'd bosom half bare, and her cheek
Has the deathly pale hue of despair.
Tet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary the maniac has been.
The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Maiy, the maid of the inn.
Her cheerful address fiU'd her guests with delight
As she welcom'd them in with a smile.
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright.
And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night.
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved ; and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be hap])y for life :
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew him would pity ])oor Mary, and say
That she was too good for his wife.
'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,
And fast were the windows and door ;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright.
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight
They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
" 'Tis pleasant," cried one, " seated by the fireside,
To hear the wind whistle without."
" A fine night for the Abbey !" his comrade re])lied.
" Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried
Who should wander the ruins about.
" I myself, like a schoolboy, would tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head :
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old aljbot's white spirit appear, —
For this Aviud might awaken the dead !"
" I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
" That Mary would venture there now."
" Then wager, and lose !" -with a sneer he rephed ;
" I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her si<fe,
And faint if she saw a white cow."
" Will Mary this charge on her courage allow? '
His companion exclaimed with a smile ;
'' I shall win, — for I know she will venture there now,
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bou^rh
From the elder that grows in' the aisle."°
i
Mary, the Maid of the Inn. 443
With fearless good liumoiir did Maiy comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent.
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shiver'd with cold as she went.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid ;
Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight.
Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid ;
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howl'd dismally round the old pile ;
Over weed-cover'd fragments still fearless she past,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.
Well-pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near
And hastily gather'd the bough ;
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear ;
She paused, and she listen'd, all eager to hear.
And her heai-t panted fearfully now.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,
She listen'd, — noxight else could she hear.
The wind ceased; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread
Of footsteps appi'oaching her near.
Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear
She crept to conceal herself there :
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear.
And .she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them a corpse did they bear.
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdled cold !
Again the rough wind hurried by, —
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd —
She felt, and expected to die.
'• Curse the hat !" he exclaimed ; " Nay, come on here, and hidc-
The dead body," his comrade replied.
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side.
She seizes the hat, fear her coiu'age supplied,
And fast through the abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door.
She gazed horribly eager around.
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,
And exhausted and breathless she sunk on the floor.
Unable to utter a sound.
444 Recitations.
Ere yet her pale lips coiild the story impart,
For a moment the hat met her view; —
Her eyes from that object conviilsively start,
For — God ! what cold horror then thrill'd through her heart
When the name of her Richard she knew !
Where the old Abbey stands on the common hard by,
His gibbet is now to be seen ;
His irons you still from the road may espy.
The traveller beholds them, and thinks, with a sigh,
Of poor Mary, the maid of the inn.
THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.
Thomas Xoel.
There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot,
To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot ;
The road it is rough and the hearse has no springs ;
And hark to the dirge which the sad driver sings :
Ttnttlc his hones over the stones !
He's only ajjiatiper, ivhom nobody oivns !
O, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are noue —
He has left not a gap in the world now he's gone —
Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ;
To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can :
Battle his ho7ies over the stones !
He's only aimuper, whom nobody oions !
What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing and din !
The whip how it cracks, and the wheels how they spin !
How the dii-t, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled !
The pauper at length makes a noise in the world !
liattle his hones over the stones !
He's only aimuper, tvhoni nobody oti'its!
Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach
To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach !
He'staking a drive in his carriage at last ;
But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast 1
Rattle his hones over the stones !
He's only a imnper, whom nobody owns !
You bumpkins ! who stare at your brother conveyed—
Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid !
And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,
You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go !
Rattle his hones over the stones !
He's only apaujper, xtshom nobody oivns !
The Sack of Baltimore. 44
l-io
But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad.
To think that a heart in humanity clad
Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end,
And dejjart from the light without leaving a friend !
Bear soft his hones over the stones !
Though apaux)er, he's one vjhom hisMahcr yet oivns.
THE SAOIC OF BALTIMOEE.*
I'homas Davis.
[Thomas Davis was one of that baud of advauced Irish patriots who thought
that they could supei'sedo iu Ivcdaud, "Moore's Irish Melodies," bec:;u o they
did uot go far euough for them. Fortunately for Davis's chauce ui future
fame, ho did uot coufiiio his Ij'rics to political oues. We are told that he wrote
tho greater portion of them iu a single year, 1844 ; and this, too, in addition to
a great quantity of other writing for the journal with which he was couuected
— " The Nation." Apart from his political songs, he wrote with great tender-
ness. Ho was born in 1814, aud died iu 1854.']
The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles —
The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles —
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird ;
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard ;
The hookers lie iipon the beach ; the children cease their i)lay ;
The gossips leave the little inn ; the households kneel to pray—
And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily labour o'er —
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there ;
No sound, excejit that throbbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air.
The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem conscious of the calm ■,
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that
glide.
Must trust their oars — methinks not few — against the ebbing tide.
Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore — ■
They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore !
* Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in South Munsi:r.
It grew up I'ound a Castle of O'DriscoU's, and was, after his ruin, colonized by
the English. On the 2Uth of Juno, 1631, the crew of two Algeriue galley'-/
landed in the dead of night, sacked the town, and bore off into slaveiy all wh&
were not too old, or too j'oung, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates
were steei'ed up the intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman,
whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was convicted
and executed for tho crime. Baltimore never recovered this. To the ai-tist,
the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbourhood is most interesting. — See
"The Ancient and Present State of the County and City of Cork," by Charles
Smith, M.D., vol. 1. p. 270. Second edition. Dublin, 1774 Author's iToTE.
446 Recitations.
All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street :
A.nd these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet.^
A stifled gasp ! a dreamy noise ! " the roof is in a flame !"
From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and
dame —
And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl —
The yell of " Allah " breaks above the j^rayer, and shriek, and roar —
Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore !
Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was
gored ;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the cliild ;
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel —
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store,
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore !
Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to sing —
They see not now the milking-maids — deserted is the spring !
Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town —
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown ;
They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood be-
sprent.
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went —
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Claire, and saw five leagues
before
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.
Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed—
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jereed.
Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey —
She's safe— she's dead— she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai;
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled— O'Driscoll's child— she thought of Baltimore.
'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wetch is seen—
Tis Hackett of Dungarvan— he, who steered the Algerine !
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,
^or he had slam the kith and kin of many a hundred there-
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er-
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.
447
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.
Will Carletox.
[See p. 439.]
Joiix.
I'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 i
weak;
I've choked a dozen swears (so's not to tell Jane fihs)
When the plow-p'int 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 eatiu' feel,
And Jane wont say to-night that I don't make out a meal.
Well said ! the door is locked ! but here's 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 hustled off pell moll !
But here on the table's a note, and probably this will tell.
Good God ! my wife is gone ! my wife is gone astray !
The letter it says, " Good-bye, for I'm a-going away ;
I've lived with you six months, John, and so far I've been true ;
But I'm going away to-day ■with a handsomer man than you."
A han'somer man than me ! Why, that ain't much to say ;
There's han'somer men than me go past here every day.
There's han'somer men than me — I ain't of the han'some kind ;
But a loviiter man than I was I guess she'll never find.
Curse her ! curse her ! I say, and give my curses wings !
May the words of love I've spoke be changed to scorpion stings !
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt.
And now with a scratch of pen, she's let my heart's blood out !
Curse her ! curse her ! say I ; she'll sometime rue this day !
She'll sometime learn that hate is a game that two can play ;
And long before she dies she'll grieve she ever was born ;
And I'll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn !
As sure as the world goes on, there'll come a time when she
Will read the devilish heart of that han'somer man than me ;
And there'll be a time when he will find, as others do,
That she who is false to one can be the same with two.
And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,
And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him.
She'll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost ;
And then she'll see things clear, and know what she has lost.
448 Recitations.
And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,
And she will mourn and crj' for what t^he has left behind ;
And maybe she'll sometimes long for me — for me — but no !
I've blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so !
And yet in her girlish heari, there was somethin' or other she had
That fastened a man to her, and wasn't entirely bad ;
And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn't last ;
But I mustn't think of these things — I've buried them in the past.
I'll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse ; |
She'll have trouble enough ; she shall not have my curse ;
But I'll live a life so square — and I well know that I can —
That she always will sorry be that she went -^ath that haa'somer
man.
Ah, here is her kitchen dress ! it makes my poor eyes blur !
It seems, when I look at that, as if 'twere hold in' her !
And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,
And yonder's her weddin' gown : I wonder she didu't take that !
'Twas only the other day, she called me her " dearest dear,"
And said I was makiu' for her a regular paradise here ;
God ! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell ;
Before you pitch him in just keep him iu heaven a spell !
Good-bye ! I would that death had severed us two apart.
You've lost a worshipper here — you've crushed a loviu' heart.
I'll worship no woman again ; but I guess I'll learn to pray,
And kneel as yon used to kneel before you ran away.
And if I thought I could bring my words on heaven to bear,
And if I thought I had some influence up there,
1 would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,
As happy and gay as I was half an hour ago.
Jane {entering).
Why, John, what litter here ! you've thrown things all around !
Come, what's the matter now ? and what 've lost or found ?
And here's my father here, awaiting for supper too ;
I've been a-riding with him — he's that " handsomer 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,
^Vhy, 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 uinH a joke, with rather a bitter cream ?
It seems as if I'd woke from a mighty ticklish dream ;
A Bunch of Primroses., 449
And I think slie " smells a rat," for she smiles at me so queer ;
I hope she don't ; good Lord ! I hope that they didn't hear !
'Twas one of her practical diives — ^why didn't I understand ?
But I'll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.
But one thing's settled with me— to appreciate heaven well,
'Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell !
(^Bi/ permission of Messrs. Sampson Zoic ^- Co.).
A BUNCH OP PRIMROSES.
George R. Sims.
[Sec p. 41o.]
'Tis only a faded primrose, dying for want of air,
I and my drooping sisters lie in a garret bare.
We were plucked from the pleasant woodland only a week ago.
But our leaves have lost their beauty, and our heads are bending
low.
Wc grew in a yellow cluster under a shady tree,
In a spot where the winds came wooing straight from the Sussex
sea;
And the brisk breeze kissed us boldly as we nodded to and fro
In the smiling April weather, only a week ago.
Only a week this morning ! Ah, me I but it seems a year
Since the only dew on our petals was a woman's briny tear ;
Since the breeze and the merry sunshine were changed for this
stifling gloom.
And the soot of the smoky chimneys rob us of our bloom.
We grew in a nook so quiet, behind a hedge so high !
We were hid from the peeping children who, laughing, pa^^sed us by,
But a primrose-gatherer spied us — his cruel hand came down ;
We were plucked in the early morning, and packed and sent to
town.
We were tossed in a busy market from grimy hand to hand.
Till a great rough woman took us, and hawked us about the
Strand ;
Clutched in her dirty fingers our tender stalks were tied,
And " a penny a bunch, who'll buy 'em ? — fine primroses I " she
cried.
We lay on the woman's basket till a white-faced girl came past ;
There was, such a world of yearning in the lingering look she
cast —
Cast on the troubled bunches — a look that seemed to say,
'* 0, if I only had you ! " — but she sighed and she turned away,
G G
450 Recitations.
She was only gone for a moment, and then she was back again ;
She'd the look on her pale, pinched features that told of the hunger
pain ;
She held iu her hand the penny that ought to have bought her
bread,
But she dropped it into the basket and took us home instead.
Home — how wo seemed to wither, as the light of day grew dim,
And up to a London f,'arret she bore us with weary limb !
But her clasp it was kind and gentle, and there shone a light in
her eyes
That made us think for a moment we wore under our native skies.
She stole in the room on tiptoe, and "Alice ! '' she softly said;
" See what I've brought you, Alice ! " Then a sick girl raised her
head,
And a faint voice answered, " Darling, how kind of you to bring
The flowers I love so dearly — I've longed for them all the spring.
" I've thought of it so often, the green bank far away,
And the posies we used to gather — it seems but the other day ;
Lay them beside my pillow, they'll last as long as I —
How quickly in cruel London the country blossoms die ! "
"We pined in our gloomy prison, and wo thought how sweet wo
were,
Blooming among the hedgerows out in the balmy air,
Where we gladdened the eyes that saw us, all in our yellow prido,
And we thought how our lives were wasted as wo lay by a sick
bedside.
"We thought how our lives were wasted until we grew to know
We were dear to the dying workgirl for the sake of the long ago ;
That her anguish was half forgotten as sho looked upon us and
went
Back in her dreams to the woodland filled with the primrose scent.
We primroses are dying, and so is Alice fast ;
Btit her sister sits beside her, watching her to the last,
Workuig with swollen eyelids for the white slave's scanty wage,
And starvuig to save her dying and to still the fever's rage.
We stood on the little table besi^le the sick girl's bed,
And we know by the words she murmurs that she wanders in her
head ;
She stretches her hand to take us, and laughs like a child at play—
toue tnuiJxs that she sees us growing on the old bank far away.
Sv^!!fl^'^ !l'® gloomy garret, the fierce and the fevered strife—
ThP W :!v 1 1"" ^°'^^T J"^"-"ey that is ending with her life ;
Back ntlv. "'Slit has vanished, and the weary workgirl hies
iiack to her country childhood, plucking a primrose prize.
Lord Ullin's Daughter. 451
We have bauished awhile her sorrow, we have brought back the
sunny smile
That belongs to the children's faces in the days that are free from
guile.
The Babylon roar comes floating up from the street below,
Yet she lists to the gentle splashing of a brook in its springtide
flow.
The gurgling brook in the meadow, with its primrose-laden
brim —
How thick were the yellow clusters on the bank where she sat
with him !
With him who had loved and lost her, who had trampled a blossom
down.
Ah, me ! for the country blossoms brought to the cruel town !
Thank God for the good brave sister who found the lost one there ;
Who toiled with her for the pittance that paid for that garret bare ;
Who slaved when the wasted fingers grew all too slow to sew,
And hid all her troubles bravely that Alice might never know.
We have brought one country sunbeam to shine in that garret
bare ;
But to-morrow will see us lifeless — killed by the poisoned air.
Then the primrose dream will vanish, and Alice will ask in vain
For the poor little yellow posy that made her a child again.
*****
On to our faded petals there falls a scalding tear,
As we lie to-night in the bosom of her wlio held us dear.
We shall go to the grave together — for the workgirl lies at rest,
With a faded primrose posy clasjied to her icy breast.
{£>/ perm ins ion of the Author.)
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
Thomas Campbell.
[Sec page 216.]
A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry !
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."
•' Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water ? "
" Oh ? I'm the chief of Ulva's isle.
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
" And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together ;
For, should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
G G 2
452 Recitations.
'' His horsemen hard behind us ride ;
Should they our steps discover, _
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy island wight,
" I'll go, my chief- -I'm ready : —
It is not fur your silver bright ;
But for your winsome lady :
" And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'U row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking ;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they wore speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
" Oh ! haste thee, haste !" the lady cries,
" Though temjjests round us gather :
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her, —
When, oh ! too strong for human hand.
The tempest gatheivd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast jorevailing ;
Lord UUin reached that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismay'd thi-ough storm and shade,
His child he did discover :
One lovely hand she stretch'd fur aid,
And one was round her lover.
" Come back ! come back !"' he cried in grief,
" Across this stormy water ;
And I'll forgive your highland chief.
My daughter ! — oh ! my daughter !"
"Twas vain : the loud waves lash d the shore,
Eeturn or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child.
And he was left lamenting.
453
ELEGY IN A COUXTRY CHURCHYARD.
Thomas Gray.
[Gray ■was born iu London in 171(), educated at Eton and Cambridge, and
he entered liimsolf at the Inner 1'cmple for the purpose of studying for tlw
bar. He then became intimate with Horace Walpole, and accompanied him in
his tour of Europe, returning alone iu 1741. In 1741 he published his "Ode
on a distant Prospect of Eton College," and iu 1751 his ever-famous "Elegy
written in a Country Churchyard." His principal poem is " The Bard," pub-
lished in 1757, iu which year he was offered, but declined, theotRce of Laureate,
vacant by the death of Cibber, In 1708 he was appointed Professor of Modcra
History at Cambridge. He died 1771.]
Tjie curfew tolls the knell of parting day ;
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea ;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ;
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap.
Each in his nari'ow cell for ever laid.
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The bi'eezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from her straw-built shed.
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn.
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn.
Or busy housewife ])ly her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke :
How jocund did they drive their team a-field !
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !
Let not ambition mock their iiseful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
4. '4 Recitations.
The boast of heraldiy, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour :
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust, _
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust.
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ?
Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyi-e :
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Eich Avith the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll:
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial cuiTent of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear :
Full many a flower is born to blush iinseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ;
Some mute inglorious INIilton, here may rest ;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
And react their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot foi-bade : nor circumsci-ibed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide ;
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame ;
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife.
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Elegy in a Country Churchyard. ^55
Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect.
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Then- name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply ;
And many a holy text around she strews.
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies :
Some pious drops the closing e3'e requires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries ;
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate:
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
" (3ft have we seen him, at the peej? of dawn,
Brashing, with hasty stejis, the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch.
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
!Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or ci'azed with care, or ci'ossed in hopeless love.
One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill.
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree ;
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne :
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head, upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ;
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth.
And melancholy marked him for her own.
4." 6 Recitations.
Lavge was his bounty, and liis soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send :
He gave to misery all he had— a tear ; ^ . -,
He gained from heaven— 'twas all he wished— a friend.
No fui-ther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw hio frailties from their dread abode ;
There they alike in treml^ling hope repose,
The bosom of his Father and his God.
THE DYING GLADIATOR
LOKD Byrox.
[See page 205.]
TiTE seal is set.— Now welcome, thou dread power!
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which hero
AValk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour.
With a deep awe, yet :ill distinct from fear ;
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene
Derives from thee a sense so deej) and clear,
That we become a part of what has been.
And grow unto the sjiot, all seeing l:)ut unseen.
And here the buzz of eager nations ran
In murnuir'd pity, or loud roar'd applause,
As man was slaughter'd by liis fellow man.
And wherefore slaughter'd ? Avherefore, but because
Such were the bloody circus' genial laws.
And the imperial j^leasure — Wherefore not?
What matters where we fall to fill tlie maws
Of worms— on battle plains or listed spot ?
Both are but theatres where chief actors rot.
I see before me the Gladiator lie :
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony;
And liis droop'd head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder shower ; and now
The arena swims around him — he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wretch who won
He heard it, but lie heeded not — ^liis eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away ;
He reck'd not of the life he lost, nor prize.
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay—
Lady Clare. 4j7
There were his young barbarians all at play ;
Thrre was their Daciau mother — he their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday :
All this rush'd Avith his blood. — Shall he expire,
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire !
LADY CLABE.
Alfued Texnysox,
[See page 126.]
It was the time when lilies blow.
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give to his cousin. Lady Clare.
I trow they did not part in scorn :
Lovers long-betrothed were they :
They two will wed the morrow morn ;
God's blessing on the day!
" He does not love me for my Inrth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And tliat is well," said Lady Clare.
In there came old Alice, the nurse.
Said, " Who was this that went from thee ?"
" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare,
" To-morrow he weds \vith me."
" Oh ! God be thanked !" said Alice, the nurse,
" That all comes round so just and fair :
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare."
"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"
Said Lady Clare, "that ye sjDeak so wild?"
"As God's above," said Alice, the nurse,
" I speak the truth : you are my child.
" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast —
I speak the truth as I live by bread !
I biiried her Hke my own sweet child.
And put my child in her stead."
" Falsely, falsely have you done,
Oh ! mother," she said, " if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due."
45S Recitations.
"ISTay, now, my cliild," said Alice, tlie nurse,
" But keep the secret for your life,
And all yoti have will be Lord Eonald's,
When you are man xind wife."
" If I'm a beggar born," she said,
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie ;
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,
And flmg the diamond necklace by."
"Nay, now, my child," said Alice, the nurse,
" But keep the secret all ye can."
She said, " Not so : but I will know
If there be any faith in man."
"Nay, now, what faith?" said Alice, the nurse,
" The man will cleave unto his right."
"And he shall have it," the lady replied,
" Though I should die to-night."
" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear !
Alas ! my child, I sinned for thee."
" Oh ! mother, mother, mother," she said,
" So strange it seems to me.
" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear.
My mother dear, if this be so,
And lay your baud upon my head,
And bless me, mother, ere I go."
She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare :
She went by dale, and she went by down.
With a single rose in her hair.
The lily-white doe Lord Konald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand.
And followed her all the way.
Down stept Lord Eonald from his tower :
" Oh! Lady Clare, you shame your worth J
Why come you drest like a village maid.
That are the flower of the earth ?"
" If I come drest like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are :
I am a beggar born," she said,
"And not the Lady Clare."
" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
" For I am yours in word and deed.
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald,
" Your riddle is hard to read."
The Wreck of the Hesperus. 459
Oh ! and proudly stood she up !
Her heart withiu her did not fail !
She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes,
And told him all her nurse's tale.
He laughed a laugh of meny scorn ;
He turned and kissed her where she stood :
" If you are not the heiress born.
And I," said he, " the next in blood —
" If you are not the heiress born.
And I," said ho, "the lawful heir.
We two will wed to-morrow morn,
And you shall still be Lady Clare."
(By jyermission of^^^^ssrs. Moxon tt- Co.)
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS.
H, W. Longfellow.
[Sec page 161.]
It was the schooner Hesjyenis
That sailed the wintry sea ;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy- flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of ]\Iay.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth.
And he watched bow the veermg flaw did blo\7.
The smoke now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailor
Had sailed the Spanish Main —
" I pray thee put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
" Last night the moon had a golden ring.
And to-night no moon we see !"'
The skipper he blew a whiff fi-om his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the north-east ;
The snow fell hissing in the brine.
And the billows frothed hke yeast.
4 GO Recitations.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength ;
She shuddered and paused like a frightened steed,
Then leapt her cable's length.
" Come hither— come hither, my little daughter,
And do not tremble so ;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."
He wi-apped her in his seaman's coat,
Against the stinging blast ;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
" Oh ! father ! I hear the church-bells ring —
Oh ! say, what may it be ?
" 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !"
And he steered for the open sea.
" Oh ! father ! I hear the sound of guns ;
Oh ! say, what may it be P"
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea !"
" Oh ! father ! I see a gleaming light ;
Oh ! say, what may it be P"
But the father answei-ed never a word—
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands, and prayed
That saved she might ha ;
And she thought of Christ who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Gahlee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Towards the reef of ISTorman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gust between
A sound came from the land ;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows :
She di-ifted a dreary wreck;
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
Horatius keeps the Bridge. 431
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool;
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the mast went by the board ;
Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank —
Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared !
At day-break, on the black sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast.
To see the form of a maiden fair
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast.
The salt tears in her eyes ;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow.
Christ save us all from a death like this.
On the reef of Norman's Woe !
HOEATIUS KEEPS THE BRIDGE.
Lord Macavlay.
[See page 89.J
Out spake theOonsxil roundly:
" The bridge must straight go down ;
For, since Janiculum is lost,
Nought else can save the town."
Then out sj^ake brave Horatius,
The captain of the gate :
" To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds.
For the ashes of his fathers.
And the temples of his gods ?
"And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens
Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the deed of shame ?
462 Redtations.
" Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
"W^ith all the speed ye may ;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon straight path a thousand
May weU be stopped by three,
Now, who will stand on either hand.
And keep the bridge with me ?"
Then out spake Spurius Lartius ;
A Ramnian proud was he ;
" Lo, I will stand at thy right hand.
And keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius ;
Of Titian blood was he :
" I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee."
" Horatius," quoth the Consul,
" As thou say'st, so let it be."
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel
Spai'ed neither land nor gold.
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,
In the brave days of old.
Then none was for a party ;
Then all were for the state ;
Then the great man hel2:)ed the i^oor,
And the poor man loved the great ;
Then lands were fairly portioned ;
Then spoils were fairly sold ;
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave davs of old. }
1
Now Roman is to Roman '
More hateful than a foe.
And the tribunes beard the high.
And tlie fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,
In battle we wax cold ;
Wlierefore men fight not as they fought
In the brave days of old.
Now while the Three were tightening
The harness on their backs,
The Consul was the foremost man
To take in hand an axe ;
And fathers mixed with commons.
Seized hatchet, l)ar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above.
And loosed the i^rops below.
Horatius keeps the Bridge. ^GS
Meanwliile tlie Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light.
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread.
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,
"Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes.
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose ;
And forth the Three came spurring
Before that deep array.
To earth they sprang, their swords they di-ew,
And lifted high their shields, and flew
To win the narrow way.
Annus, from green Tifernum,
Lord of the Hill of Vines ;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva's mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium
Vassal in peace and war.
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
From that great crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Nequinum lowers
O'er the jiale waves of ISTar.
Stout Lartius hurled down Annus
Into the stream beneath ;
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him to the teeth :
At Picus brave Horatiuo
Darted one fiery thrust ;
And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms
Clashed in the bloody dust.
Then all Etrnria's noblest
Felt their hearts sick to see
On the earth the bloody corpses.
In the path the dauntless Three :
And, from the ghastly entrance
Where those l^old Romans stood,
All shrank, like boys who unaware,
Rancriiio- the woods to start a hare.
404 Recitations.
Come to the mouth of the dark lair,
Where, growHiig low, a tierce old bear
Lies amidst bones and blood.
Was none who would be foremost
To lead such dire attack ;
But those behhid cried " Forward !"
And those before cried " Back !"
And backward now and forward
Wavers the deep array ;
And on the tossing sea of steel,
To and fro the standards reel ;
And the victorioiis trumpet-peal
Dies fitfully away.
But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been -^\iQ(\. ;
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
" Come back, come back, Horatius !"
Loud cried the fathers all,
" Back, Lartius ! Itack, Hcrminius !
Back, ere the ruin fall !"
Back darted Spuritis Lartius,
Herminius darted back :
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces.
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone.
They would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream :
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops
Was splashed the yellow foam.
And, hke a horse unbroken,
When first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hani,
And tossed his tawny mane.
And burst the curb, and bounded,
Rejoicing to be free.
And whirling down in fierce career,
Battlement, and j^lank, and pier,
Rushed headlong to the sea.
Horatius keeps the Bridge. 465
Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind ;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
" DoAvn with him !" cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face.
"Now yield thee !" cried Lars Porsena,
" Now yield thee to our grace."
Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see ;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus nought spake he ;
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch of his home ;
And he spake to the noble river,
That rolls by the towers of Rome,
"Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber!
To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
Take them in charge this day !"
So he spake, and speaking sheathed
The good sword by his side.
And, Avith his harness on his back.
Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from either luink ;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With panting lip and straining ejcs,
Stood gazing where he sank ;
And wdaen above the surges
They saw his crest appear.
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current.
Swollen high by months of rain ;
And fast his blood was flowing,
And he was sore in pain.
And heavy with his armour,
And spent with changing blows ;
And oft they thought him sinking.
But still again he rose.
Never, I w^een, did swimmer,
In such an evil case.
Struggle through such a raging flood
Safe to the landing place ;
H u
■iQQ Recitations.
But his limbs were borne iip bravely
By the brave heart within, I
And our good Father Tiber I
Bare bravely up his chin. |
" Curse on him !" quoth false Sextus, (
" Will not tlie villain drown ?
But for this stay, ere close of day j
AVe should have sacked the town !"
" Heaven help him !" quoth Lars Porsena, j
" And bring him safe to shore, j
For such a gallant feat of arms i
^Yas never seen before." i
And now he feels the bottom ; I
I^ow on dry earth he stands; '
ISTow round him throng the Fathers t
To press his gory hands ;
And now with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
lie enters through the Eiver-Gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.
They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right.
As much as two strong oxen
Could plough from morn till night:
And they made a molten image.
And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitlum,
Plain for all folk to see ;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee :
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home :
And wives still pray to Juno
For bo3^s with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave clays of old,
And in the nights of winter,
When the cold north winds blow.
Symn before Sunrise. 467
And the long howling of the wolve!-
Is heard amidst the snow ;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet -within ;
When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit,
When the chesnuts glow in the embers
And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close ;
AVhen the girls are wTaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows ;
Wlien the goodman mends his armour.
And trims his helmet's plume ;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes Hashing through the loom ;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
(^By permission of Mes-vs. Longmans, Green, and Co.")
HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE.
(in the vale of ciia:mouni.)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
[Samuel Taylor Coleridge was boru at Ottery St. Mary, 1772 ; he was eda-
cated at Christ's Hospital, where he obtained au exhibition to Jesus College.
Cambridge. Leaving College in debt, it was only a trifle, about lOOA, he came
t) Loudon aud enlisted as a private in the 15th Light Dragoons, in which he
served but four months, being discovered by his friends and bought out. He
was then but twenty-two years of age, and published a volume of juvenile
poems by subscription. After this, to iise his own words, he wasted " the
])rimo and manhood of his intellect '" amidst daily dnulgery for the periodical
press ; the literary and political department of the Morning Post being some
time under his chai'ge. In 1804 he went to Malta as Secretaiy to the Governor,
but he only remained nine months. In 181(3 he published, at the recommenda-
tion of Lord Byron, his " Chi-istabel," a wild and wondrous poem, the first
part of which was written in 1797, about wliich time " The Ancient Mariner"
was also composed. He died at the house of a friend in Highgate, in 1834.3
Hast thou a chann to stay the morning- star
In his steep course ? so long he seems to pause
On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc !
The Arve aud Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form !
Risest from forth thy silent sea of ]3ines
n H 2
468 Eecitations. \
How silently ! Around +hee and above •
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, i
An ebon mass : metliinks thou pierccst it, j
As with a wedge ! but when I look again, -
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, ,
Thy habitation from eternity ! '
dread and silent mount ! I gazed iipon thcc, i
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, |
Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in pra3^er
1 worshipped the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody.
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts^ i
Yea with my life, and life's own secret joy : ;
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, i
Into the mighty vision passing — there, I
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven !
Awake my soul ! not only passive praise
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears.
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, j
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake !
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! j
struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink : :
Companion of the morning star at dawn, '
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn |
Co-herald ! wake, wake, and utter praise ! '
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ?
AVho filled thy countenance with rosy light ? ;
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad !
AVho called you forth from night and utter death, ;
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, j
Down those pi-ecipitous, black, jagged rocks, J
I'or ever shattered and the same for ever ? I
Who gave you your invulnerable life, <
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 3'-our joyj j
Unceasing thnnder and eternal foam ? :
And who commanded — and the silence came — •!
" Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?" ;
Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow :
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — i
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 1
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! .!■
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! j;
AVho made you glorious as the gates of heaven, I
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun J
Barbara Frietchie. 469
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garments at your feet ? —
God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer ; and let the ice-plains echo, God !
God ! sing, ye meadow streams, with gladsome voice !
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds !
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow.
And in their perilous fall shall thunder — God !
Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost !
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest !
Ye eagles, playmates of the moxuitain storm !
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds !
Ye signs and wonders of the elements !
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ]
Thou too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet, the avalanche, iinheard.
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the dejath of clouds that veil thy breast —
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before me — rise, ever rise,
E/ise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth !
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills.
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sim,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God,
BARBAEA FRIETCHIE.
JoHX Greenleaf "Whittier.
[See page 170.]
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn.
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and 2:)each 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.
470 Recitations.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped ill the morning wind : the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with htv fourscore ;years and ten :
Bravest of all in Frederick \;own,
She took up the flag the men hauled down
In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced ; the old flag met his sight.
" Halt !" — the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
" Fire !" out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash ;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken staft'
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill.
And shook it forth with a royal ^vill.
*' Shoot, if you must, this old grey 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 grey head
Dies Uke a dog ! March on !" he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet :
All day long that free flag tost
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 reljel rides on his raids no more.
Honour to her ! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie's grave
Flag of Freedom and Union wave !
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 J
471
MAHMOUD.
Leigh Hunt.
[See page 427.]
There came a man, making his liasty moan
Before the Sultan Mahmond on his throne,
And crying out — " j\Iy sorrow is my right,
And I ivill see the Sidtan, and to-night."
" Sorrow," said Mahmond, " is a reverend thing :
I recognise its right, as king with king ;
Speak on." " A fiend has got into my hoiise,"
Exolaim'd the staring man, " and tortures us :
One of thine officers ; he comes, the abhorr'd.
And takes possession of my house, my board,
My bed; — I have two daughters and a wife,
And the wild villain comes and makes me mad with Hfe."
" Is he there now ?" said Mahmond. — "No; — he left
The house when I did, of my wits bereft ;
And laugh'd me do^vn the sti*eet, because I vow'd
I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in liis shroud.
I'm mad with want — I'm mad with misery.
And oh, thou Sultan Mahmond, God cries out for thee !"
The Sultan comforted the man, and said,
" Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread,"
(For he was poor) " and other comforts. Go ;
And should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmond know."
In three days' time, with haggard eyes and beard,
Ajid shaken voice, the suitor re-appcared.
And said, " He's come." — Mahmond said not a word,
Biit rose and took four slaves, each with a sword.
And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place.
And hear a voice, and see a woman's face,
That to the window llutter'd in affright :
" Go in," said Mahmond, " and put out the light ;
But tell the females first to leave the room ;
And when the drunkard follows them, we come."
The man went in. Thei'e was a cry, and hark !
A table falls, the window is struck dark :
Forth rush the breathless women ; and behind
With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind.
In vain : the sabres soon cut short the strife.
And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody hfe
" ISTow ligid the light," the Sultan cried aloud.
'Twas done ; he took if in Ms hand and hovj'd
Over the corpse, and looh'd iipon the face ;
Then turn'd and hnelt, and to the throne of grace
Vut up a prayer, and from his lips there crept
Some gentle words of pleasure, and he ivept.
472 Recitations.
In reverent silence the beholders Avait,
Then bring him at his call both wine and meat ;
And when he had refresh'd his noble heart,
He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.
The man amaz'd, ^11 mildness now and tears,
Tell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers,
And begg'd him to vouchsafe to teU his slave
The reason first of that command he gave
About the light ; then, when he saw the face,
Why he knelt down ; and lastly, how it was
That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.
The Sultan said, with a benignant eye,
" Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry,
I could not rid me of a dread, that one
By whom such daring villanies were done,
Must be some lord of mine, — ay, e'en perhaps a son.
For this I had the light put out : but when
1 saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thanked the sovereign Arbiter,
Whose work I had j^erform'd through pain and fear;
And then I rose and was refresh'd with food,
The first time since thy voice had marr'd my solitude."
. THE DELUGE.
Anonymous.
The judgment was at hand. Before' the sun
Gathered tempestuous clouds, which, blackening, spread
Until their blended masses overwhelmed
The hemisphere of day : and adding gloom
To night's dark emigre, swift from zone to zone
Swept the vast shadow, swallowing up all light,
And covering the encircling firmament
As Avith a mighty pall ! Low in the dust
Bowed the affrighted nations, worshipping.
Anon the o'ercharged garners of the storm
Burst with their growing burden ; fierce and fast
Shot down the ponderous rain, a sheeted flood,
That slanted not before the baffled winds,
But with an arrowy and unwavering rush.
Dashed hissing earthward. Soon the rivers rose,
And roaring, fled tteir channels ; the calm lakes
Awoke exulting from their lethai'gy.
And poured destruction on their peaceful shores.
The lightning flickered on the deluged air.
And feebly through the shout of gathering waves
Muttered the stifled thunder. Day nor night
Ceased the descending streams ; and if the gloom
The Deluge. 473
A little brightened, wlien tlie lurid moim
Kose on the starless midnight, 'twas to show
The Ufting up of waters. Bird and beast
Forsook the flooded i:)lains, and wearily
The shivering multitudes of human doomed
Toiled up before the insatiate element.
Oceans were blent, and the leviathan
Was borne aloft on the ascending seas
To where the eagle nestled. Mountains now
Were the sole land-marks, and their sides were clothed
With clustering myriads, from the weltering waste
Whose surges clasj^ed them, to their topmost peaks,
Swathed in the stooping cloud. The hand of death
Smote millions as they chmbed ; yet denser grew
The crowded nations, as the encroaching waves
Narrowed their little world.
And in that hour.
Did no man aid his fellow. Love of life
Was the sole instinct, and the strong-limbed son,
With imjDrecations, smote the palsied sire
That clung to him for succour. Woman trod
With wavering steps the jirecipice's brow,
And found no arm to grasp on the dread verge
O'er which she leaned and trembled. Selfishness
Sat like an incubus on every heart.
Smothering the voice of love. The giant's foot
Was on the stripling's neck ; and oft despair
Grapjjled the ready steel, and kindred blood
Polluted the last remnant of that earth
Which God was deluging to purify.
Huge monsters from the plains, whose skeletons
The mildew of succeeding centuries
Has failed to crumble, with uuAvieldy strength
Crush'd throixgh the solid crowds ; and fiercest birds
Beat down by the ever-rushing rain,
With blinded eyes, drenched plumes, and trailing wings
Staggered unconscious o'er the trampled prey.
The mountains were submerged ; the barrier chauis
That mapped out nations, sank ; imtil at length
One Titan peak alone o'ertopj^ed the waves,
Beaconing a sunken world. And of the tribes
That blackened every Alp, one man sur^dved :
And he stood shuddering, hopeless, shelterless.
Upon that fragment of the universe.
The surges of the iiniversal sea
Broke on his naked feet. On his grey head,
Which fear, not time, had silvered, the black cloud
Poured its unpitying torrents ; while around.
In the green twilight dimly visible,
474 Recitations.
Rolled the grim legions of tlie ghastly drowned.
And seemed to beckon with their tossing arms
Their brother to liis doom.
He smote his brow,
And, maddened, would have leaped to their embrace,
When, lo ! before him riding on the deej?,
Loomed a vast fabric, and familiar sounds
Proclaimed that it was peopled. Hope once more
Cheered the wan outcast, and imploringly
He stretched his arms forth toward the lloatiug walls.
And cried aloud for mercy. But his prayer
Man might not answer, whom his God condemned.
The ark swept onward, and the billows rose
And buried their last victim !
Then the gloom
Broke from the face of heaven, and sunlight .streamed
Upon the shoreless sea, and on the roof
That rose for shelter o'er the living germ
Whose increase should repo])ulate a world.
THE OCEAN.
Lord Bvkox.
[See page 205.]
Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her !
Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted — Can ye not
Accord me sxich a being ? Do I err.
In deeming such inhabit many a sjjot ?
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society wliere none intrudes.
By the deep sea, and music in its i-oar ;
I love not man the less, but nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From aU 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
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain,
The Ocean. 475
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain.
He sinks into thy depths with bublDling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.
His steps are not ui^on thy paths, — thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost ai'ise
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wield
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies.
And send'st him shivering in thy playful spray.
And howling to his gods, where haj^ly lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay.
The armaments which tluinderstrike 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.
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee —
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ?
Thy waters washed them power while they were free.
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their dcca,y
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou • —
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — •
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Tliou 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 chme
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 zone
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borna, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to mo
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea
476 Recitations.
Made them a terror — 'twas a j^leasing fear,
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thj^ billows far and near,
And laid my hand uioon thy mane, as I do herOt
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.
Thomas Hood.
[See p. 431.]
With 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 — work — woi'k !
While the cock is crowing aloof;
And work — work — work
Till the stars shine through the roof !
It's ! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Wliere 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 e^'cs are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band, —
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep.
And sew them on in a dream !
" ! men with sisters dear !
O ! men wdth mothers aiid wives !
It is not linen you're wearing out.
But human creatures' lives !
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt.
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
" But why do I talk of Death !
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terril)le shape.
It seems so like my oAvn—
The Song of the Shirt 477
It seems so like my owu,
Because of the fasts I keep.
Oh ! God ! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap !
" Work — work — work !
My labour never flags ;
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shattered roof,— and this naked floor, —
A table,— a broken chair, —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there.
" Work — work — work !
From weary chime to chime.
Work — work — work —
As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam.
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed.
As well as the weary hand.
" Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright-
While iinderneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling.
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
•' Oh ! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet—
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet !
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal !
" Oh ! but for one short hour !
A respite, however brief !
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief ! ;
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
"Hinders needle and thread !"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyehds heavy and red.
478 Recitations.
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying lior needle and thread —
Stitch — stitch— stitch !
In poverty, himger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone coidd reach the Rich !
She sang this " Song of the Shirt!"
[B>j permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)
THE BOAT-EAOE.
W. C. Bennett.
[Mr. William Cos Bennett is the son of a watclimakcr, of Greenwich, where
he was bom, 1820. About 1845 he began to contribute poems to the various
periodicals ; but it was not until the publication of his " Baby May and other
Poems," aud his " Worn Wedding Ring and other Poems," 18G1, that ho
attracted the attention ho deserved. Since then his fame may be said to bo
established, and he now occupies a prominent position among the minor poets
of the day.]
" There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl.
I won it, Ned ; and j-ou shall win it too,
Or wait a twelvemonth. Books — for ever books !
Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes !
I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength
To breast the world -^nth, and to cleave your way,
No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care,
She needing yours. There — there — I love you, Ned,
Both for your own, and for your mother's sake :
So vnn our boat-race, and the cup, next month,
And you shall have her." With a broad, loud laugh,
A jolly triumph at his rare conceit.
He left the subject ; and across the wine.
We talked, — or rather, all the talk was his, —
Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known.
Both of his set. and others — Clare, the boast
Of Jesus', — and young Edmonds, he who fell.
Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow ; and, to-day.
There was young Chester might be named vnih. them ;
" Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups
Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ;
Small chance for you, boy !" And again his laugh.
With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall;
But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth
Moulded on his ; and, feigning haste, I went,
But left uot. Through the garden porch I turned.
But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades
Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths
Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one
The Boat-race. 479
Sweeter than all its roses, and across
Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells,
There, in the orchard's greenness, down beyond
Its sweetbriar hedge-row, found her— found her there.
A summer blossom that the peering sun
Peep'd at through blossoms, — that the summer aii'S
Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold,
Warm as that rain'd on Danae. "With a step,
Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path i
I pass'd ; and, ere her eye coidd cease to count
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood
Dreaming (was I her thought ?) my murmur'd *' Kate"
Shock'd up the tell-tale roses to her clieek.
And lit her eyes ^vith starry lights of love
Til at dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all,
And told her that her father's jovial jest
Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears
Away, and all her little trembling doubts.
Until hope won her heart to hajDpy dreams,
And all the future smiled with happy love.
Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east
Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk,
Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words
Remember'd for a lifetime. Home I went.
And in my College rooms what blissful hopes
Were mine ! — what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreainB,
Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life,
Made my years Eden, and lit r;p my home,
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine),
With little faces, and the gleams of curls.
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers.
happy night ! O more than happy dreams !
Biit with the earliest twitter from the eaves,
1 rose, and, iu an hour, at Clifford's yard.
As if but boating were the crown of life.
Forgetting Tennyson, and books and rhymes,
I throng'd my brain with talk of lines and curves,
And all that makes a wherry sui-e to win.
And furbish'd up the knowledge that I had.
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away,
And made me book-worm ; all that day, my hand
Grew more and more familiar with the oar.
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach
Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight.
Its by-laid cunning back ; so day by day.
From when dawn touch'd our elm-toi^s, till the moon
Gleam'd thi'ough the slumbrous leafage of our lawns,
I llash'd the flowing Isis from my oars
And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come,
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one.
480 Recitations. 4
ft
Against the men with whom I was to I'ow,
Until I fear'd but Chester — him alone.
So June stole on to July, sun by sun,
And the day came ; how well I mind that day !
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad
To dim the golden gi-etnness of the fields,
And all a hap]iy hush about the earth,
And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon,
Save where along the ]Deopled towing-paths^
Banking the river, swarm'd the city out, .
Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds, 1
Two winding rainbows l)y the river's brinks, '
That Hush VI with boats and barges, silken-awn'd,
Shading tho Huttering beauties of our balls, |
Our College toasts, and gay Avith jest and laugh, )
Bright as their champagne. One, among them all, <
My eye saw only ; one, that morning, left j
With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart, j
And spoke of certain hope, and mock'd at fears — '
One, that upon my neck had parting hung J
Arms white as daisies — on my bosom hid |
A tearful face that sobb'd against my heart, |
Fill'd with what fondness ! yearning with what love ! :
O hope, and would the glad day make her mine ! 1
O hoj^e, was hope a prophet, truth alone ? \
There was a murmur in my heart of " 3^es," j
That sung to slumber every wakening fear '
That still would stir and shake me with its dread. j
And now a hush was on the wavering crowd 4
That sway'd along the river, reach by reach, 5
A grassy mile, to where we were to turn —
A barge nioor'd mid- stream, flush'd with fluttering flags. 1
And we were ranged, and at the gun we went, I
As in a horse-race, all at first a-crowd ; j
Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropt ofl", j
Till, rounding the moor'd mark, Chester and I 'f
Left the last lingerer with xis lengths astern, \
The victory hoj^eless. Then I knew the strife ]
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to oar, ^
Strained to the work before me. Head to head \
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove •';
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil ; ^l
But Chester gain'd, so much his tutor'd strength '.
Held on, enduring, — mine still waning moi'e, ■!
And parting with the victory, inch by inch, M
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death, i
Until I groan'd with anguish. Chester heard, |
And turn'd a wondering face upon me quick, 1
And to^s'd a laugh across, with jesting words ! '■
" What, 'Ned, my boy, and do you take it so ? }
The War of the League. 481
The cup's not worth the moaning of a man,
No, nor the triumph. Tush ! boy, I must win, "
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry
Burst : " Kate, dearest Kate — love — we lose !"
" Ah ! I've a Kate, too, here to see me win,"
He answered : " Faith ! my boy, I pity you."
" Oh, if you lose," T answered, " you but lose
A week's wild triumi^h, and its praise and pride;
I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy !
Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness —
What years with her that I might call my wife !
Winning, I win her !" thrice noble heart !
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face ;
I saw a nobler light light up his eyes ;
I saw the flush of pride die into one
Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve;
No word he spoke ; one only look he threw.
That told me all ; and, ere my heart could leap
In prayers and blessings rain'd upon his name,
I was before him, through the tracking eyes
Of following thoiisands, heading to the goal,
The shouting goal, that hiirl'd my conquering name
Miles wide in triumph, " Chester foil'd at last !"
how I turn'd to him ! with what a heai-t !
Unheard the shouts — unseen the crowding gaze
That ring'd us. How I wrung his answei-ing hand
With grasps that bless'd him, and with flush that told
1 shamed to hear my name more loud than his,
And spurn'd its triumph. So I won my wife,
]My own dear wife ; and so I won a friend,
Chester, more dear than all but only her
And these, the small ones of my College dreams.
THE WAR OF THE LEAGUE.
Lord Macallay.
[See p. 89.]
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are !
And glory to our sovereign liege. King Henry of Navarre !
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance.
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of
France !
And thou, Eochelle, our own Eochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy.
For cold and stiff", and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.
482 Recitations.
Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day
We sn w the army of the League drawn out in long array :
IVith all its i)riest-led citizens, and all its rebel i^eers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land !
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand !
And as we look'd on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligny's hoary hair all dabbled Avithhis blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fata of war,
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navai-re.
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked iipon his people, and a tear was in his eye ;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Bight graciously he smiled on us, as roU'd from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our lord the
King !"
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,
For never saw I ^jromise yet of such a bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin !
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St. Andre's plain.
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
" ISTow by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies now — upon them with the lance !"
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand sjiears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ;
And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarx-e.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned his j
rein. '
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain. '
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; !
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail i
And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
'■ Eemember St. Bartholomew !" was passed from man to ma^- j
But cut spake gentle Henry, '■ jSTo Frenchman is my foe : ' |
Dovfn, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." ;|
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, . li
As our sovereign lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ! |
Ho ! maidens of Vienna ! Ho ! matrons of Lucerne !
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, '
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearsmen's i
souls ! !'
The Old Grenadier's Story. 483
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look tliat your arms bo bright !
Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night !
Eor our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ;
• And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of Navarre.
{By permission of Messrs. Longman, Green and Co.)
THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY.
George "Walteh TnoRNJtuiiY.
[Mr. Thornbury's " Lays ami Legends of the New World," and " Sons's of
the Cavaliers and llouiidheads," both prove that he has studied to advantage. 1
In pi-ose he has written the ''History of the Buccaneers," and " Shakspeare's
England" — works which exhibit great research, and breathe a pure antiquarian
spirit. A successful novel, entitled "Every Man his own Trumpeter," and
numerous contributions to the leading magazines, make up the rest of his lite-
rary labours. Mr. Thornbury was bom in 1828 ; died 187(3.]
'TwAS the day beside the Pyramids,
It seems but an hour ago,
That Kleber's Foot stood tirm in squares, I
Returning blow for blow.
The Mamelukes were tossing I
Their standards to the sky, I
When I heard a child's voice say, " IMy men, j
Teach me the ivay to die .'" j
'Twas a little drummer, with his side
Torn terribly with shot ;
But still he feebly beat his drum,
As though the wound were not.
And when the Mamelukes' wild horse
Burst with a scream and cry,
He said, " men of the Forty-third,
Teach me the ivay to die !
" My mother has got other sons.
With stouter hearts than mine.
But none more ready blood for France
To pour out free as wine.
Yet still life's sweet," the Ijravc lad moaned. ;
" Fair are this earth and sky ; :
Then comrades of the Forty-third, j
Teach ',ne the v:ay to die /" . I
\
I saw Salenche, of the granite heart,
Wiping his burning eyes —
It was by far more pitiful j
Than mere loud sobs and cries : j
112 I
l;s4 RecUations.
One bit his cartridge till his lip
Grew black as winter sky,
But still the boy moaned, " Forty-third,
Teach me the way to die .'"
never saw I sight like that !
The sergeant xlung down flag,
Even the flfer bound his brow
With a wet and Ijloody rag,
Then looked at locks and fixed their steel,
But never made reply,
Until he sobbed out once again,
" Teach me the ivuij to die .'"
Then, with a shout that flew to God,
They strode into the fray :
1 saw their red plumes join and wave,
But slowly melt away.
The last who went — awoimded man —
Bade the poor boy good-bye,
And said, " We men of the Forty-thii'd
Teach you the way to die!"
I never saw so sad a look
As the poor youngster cast,
When the hot smoke of cannon
In cloud and whirlwind pass'd.
Earth shook, and Heaven answered :
I watched his eagle eye,
As he faintly moaned, " The Forty-third
Teach vie the zvay to die !"
Then, with a musket for a crutch,
He leaped into the fight ;
I, v/ith a bullet in my hip.
Had neither sti-ength nor might.
But, proudly beating on his drum,
A lever in his eye,
I heard him moan " The Forty -third
Taught me the way to die!"
They found him on the morrow,
Stretched on a heap of dead ;
His hand was in the grenadier s
Who at his bidding bled.
They hung a medal round his neck,
And closed his dauntless eye ;
On the stone they cut, " The Foi-ty-third
Taught liim tke way to die .'"
'Tis forty years from then till now —
The grave gapes at my feet —
TliG Dream of Eugene Aram, 485
Yet when I think of such a boy
I feel my old heart beat.
And from my sleep I sometimes wake,
Hearing a feeble cry,
And a voice that says, "Now, Forty-thiid,
Teach me the tvaij to die ! "
{Bi/ jjcnnission oft/ic Aiitliof.)
THE DEEAM OF EUGENE ARAM. i
Thomas Hood. i
I
[Seep. 431.] j
'TwAS in the prime of summer-time, I
An evening calm and cool, j
And four-and-twenty happy boys I
Came bounding out of school :
There were some that ran, and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool. j
Away they sped with gamesome minds, '
And souls untouched by sin ;
To a level mead they came, and there !
They drave the wickets in : j
Pleasantly shone the setting suu
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran — |
Turning to mirth all things of earth, \
As only boyhood can : |
But the usher sat remote from all, i
A melancholy man ! i
His hat was off, his vest apart, \] j
To catch heaven's blessed breeze ; ■: ^
For a burning thought was in his brow.
And his bosom ill at ease :
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees !
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside ;
For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide :
Much study had made him very lean.
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
48G Recitations.
At last he shut the pouderous tome ;
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp ;
•' O God, could I so close my mind,
And clasp it "^ith a clasp I "
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took ;
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook :
And lo ! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book !
" My gentle lad, what is't you read —
Romance or iairy fable ?
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable ? "
The young boy gave an upward glance —
"itis the death of Abel."
The usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain ;
Six hasty strides bej-ond the place,
Then slowly back again :
And down he sat beside the lad.
And talked with him of Cain ;
And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves ;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves ;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves ;
And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek ujDward from the sod —
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod ;
And unknown facts of guilty acts,
Are seen in dreams from God !
He told how murderers walked the earth
Beneath the curse of Ca^n —
With crimson clouds before their eyes.
And flames about their brain :
For blood has left upon their souli
Its everlasting stain !
The Bream of Eugene Aram. 48*7
" And well," quoth lio, " I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme —
Woe, woe, unutterable woe —
Who sjiill life's sacred stream !
For why 'f Methought last night I wrought
A murder in a dream !
•'One that had never done me wrong —
A feeble man, and old ;
I led him to a lonely field,
The moon shone clear and cold :
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold !
" Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife —
And then the deed was done :
There was nothing lying at my foot,
But lifeless flesh and bone !
" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone.
That could not do me ill ;
And yet I feared him all the more,
For lying there so still :
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill I
"And lo ! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame —
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame :
I took the dead man by the hand.
And called upon his name ;
" Oh, God I it made me quake to seo
Such sense within the slain !
But when I touched the lifeless clay,
The blood gushed out amain !
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain !
" My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice ;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew.
Was at the devil's price :
A dozen times I groaned, the dead
Had never groaned but twice ;
488 Recitations.
"And now from fortli tlie frowning sky,
From tlie heaven's tojimost height,
I heard a voice — the awful voice,
Of the blood-avenging sprite :
' Thou guilty n.an ! take up thy dead,
And hide it from my sight.'
" I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream —
A sluggish water black as ink,
The depth was so extreme.
My gentle boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream !
" Down went the corpse with a hollow plunge,
And vanished in the pool ;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And washed my forehead cool.
And sat among the urchins young
That evening in the school !
" Oh heaven, to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim I
I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in evening hymn :
Like a devil of the pit I seemed,
'Mid holy cherubim !
" And peace went with them one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim chamberlain
That lighted me to bed.
And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red !
" All night I lay in agony.
In anguish dark and deep ;
My fevered eyes I dared not close,
But stared aghast at sleep ;
For sin had rendered unto her
The keys of hell to keep !
" All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime.
With one besetting horrid hint.
That racked me all the time —
A mighty yeai'ning, like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime !
Tlte Dream of Eugene Aram. 489
" One stern, tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave ;
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temiotation crave —
Still urging me to go and see
The dead man in his grave !
" Heavily I rose uji — as soon
As light was in the sky —
And sought the black accursed pool
"With a wild misgiving eye ;
And I saw the dead in the river bed,
Por the faithless stream was dry !
" Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing ;
But I never marked its morning flight,
I never heard it sing :
For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
I took him uj^ and ran —
There was no time to dig a grave
liefore the day began ;
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves
I hid the murdered man !
" And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where !
As soon as the midday task was done.
In secret I was there :
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare !
" Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep ;
Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep !
" So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones !
Ay, though he's buried in a cave.
And trodden do-s\Ti with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh —
The world shall see his bones !
490 Recitations.
" Oh, God, that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake !
Again — again, with a dizzy braiu
The human life I take ;
And my red right hand grows raging hot,
Ijike Cranmer s at the stake.
" And still no peace for the restless clay,
Will wave or mould allow :
The horrid thing pursues my soul —
It stands before me now I "
The fearful boy looked up, and saw
Huge drops upon his brow !
That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin's eyelids kissed.
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist ;
And Eugene Aram walked between
With gyves upon his wrists.
WHEEE ?
F. Hope Meriscord.
[This effective piece is copyri<,'ht of tbe Author, who must be communicated
with before it can be delivered before a paying audience.]
On where shall I take me ? Where ? Where ?
Where there is peace and rest,
Oh where shall I take mo from care —
Care of the sore unblest ?
Oh where shall I hide my sorrow ?
Where all my shame inurn ?
Oh Avhore is the bless'd to-morrow?
Where, oh where shall I turn ?
Oh where is my husband-lover ?
Where is my child of sin Y
Oh where is there aught to cover
Shame of the thoughts within ?
Oh where is the bourn they have gained ?
Lover and child both dead.
Oh where shall I lay this o'er-pained.
Weary and aching head ?
Oh where but in wild repentance
Waste through, this mortal pain ?
Our Foils. 491
Oil wliere escape the vile sentence
Earn'd by an earthly stain ?
Oh where was my soul the moment,
That moment when I fell ?
Oh where shall I hide from torment,
Torment of living Hell ?
Oh where are the Christian matrons.
Where are the Christian men
Who'll venture to bo my patrons
When they hare hoard, oh when
The charity never spoken
Here, in this callous life,
Would save a weak soul, all broken,
Broken with heavy strife ?
Then where shall I find this pity,
Charity — what you will —
Yes, where P In this cruel city ?
Out upon yonder hill ?
No ! No I I know the world better —
Better ! Ah, bad for me !
They'd say I was still their debtor,
Debtor for charity,
If toiling and drudging daily
Water and bread I got,
While they through the world go gaily
I may go starve and rot.
Thank God, there's a river flowing !
Death is the where for me ;
To death I can go, well knowing
Eest's in Eternity.
{B>/ pcDiHssioH of the Anther.)
OUR POLKS.
Ethel Lynx.
[An American antlioress of repute. Still living.]
"Hi ! Harry ! halt a breath, and tell a comrade just a thing or
two ;
You've been on furlough ? been to see how all the folks in Jersey
do ?—
It's long ago since I was there — I, and a bullet from Fair Oaks : —
When you were home, old comi-ade, say, did you see any of ' our
folks ? '
492 Recitations.
You did ? shake hands. That warms my heart ; for, if I do look
grim aad rough,
I've got some feeling! People think a soldier's heart is nought
but tough.
But, Ilarry, when the bullets fly, and hot saltpetre flames and
smokes,
While whole battalions lie a-field, one's apt to think about his
folks.
" And did j'ou seem them —when ? and where ? The Old Man — is
lie hearty yet ?
And Mother — does she fade at all ? or does she seem to pino and
fret
For me ? And Sis — has she grown tall ? And did you see her
friend — j'ou know — that Annie Moss — LIow this pipe chokes :—
Where did you see her ? Tell mo, llal, a lot of news about ' our
folks.'
"You saw them in the church, you say; it's likely, for they're
always there ;
Not Sunday ? No ? — a funeral ? Who, Harry, how you shake and
stare !
All well, you say, and all were out— what ails you, Ilal ? la this
a hoax ?
Why don't you tell me, like a man, what is the matter with ' our
folks ? ' "
" I said all well, old comrade — true ; I say all well ; for He knows
best
Who takes the young ones in His arms before the sun goes to the
west.
Death deals at random, right and left, and flowers fall as well as
oaks ;
And so — fair Annie blooms no more ! and that's the matter with
your ' folks.'
" But see, this curl was kept for you; and this white blossom from
her breast ;
And look— your sister Bessie wrote this letter, telling all the rest.
Bear up, old friend !".... Nobody speaks ; only the old camp-
rayen croaks,
And soldiers whisper : — " Boys, be still ; there's some bad news
from Grainger's ' folks.' "
He turns his back— the only foe that ever saw it— on this grief,
And, as men will, keeps down the tears kind Nature sends to woe's
relief ;
Then answers :—" Thank you, Hal, I'll try; but in my throat
there's something chokes,
Because, you see, I've thought so long to count her in among ' our
folks.'
The Bridge-Keepers Story. 493
" I daresay she is happier now; but that I cau't help thinking,
too,
I might have kept all trouble off, by being tender, kind, and
true —
But may be not. . . . She's safe up there I anil, -when God's hands
deals other strokes,
She'll stand by Heaven's gate, I know, and wait to welcome in
' our folks.' "
THE BKIDGE-KEEPER'S STOEY.
W. A. Eaton.
[See p. 436.]
" Do we have many accidents here, sir ? "
Well, no ! but of one I could tell,
If you wouldn't mind hearing the story,
I have cause to remember it well !
You see how the drawbridge swings open
When the vessels come in from the bay,
When the New York express comes along, sir J
That bridge must be shut right away !
You see how it's worked by the windlass,
A child, sir, could manage it well.
My brave little chap used to do it,
But that's part of the tale I must tell !
It is two years ago come the autumn,
I shall never forget it, I'm sure ;
I was sitting at work in the house here,
And the boy played just outside the door !
You must know, that the wages I'm getting
For the work on the line are not great.
So I picked up a little shoemaking.
And I manage to live at that rate.
I was pounding away on my lapstone.
And singing as blithe as could be I
Keeping time with the tap of my hammer
On the work that I held at my knee.
And Willie, my golden-haired darling.
Was tying a tail on his kite ;
His cheeks all aglow with excitement,
And his blue eyes lit up with delight.
494 Recitations.
Wlien the telegraph bell at the station
Hang out the express on its way ;
" All right, father 1 " shouted my Willie,
" Eemember, I'm pointsman to-day ! "
I heard the wheel turn at the windlass,
I heard the bridge swing on its way,
And there came a cry liom my darling,
A cry, filled my heart with dismay.
" Help, father ! oh help me I " he shouted.
I sprang through the door with a scream.
His clothes had got caught in the windlass,
I J if;- There he hung o'er the swift, rushing stream.
And there, like a speck in the distance,
I saw the fleet oncoming train ;
And the bridge that I thought safely fastened,
Unclosed and swung backward again.
I rushed to my boy, ere I reached him,
He fell in the river below.
I saw his briglit curls on the water,
Borne away by the current's swift flow.
I sprang to the edge of the river,
But there was the onrushing train.
And hundreds of lives were in peril,
Tin that bridge was refastened again.
I heard a loud shriek just behind mo,
I turned, and his mother stood there,
Looking just like a statue of marble,
With her hands clasped in agonized prayer.
Should I leap in the swift-flowing torrent
While the train went headlong to its fate,
Or stop to refastcn the drawbridge.
And go to his rescue too late ?
I looked at my wife and she whispered,
With choking sobs stopjiiug her breath,
"Do j'our duty, and Heaven will help you
To save our own darling from death ! "
Quick as thought, then, I flew to the windlass,
And fastened the bridge with a crash,
Then just as the train rushed across it,
I leaped in the stream with a splash.
Tlie Bridge-Keeper a StovT/. 495
How I fought -u-itli the swift-rushing water,
How I battled till hope almost fled,
Bat just as I thought I had lost him,
Up floated his bright golden head.
How I eagerly seized on his girdle.
As a miser would clutch at his gold,
But the snap of his belt came unfastened,
And the swift stream unloosened my hold.
He sank once again, but I followed,
And caught at his bright clustering hair.
And biting my lip till the blood came,
I swam with the strength of despair !
We had got to a bend of the river.
Where the water leaps down with a dash,
I held my boy tighter than ever.
And steeled all my nerves for the crash.
The foaming and thundering whirlpool
Engulfed us, I struggled for breath,
Then caught on a crag in the current,
Just saved, for a moment, from death !
And there on the bank stood his mother,
And some sailors were flinging a rope,
It reached us at last, and I caught it.
For I knew 'twas our very last hope !
And right up the steep rock they dragged us,
I cannot forget, to this day.
How I clung to the rope, while my darling
In my arms like a dead baby lay.
And down on the greensward I laid him
Till the colour came back to his face.
And, oh, how my heart beat with rapture
As I felt his warm, loving embrace !
There, sir, that's my story, a true one.
Though it's far more exciting than some.
It has taught me a lesson, and that is,
" Do your duty, whatever may come ! "
{Sy permission of the Author.)
1
496 Recitations.
THE STROLLERS.
Robert IIeece.
[Mr. Reece is principallj' known as a paiitoniinie and bm-Iesque author. His
little extravaganza, " Perfect Lo* e," is an elej:ant specimen of poetic fancy and
refined humour. Many charming lyrics, too, have emanated from his pen, and
may be found among his various operatic libretti, notably in the English version
of the abnormally successful "Les Cloches de Corneville," written in conjunc-
tion with Mr. n. B. Farnie. As a punster he would have excited the intense
wrath of Dr. Johnson.]
The little village, all astir,
Has tui'ned out, to a man, to greet tkem !
And anxious urchins, wide agajje,
Eun down the leafy lanes to muut them ;
The crone who basks her wintry hair
Half hidden in a russet hood,
Looks up and wisely shakes her head,
And murmurs, " Player folks no good ! "
The sturdy clay-streaked plowmen pause,
As two by two the strollers pass.
And wonder if the Squire will swear
At folk who " furret up his grass."
The busybodies of the place
Watch as the bills are posted there,
And know exactly who these are,
And how they've seen them at the Fair.
How, "him, the thin one walking yon —
Him with the lass that moves so slow,
And leads the child with golden hair,
Had played in Lunnon years ago !
And though their faces seem so wan.
Them too, could play the King and Queen,
And look — ah I mortal fiue at night I "
• * » ♦ •
Then slowly wags the lumbering cart
And slowly rises stage and tent.
And thi'ough the cracks of j-awning planks
Sly youngsters peep in wonderment.
And ere the sun has quite gone down.
The band — a fiddle, horn, and drum —
Perambulate the lane, and urge
Eeluctant villagers to come.
Whilst, ere they play kings, queens, and knaves.
And ere one half the seats are taken.
The company has sallied forth
To buy theii- humble eg^s. and bacon.
What if they strut and'fume and make
Sad havoc with the text and action
They have their mystery, their fame,
The Strollers. 497 j
And " give their patrons satisfaction."
And childron jioint and wonder how
Ihat stooping man with face so long,
With husky cough and dragging gait
Be chap as sang that funny song ' "
And that same meagre figure there, I
bo worn, so broken, and so mild, {
Could be the haughty tyrant king
Who slow his wife and cursed his child ' '
Ah ! Jittle fleeting fame ye seek ! i
And httle fleeting means of life f 1
Too little for the hard- worked man , i
loo httle for the ailing wife. '
No wonder if the tyrant seems
bo stern, so bony, and so gaunt • 1
No wonder if his captive acts '
Ihe ghost IS halfway to his grave I
And weakness gives his measured walk, '
And poor Ophelia's face is pale ,
Without the adventitious chalk '
Ihe testy dotard of the stage " j
The ' ' hea v,/ father," as they say \
Is heavy only in his heart ' I
Nor wants a wig to make him gray, !
And he, whom vacant hinds applaud '
And roar at ere his jest is sped, I
May have his private tragedy
And scarce a place to lay his head.
Ah .'pardon all their little faults
For the great woes they struggle through.
And, when you quit the bootlfto-nightf
1 ray God to bless the strollers too!
{B!/ pcnuhsion of (he Author.)
K K
WIT AND HUMOUR.
LOOK AT THE CLOCK!
Eev. EiciLUiD Haiuus Baiuiam.
LThe Eev. Mr. Bai-Lain was born at Canterburj*, 1789, and educated at Oxford.
IIu was a minor canon of St. raul's;, and rector of St Augustine and St. Faith's,
London. Mr. Barbam's mind literally overflowed with wit, and lie never
attempted to restrain it; but be tempered it witb tbo learainj^ and classical
knowledge be brougbt to bear upon eveiy subject tbat be touched. It has been
truly said of him, "for originality of style and diction, for quaint illustration
and the musical ilow of bis muse, bis poetry is not surpassed by anything of
the same kind in the English language.'' Mr. Barliam contiibuted many
papers to the " Edinburgh Review," " Blackwood," and " Bentley's Mis-
cellany ;" it was in the l:itt:i-, chiefly, that the " Ingoldsby Legends" iirst
appeared. He died 1845.J
" Look at the Clock !" quotli Wiimifred Pryce,
As she opeii'd the door to her husband's knock,
Then pans'd to give him a jnece of advice,
" You nasty warmint, look at the Clock !
Is this the Avay, you
Wretch, every day you
Treat her who vowed to love and obey you .''—
Out all night !
Me in a fright !
Staggering home as it's just getting light!
You intoxitied brute ! — 3'ou insensible block ! —
Look at the Clock !— Do !— Look at the Clock !"
"Winnifred Piyce was tidy and clean,
Her gown was a tlower'd one, her petticoats green,
Her buckles were bright as her milking cans,
And her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's ;
Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes,
Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-
lioles ;
A face hke a ferret
Betoken'd her spii'it :
To coucucle, Mrs. Pryce was not over 3'oung,
Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.
" Look at the Clock !" 499
Now David Piyce
Had one darling vice ;
Remarkably jiartial to anything nice,
Nought that was good came to him amiss,
Whether to eat, or to drink, or to kiss !
Especially ale —
If it was not too stale
I really believe he'd have emptied a pail ;
Not that in Wales
They talk of their Ales ;
To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble yoi
Being spelt with a 0, two Rs, and a W.
That jDarticular day,
As I've heard people say,
Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay,
And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroota
The whole afternoon, at the Goat-in-Boots,
With a couple more soakers,
Thoroughbred smokers,
Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers ;
And long after day had drawn to a close,
And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose,
They were roaring out " Shenkin !" and " Ar hydd y nos ;"
While David himself, to a Sassenach tune.
Sang, " We've drunk down the Sun, boys ! let's drink down
the Moon !
What have we with day to do ?
Mrs. Winnifred Pryce, 'twas made for you !"
At length, when they couldn't well drink any more.
Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door:
And then came that knock.
And the sensible shock
David felt when his wife cried, " Look at the Clock !"
For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be,
The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three !
That self-same clock had long been a bone
Of contention between this Darby and Joan,
And often, among their pother and rout,
V/hen this otherwise amiable couple fell out,
Pryce would drop a cool hint,
With an ominous sc^uint
At its case, of an " Uncle " of his, who'd a " Spout.'*
That horrid word " Spout "
No sooner was out
Than Winnifred Pryce would turn her about,
And with scorn on her lip.
And a hand on each hip,
' Spout " herself till her nose grew red at the tip,
K K 2
500 Wit and Humour.
" You tliundering willin,
I know you"d be killing
Your wife — ay, a dozen of wives — for a slullinf;^ !
You may do what you please,
You may sell my chemise,
(Mrs. P. was too well-bi-ed to mention her smock.)
But I never will j^art with my Grandmothci*'s Clock'."
Mrs. Pryce's tongue rang long and ran fast;
But patience is a2)t to Avear out at last,
And David Pryce in temper was quick,
So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick;
Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient,
But walking just then wasn't very convenient.
So he threw it instead,
Direct at her head,
It knock'd oil' her hat ;
Down she fell ilat ;
Her case perhaps was nc)t mnch mended by that :
But whatever it was — whether rage and pain
Produced ajwplexy, or burst a vein,
Or her tumble iiroduced a concussion of brain,
1 can't say for certain — but fJiis I can,
When sobered by fright, to assist her he ran,
Mrs. Winnifred Pryce was as dead as Queen Anne !
The fearful catastrophe
Named in my last strophe
As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy,
]\Iadc a great noise ; and the shocking fatality
Ban over, like wild-tire, the whole Principality,
And then came Mr. Aj) Thomas, the Coroner,
With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on lier.
Mr. Pryce, to commence
His "ingenious defence,"'
Made a " powerfid appeal " to the jury's good sense:
" The world he must defy
Ever to justify
Any presumption of '"jNIalice Prepense.' "
The unlucky lick
From the end of his stick
He " deplored "—he was " apt to be rather too quick ;"
But, really, her prating
AVas so aggravating :
Some trifling correction was just what he meant:— -all
The rest, he assured them, Avas "quite accidental!"
Then he calls Mr. Jones,
Who depones to her tones.
And her gestures, and hints about " breaking his bones;"
^Vm'.o Mr. Ap Morgan and Mr. Ap Khys
''lookaf the Clod' !" 501
Declare the Deceased
Had styled liim " a Beast,"
And swear they had witnessed with g-_-:sf and surprise,
The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.
The jury, in fine, ha\ang sat on the body
The Avhole day, discussing the case, and gin toddy,
Eeturn'd about halt-past eleven at night
The following verdict, ""We find, Sarue lierrvjlitr
Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winnifred Pryce being dead.
Felt lonely and moped ; and one evening he saiOi
He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.
IsTot far from his dwelling,
From the vale proudly swelling,
Rose a mountain ; its name you'll excuse me from telling,
For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few
That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U,
Have reall}'' but little or nothing to do ;
And the duty, of course, falls the heavier 1)y far.
On the L, and the H, and the N, and the K.
Its first syllable, " Pkx,"
Is pronounceable ;— then
Come two Ls, and two Hs, two Fs, and an N ;
About half a score Ks, and some Ws follow,
Beating all my best eiforts at euphony hollow :
But we shan't have to mention it often, so when
We do, vi'ith your leave, we'll curtail it to " Pen." -•
Well — the moon shone bright
Upon " Pen " that night,
Wlien Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright.
Was scaling its side
With that sort of stride
A man puts out when walking iu search of a bride.
Mounting higher and higher,
He began to perspire,
Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire.
And feeling opprest
By a pain in his chest,
He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest ;
A walk all up hill is apt, we know.
To make one, however robust, puft" and blow,
iSo he stopped and look'd down on the valley below.
O'er fell and o'er fen.
O'er mountain and glen.
All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and thei.
All the patriot rose in his soul, and he thought
Upon Wales, and lier glories, and all iie'd been taught
502 y^it ttiici Humour.
Of lier Heroes of old,
So brave and so bold —
0- iier Bards with long beards, and harps mounted ia gold J
Of King Edward the First,
Of memory accurst ;
And X)CiQ scandalous manner in which he behaved,
Killing Poets by dozens,
AVith their uudes and cousins.
Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved —
Of the Court Hall, at which, by a lucky mishap,
Owen Tudor fell into Queen Catherine's lap ;
And how Mr. Tudor
Successfully woo'd her,
Till the Dowager put on a new wedding rmg,
And so made liim Father-in-law to the King.
He thought xii^on Arthur, and Merlin of yore,
On Grytiith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour ;
On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more.
He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice.
And on all things, in slunl, but the late INIrs. Pryce ;
When a lumbering noise from behind made him start,
And sent the blood back in full tide to liis heart,
Which went pit-a-])at
As he cried out, " What's that ?" —
That very queer sound 't —
Does it come from the ground ?
Or the air — ^from above — or below — or around ? —
It is not like Talking,
It is not like Walking,
It's not hke the clattering of pot or of pan.
Or the tramp of a horse — or the tread of a man —
Or the hum of a crowd — or the shouting of boys —
It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise !
Not unlike a cai-t's — but that can't be ; for when
Could " all the King's horses, and all the King's men,"
With Old Nick for a waggoner, drive one up " Pkx ?"
Pryce, usually brimful of valour when drunk.
Now experienced what schoolboys denominate " funk."
In vain he look'd back
On the whole of the track
He had traversed ; a thick cloud, uncommonly black,
At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon,
And did not seem likely to pass away soon ;
"While clearer and clearer,
'Twas plain to the hearer.
Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer,
And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares,
Very much "like a coffin a-walking upstairs."
'' Look at the Clock ! " 503
Mr. Pryce liad begun
To " make u]) " for a run,
As in such a companion lie saw no great fun..
When a single bright ray
Shone out on the way
He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay,
Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock.
The deceased Mrs. Winnifred's " Grandmother's Clock !"
'Twas so ! — it had certainly moved from its place,
And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase ;
'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case,
And nothing was altered at all — but the Face !
In that he perceived, with no little surprise.
The two little winder-holes turned into eyes
Blazing with ire,
Like two coals of fire ;
And the " Name of the Maker " was changed lo a Lip,
And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip.
No !— he could not mistake it— 'twas She to the life!
The identical face of his poor defunct wife !
One glance was enough.
Completely " Q.uanf. suff."
As the doctors write down when they send you their " stuff."
Like a weathercock whirled by a vehement puff,
David turned himself round ;
Ten feet of ground
He cleared, in his start, at the very first bound !
I've seen peoj^le run at West-End Fair for cheeses—
I've seen ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises —
At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat,
And one from a bailiff" much faster than that :
At football I've seen lads run after the bladder-
I've seen Irish bricklayers run uj) a ladder —
I've seen little bo3'S run away from a cane — ■
And I've seen (that is, read of) good running in Spain ;*
But I never did read
Of, or witness, such speed
As David exerted that evening. — Indeed
All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men,
Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over " Piix !"
He reaches its brow —
He has past it — and now
Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, 1:9
Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity :
But run as he wll,
Or roll down the hill,
The bugbear behind him is after him still !
I-run is a town said to have been so named from something of this sort.
504 Wit and Humour.
And close at his heels, not at all to liis liking,
The terrible Clock keeps on ticking and striking,
Till exhausted and soi'e.
He can't run any more,
But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door,
And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock,
" Oh! Look at the Clock !— Do !— Look at the Clock !"
Miss Davis looked up, Miss Davis looked down.
She saw nothing there to alarm her ; — a frowu
Came o'er her white forehead ;
She said, " It was horrid
A man should come knocking at that time of night,
And give her Mamma and herself such a fright ;—
To squall and to bawl
About nothing at all !"
She begged " he'd not think of repeating his call :
His late wife's disaster
By no means had past her ;"
She'd " have him to know she was meat for his master!"
Then regardless alike of his love and his woes.
She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd uj) her nose.
Poor David in vain
Implored to remain ;
He " dared not," he said, " cross tlie mountain again."
Wliy the fair was obdurate
None knows, — to be sure, it
Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate.
Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole
Pryce found to cveep into that night v«'as the coal-hole !
In that shady retreat,
With nothing to eat,
And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet,
All night close he kept ;
I can't say he slept ;
But he sighed, and he sobbed, and he groaned, and he wept;
Lamenting his sins.
And his two broken shins.
Bewailing his fate, with contortions and grins.
And her he once thought a complete Bora Avis,
Consigning to Satan— viz., cruel Miss Davis !
Mr. David has since had a " serious call,"
He never drinks ale, wine, or sjiirits. at all,
And they say he is going to Exeter Hall
To make a grand speech,
And to preach, and to teach
Peaple that " they can't brew tlieir malt liquor too small,"
That an ancient Welsh Poet, one Pyxdak ap Tddoe,
Was right m proclaiming '• AuiSTON men Udok !"
I
The Red Fisherman. ^^-^
Which means " The i^ure Element
Is for Man's belly meant !"
And that Gin's but a Snare of Old Nick the deluder !'
And " still on each evening when pleasure fills up,"
At the old Goat-iu-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup,
Mr. Pryce, if he's there,
Will get into " The Chair,"
And make all his qnondciDi associates stare
By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter,
" Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water I"
The dial he constantly watches ; and when
The long hand's at the " XII.," and the short at " X.,"
He gets on his legs.
Drains his glass to the dregs,
Takes his hat and great-coat off their several j^egs.
With his ^president's hammer bestows his last knock,
And says solemnly — " Gentlemen !
"Look at thk Clock ! ! 1"
(_ni/ 2xrinUt>ion of Mr. Dtntlei/.}
THE PvED FISHERMAN.
"W. M. Pkaed.
[Born 1802 ; Died 1839.]
The Abbot arose, and closed his book,
And donned his sandal shoou,
And wandered forth alone to look
Upon the summer moon :
A starlight sky was o'er his head,
A quiet breeze around ;
And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed.
And the waves a soothing sound :
It was not an hour, nor a scene for aught
But love and calm delight ;
Yet the holy man had a cloiid of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.
He gazed on the river that giirgled by.
But he thought not of the reeds;
He clasped his gilded rosary.
But he did not tell the beads :
If he look'd to the Heaven, 'twas not to invoke
The sjjirit that dwelleth there ;
If he ojjened his lips, the words thsy si^ok?
Had never the tone of prayer.
A ]iious Priest might the Abbot seem,
He had swayed the crosier well :
But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream,
The Abbot was loth to tell.
50G Wit and Humour.
Companionless, for a mile oi* more,
He traced the windings of the shore,
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o"er-arching gi-ove,
And many a flat and sunny cove.
And terraced lawns whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades.
And rocks whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and tlowcrs.
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery,
About as much, in sooth,
As a lover thinks of constancy,
Or an advocate of truth.
He did not mark how the skies in wrath
Grew dark above his head.
He did not mark how the mossy path
Grew damp beneath his tread ;
And nearer he came, and still more near,
To a pool, in whose recess
The water had slept for many a ycr.r.
Unchanged, and motionless ;
From the river stream it spread away.
The space of half a rood :
The surface had the hue of clay.
And the scent of human blood ;
The trees and the herbs that round it grew
Were venomous aiid foul ;
And the birds that through the bushes ilew
Were the vulture and the owl ;
The water was as dark and rank
As ever a company pumped ;
And the perch that was netted and laid on the l)anlc,
Grew rotten while it j unified :
And bold was he who thither came
At midnight, man or boy ;
For the place was cursed with an c\nl name.
And that name was *' The Devil's Decoy !"
The Abbot was weary as Al jbot could bo.
And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree ;
When suddenly rose a tlismal tone —
Was it a song, or was it a moan?
" Oh, ho ! Oh, ho !
Above, — below ! —
Lightly and brightly they glide and go :
The hungry and keen to the top are leaping.
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping ;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy.
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy !"
The Red Fisherman. r^Qj
in a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
lie looked to the left, and he looked to the right.
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er liim ?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,
And the life-blood colder run :
The startled Priest struck both his thighs.
And the Abbey clock struck one !
All alone, by the side of the jdooI,
A tall man sate on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod.
And putting in order his reel and rod.
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore ;
His arms and his legs were long and bare :
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck.
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble.
Had Ijent that stout back nearly double ;
Sunk in their dee^) and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets ;
And shrunk and shrivelled that tawny siiin
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago :
And the hands that worked his foreign vest.
Long ages ago had gone to their rest :
You would have sworn, as you looked on them.
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shorn !
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks.
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly —
It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye :
Gaily it glittered with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fastened a gleaming hook about,
By a chain within and a chain without ;
The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin.
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in I
From the bowels of the earth.
Strange and varied soiinds had birth ;
Now the battle's bursting peal.
Neigh of steed, and clang of steel ;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon-stone ;
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony !
508 Wit and Humour.
Cold, by this, was the midnight air ;
But the Abbot's blood ran colder.
When he saw a gasping knight lay Iherft,
AV^ith a gash beneath his clotted hair.
And a hump upon his shoulder.
And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Pater Noster ;
"For he who writhed in mortal pain.
Was camped that night on Bosworth plain.
The cruel Duke of Glo'ster !
There was turning of keys, and ci'eaking of lockg,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a haunch of princely size,
Filling with fragrance earth and skies.
The corjjulent Abbot knew full well
The sweUing form and the steaming smeD;
Never a monk that wore a hood
Could better have guessed the very wood
Where the noble hart had stood at bay.
Weary and wounded at close of day.
Sounded then the noisy glee,
Of a revelling company ;
Sprightly story, wicked jest,
Rated servant, greeted guest,
Flow of wine, and flight of cork,
Stroke of knife, and thrust of fork,
But where'er the board was spread,
Grace, I ween, was never said !
Pulling and tugging the fisherman sate;
And the priest was n^ady to vomit
When he hauled out a gentleman, fine and fat.
With a belly as big as a brimming vat.
And a nose as red as a comet.
"A capital stew," the Fisherman said,
"With cinnamon and sherry!"
And the Abbot turned away his head,
For his brother was lying before him dead,
The Mayor of St. Edmond's Bury !
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks.
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
It was a bundle of beautiful things,
A peacock's tail, and a butterfly's wings,
A scarlet slipper, an auburn curl,
A mantle of silk, and a bracelet of pearl,
And a packet of letters, from whose sweet fold
Such a stream of delicate odours rolled,
Tiie Red Fisherman. 509
That the Abbot fell on his face, and fainted,
And deemed his si:)irit was half-way sainted.
Soimds seemed dropping from the skies,
Stifled whispers, smothered sighs,
And the breath of vernal gales,
And the voice of nightingales :
But the nightingales were mute,
Envious, when an unseen lute
Shaped the music of its chords
Jnto passion's thrilling words.
" Smile, lady, smile ! — I will not set
Upon my brow the coronet,
Till thou wilt gather roses white,
To wear around its gems of light.
Smile, lady, smile ! — I will not see
Rivers and Hastings bend the knee,
Till those bewitching lips of thine
"Will bid me rise in bliss from mine.
Smile, lady, smile! — for who would win
A loveless throne through guilt and sin ?
Or who would reign o'er vale and hill,
If woman'.s heart were rebel still ?"
One jerk, and thci-e a lady Jay,
A lady wondrous fair :
But the rose of her lip had faded away,
And her cheek was as white and cold as clay.
And torn was her raven hair.
" Ah, ha !" said the Fisher, in merry guise,
" Her gallant was hooked before," —
And the Abbot heaved some piteous sighs.
For oft he had bless'd those deep blue eyes,
The eyes of Mistress Shore !
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks.
As he took forth a l^ait from his iron box.
Many the cunning sportsman tried.
Many he flung with a frown aside :
A minstrel's harp, and a miser's chest,
A hermit's cowl, and a baron's crest,
Jewels of lustre, robes of price,
Tomes of hei'esy, loaded dice.
Add golden cups of the brightest wine
That ever was prest from the Burgundy vine.
There was a jDerfume of sulphur and nitre,
As he came at last to a bishop's mitre !
From top to toe the Abbot shook
As the Fisherman armed his golden hook ;
And awfully were his features wrought
By some dark dream, or wakened thought.
510 Wit and Humour.
Look how the fearful felon gazes
On the scaffold his country's vengeance raises,
When the lips are cracked, and the jaws are dry,
With the thirst which cnly in death shall die :
Mark the mariner's frenzied frown,
As the swaling wherry settles down,
Yv''hen peril has numbed the sense and will.
Though the hand and the foot may struggle still-
Wilder far was the Abbot's glance,
Deeper far was the Abbot's trance:
Fixed as a monument, still as air.
He bent no knee, and he breathed no prayer ;
But he signed — he knew not Avhy or how, —
The sign of the Cross on his clammy brow.
There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he stalked away with his iron box.
" Oh, ho ! Oh, ho !
The cock doth crow ;
It is time for the Fisher to rise and go.
Fair luck to the Abbot, fair luck to the shrine ;
He hath gnawed in twain my choicest line ;
Let liim swim to the north, let him swim to the south,-
The Abbot Avill carry my hook in his mouth."
The Abbot had ]:)reached for many years.
With as clear articulation
As ever was heard in the House of Peers
Against Emanciiiation :
His words had made battalions quake.
Had roused the zeal of martyrs ;
IIa<l kept the Court an hour awake,
And the king himself three-quartei'S :
But ever, from that hour, 'tis said,
He stammered and he stuttered
As if an axe went through his head,
With every word he uttered.
He stuttered o'er blessing, he stuttered o'er ban.
He stuttered drunk or dry.
And none Ijut he and the Fisherman
Could tell the reason why !
SEPJEANT BUZFUZ'S ADDEESS.
Charles Dickexs.
[Sec page 42.]
Serje.va't Buzfuz rose with all the majesty and dignity which the
grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered
to Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over
his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the Jury as follows : —
Serjeant Buzfuz's Address. 511
Never, in the whole course of his professional experience — rever,
from the very first moment of his applying hinaself to the study
and practice of the law — had he approached a case with feelings of
such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the resi^onsibility
imposed upon him — a responsibility, he would say, which he could
::ever have suppor'sd, were he not buoyed up and sustained by a
comdction so strong, that it amounted to positive certainty that
the cause of trutli and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his
much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the
high-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that
box before him.
Covxnsel always begin In this way, because it puts the jmy on the
very best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp
i'ellows they must be.
" You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen," continued
Serjeant Buzfuz : " you have heard from my learned friend, gentle-
men, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in
which the damages are laid at 1500?. But you have not heard
from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my
learned friend's province to tell you, what are the facts and circum-
stances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you
shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female
whom I will place in that box before you.
" The jilaintiff, gentlemen — the plaintiff is a widow ; yes, gentle-
men, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many
years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the
guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from
the world, to seek elsewhere for that rej^ose and peace which a
custom-house can never afford.
" Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon
a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed
exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the
retirement and tranquillity of Goswell-stre.et ; and here she placed
in her front parlour-wiudow a written placard, bearing this inscrij:)-
tion — ' Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire
within.'
" I entreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this docu-
ment — 'Apartments furnished for a single gentleman!' Mrs.
Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived
from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost
husband. She had no fear — she had no distrust — she had no stis-
picion — all was confidence and reliance. ' Mr. Bardell,' said the
widow ; ' Mr. Bardell was a man of honour — Mr. Bardell was a
man of his word — Mr. Bardell was no deceiver — Mr. Bardell was
cnce a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for
protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation — in single
gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what
Mr. Bardell was, when he first won my young and untried affec-
tions ; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.' Ac-
tuated by this beautiful and touchino- imi^ulse (among the best ira-
512 Wil and Humour.
pulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), tlie lonely and desolatb
widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent
boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her j'arlour-win-
dow. Did it remain there long ? No. The serpent was on the
watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and
miner was at work. Before the bill had been iu the parlour- window
three days — three days, gentlemen — a Bein^, erect upon two legs,
and bearing all the outwai'd semblance of a man, and not of a
monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired
within; he took the lodgings ; and on the very next day he entered
into possession of them. This man was Pickwick — Pickwick, the
defendant.
" Of this man Pickwick I will say little ; the subject jiresents but
few attractions ; and I, getitlemen, am not the man, nor are you,
gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting
heartlessness, and of systematic villany.
" I say systematic villany, gentlemen, and when I say systematic
villany, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as lam
informed he is, that it would have been more decent iu him, more
becoming, in better judgment, and in iDctter taste, if he had stop])ed
away. Let me tell liim, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or
disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go
down with you ; that you will know how to value and how to appre-
ciate them; and let me tell him fui'ther, as my lord will tell you,
gentlemen, that a counsel, iu the discharge of his duty to his client
is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor put down ; and that
any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first or the last,
will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff' or be he
defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles,
or Brown, or Thompson.
" I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick con-
tinued to reside constantl3% and witliout interruption or intermission,
at Mrs. Bardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during
the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts,
cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwonuiw
when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear, when
it came home, and, iu short, enjoja^d his fullest trust and confidence.
X shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and
on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy ; and I shall
prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible
for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion
he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had
won any aJley tors or comvioneiis lately (both of which I under-
stand to be a particular species of marbles much prized bj^ the youth
of this town), made use of this remarkable expression — ' How
should you like to have another father ?' I shall prove to yon, gen-
tlemen, that about a j^ear ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent
himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of
gradually breaking ofi:" from my client ; but I shall shov/ you also,
that his resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong", or that
Serjeant Buzfuzs Address. 513
his better feelings conquered, if better feelings be lias, or that tlie
charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his i;n-
manly intentions ; by proving to you, that on one occasion, when
he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms offered hei
marriage : previously, however, taking special care that there should
be no witnesses to their solemn contract ; and I am in a situation to
prove to you. on the testimony of three of his own friends — most
unwilling witnesses, gentlemen — most unwilling witnesses — that on
that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintift' in his
arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endeai-ments.
" And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have
passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the
handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed.
These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not
open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language
of affectionate attachment. Thej^ are covert, sly, underhanded com-
munications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched
111 the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery — let-
ters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye —
letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mis-
lead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall.
Let me read the first : — ' Garraway's, twelve o'clock. Dear Mrs. B.
— Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick.' Gentlemen, what
does this mean? Chops and Tomala sauce. Yours, Pickwick!
Chops ! Gracious heavens ! and Tomata saiice ! Gentlemen, is the
happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away,
by such shallow artifices as these ? The next has no date what-
ever, which is in itself suspicious — 'Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be
at home till to-morrow, felow coach !' And then follows this
very, very remarkable expression — ' Don't trouble yourself about the
warming-pan.' The warming-pan ! Why, gentlemen, who does
trouble "himself about a v>-arming-pan ? When was the peace of
mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan,
which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen,
a comforting article of domestic furniture P Why is Mrs. Bardell
so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan,
unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden
fire — a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise,
agreeably to a preconcerted system of coi-respondence, artfull}- con-
trived by Pick\^^ck with a- view to his contemplated de^^ertiou, and
which i am not in a condition to ex]3lain ? And what does this
allusion to the slow coach mean ? For aught I know, it may be
a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been
a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but
whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose
wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be
greased by you !
'' But enough of this, gentlemen ; it is difficult to smile with an
aching heart . it is ill jesting when our deejiest S3'miiathies are.
awakened. J\Iy client's hopes and prospects are rumcd. and it is
I. I
514 Wit cmd Humour.
on Sgure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed
The bill is down— but there is no tenant. ' Eligible single gentle-
men pass and repass — bnt there is no invitation lor them to ixc;i.n-e
within, or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even
the voice of the child is hushed ; his infant sports ar3 disregarded
when his ir. ether v/eeps ; his ' alley tors ' and his ' ccnimoneys ' are
alike neglected : he forgets the long familiar cry of ' knuckle down,'
and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick,
gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis
in the desert of Goswell-strcet — Pickwick, who has choked up the
v/ell, and thrown a dies on the sward — Pickwick, who comes before
you to-day with his heartless tomata sauce and warming-pans-
Pickwick stiii rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes
without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen-'
heavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit
him ; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for
those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded,
a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a
contemplative jury of her civilized counti'ymen." With this beau-
tiful pjroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice
tStareleigh woke up.
{Di/ per)iii-<si(m of flic Author.)
MONSIEUR TONSON.
John Tavlor.
[Joliu Taylor was grandson of the famous Clievalier John Taj'lor, oculist to
the principal sovereigns of Europe. In 1795, he published a poem, eutitk-d
"The Stage." In 1811, " Poems on Several Occasions," and iu lf<27, "Poems
on Various Subjects," 2 vols. Mr. Taylor was connected with the periodical
press for upwards of half a century, and' Avas the original editor and one of the
^ro])rietors of the Sun newsjap^r. Born 17o(J ; died 1832. J
TiiERK Lived, as fame reports, in days of yore.
At least some fifty years ago, or more,
A pleasant wight on town, yclep'd Tom Khir/,
A follow that was clever at a joke.
Expert in all the arts to tease and smoJce,
In short, for strokes of humour quite the thing.
To many a jovial club this King was known.
With whom his active wit itnrivall'd shone —
Choice spirit, grave freemason, buck and blood,
Would crowd his stories and hon mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear.
His humour flow'd in such a coi^ious flood.
To him a frolic was a high delight —
A frolic he would hunt for day and night.
Careless how prudence on the sport might frov/n;
Monsieur Tonson. 515
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he fiew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.
One night our hero, ramhling Avith a friend,
Near fam'd St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight ;
'Twas silence all arovuid, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post.
And scarce a lamji display'd a twinkling light.
Around this place there lived the num'rous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans.
Known at that time by the name of refugees —
The rod of persecution from their home,
Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam,
Aixd here they lighted like a swarm of bees.
Well, our two friends were saunt'ring through the street,
In hopes some food for humour soon to meet.
When in a window near a light they view ;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray.
It seem'd the prologiae to some merry play.
So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew.
Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring knock
(The time we may suppose near two o'clock),
"I'll ask," says King, " if llioinpson lodges here."
" Thompson ?" cries t'other, " who the devil is he ?"
" I know not," King replies, " but want to see
What kind of animal will now appear."
After some time a little Frenchman came,
One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame,
The othei' held a thing they call culotte ;
An old stri])vxl AvooUen nightcap graced his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread,
Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note.
Though thus untimely roused, he courteous smiled,
And soon address'd our wag in accents mild,
Bending his head politely to his knee —
" Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late ?
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait :
Pray, tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me ?"
" Sir," replied King, " I merely thought to know.
As by your house I chanced to-night to go —
But, really, I disturlj'd your sleep, I fear —
I say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell.
Among the folks who in this street may dwell,
If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here ?"
L L 2
,lt) Wit and Hxunom:
The slnv'rhifj- Freurtliman, thouo-li not pleiisea to find
The business of this unimportant kind,
Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer,
Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest should break,
Then, with unaltered courtesy, he spake,
" No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here."
Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped,
AVhile the poor Frenchman crawled again to bed ;
But King resolved not thus to drop the jest.
So the next night, with more of whim than grace,
Again he made a visit to the place.
To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest.
He knock'd — but waited longer than before :
No footstep seem'd apjiroaching to the door,
Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound ;
King, with the knocker, thunder'd then again,
Firm on his post determined to remain ;
And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.
At last King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his sleej:).
The wag salutes him with a civil leer :
Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise
(While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes),
" Is there— a jMr. Thompson — lodges here?"
The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright —
" Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night —
(And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere)
No Monsieur Tonson in de varld 1 know.
No Monsieur Tonson here — I told you so ;
Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here !"
Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursued his old career —
'Twas long, indeed, before the man came nigh.
And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry,
'■ Sare, 'Y>on my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here !"
Our iiportive wight his usual visit paid,
And the next night came forth a prattling maid.
Whose tongue, indeed, than any jack went faster-
Anxious she strove his errand to inquire.
He said, " 'Tis vain her prett}^ tongue to tire.
He should not stir till he had seen her master."
The damsel then began, in doleful state.
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate.
And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day.
Monsieur Tonson. 517
King toM lier she must fetch her master down,
A chaise was ready, he was leavir-g town,
But first had much of deep concern to say.
Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call,
And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl,
Ei'e she could rouse the torpid lump of clay.
At last he wakes, he I'ises, and he swears,
But scai'cely had he totter'd down the stairs
When King attacks him in his usual way.
The Frenchman now pei'ceived 'tv/as all in vain
To this tormentor mildly to complain,
And straight in rage his crest began to rear —
" Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so ?
Sare, 1 inform you, sare, three nights ago,
I swear no Monsieur Tonson, lodges here !"
True as the night. King went, and heard a strife
Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife.
Which would descend to chase the fiend away ;
At length to join their forces they agree.
And straight impetuously they turn the key,
Prejoared with mutual fury for the fray.
Our hero, with the firmness of a rock,
Collected to receive the mighty shock,
Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood —
The name of Thompson raised the storm so high,
He deem'd it then the safest plan to fly,
With '• Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood."
In short, our hero, Avith the same intent,
Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went —
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit ;
They threw out water, for the watch they call.
But King expecting, still escapes from all —
Monsieur, at la^t, was forced his house to qiiit.
It happen'd that our wag about this time,
On some fair prospect sought the Eastern clime.
Six ling' ring years were there his tedious lot*
At length, content, amid his rip'ning store.
He treads again on Britain's happy shore.
And his long absence is at once forgot.
To London with impatient hope he flies.
And the same night, as former freaks arise.
He fain must stroll the welldcnown haunt to trace.
"Ah, here's the scene of frequent mirth," he said,
"My iDoor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead —
Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his place."
i
518 Wit and Humour. i
Witli rapid strokes lie makes the mansion roar, !
And while he eager eyes the op'ning door, ^
Lo ! who obeys the knocker's rattUng peal ? \
Why, e'en our little Frenchman, strange to say !
He took his old abode that very day — \
Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel !
Without one thought of the relentless foe,
Who, fiendlike, haunted him so long ago,
Just in his former trini he now api^ears ;
The waistcoat and the nightcap secm'd the same,
With rushlight, as before, he creejjing came,
And King's detested voice, astonish'd, hears.
As if some hideol^s spectre struck his sight,
His senses seem'd bewilder'd vv^ith affright,
His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore,
Then starting, he exclaim'd in rueful strain,
"Begar ! here's Monsieur Tonson come again !"
Away he ran — and ne'er was heard of niore !
THE SHOWMAN'S SONG, from "LlfTLE DOCTOR
FAUST."
Henry J. Bvuon'.
[Mr. Byron, one of the most prolific and vers;itilo of modern dramatists, wns
toi-n in the year 18:5o. Ilis earliest works for the stage consisted of burlesques
and pantomimes, which, meeting witli unqualified success, encouraged him to
essay his abilities upon farces and comedies. His most successful farce was
" iJundreary Married and Settled ; " and his first comedy was " The Old Story."
These were succeeded by " War to the Knife" and ".€100,000," both of which
still hold the stage. Meantime he continued to write a brilliant series of bur-
lesques, until at length he produced his finest work entitled " Cyril's Success,"
which placed him in the front rank of modern writers of comedy. Of his most
enduring pieces, the following may be enumerated: "Our Boys," " Jf-irried in
Haste," "Partners for Life," "Blow for Blow," "Old Soldiers," and "Open
House." He di(-d April 11, 1884.]
If j'ou'll walk into my Show, sirs,
I've no end of things you know, sii's,
I've a dappled dromedai-y who can very nearly speak ;
I've a race of ring-tailed monkej's,
(iuite obedient as flunkeys,
I've an ostrich v.'ho can see into the middle of next week.
I've a clever marmozet, too,
Who will tell you whore you get to
With his eyes severely bandaged ; I've an educated flea ;
I've a brace of learned ponies.
And two cobras who are cronies,
I've a camel with a weakness for a winkle with his tea.
\
The Shoivmcciis Song. 51 D
I've a zebra who likes rum, sirs,
And a large aquari^^ni, sirs,
Where the cod-fish, and the turtle, and the tadpole sing a glee.
And the octopus and gurnet
Spend their money when they earn it
In the Field and Lcuid and Water, which they always lend to me.
There's an eel so eel-ongated,
A sea-serpent it is rated,
We've a whale we call Ijlangollen — it's so wonderfully prime ;
We've a prawn that's prone to larking.
We've a dog-fish caught at Barking,
We've a scollop that, reads Trollope, and a crab that's full of
rhyme.
We've a splendid aviary,
With a " polly " that's called " Mary,"
We've a pheasant, most unpleasant, who will always disagrea
With the eldest of the chickens,
Who quotes Thackeray and Dickens.
We've a cockertoo that counts so, he'd give any cockerthrc9.
We've a personal old vulture,
Who most grossly will insult yer,
And a cassowary who's extremely vulgar when he's vexed ;
We've an elderly flamingo.
Who remarks at times " by Jingo,"
We've a peacock with a tail " to be continued in our next."
We've a very learned lizard,
Who is as deep as any wizard,
We've a cockroach who can whistle all the operatic airs ;
We've a beetle who can caper.
And a toad that reads the paper,
And a saltatory oyster who skips up and down the stairs.
We've a musical old mussel,
Who can sing like Henry Russell,
We've a Cheshire feline specimen who's always on the grin.
And a lunatic old locust,
Who's very nearly hocussed,
By the artful armadillo, who designs upon his tin.
We've fossilised Iguanodons,
And Ipecacuanhadons,
And mummies who've been dummies for these many thousand
years ;
If up the stairs you'll follow me,
We'll show you right " tol-omollcmy,"
You paj'S your money, and you takes your choice, my little dears.
There's no show in the fair at all,
That vnth us can compare at all,
We're bound to lick creation — though the simile is low,
520 Wit and Humour.
It ex^r.'esses wliat we mean, sirs,
That there never yet was seen, sirs,
Siirh a scorching exhibition, as this 'ere parti c'ler Show.
{^Bu permission of Messrs.. Tina!''!/ Brothers, by whom also the music is
published.)
VAT YOU PLEAS iJ.
J. R. rLAXClIE, F.S.A.
[Tames Robinson Plan;^la' was the olile^t and one of the most successful dra-
matists of his day ; his first burh'sque was performed at Driiry Lane Tiicatre
in 1818, pnbspqii'^ntly he produced upon the stage no;irly two hundred pieces.
All Jlr. Plan-'lio's pieces exliibit a facile command of versification, a flow of
^^"nuine, not f ".-ce-l, wit, with occasional dashes of true poetry. As an anti-
quarian ho tonic a high position, his worlcs on ancient costume being the
recognized authorities. Mr. Planchc lield the appointment of Rouge Crui.t
Pursuivant until his death, whicli occurred in ISSO.]
Some years ago, when civil faction
Raged lilce a tur\- tlirough the fields of Ganl,
And children, in the general distraction,
Were taught to curse as soon as they could squall;
When common-sense in common folks was dead,
And murder show'd a love of nationality,
And Franc?, dtt r;ninednot to have a head,
Decapitated all the higher class.
To i)ut folks more on an equality ;
When coronets were not worth lialf-a-crown.
And liberty, in honnct rouge, might pass
For Mother Red-cap up at Camden Town ;
Full many a Frenchman then took wing.
Bidding soup-maigrc an abrupt farewell,
And hither came, pcU-hiell,
Sans cash, san.s' clothes, and almost sans everything!
Two Messieurs who about this time came over,
Half-starved, but fonjours gai
(No weasels e'er were thinner),
Trudged up to town from Dover ;
Their slender store exhausted on the way,
Extremeh^ 2'"^-^-^-^^ ^^o^^' 'to get a dinner.
From morn till noon, from noon to dewy eve,
Our Frenchmen wander'd on their expedition ;
Great was their need, and sorely did they grieve.
Stomach and pocket in tiie same condition !
At length by mutual consent they parted.
And ditilrint ways on the same errand started.
This liappen'd on a day most dear
To ericures, when general use
Vat you Please. 521
Sanctions tlie roasting of the sav'ry goose.
Towards night, one Freuchraan at a tavern near,
Stopp'd, and beheld the glorious cheer ;
While greedily he snufF'd the luscious gale iu,.
That from the kitchen window was exhaling,
He instant set to work his busy brain,
And snuif'd and long'd, and long'd and snuff'd again.
Necessity's the mother of invention,
(A proverb I've heard many mention) ;
So now one moment saw his plan completed,
And our sly Frenchman at a table seated.
The ready waiter at his elbow stands —
" Sii% will you favour me with your commands ?
" We've roast and boil'd, sir ; choose you those or these ? '
" Sare ! j^ou are very good, sare ! Vat yoa please."
Quick at the word,
Ujion the table smokes the wish'd-for bird.
No time in talking did he waste.
But pounced i^ell-mell upon it ;
Drum-stick and merry-thought he jiick'd in haste,
Exulting in the merry thought that won it.
Pie follows goose, and after pie comes cheese —
" Stilton or Cheshire, sir h" — " Ah ! vat you please."
And now our Frenchman, having ta'en his fill.
Prepares to go, when — " Sir, your little bill."
" Ah, vat you're Bill ! Veil, Mr. Bill, good day !
" Bon jour, good Villiam." — " No, sir, stay;
My name is Tom, sir — you've this bill to pay."
"Pay, pay, j^rr, foil
I call for noting, sare — pardonnez moi!
You bring me vat you call your goose, your cheese,
You ask-a-me to eat ; I tell you, Vat you please T
Down came the master, each explain'd' the case.
The one with cursing, t'other with grimace ;
But Boniface, who dearly loved a jest
(Although sometimes he dearly paid for it),
And finding nothing could be done (you know,
That when a man has got no money,
To make him ])ay some would be rather funny).
Of a bad bargain made the best,
Acknowledged much was to be said for it ;
Took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face.
And, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe,
Laugh'd heartily, and let him go.
Our Frenchman's hunger, thus subdued,
.Away he trotted in a merr_y mood;
When, turning round the corner of a street.
Who but his countrvman he chanced to meet !
522 ^^t «'^f^ Humour.
To him, with many a shrug and many a grin.,
He told how he'd taken Jcnn DuU in !
Fired Avith the tale, the other licks his chops,
Makes his congee, and seeks the shop of shops.
Entering, he seats himself, just at his ease,
" What will you take, sir P" — " Vat you please.''
The waiter turned as pale as Paris plaster,
And, upstairs running, thus address'd his master :
" These vile motmseers come over sure in pairs ;
Sir, there's another ' vat ijoii please I' downstairs."
This made the landlord rather crusty,
Too much of one thing— the proverb's somewhat musty, •
Once to be done, his anger didn't touch.
But when a second time they tried the treason.
It made him crusty, sir, and with good reason :
You would be crusty were you done so much.
There is a kind of instrument
Which greatly helps a serious argument,
And which, when properly a])plied, occasions
Some most unpleasant tickling sensations !
'Twould make more clumsy folks than Frenchmen skip,
'Twould strike you, presently — a stout horsewhip.
This instrument our Maifre d'Hute
Most carefully concealed beneath his coat ;
And seeking instantly the Frenchman's station,
Addressed him with the usual salutation.
Our Frenchman bowing to his threadbare knees,
Determined whilst the iron's hot to strike it,
Pat with his lesson answers — " Vat you please !"
But scarcely had he let the sentence slip.
Than round his shoulders twines the pliant whip !
" Sare, sare ! viisericorde, parhleu!
Oh dear, monsieur, vat make you use me so ?
Vat you call disP" " Oh, don't you know ?
That's Avhat I please," says Bonny, " how d'ye like it ?
Your friend, although I paid dear for his funning.
Deserved the goose he gained, sir, for his cunning;
But you, monsieur, or else my time I'm wasting.
Are goose enough, and only wanted hasting."
MODERN LOGIC.
AX0XYM0U3,
An Eton .stripling, training for the Law,
A dunce at Syntax, but a dab at Taw, \
One happy Christmas laid upon the shelf ||
His cap, his gown, and store of learned pelf, I
Modern Logic. 523
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Eome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.
Arrived, and passed the usual " How d ye do's,"
Inquiries of old friends, and college news —
" Well, Tom, the road, what saAv you Avorth discerning,
And how goes study, boy — what is't you're leai'ning?
" Oh, Logic, sir — but not the woru-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon — anticiuated fools !
'Tis wit and v;ranglers' Logic — thus, d'ye see,
I'll prove to you as clear as A, B, C,
That an eel-pie's a pigeon : — to deny it, >^
Were to swear l:)lack's white." — " Indeed !" — " Let's try it.
An eel-pie is a i^ie offish." — "Agreed."
"A fish-pie may be a Jaclv-i-)ie."— " Well, proceed."
" A Jack-pie must be .a John-jiie — thus, 'tis done,
For every John-pie must be a pi-ge-on !"
" Bravo !" Sir Peter cries, " Logic for ever !
It beats my grandmother — and she was clever !
But, zounds, my boy — it surely would be hard.
That wit and learning should have no reward I
To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll ci'oss,
And then I'll give you" — " What.^" — " My chesnut horse."
*' A horse !" cries Tom, " blood, pedigree, and paces !
" Oh, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races !"
He went to bed and wept for downright sorrow
To think the night must pass before the morrow ;
Dream'd of his boots, his cap, his spurs, and leather breeches,
Of leaping five-barr'd gates, and crossing ditches ;
Left his warm bed an hour before the lark,
And dragged his Uncle, fasting, through the park: —
Each craggy hill and dale in vain they cross,
To find out something like a chesnut horse :
But no such animal the meadows cropp'd:
At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopp'd ;
Took a bough — then shook it — and down fell
A fine horse- chesnut in its prickly shell —
"There, Tom, take that."—" Well, sir, and what beside?"
" Why, since you're booted, saddle it and ride !
" Ride what ? — a chesnut !— " " Ay ; come, get across.
I tell you, Tom, the chesnut is a horse.
And all the horse you'll get : for I can show-
As clear as sunshine, that 'tis really so —
Not by the musty, fusty, worn-out rules
Of Locke and Bacon — addle-headed fools !
All Logic but the wranglers' I disown,
And stick to one sound argument — ijonr oivn.
Since you have prov'd to me, I don't deny.
That a pie- John's the same as a John-pie ;
What follows then, but as a thing of course,
That a horse-chesnut is a chesnut-horse P"
52i Wit and Ilar.iovbr.
LODOIXGS FOR SINGLE GENTLE;N[E:T.
Geojige Colman the Younger.
[Sec page 344.]
AViio has e'er been in London, that over-grown place,
Has seen " Lodgings to Let"' stare him full in the iace.
Some are good and let dearly; Avhile some, 'tis well known,
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.
Will Waddle, whose temper Avas studious and lonely,
Hired lodgmgs that took single gentlemen only ;
But Will was so fat, he appear'd like a tun,
Or like two single gentlemen roU'd into one.
He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated ;
But all t'/ie night long he felt fever'd and heated;
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.
Next night 'twas the same ! and the next ! and the nest !
He perspired like an ox ; he was nervous and vex'd;
Week past after week, till by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.
In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him ;
For his skin, " like a lady's loose gown," hung about him.
He sent for a doctor, and cried, like a ninny,
'■ I have lost many pounds — make me well, there's a guinea."
The doctor look'd wise : — " A slow fever," he said;
Prescribed sudorifics, and going to bed.
" Sudoritics in bed," exclaimed Will, " are humbugs !"
I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs !"
Will kick'd out the doctor : — but when ill indeed.
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed ;
So, calling his host, he said, " Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman, six months ago ?
" Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin,
" That with honest intentions you first took me in :
But from the first night — and to say it I'm bold —
I've been so very hot, that I'm sure I caught cold !"
Quoth the landlord, " Till now, I ne'er had a dispute ;
I've let lodgings ten years, — I'm a baker to boot ;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven ;
And your bed is immediately — over my oven."
3Iy Sicalloiu-Tail. 525
" The oven ! " says Will ; — says the host, " Why this passion ?
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.
Why so crustj', good sir ? " — " Zounds ! " cried Will, in a taking,
" Who wouldn't be crust j', with half a year's baking ? "
Will paid for his rooms : cried the host, with a sneer,
" Well, I see you've been going away half a year."
" Friend, we can't well agree ; — yet no quarrel," Will said,
" But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread."
MY SWALLOW-TAIL.
Leopold Wagner.
I BOUGHT it many years ago.
When I was well to-do,
And friends I counted by the score;
When happy times I knew ;
It cost me just a five-pound note ;
It made me feel quite smart ;
But ah ! I did not dream that we
Were destined ne'er to part !
I wore it at the Opei-a,
'Mid strains of rare delight ;
I aired it grandly in the blaze,
Of gilded rooms o'er night ;
At parties and receptions too
How well it suited me !
Nor did I then anticipate
My futui-e low degree.
For by and by my lucky star
Descended from its height.
And with my fortune, so my friends,
All melted from my sight ;
In vain I tried each cherished art
To help me in my need :
The Press, the Stage, and Music, too,
With small success indeed.
Howe'er I strove to make my way.
Because I scorned to fail :
I next became a lecturer.
And donned my swallow-tail ;
But very soon experience proved
(How great wsls my dismay)
That lectures on one's own account
But very rarely pay.
526 Wit and Humour.
A new profession I embraced
Mj' fortunes to recouj? :
I learnt the art of ' blacking-up,'
And joined a minstrel troupe ;
Alas ! in time that, too, collaj)3ed ;
The ' ghost ' forgot to walk ;
So with a heavy heart I bade
A long farewell to Cork.
I took to comic singing next,
For perhaps a month or two ;
Then caught a cold, and lost my voice
Despairing what to do.
No longer, then, my swallow-tail
Proved useful as of yore ;
For every week my prospects grew
More hopeless than before.
My wardrobe vanished piece by piece ;
My purse I'd thrown away ;
My vouchers from the pawnbroker
Increased from day to day ;
At length, when nothing else remained
To save me from the sin
Of parting with my swallow-tail —
He wouldn't take it in !
I suffered long and grievously,
My lot was hard to bear ;
Until in time good fortune came
To rescue me from care ;
And now, that self-same swallow-tail,
"Which once I thought so grand,
Becomes me none the less to-day,
As a waiter in the Sti'and !
{CajJi/right of the Author.)
CHATEAUX D'ESPAGNE.
Henry S. Leigh.
[Born 1838 ; died 1884.]
Once upon an evening weary, shortly after Lord Dundreary
With his quaint and curious humours set the town in such a roar,
With my shilling I stood rapping — only very gently tapping —
For the man in charge was napping — at the money-taker's door.
It was Mr. Buckstone's playhouse where I lingered at the door —
Paid half-price and nothing more.
i
Chateaux D'Espagne. 527
Most distinctly I remember, it was just about December —
Though it might have been ia August, or it might have been
before —
Dreadfully I fear'd the morrow. Vainly had I sought to borrow,
For (I own it to my sorrow) I was miserably poor.
And the heart is heavy laden when one's miserably poor ;
(I have been so once before).
I was doubtful and uncertain, at the rising of the curtain.
If the piece would i3rove a novelty, or one I'd seen before ;
For a band of robbers drinking in a gloomy cave, and clinking
With their glasses on the table, I had witness'd o'er and o'er,
Since the half- forgotten period of my innocence was o'er ;
Twenty years ago or more.
Presently my doubt grew stronger. I could stand the thing no
longer ;
" Miss," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ;
Pardon my apparent rudeness. Would you kindly have the
goodness
To inform me if the drama is from Gaul's enlightened shore ? "
For I knew that plays are often brought us from the Gallic
shore ;
Adaptations — nothing more.
So I put the question lowly ; and my neighbour answered slowly —
" It's a British drama wholly, written quite in days of yore ;
'Tis an Andalusian story of a castle old and hoary,
And the music is delicious, though the dialogue is poor ! "
(And I could not help agreeing that the dialogue luas poor ;
Very flat and nothing more.)
But at last a lady entered, and my interest grew centr'd
In her figure and her features, and the costume that she wore.
And the slightest sound she utter'd was like music ; so I mutter'd
To my neighbour, " Glance a minute at your play-bill, I implore.
Who's that rare and radiant maiden ? Tell, oh, tell me, I im-
plore."
Quoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore ! "
Then I ask'd in quite a tremble — it was useless to dissemble —
" Miss, or madam, do not trifle with my feelings any more ;
Tell me who, then, was the maiden that appeared so sorrow-
laden
In the room of David Garrick, with a bust above the door ? "
(With a bust of Julius Csesar up above the study floor.)
Quoth my neighbour, " Nelly Moore ! "
I've her photograph from Lacy's, that delicious little face is
Smiling on me as I'm sitting (in a draught from yonder door).
528 Wit and Humour.
And often in the nightfalls, when a precious little light falls
From the wretched tallow- candles on my gloomy second floor
(For I have not got the gas-light on my gloomy second floor.)
Comes an echo, " Nelly Moore ! "
{From " Carols of Coc/c(/i/>ic,'' ^1/ 2}e>'"iission of Messrs. Chaito ^- Windus.)
THE JABBEEWOCKY.
Lewis Carroll.
i The author of " Alice in Wonderland," "Through the Looldng-Glass," and
'he Hunting of the Snark," made his reputation in the world of letters by,
perhaps, the most charming works for children embodying both fancy and
humour, without any of that imbecility which is usually apparent in books of
this description. As a writer of a peculiarly dehcate and rhythmical verse, he
can hold Ins OAvn Avith the best of his contemporaries.]
'TwAS brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
" Beware the Jabberwock, my son !
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch !
Beware the Jubjub bird,
And shun the frumious Bandersnatch ! "
Ho took his vorpal sword in hand :
Long time the manxome foe he sought —
So rested he by the Tumtum tree.
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in iifTish thought he stood.
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came !
One, two I One, two, and through and through
The Torpal blade went snicker-snack !
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
' ' And hast thou slain the Jabberwock ?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy !
Oh frabjous day ! Callooh ! Callay !"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves.
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe ;
All mimsy were the borogoves.
And the mome raths outgrabe.
{Bi/ permission of (he Aitthor.)
529
THE HUMOEOUS QUACK.
Leopold Wagner.
If the veracity of our informant is to be relied upon, a certain
class of our latter-day itinerants must be regarded as purveyors of
wit as well as of medicine. The following is said to have been
overheard on a recent evening within a stone' s-throw of the Boi'ough
side of London Bridge :
Ladies and Gentlemen, — Gather round the establishment of
Professor Passeymaquodj^, Physician in Ordiuar}' to the Emperor
of AVankeywollo]), and all the Crowned Heads of Europe. (Stand
on one side, you youngsters, if you please, and run away home to
tell your mothers the jirofessor is now on view, and if they havo
got any complaints, let them come and lay them before mo.)
Ladies and gentlemen, of every description and of both sexes, — If
there are any among you afflicted with the ills of life which flesh
is heir to — whether rheumatism, sciatica, consumption, liver com-
plaint, heartburn, sea-sickness, or impecuniosity ; whether inflam-
mation of the lungs, concentralization of the nose, acclimization of
the spinal marrow, or a want of vitality in the vegetable marrow ;
gravel, stone, or asphalte, fits and starts and feeling anj'how, an
attack of the blues, whether male or female — in short, for every
complaint under the sun, whether known or unknown, mortal or
immortal, curable or incurable, I invite you to pay heed to some
of the most wonderful cures which have been effected by my
Oriental Restorative Medicines. Here is a bottle which I hold uii
for your inspection. I shall, however, not allow this bottle to be
sold until I have explained its peculiar virtues and the ingredients
of which it is composed. My medicines, ladies and gentlemen, are
compounded out of the finest roots, herbs, and barks throughout
the vegetable kingdom, and as gathered by my numerous assistants
in every part of the habitable globe. The chief ingredients of this
bottle are as follows : Eig leaves from the giant trees of California,
dandelion from Epping Eorest, Turkey rhubarb from Asia Minor,
balsam from the gum-trees of Arabia, cod-liver oil from Billings-
gate, quinine from Canada, elder flowers from South Africa,
phosphorus from the Desert of Sahara, palm twigs from Palestine,
burnt sienna from Primrose Hill, rock rose and stinging-nettle from
Clapham Common, and a hundred other active medicinal virtues
from both hemispheres, all jwwdered up together in a very con-
centrated form. Every year, ladies and gentlemen, I spend fifteen
months abroad in personally superintending the preparation of my
wonderful medicines ; and if you were to ask me what they are
good for, I would tell you that they are good for everything. They
will make the blind to walk, the lame to hear, and the deaf to
speak. They will even bring the dead to life again, provided
there's some breath left in the body, and none of the parts missing.
I therefore hold up this bottle for your inspection ; but I will not
even tell you the price of it until I have read to you a few choice
testimonials as follows: "Dear sir,— I had my head smashed
530 Wit and Humour.
•with, a quart pot ; cured -with, one bottle.'' " I had the buffer of a
railway carriage run into my stomacb ; it had to be extracted hj
means of a steam crane ; cured with one bottle." " I had my right
arm crushed in my mother's wringing machine ; but after a regular
dose of j'our medicine for breakfast every morning, my arm was
completely restored." "I was tickled to death with a flea-bite;
but three doses of your medicine completely brought me to." " I
was jammed into a pancake between two fat women in a crowd.
They carried me to the nearest apothecary's, where they adminis-
tered your medicine, and now Tto. as round as a bullet." " I was
knocked down and trampled upon by the mob in Piccadilly; cured
with half a bottle. Your excellent medicine, however, failed to
restore my watch and chain." " Dear sir, — Happening to take a
walk down Westminster during the recent dynamite explosions, I
was blown into ten thousand fragments. My head was jsicked up
in St. James's Park, one of my legs found its way down to Wool-
wich, my left arm dropped on to Highgate Ai'chway, and my body,
in descending, blocked up the funnel of a penny steamer as it was
passing under Waterloo Ijridge. I was taken to the hospital un-
conscious, and discharged as incurable. There I was recommended
to take your medicine, and now I'm as well as ever I was." Ladies
and gentlemen, having now read to you five hundred testimonials
of the most questionable character, I shall keep j'ou in suspense no
longer, but proceed to inform you that the price of my medicine.
Government stamp and income-tax included, is only five shillings
per bottle ; and I not only charge you nothing for the bottle, but I
present you also with a concise history of my own life and extra-
ordinary career abroad, as reprinted by permission. In conclusion,
I would beg you not to neglect this golden opportunity of pur-
chasing my medicines. I attend all the important races, fairs, and
markets, not forgetting the Whitechapel pavement. But to-day,
being my birthday, it is only by an extraordinary freak of natuie
that I am here at all. I can, therefore, do no more than exhort
you to consult your own welfare, and to take care of your feeble
health, feeling sure that, if you should go home to-night and die
before the morning, you would be blaming yourselves for ever
afterwards for not having purchased my Oriental Kestorative
Medicines !
(Copi/riffht of the Author.)
NELLY GRAY.
Thomas Hood.
[See page 431.]
Ben Battle was a soldier bold.
And used to war's alarms ;
But a cannon-ball took off his legs.
So he laid down his arms !
Nelly Gray. 531
Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, " Let others shoot,
For here I leave my second leg.
And the Forty-second Foot !"
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid.
Her name was Nelly Gray,
So he went to i^ay her his devours.
When he devoured his pay.
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scofF,-
And when she saw his wooden legs.
Began to take them off !
" Oh ! Nelly Gray ; oh ! Nelly Gray,
Is this your love so warm ?
The love that loves a scarlet coat
ShoiUd be more iiniform."
Said she, "I loved a soldier once,
For he was blythe and brave ;
But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave !
" Before you had those timber toes.
Your love I did allow ;
But then, you know, yoii stand upon
Another footing now !"
" Oh ! Nelly Gray ; oh ! Nelly Gray,
For all your jeering speeches.
At duty's call I left my legs
In Badajos's hrcaclics!"
" Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms,
And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms."
" Oh ! false and fickle Nelly Gra}^,
I know why jou refuse ;
Though I've no feet — some other man
Is standing in my shoes.
" I wish I ne'er had seen your face.
But now, a long fiirewell !
For you will be my death ; alas !
You will not bo my Nell .'"
Now, when he went from Nelly Gray,
His heart so hea\'y got.
And life was such a burden grown,
It made him take a knot.
M II 2
532 Wit and Humour.
So round his Bielancholy neck
A rope he did entwine,
And, for his second time in Hfe,
Enlisted in the Line.
One end he tied aronnd a beam,
And then remoA'ed his i)egs.
And, as his legs were off, of course,
He soon was off his legs.
And there he hung till he was dead
As any nail in town ;
For, though distress had cut him up,
It could not cut him down.
A dozen men sat on his corpse,
To find out whj' he died ;
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads,
With a stake in his inside.
TIIE SEPTEMBEE GALE.
OLI^'ER Wendell Holmes.
[Mr. Hohues is mi American physician, and was born at Cambridge, Massa-
rlmsetts, 18(1!). Ho conimeuccd writing in tho American periodicals about
1836. His collected poems have conimauded a large sale.]
I'm not a chicken ; I have seen
Full many a chill Sejitember,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember ;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing.
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat ;^
For me two storms Averc brewing.
It came as quarrels sometimes do.
When married folks get clashing :
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was Hashing, —
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder, —
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.
Lord ! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled !
And oaks were scattered on the ground
As if the Titans battled ;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter, —
The earth was like a frying-i)an.
Or some sucli hissing matter.
Khuj John and the Abbot of Canterbury. 533
It chanced to he our washing day,
And all onr things were drying ;
The storm came roaring through the Imes,
And set them all a Hying ;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off lilce witches ;
I lost— ah '! bitterly I wept—
I lost my Sunday 'breeches.
I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas ! too late to win them ;
I saw them chase the clouds as it
The devil had been in them ; _
They were my darlings and my pride.
My boyhood's only riches,— _
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,—
" My breeches ! my breeches !
That nioht T saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them !
The dews had steeped their faded threads,
The winds had whistled through them
I saw the wide and ghastly rents
Where demon claws had torn them •,
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn thein.
I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
For ever and for ever !
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches.
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBUilY.
Percy's EELiavEs.
tThomas Percy was Lorn at ^^^^^^^ ^^^^^::^tioi^
Cbristchurch, Oxford. /^^ ^:,t^"\^ft'^P^rshoi c of iT^omori, where be died
■deanery of Carlisle, and ;^'^\-^^^"^^f/^^^^^>^,,°^' Enj^lish PoetiV," ^ selection
in 1811. In 17G5 be r'"^l\«^f ,' ,';,^ J nX of^vbiTh, liowever. be tampered
:j?i^t::tS\r al^S^^-^f oSL with antkuarian taste. He waa
Limself a tender and graceful poet.]
Ax ancient story He tell you anon
Of a notable prince, that was called King John
And he ruled England ^vith xnaine and w t m ght
For he did great wrong, and mamtam d little light.
634 Wit and Humour.
And He tell you a story, a story so merrye,
Conceriiing the Abbot of Canterbiirye ;
How for his housekeeping, and high renoune.
They rode poste for him to fair Loudon towne.
An hundred men, the Icing did heare say,
The abbot kept in his house every day ;
And fifty gold chaynes, without any doubt,
In velvet coates waited the abbot about.
How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee,
Thou keepest a farre better house than mee,
And for thy housekeeping and high renowne,
I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.
My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne,
I never spend nothing but what is my owne ;
And I trust your grare will do me no deere,*
For spending of my own true-gotten geere.
Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe,
And now for the same thou needest must dye ;
For except thou canst answer me questions three.
Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead,
With my crowne of golde so faire on my head.
Among all my liege-men so noble of birtlie.
Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.
Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt,
How soon I may ride the whole world aboiit.
And at the third c^uestion thou must not shrink.
But tell me here truly what I do think.
0, these are hard questions for my shallow witt,
!Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet :
But if you will give me but three weeks' space,
He do my endeavour to answer your grace.
Now three weeks' space to thee will I give,
And that is the longest time thou hast to live ;
For if thou dost not answer my questions three,
Thy lauds and thy livings are Ibrfeit to mee.
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word.
And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford ;
But never a doctor there was so wise,
That could with his learning an answer devise.
* Dcerc — hurt.
\
King John ana the Abbot of Cantei bury. 535
Then home rode the abl^ot of comfort so cold, j
And he mett his shejDheard a going to fold :
" How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home :
What newes do you bring us from good King John ?"
" Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give ;
That I have but three days more to live :
For if I do not answer him questions three,
My head will be smitten from my bodie.
" The first is to tell him there in that stead,
With his crowne of golde so fair on his head.
Among all his liege-men so noble of birth.
To within one penny of what he is worth.
"The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt,
How soone he may ride this whole world about ;
And at the third question I must not shrinke.
But tell him there truly what he does thinke."
" Now cheare up, sire abbot ; did you never hear yet,
That a fool he may learn a wise man witt ?
Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel.
And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.
" Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee,
I am like your lordship as ever may bee :
And if you will but lend me your gowne.
There is none shall knowe us at fair London towue."
" Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have.
With sumptuous array most gallant and brave.
With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope.
Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope."
" Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say,
" 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day ;
For and if thou canst answer my questions three,
Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.
" And first when thou seest me here in this stead,
With my crown of golde so fair on my head,
Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe,
Tell me to one penny what I am worth." \
" For thirty x^ence our Saviour was sold |
Among the false Jews, as I have bin told ;
And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, _ |
For I thuike thou art one penny worser than hes.''
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,* !
" I did not think I had been worth so littel ! ' |
— Now secondly, tell me, without any doubt, ^i
How soone I may ride this whole world about." "i
* Meauiug probably St, Botolph. . i
5:3G Wit and Humour.
" You must rise with tlie sun, and ride with the same.
Until the next morning he riseth againe ;
And then your grace need not make any doubt,
But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,
" I did not think it could be gone so soone !
— Now from the third qiaestion thou must not shriuke.
But tell me here truly what do I thinke."
" Yea, that I shall do, and make your grace merry :
You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury ;
But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see,
That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee."
The king he laughed, and swore by the masse,
" He make thee lord abbot this day in his i)lace !"
"Nowe naye, my liege, be not in such speede,
For, alacke, I can neither wi-ite ne reade."
" Fo\ir noljles a weeke then I will give thee,
For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee ;
And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home.
Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."
WIT AT A PINCH. ;!
AXOXYMOVS. i'
TwAS on a dark December night,
"When all was cold and dreary, |
A man that was a merry wight, '■
Did spur and ride with all his might, i'
To gain some shelter cheery.
Across a common wet and long.
While sleet and snow were droj^ping,
With chatt'ring teeth and frozen tongue,
He galloped fast, and smack'd his thong,
Till at an ale-house stoi:)ping.
'Twas small and snug, and with his eyes
Through windows eager shining,
A rousing, crackling fire he spies.
And table of inviting size.
Where jovial guests were dining.
Down drops he then from off his horse,-
And, all agog to enter,
Unceremonious takes his course,
Seeking his hasty way to force
E'en to the kitchen's centre.
Farson TurelVs Legacy. 537
But not a foot of room was there,
The guests were wedg'cl together ;
They had no single thought to spare
From landlord's fire and landlord's fare,
Nor reck'd they now the weather.
The trav'Uer rueful look'd about ;
At length, with luiigs most able,
He bids Will ostler carry out
A peck of oysters fresh and stout,
To Dobbin in the stable.
" A peck of oysters ! oats, good heart !"
Cries Will, with peals of laughter :
"No! oysters, fellow ! quick, depart!"
Out runs the man — and at one start
The whole mob rushes after.
All mad to see this wondrous steed,
(By serious aspect cheated)
They guess him of some monstrous breed,
Some strange sea-horse ; while now with speed.
The traveller gets seated.
Back posts the ostler ; all, as fleet,
The troop of fools pursue him :
" Lord, sir !" said Will, " I never see't
Such a thing ! — yoiir horse wont eat
The oysters that 1 threw liim."
'• The deuce he wont ! then faith, I must !
So place me here a table —
And bring me bread, both crumb and crust,
Pei3]ier and vinegar ; and I trust
That I'm both glad and able."
PARSON TUEELL'S LEQAGY: A MA-TEEMATIOAIi
STORY.
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
[See p. 532.]
Facts respecting an old arm-chair
At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there,
Seems but little the worse for wear.
That's remarkable when I say
It was old in President Holyoke's day
(One of the boys, perhaps you know,
538 Wit and Humour.
Died, at one hundred, years ago.)
He took lodging for rain or shine
Under green bed-clothes in '69.
Know Old Cambridge ? Hope you do, —
Born there ? Don't say so ! I was too.
(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof, —
Standing still, if you must have proof, —
" Gambrel ? — Gambrel ? " — Let me beg
You'll look at a horse's hinder leg, —
First great angle under the hoof, —
That's the gambrel ; hence gambrel-roof.)
— Nicest place that ever was seen, —
Colleges red and Common green,
Sidewalks brownish with trees between.
Sweetest spot beneath the skies
AVhen the canker-worms don't rise, —
"When the dust that sometimes flies
Into j'our mouth and ears and eyes,
In a quiet slumber lies,
Not in the shape of unbaked pies
Such as barefoot children prize.
A kind of harbour it seems to be,
Facing the flow of a boundless sea.
Eows of gray old Tudors stand
Eanged like rocks above the sand ;
Rolling beneath them, soft and green,
Breaks the tide of bright sixteen, —
One wave, two waves, three waves, four,
Sliding up the sparkling floor ;
Then it ebbs to flow no more,
Wandering oS" from shore to shore
With its freight of golden ore !
— Pleasant place for boys to play ; —
Better keep your girls away ;
Hearts get rolled as pebbles do
Which countless fingering waves pursue,
And every classic beach is strown
With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone.
But this is neither here nor there ; —
I'm talking about an old arm-chair.
You've heard, no doubt, of Parson Turell —
Over at Medford he used to dwell ;
Married one of the Mather's folk ;
Got with his wife a chair of oak —
Funny old chair, with seat like wedge.
Sharp behind and broad front edge, —
One of the oddest of human things.
Turned all over with knobs and rings, —
Parson TareU's Legacy. 539
But heavy, and wide, and deep, and grand, —
Fit for the worthies of the land, —
Chief- Justice Sewall a cause to try in,
Or Cotton blather to sit — and lie — in.
— Parson Turell bequeathed the same
To a certain student. Smith by name ;
These were the terms, as we are told :
" Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and hold.
When he doth graduate, then to passe
To ye oldest Youth in ye Senior Classe.
On Payment of" — (naming a certain sum)
" By him to whom ye Chaire shall come ;
He to ye oldest Senior next.
And soe forever " — (thus runs the text), —
" But one Crown lesse then he gave to claime,
That being his Debte for use of same."
Smith transferred it to one of the Browns,
And took his money, — five silver crowns,
Broivn delivered it up to Moore,
Who paid, it is plain, not five, but four.
Moore made over the chair to Lee,
Who gave him crowns of silver three.
Lee convej'ed it unto Drew,
And now the payment, of course, was two.
Drew gave up the chair to Dunn, —
AH he got, as you see, was one,
Dunn released the chair to Hall,
And got by the bargain no crown at all.
And now it passed to a second Brown,
Who took it and likewise claimed a crown.
When Broivii conveyed it unto Ware,
Having had one crown , to make it fair,
He paid him two crowns to take the chair ;
And Ware, being honest (as all Wares be),
He paid one Potter, who took it, three.
Pour got Eobinson ; five got Dix ;
Johnson primus demanded six;
And so the sum kejit gathering still
Till after the battle of Bunker's Hill-
When paper money became so cheap.
Folks wouldn't count it, but said " a heap,"
A certain Eichards, the books declare, —
(A.M. in '90 ? Pve looked with care
Through the Triennial, — name not there).
This person, Eichards, was offered then
Eight score pounds, but would have ten ;
Nine, I think, was the sum he took, —
Not quite certain, — but see the book. —
540 Wit and Humour.
By and by the -wars werQ still,
And nothing had altered the Parson's will.
The old arm-chair was solid yet,
But saddled with such a monstrous debt !
Things grew quite too bad to bear,
Paying such surus to got rid of the chair !
But dead men's fingers hold awful tight.
And there was the will in black and white,
Plain enough for a child to spell,
What should bo done no man could tell,
For the chair was a kind of a nightmare curse,
And eveiy season but made it worse.
As a last resort to clear the doubt,
They got old Governor Hancock out,
TheGovernor came, with his Light-horse Troop,
And his mounted truckmen, all cock a-hoop ;
Halberds glittered and colours Hew,
French horns whinnied, and trumpets blew.
The yellow fifes whistled between their teeth,
And the bumble-bee bass drums boomed beneath ;
So he rode up with all his band.
Till the President met him cap in hand —
The Governor hefted the crowns, and said, —
•' A wiU is a wiU, and the Parson's dead."
The Governor hefted the crowns. Said he,—
*' There is your p'int. And here's my fee.
These are the terms you must fulfil, —
On such conditions I break the will ! "
The Governor mentioned what these should be.
(Just wait a minute and then you'll see.)
The President prayed. Then all was still.
And the Governor rose and broke the will ! —
" About those conditions ? " Well, now j'ou go
And do as I tell you, and then you'll know.
Once a year, on C'ommencement-day,
If you'll onlj' take the pains to staj%
You'll see the President in the chair,
Likewise the Governor sitting there.
The President rises ; both old and young
May hear his speech in a foreign tongue,
The meaning whei'oof, as lawyers swear,
Is this : Can I keep this old arm-chair ?
And then his Excellency bows,
As much as to say that ho allows.
The Vice-Gub, next is called byname;
He bows like t'other, which means the same.
And all the officers round 'em bow.
As much as to say that they allow.
And a lot of parchments about the chair
1 Remember, I Remember. 541
Are handed to witnesses then and there,
And then the lawyers hold it clear
That the chair is safe for another j'ear.
God bless you, Gentlemen ! Learn to give
Money to colleges while you live.
Don't be silly and think you'll try
To bother the colleges when you die,
With codicil this, and codicil that.
That Knowledge may starve while Law grows fat ;
Por there never was pitcher that wouldn't spill,
And there's always a flaw in a donkey's will.
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
Eev. It. 11. Barham.
[Seepage 498.]
I REMEMBER, I remember,
When I was a little boy
One fine morning in December
Uncle brought me home a toy •,
I remember bow he i)atted
Both my cheeks in kindliest mood ;
" Then," said he, " you little fat-hccul,
There's a top because you're good "
Grandmamma, a shrewd observer,
I remember gazed upon
My new top, and said with fei'vour,
" Oh ! how kind of Uncle John !"'
\^n:iile mamma, my form caressing,
In her eye the tear-drop stood.
Read me this fine moi'al lesson,
" See what comes of being good.'*
I remember, I remember.
On a wet and windy day,
One cold morning in December,
I stole out and went to play ;
I remember Billy Dawkins
Came, and with his pe^vter squirt
Squibbed my pantaloons and stockings
Till they were all over dirt.
To my mother for protection
I ran, quaking every limb ;
She exclaimed with fond aftection,
" Gracious goodness ! look at him , '
542 Wit and Humour.
Pa cried, when he saw my garment.—
'Twas a newly-jjurchased dress —
" Oh ! you nasty little warment,
How came you in such a mess ?"
Then he caught me by the collar,
Cruel only to be kind —
And to my exceeding doloui%
Gave me several slaps behind.
Grandmamma, while yet I smarted,
As she saw my evil plight,
Said, — 'twas rather stony-hearted — -
" Little rascal ! sarve him right !"
I remember, I remember,
From that sad and solemn day,
Never more in dark December
Did I venture out to play.
And the moral which they taught, I
Well remember ; thus they said,
" Little boys when they are naughty,
Must be whipi^ed and sent to bed."
THE BACHELOE'S LAMENT.
H. G. Bell.
They'ke ste])ping off, the friends I knew,
They're going one by one :
They're taking wives, to tame their lives —
Their jovial days are done:
I can't get one old crony now
To join me in a spree ;
They're all grown grave domestic men,
Tliey look askance on me.
I hate to see them sobered down —
The merry boys and true ;
I hate to hear them sneering now
At pictures fancy drew ;
I care not for their mai-ried cheei".
Their puddings and their soups,
And middle-aged relations round
In formidable groups
And though their wife perchance may have
A comely sort of face.
And at the table's upper end
Conduct herself with gi-ace—
Nothing to Wear. 543
I hate the prim reserve that reigns.
The caution and the state ;
I hate to see my friend grow vain
Of furniture and plate.
How strange ! they go to bed at ten.
And rise at half-past nine;
And seldom do they now exceed
A jjint or so of wine :
They play at whist for sixpences,
They very rarely dance,
They never read a word of rhyme,
Nor open a romance.
They talk, indeed, of politics.
Of taxes and of crops.
And very quietly, with their wives.
They go about to shops ;
They get quite skilled in groceries,
And learned in butcher-meat.
And know exactly what they pay
For everything they eat.
And then they all have children, too,
To squall through thick and thin.
And seeni quite proud to miiltiply
Small images of sin ;
And yet you may depend upon't.
Ere half their days are told.
Their sons are taller than themselves,
And they are counted old.
Alas ! alas ! for years gone by.
And for the friends I've lost,
When no warm feeling of the heart
Was chilled by early frost.
If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,
I'd have him shun my door.
Unless he'll quench his torch, and live
Henceforth a bachelor.
NOTHING TO WEAE.
W. A. BUTLEK.
Miss Elora M'Flimsey, of Madison-sqaare,
Has made three separate journej^s to Paris;
And her father assures me, each time she was there.
That she and her friend, Mrs. Harris
(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history.
But plain Mrs. H., w:*thout romance or mystery),
144 Wit and Humour.
Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping
In one continuous round of shopping ;
Shopping alone, and shopping together,
At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather,
For all manner of things that a woman can put
On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders or tit round her waist,
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced.
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind — above or below :
For bonnets, mantillas, caj^es, collars, and shawls ;
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ;
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ;
Dresses to dance in, and fiii-t in, and talk in ;
Dresses in which to do nothing at all ;
Dresses for -winter, sirring, summer, and fall;
All of them different in colour and pattern — •
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin.-
Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material,
Quite as expensive, and much more ethereal :
In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of.
I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,
I had just been selected as he who should throw all
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections,
Of those fossil remains which she called " her affections."
So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,
Not by moonbeam, nor starbeam, by Ibuntain or grove,
But in a front parlour, most brilliantly lighted,
Beneath the gas fixtures we whispered our love.
Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs,
"Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes ;
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions.
It was one of the quietest business transactions ;
With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,
And a very large diamond, imported by Tifi'any.
Well, having thus Avooed Miss M'Fhmsey and gained her,
With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,
I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder
At least in the property, and the best right
To appear as its escort by day and by night ;
And it being the week of the Stuck ups" grand ball —
Their cards had been out a fortnight or so.
And set all the Aveuue on the tiptoe —
I considered it only my duty to call
And see if ]\Iiss Flora intended to go.
I found her — as ladies are apt to be found,
When the time inteiwening between the first sound
Nothing to Wear. 545
Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter
Than usual — I found (I wont say, I caught) her
Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning
To see if, perhaps, it didn't need cleaning.
She turned, as I entered — " Why, Harry, you sinner,
I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner !"
" So 1 did," I re^^lied ; " but the dinner is swallowed.
And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more ;
So being i-elievcd from that duty, I followed
Inclination, which led me, you see, to yo^^r door.
And now, will your ladyship so condescend
As just to inform me if you intend
Yoiir beauty, and graces, and presence to lend
(All which, when 1 own, I hope no one will borrow)
To the Stuckups', whose party, jou know, is to-morrow?"
The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air.
And answered quite pi'omptly, " Why, Harry, mon chcr,
I should like above all things to go with you there ;
But really and truly — I've nothing to wear !"
*' Nothing to wear ! Go just as you are :
Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,
I engage, the most bright and particular star
On the Stuckup horizon." She turned up her nose
(That pure Grecian feature), as much as to say,
" How absurd that any sane man should suppose
That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes,
No matter how fine, that she wears every day !"
So I ventured again — " Wear your crimson brocade."
(Second turn up of nose) — " That's too dark by a shade."
" Your blue sUk" — " That's too heavy ;" " Your pink" —
" That's too light."
" Wear tulle over satin " -" I can't endure white."
" Your rose-coloured, then, the lx;st of the batch" —
" I haven't a thread of point lace to match."
" Your brown moire- antique" — " Yes, and look like a Quaker:"
" The pearl-coloured" — " I would, but that plaguy dressmaker
Has had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilac.
In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock."
(Here the nose took again the same elevation) —
" I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation."
" Why not ? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it
As more comme ilfaut " " Yes, but dear me, that lean
Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it,
And I wont appear dressed like a chit of sixteen •"
' 'Then that splendid ]iurple, that sweet mazarine ;
That superb point d' aiguille, that imperial green,
That zephyr-like tarletane, that I'ich grenadine" —
" Not one of all which is fit to be seen,"
Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed.
"Then wear," I cxckiinied in a tone which quite crushed
546 Wit and Hum our.
Opposition, " tliat gorgeous toilette which you sported
In Paris last Spring, at the grand presentation,
"When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation.
And by all the grand court were so very much com-ted."
The end of the nose was portentously turned up,
And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation.
As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation,
" I have worn it three times at the least calculation,
And that, and the most of my dresses, are ripped up !"
Here I ripped out something, pei'haps rather rash.
Quite innocent, though ; but, to use an expression
More striking than classic, it " settled my hash,"
And proved very soon the last act of our session.
" Fiddlesticks, is it, sir ? I wonder the ceiling
Doesn't fall down and crush you. Oh ! you men have no feeling '
You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures !
Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers.
Your silly pretence — why, what a mere guess it is !
Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities ?
I have told you and sho\\ni you I've nothing to wear,
And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care,
But you do not believe me" (here the nose went still higher),
" I suppose if you dared, you would call me a liar.
Our engagement is ended, six* — yes, on the spot ;
You're a brute and a monster, and — I don't know what."
I mildly suggested the words — Hottentot,
Pickpocket, and cannibal. Tartar and thief,
As gentle expletives which might give relief :
But this only proved as spark to the powder.
And the storm I had raised came faster and louder ;
It blew, and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed
Inteijections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed
To express the abusive ; and then its arrears
Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears ;
And my last faint, despau-ing attempt at an obs-
Ervation Avas lost iu a tempest of sobs.
Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat too.
Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo,
In lieu of expressing the feehngs which lay
Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say ;
Then, without going through the form of a bow,
Found myself in the entry — I hardly knew how —
On door-step and sidewalk, past lamp-jiost and square.
At home and upstairs in my own easy chair ;
Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze,
And said to myself, as 1 lit my cigar.
Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar
Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days,
On the whole, do you think he would have miich to spare,
If he mamed a woman with nothing to wear ?
The Vision of the Alderman. 547
Since that iiigM, taking pains tliat it should not be Lnxited
Abroad in society, I've institnted
A course of inquiry, extensive and tliorougli,
On this vital subject ; and tind, to my horror,
That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising,
But that there exists the greatest distress
In our female community, solely arising
From this unsupplied destitution of dress,
Whose unfortunate victims are tilhng the air
With the pitiful wail of " Nothing to wear !"
Oh! ladies, dear ladies, the next time you meet,
Please trundle your hoops just outside Regent-street,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of trade which tower on each side.
To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built ;
Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey, _
Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ;
Eaise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skiri ,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold,
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,
AU bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street ;
Hear the sharj) cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor ;
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of hell.
As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door !
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare —
Spoiled children of Fashion — you've nothing to wear !
And oh ! if perchance there should be a sphere,
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here.
Where the glare and the glitter, and the tinsel of time
Fade and die in the light of that region subhme.
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense.
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence.
Must be clothed for the life and the service above
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love ;
Oh ! daughters of earth ! foolish virgins, beware !
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear !
THE VISION OF THE ALDEEMAN.
Henry S. Leigh.
An Alderman sat at a festive board,
Quaffing the blood-red wine.
N N 2
548 Wit and Humour.
And many a Bacchanal stave outpour'd
In praise of the frnitful vine.
Turtle and salmon and Strasbourg pie,
Pippins and cheese were there ;
And the bibulous Alderman wink'd his eye,
For the sherris Avas old and rare.
But a cloud came o'er his gaze eftsoons,
And his wicked old orbs grew dim ;
Then drink turn'd each of the silver spoons
To a coujile of spoons for In'm.
He bow'd his head at the festive board,
By the gaslight's dazzling gleam :
He bow'd his head and he slept and snor'd,
And he dream'd a fearful dream.
Far, carried away on the wings of Sleep,
His spirit was onward borne,
Till he saw vast holiday crowds in Chepe
On a ninth November morn.
Guns were booming and bells ding-dong'd,
Ethiop minstrels play'd ;
And still, wherever the burghers throng'd,
Brisk jongleurs drove their trade.
Scarlet Sheriffs, the City's pride,
With a portly presence fill'd
The whole of the courtyard just outside
The hall of their ancient Guild.
And, in front of the central gateway there,
A maiTellous chariot roU'd,
(Like gingerbread at a country fair
'Twas cover'd with blazing gold).
And a being, array 'd in pomp and pride.
Was brought to the big stone gate ;
And they begg'd that being to mount and ride
In that elegant coach of state.
But, oh ! he was fat, so ghastly fat
Was that being of pomp and pride,
That, in spite of many attempts thereat,
He coiddiit bo push'd inside.
That being was prcss'd, but prcss'd in vain,
Till the drops bedcw'd his cheek ;
The gilded vehicle rock'd again.
And the springs began to croak.
The slumbering alderman groan'd a groan,
For a vision ho seem'd to trace
Father William. 549
Some horrible semblance to his own
In that being's purple face.
And, " Oh. ! " he cried, as he started up ;
" Sooner than come to that,
Parewell for ever the baneful cup
And the noxious turtle fat ! " —
They carried him up the winding-stair ;
They laid him upon the bed ;
And they left him, sleeping the sleep of care,
With an ache in his nightcapp'd head.
{From " Carols of Cochayne,'^ lii/ permission of Messrs. Cliaito <J IVindus.)
FATHER WILLIAM.
Lewis Caeiioll.
[See p. 528.]
"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
" And j-our hair has become very white ;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head —
Do you think, at your age, it is right ?"
"In my j'outh," Father William replied to his son,
" I feared it might injure the brain ;
But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."
" You are old," said the youth, " as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat ;
Yet you turned a back- somersault in at the door —
Pray, what is the reason of that ?"
" In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
' ' I kept all my limbs very supple
B}' the use of this ointment — one shilling the box —
Allow me to sell you a couple ?"
"You are old," said the youth, " and youi' jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet ;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak — ■
Pray, how did you manage to do it ?"
" In my youth," said his father, " I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife ;
And tl.o muscular strength which it gave to my jaw
Has lasted the rest of my life,"
550 Wit and Humour.
" You are old," said the youth ; "cue would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as ever ;
Yet you balanced an eel ou the end of your nose —
"What made you so awfully clever ?"
" I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. " Don'i give yourself airs !
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
lie off, or I'll kick you downstaii's ! "
{B 11 permission of the Author.)
THE WELL OP ST. KEYNE.
KOBERT SOVTHEY.
[See page IIO.J
A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen ;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the weU of St. Keyne.
An oak and an ehn-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grov/,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the well of St. Keyno,
Joyfully he drew nigh,
For from the cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he.
And he sat down upon the bank
Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the house hard by
At the well to fill his pail ;
On the well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger hail.
"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger .P" quoth he,
" For an if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drank this day.
That ever thou didst in thy life.
" Or hath thy good woman, if one thoii hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been ?
For an if she have, I'll venture my life,
She has drank of the well of St. Keyne."
Only Seven. 551
" I have left a good woman who never was here,"
The stranger he made reply,
" But that my draught should be the better for that,
I pray you answer me why?"
" St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, " many a time
Drank of this crystal well.
And before the angels summon'd her,
She laid on the water a spell.
•' If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drmk before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life,
" But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then !"
The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyno,
And drank of the water again.
" You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?"
He to the Cornish-man said :
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.
" I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch.
But i' faith she had been wiser than me.
For she took a bottle to church."
ONLY SEVEN!
A Pastoral Stoey, after Wordswortu.
Henry S. Leigh.
[See p. 526.]
I MARVELLED why a simple child
That lightly draws its breath,
Should utter groans so very wild,
And look as pale as death.
Adopting a parental tone,
I asked her why she cried ;
The damsel answered with a groan,
" I've got a pain inside !
'* I thought it would have sent me mad
Last night about eleven ; ''
Said I, ' ' What is it makes you bad ?
552 Wit and Humour.
How many apples have you had ? "
She answered, " Only seven ! "
" And are you sure you took no more,
My little maid ? " quoth I ;
*' Oh, please, sir, mother gaye mo four,
But they wen in a pie ! "
"If that's the ease," I stammered out,
" Of course you've had eleven ; "
The maiden answer'd with a pout,
" I ain't had more nor seven ! "
I wondered hugely what she meant,
And said, " I'm bad at riddles ;
But I know where little girls are sent
For telling taradiddles.
" Now, if you won't reform," said I,
" You'll never go to heaven."
But all in vain ; each time I try.
That little idiot makes reply,
" I ain't had more nor seven ! "
Postscript.
To borrow Wokdsworth's name were wrong,
Or sHghtly misapplied ;
And so I'd better call my song,
" Lines after Ache-Ixsede."
{Froin " Carols of CocJcayne," by permission of Messrs. Chatto % TTindus.)
WANTED— A LANDLADY!
Leopold Wagxer.
A LANDLADY worthy the name, you must know,
(Not one of the slatternly sort),
A woman that's motherly, homely and clean,
Discharging her work as she ought ;
Contented to let off her rooms with a view
Of meeting the rent that's so great.
Because she has taken a much larger house,
Than warranted by her estate.
A landlady, then, with a bedroom to spare,
And the use of a parlour, we'll say ;
"Whose house-front looks tidy to each passer-by;
Whose door-step gets clean'd ev'ry day ;
Whose rooms are not stuffy for lack of a scour ;
Whose furniture harbours no dust ;
TAs Oivl Critic. 553
Whose ceilings are free from the cobwebs we loatt^
Whose fenders are free from all rust.
A landlady careful to air her clean sheets
Before they are put on the bed ;
Who closes her windows when evening sets in.
To keep out the damp overhead ;
Who thinks of her lodger as well as herself;
Who's sorry if ho should catch cold ;
W^ho's willing to stitch up a rent in his clothes;
And darn up his socks when they're old.
A landlady clever at counting the time,
And blest with a memory too ;
Who never forgets that her lodger exists,
No matter whate'er she may do ;
Who sees that his breakfast is ready betimes ;
Who's ready again with his tea ;
Who'll polish his boots at the heels as elsewhere ;
And who's smart in each minor degree.
A landlady prone to be generous and kind,
Whenever of luck there's a dearth ;
Who'd scorn to be hard on her lodger because
Ho may be in want of a berth ;
Who'll nurse him thro' sickness, who'll cheer him in health ;
Who'll strive to be homely and nice —
If only a creature like this could be found,
A lodger might know Paradise !
{fiopyrhjlit of the Antlioy.')
THE OWL CEITIO.
James T. Fields.
" Who stuffed that white owl ? " No one spoke in the shop
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop !
The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
The Daihj, the Herald, the Post, little heeding
The young man who blurted out such a blunt question ;
Not one raised a head or even made a suggestion ;
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Don't you see. Mister Brown,"
Cried the youth with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is.
How preposterous each wing is.
How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is —
Ift short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 'tis !.
654 Wit and Humour.
I make no apology,
I've learned owl-eology.
I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections; »-
And cannot be blinded to any deflections
Arising from unskilful fingers that fail
To stuff a bird right from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown ! Mister Brown !
Do take that bird down,
Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town ! "
And the barber kept on shaving.
' ' I've studied owls,
And other night fowls, J
And I tell you |
What I know to be true ; j
An owl cannot roost !
With his limbs so unloosed. j
No owl in this world t
Ever had his claws curled, j
Ever had his legs slanted, {
Ever had his bill canted, ]
Ever had his neck screwed i
Into that attitude. ■;
" He can't do it, because 1
'Tis against all bii'd laws, \
Anatomy teaches, '
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe
That can't turn out so !
I've made the while owl my study for years,
And to sec such a jf)b almost moves mo to tears ! i
Mister Brown, I'm amazed '
You should bo so gone crazed !
As to put up a bird j
lu that posture absurd ! j
To look at that owl roallj- brings on a dizziness ; j
The man who stuffed him don't half know his business
And the barber kept on shaving. ;^
" Examine those eyes,
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass ;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down :
Have him stuffed again, Brown ! '
And the barber kept on shaving.
The Cockney. 555
" Witli some sawdust and bark
I coiild stuff in the dark
Anowl better tban that.
I could make an old bat
Look more like an owl
Tban tbat borrid fowl,
Stuck up tbere so stiff like a side of coax'se leather,
In fact, about Mm there's not one natural feather."
Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic.
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say :
" Your learning's at fault this time, anyway ;
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
I'm an owl ; you're another. Sir Critic, good day ! "
And the barber kept on shaving.
{From " Harper's Mar/aziiie.'^)
THE COCKNEY.
John Godfrey Saxe.
[An American author, born in 1816. He is a prolific contributor of Luniorou;
verse to the U.S. periodicals.]
It was in my foreign travel,
At a famous Flemish inn,
That I met a stoutish person
With a very ruddy skin ;
And his hair was something sandy.
And was done in knotty cruis.
And was parted in the middle,
In the manner of a girl's.
He was clad in checkered trousers,
And his coat was of a sort
To suggest a scanty pattern,
It was bobbed so very short ;
And his cap was very little,
Such as soldiers often use ;
And he wore a pair of gaiters
And extremely heavy shoes.
I addressed the man m English,
And he answered in the same,
Though he spoke it in a fashion
That I thought a little lame ;
Eqi" the aspirate was missing
656 Wit and Humour.
Where the letter should have been,
But ■where'er it wasn't wanted
He was sure to put it in.
"When I spoke with admiration
Of St. Peter's mighty dome,
He remarked : " 'Tis really nothing
To the sights we 'aye at 'omc I "
And declared upon his honour, —
Though of course 'twas very quccr,-
That he doiibted if the Eomans
'Ad the 7;art of making beer.
When I named the Colosseum,
He observed, " 'Tis very fair;
I mean, you know, it icouJd bo
H they'd jmt it in repair ;
But what progress or //improvement
Can those curst 7/italians 'ope.
While they're under the dominion
Of that blasted muff, the Pope ? "
Then we talked of other countries,
And ho said that he had heard
That 7/americans talked i/inglish,
But he deemed it quite Aabsuid ;
Yet ho felt the deepest //interest
In the missionary work,
And would like to know if Georgia
Was in Boston or New York !
"When I left the man in gaiters.
He was grumbling o'er his gin,
At the charges of the hostess
Of that famous Flemish inn ;
And he looked a very Briton
(So, methinks, I see him still).
As ho pocketed the candle
That was mentioned in the bill !
LAUGH AND GET FAT.
V. M. Praed.
[See page 505.]
There's nothing here on earth deserves
One half the thought we waste about it.
And thinking but destroys the nerves,
WTien wo could do as well without it.
Zaiigli and Get Fat.
If folks would let tlie world go round,
And pay their titlies, and eat tlieir dinners^
Such doleful looks would not be found,
To frighten us poor lauglung smners.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at cverythmg !
One plagues himself about the sun,
And puzzles on, through every weather,
AVhat time he'll rise— how long he'll run.
And when he'll leave us altogether.
Now, matters it a pebble-stone.
Whether he dines at six or seven r*
If they don't leave the sun alone.
At last they'll plague him out of heaven !
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything !
Another spins from out his brains
Fine cobwebs, to amuse his neighbours,
And gets, for all his toils and pains,
Eeviewed and laughed at for his labours ;
Fame is his star ! and fame is sweet :
And praise is pleasanter than honey—
I write at just so much a sheet,
And Messrs. Longman pay the money ;
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything !
My brother gave his heart away
To Mercandotti, when he met her,
She married Mr. Ball one day—
He's gone to Sweden to lorget her !
I had a charmer, too— and sighed
And raved all day and night about her I
She caught a cold, poor thing ! and died,
And I— am just as fat without her !
Never sigh when yon can sing.
But laugh, like me, at everything !
For tears are vastly pretty things.
But make one very thin and taper ;
And sighs are music's sweetest strings,
Yet sound most beautiful— on paper !
" Thought" is the gazer's brightest star.
Her gems alone are worth his finding ;
But, as I'm not particular, „
Please God I'll keep on ;' never mmdmg.
Never sigh when you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything !
OOi
558 Wit and Hiimoiir
Ah ! in this tro'iblcd world of ours,
A laughter mine's a glorious treasure ;
And sei:iarating thoi'ns from flowers,
Is half a pain and half a pleasure ;
And why be grave instead of gay ?
Why feel athirst while folks ai-e quaffing ?
Oh ! trust mo, whatsoe'er they say,
There's nothing half so good as laughing !
Never cry while you can sing,
But laugh, like me, at everything !
THE LEGENDS OF THE EHINE.
Bret Haute.
[Bret Ilarte was born in 1839. His "Luck of Roaring Camp " is, perhaps,
the finest specimen of its Icind in the American Uteraturc. ]
Beetling Avails with ivy grown.
Frowning heights of mossy stone ; ;
Turret, with its flaunting flag
Flung from battlemented crag ;
Dungeon-Kcoii and fortalice
Looking down a precipice
O'er the darkly glancing wave
By the Luidine-haunted cave ;
Eobber haunt and maiden bower,
Home of Love and Crime and Power, —
That's the scenery, in fine,
Of the Legends of the Ehine.
One bold baron, double-dj'cd
Bigamist and jiarricide.
And, as most the stories run.
Partner of the Evil One ;
Injured innocence in white,
Fair, but idiotic quite.
Wringing of her lily hands ;
Valour fresh from Paynim lands,
Abbot rudd}', hermit pale.
Minstrel fraught with many a tale, —
Are the actors that combine
In the Legends of the Pihinc.
Bell-mouthed flagons round a board ;
Suits of armour, shield, and sword ;
Kerchief with its bloody stain ;
Ghosts of the untimely slain ;
Thunder- clap and clanking chain ;
Headsman's block and shining axe ;
Thumbscrews, crucifixes, racks ;
Wanted — a Governess. 559
Midmglit'tolling chapel bell,
Heard across the gloomy fell, —
These, and othei' pleasant facts,
Are the properties that shine
In the Legends of the Ehinc.
Maledictions, whispered vows
Underneath the linden boughs ;
Murder, bigamy, and theft ;
Travellers of goods bereft ;
Eapine, pillage, arson, spoil, —
Everything but honest toil
Are the deeds that best define
Every Legend of the Rhine.
That Virtue always meets reward,
But quicker when it wears a swor 1 ;
That Providence has special care
Of gallant knight and lady fair ;
That villains, as a thing of course,
Are always haunted by remorse, —
Is the moral I opine,
Of the Legends of the Pthine.
WANTED— A G0VEENES3.
George Duboukg.
A GOVERNESS wanted — well fitted to fill
The post of tuition with competent skill — -
In a gentleman's family highly genteel.
Sujierior attainments are quite indispensa,ble,
With everything, too, that's correct and ostensible;
Morals of pure unexceptionability ;
Manners well formed, and of strictest gentiUty,
The pujiils are five — ages, six to sixteen —
All as promising girls as ever were seen —
And Ijesides (though 'tis scarcely worth while to put that in|
There is one little boy — but lie only learns Latin.
The lady must teach all the several branches
Whereinto polite education now launches ;
She's expected to teach the French tongue like a native,
And be to her pupils of all its points dative ;
Italian she must know a fond, nor needs banish
Whatever acquaintance she man bave with Sj^auish ;
Nor would there be harm in a trifle of German,
In the absence, that is, of the master, Von Hermann.
The harp and piano — ccla va sans dire,
With thorough bass, too, on the plan of Logier.
In drawing in pencil and chalks, and the tinting
That's called Oriental, she must not be stint in ;
)60 Wit and Humour.
She must paint ni)on paper, and satin, and velvet -,
And if she knows gilding, she'll not need to shelve it.
Dancing, of coui'se, with the newest gambades,
The Polish mazurka, and best galopades :
Arithmetic, history, joined with chi-onology,
Heraldry, botany, writing, conchology,
Grammar, and satin-stitch, netting, geogi'aphy,
Astronomy, use of the globes, and cosmography.
'Twere also as well she should be calisthenical,
That her charges' j'ouug limbs may be pliant to any call.
Their health, play, and studies, and moral condition.
Must be superintended without intermission:
At home, she must all habits check that disparage.
And when they go out must attend to their carriage.
Her faith must be orthodox— temper most phable, —
Health good — and reference quite undeniable.
These are the principal matters. Ak rcste,
A.ddress, Bury-street, Mrs. General Peste.
As the salari/s moderate, none need api)ly
Who more on that point than comfort rely.
TILE TINKER AND THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
Dr.. John TN'^olcot.
[Better kno-mi as " Peter Pindar." Born 1738 ; died 1819.]
The meanest creature somewhat may contain,
As Providence ne'er makes a thing in vain.
Upon a day, a poor and trav'Uing tinker,
In Fortune's various tricks a constant thinker,
Pass'd in some village near a miller's door,
"Where, lo ! his eye did most astonish'd catch
'J'he miller's daughter peeping o'er the hatch,
Deform'd and monstrous ugly to be sure.
Struck with the uncommon form, the tinker started.
Just like a frighten'd horse, or mui-d'rer carted,
U2> gazing at the gibbet and the rope ;
Turning his brain about, in a brown study
(For, as I've said, his brain was not so muddy),
" Zounds !" quoth the tinker, " I have now some hopt
Fortune, the jade, is not far off, perchance."
And then began to rub his hands and dance.
Now, all so full of love, o'erjoyed he ran,
Embrac'd and squeez'd Miss Grist, and thus bc;:^an :
" My dear, my soul, my angel, sweet Miss Grist,
Now may I never mend a kettle more.
If ever I saw one like you befoi-e !"
Then nothing lotli, like Eve, the nymuh he kiss'J.
The Tinher and the Miller s Daughter, 561
Now, very sensibly indeed, Miss Grist
Thonght oijportunity sliould not be miss'd ; i
Knowing that prudery oft lets slip a joy ;
Thus was Miss Grist too prudent to be coy.
For really 'tis with girls a dangerous farce, |
To flout a swain when offers are hut scarce.
She did not scream, and cry, " I'll not be woo'd;
Keep off, you dingy fellow — don't be rude ;
I'm fit for your superiors, tinker." — No, '
Indeed she treated not the tinker so. * i
But lo ! the damsel with her usual squint,
Suffered her tinker-lover to imprint
Sweet kisses on her lips, and squeeze her hand, '
Hug her, and say the softest things unto her, i
And in love's plain and pretty language woo hei', '
Without a frown, or even a rei^rimand. '
Soon won, the nymph agreed to be his wife,
And, when the tinker chose, be tied for life.
Now to the father the brisk lover hied, ;
Who at his noisy mill so busy plied,
Grinding, and taking handsome toll of corn,
Sometimes, indeed, too handsome to be borne. ^
" Ho ! Master Miller," did the tinker say— ''
Forth from his cloud of tloi;r the miller came:
" Nice weather, Master ]\Iillei- — charming day —
Heaven's very kind." — The miller said the same.
" Now, miller, j^ossibly you may not guess ^
At this same business I am come about : H
'Tis this, then — know, I love your daughter Bess : —
There, Master Miller ! — now the riddle's out.
I'm not for mincing matters, sir ! d'ye see — i
I like your daughter Bess, and she likes me." 4d
" Poh !" quoth the miller, grinning at the tinker, i
" Thou dost not mean to marriage to jDcrsuade her; I
Ugly as is Old Nick, I needs must think her.
Though, to be sure, she is as heav'n has made her.
" No, no, though she's my daughter, I'm not blind ;
But, tinker, what hath now j^ossessed thy mind ;
Thou'rt the first offer she has met, by dad —
But tell me, tinker, art thou drunk or mad ?"
■' No — I'm not drunk nor mad," the tinker cried,
" But Bet's the maid I wish to make my bride ;
No girl in these two eyes doth Bet excel."
562 Wit and Humour.
" Wliy, fool !" the miller said, " Bet liatli a liump !
And then her nose ! — the nose of my old piimp."
" I know it," qnoth the tinker, " know it well."
" Her face," qnoth Grist, " is freckled, wrinkled flat ;
Her mouth as wide at. that of my torn cat :
And then she squints a thousand ways at once —
Her waist a corkscrew ; and her hair how red !
A downright Ininch of carrots on her head —
AVhy, what the deuce has got into thy sconce?"
" No deuce is in my sconce," rejoined the tinker;
" But, sir, what's that to you, if tine I think her ?"
" Why, man," quoth Grist, " she's fit to make a show,
And therefore sure I am that thou must banter."
" Miller," replied the tinker, " right, for know,
'Tis for that very thing, a show, I want her."
THE SONG OP THE SEASON.
H. Sutherland Edwards.
[As a lianl-working journalist and musical critic, Mr. Edwards occupies a
foremost position on the London Press.] •
At ten o'clock your maid awakes you,
You breakfast when she's done your hair.
At twelve the groom arrives and takes j'ou
In Eotten Row to breathe the air.
From twelve to one you ride with vigour,
Your horse how gracefully you sit !
Your habit, too, shows olT your figure,
As all your cavaliers admit.
One other habit I could mention —
I hope your feelings won't be hurt ; —
But you receive so much attention
I sometimes fancy you're a flirt.
Of course you're not annoyed, I merely woiild indita
Your life as you lead it bj' day and night.
At two you've lunch, at three it's over,
And visitors in shoals arrive ;
Admirers many, perhaps a lover —
Your next event is tea at five,
At six o'clock you go out driving
From Grosvenor to Albert Gate,
To occupy youx'self contriving
Till dinner-time comes round at eight.
Each hour as now the night advances
u4. Practical Lesson in Ancient History. 563
Some fresli attraction wltli it brings,
A concert followed by some dances,
The opera if Patti sings.
Of course you're not, &c.
At twelve you waltz, at one you've leisure
To trj'' some chicken and champagne ;
At two you do yourself the pleasure
Of starting olf to waltz again ;
At three your partners hate each other,
You scarcely know which loves you best,
Emotion you have none to smother.
But lightly with them all you jest.
At four your chaperon gives warning
That it is really time to go ;
You wisli good night, and say, next morning
At twelve you'll meet them in the Row.
Of course you're not, &c.
My darling, you're so very pretty,
I've often thought, upon my life,
That it would be a downright pity
To look upon you as a wife ;
I don't think your ideas of marriage
With those of many wovdd accord ;
The opera, horses and a carriage
Arc things so few men can afford.
And then yoii need so much devotion,
To furnish it who would not trj' ?
But each would find it, I've a notion,
Too much for one man to supply.
Of course you're not, &c.
{Bi/ 2}C)'/iiissioii of the Author.)
A PRACTICAL LESSON IN" ANCIENT HISTOEY.
Max Adeler,
[Max Adeler is among the latest, though not' least popular, of American
humorists. His chief works are "Out of the Hurly-Burly," "Elbow-
Room," "Random Shots," and "Transformations."]
Mr. Barnes, the master, read in the Educational Monthly that
boys could be taught history better than in any other way by
letting each boy in the class represent some historical character,
and relate the acts of that character as if he had done them himself.
This struck Barnes as a mighty good idea, and he resolved to put
it in practice. The school had then progressed so far in its study
of the history of Rome as the Punic wars, and Mr. Barnes imme-
diately divided the boys into two parties, one Romans and the
other Carthaginians, and certain of the boys were named after the
564 Wii unci Humour.
*
leaders \i-pon botli sides. All the boys thought it Tvas a fine thing>
and Barnes noticed that they were so anxious to get to the history
lesson that they could hardly say their other lessons projDcrly.
When the time came, Barnts ranged the Eomans upon one sid«
of the room and the Carthaginians on the other. The recitation
was very spirited, each paxty telling about its deeds with extra-
ordinary unction. After a while Barnes asked a Eoman to describe
the battle of Canna?, whereupon the Eomans hurled their copies of
Wayland's Moral Science at the enemy. Then the Carthaginians
made a battering-ram out of a bench and jammed it among the
Eoman'!, who retaliated with volleys of books, slates and chewed
paper-balls. Barnes concluded that the battle of Cannro had been
sufficiently illustrated, and ho tried to stop it; but the warriors
considered it too good a thing to let droji, and accordinglj' the
Carthaginians dashed over to the Eomans with another battering-
ram, and thumped a couple of them savagely.
When the Eomans turned in, and the fight became general, a
Carthaginian would grasp a Eoman by the hair and hustle him
around over the desk in a manner that was simply frightful, and a
Eoman would give a fiendish whoop and knock a Carthaginian
over the head with Greenleaf's arithmetic. Hannibal got the
head of Scipio Africanus under his arm, and Scipio, in his efforts
to break away, stumbled, and the two generals fell and had a
rough-and-tumble fight under the blackboard. Caius Gracchus
prodded Hamilcar with a ruler, and the latter, in his struggles to
get loose, fell against the stove and knocked down about thirty
feet of stove-pipe. Thereupon the Eomans made a grand rally,
and in five minutes they chased the entire Carthaginian army out
of the schoolroom, and Barnes along with it ; and then thcj' locked
the door and began to hunt up the apples and lunch in the desks
of the enemy.
After consuming the supplies they went to the windows and
made disagreeable remarks to the Carthaginians, who were standing
in the yard, and dared old Barnes to bring the foe once more into
battle array. Then Barnes went for a policeman ; and when he
knocked at the door, it was opened, and all the Eomans were found
busy studying their lessons. When Barnes came in with the
defeated troops he went for Scipio Africanus ; and pulling him
out of his seat by the ear, he thrashed that great military genius
with a rattan until Scipio began to cry, whereupon Barnes dropped
him and began to paddle Caius Gracchus. Then things settled
down in the old way, and next morning Barnes announced that
historj' in future would be studied as it always had been ; and he
wrote a note to the Educational Monthly to say that, in his opinion,
the man who suggested the new system ought to be led out and
shot. The boys do not now take as much interest iu Eomau
history as they did on that day.
THE EXD. 7
ES1W5SV1V1 f
<ril3DNVS01^
,^WEUNIVER%
^lOSAKCEli^^
o
-5^t-UBRARYQ^^ ^\m
^smm%^w %a3AiNn]WV ^ojitvdjov
.^WEUNIVERS/A
^lOSANCElfj-^
o
^OFCAllFOi?^
"<rii3DNvsoi^ "^/saaAiNfi-^wv >&Aavaan#
3»
^IIIBRARYQ^
^lUBRARYQ^^
^'rtEUNIVERS'/A
^(i/OJlWOJO'^
^OFCAllFOff.,1^
^tfOJIWDJO^
^OFCALIFO)?^
^ L
O
^WEUNIVERS/A
^6>Aavagiii'^ "^(^Aavaan-i^ %ijonvsoi^'^
O
,^WEUN1VER5-//,
o
aWEUNIVERS-//)
vK-lOSANCElfXx
o
"^Aa^AiNn-iwv
vS:lOSANCELfx>
§ ^^ -^
^TilJONVSOl^ %a3AINfl]WV^
^^•LIBRARYQ^ A^lllBRA
^OFCAUFO/?^ ^-
\WEUNIVER%
^fiiaoNVSoi^
.5MEl)NlVERy/A
.vioH
^vVOSANCElfX^
m^"^
L 009 505 034 "^f^^
UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY
AA 001232134 5
^xii]DNvso)^^ -^^/5a3AiNa-3\<^ ^>&A«vaani'^^ yo-mum
mmmm^ ^llBRARYQ., .^WEUNIVERJ//,
^lOSANCElfJ
o
'^<tfOJIlV3JO^ ^^.!/OJIlV}jO^ <ril30NYSO\^^
^OFCALIF0ff/(^
^OFCAIIFOff^
"^^JAavaani^
"^Aavaan-^^
^WEl]NIVER%
<rjl30NY-S01^
%a3AiNa-3Vi
v^VOSANGElf.
o
%a]AIN(l-3\
..W^EUNIVERS/A.
CO
. ^ O
.5,WEUN1VER%
^lOSANCElfx>.
O
■V/sa3AlN(l-3Wv
.vWSANCElfj';>,
^lLIBRARY<9/c
-^^■IIBRARY
^.SOJIlVD-i
^OFCAllFOff^ ^OFCALIFd
%i3DNvsoi^ -^vy^aaAiNn-JWV" v^AHvaaiv^ ^^Abvaaii