'•^•;* y (I W*S> ->^ FAITH. From a celebrated paintint,^ by C. VON BODKNHAUSEN. J Perfect Pearls OF POETRY AND PROSE THE MOST UNIQUE, TOUCHING, INSPIRING AND BEAUTIFUL LITERARY TREASURES THE CHOICEST GEMS OF POETRY AND PHILOSOPHY, WIT AND HUMOR, STATESMANSHIP AND RELIGION, CONTRIBUTED BY THE WORLD'S MOST BRILLIANT MEN AND WOMEN OF GENIUS MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED AUTHORS OF ESTABLISHED FAME AND MANY WHOSE NAMES ARE UNKNOWN ARE REPRESENTED IN THIS PRECIOUS CASKET OF PRICELESS PEARLS THE RICHEST VOLUME IN ALL THE REALM OF BOOKS FOR THE HOME CIRCLE PROFUSELY AND ELEGANTLY ILLUSTRATED Edited by O. H. TIFFANY, D.D. m m C. W. STANTON COMPANY CHICAGO, ILL. '^. Copyrighted. C. W. STANTON COMPANY CONTENTS. Publisher's Preface IlfTRODUCTIOX Index of Authors (Prose) IifDEX OF Authors (Poetry) List of Full-Pac4e Illustrations List of Other Illustrations . Perfect Pearls of Poetry and Prose Index of Prose (Titles) Index of Poems (Titles) Index of Poems (First Lines) PAGE 9 11 15 19 27 29 37 709 713 723 SUMMAEY Indexes of Authors, First Lines, ate, Perfect Pearls Full-Page Plates .... Total Number .... 54 pages 672 pages 40 pages 806 pages PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. 5N preparing these "Perfect Pearls" the Publishers have cooperated heartily with the Editor in his eflfort to produce a book of unequalled excellence. He has gathered the " apples of gold ;" they have set them in "pictures of silver." Particular attention has been given to every detail of the publication. Paper has been prepared expressly for this volume. Ita texture is firm and durable ; its surface is elegantly finished ; and ita tone is delicate and pleasing to the eye. Typographical effects have been carefully studied at every point, the aim being to secure beauty in the page, with the greatest possible com- fort to the reader. In the matter of binding, materials have been selected with reference to durability and elegant appearance, while the workmanship is in the best style of the art. 9 10 PUBLISHERS' PREFACE. Illustrative art lias been taxed to the utmost in tlie adornment of the book, and in its pictorial embellishment. At greatly increased editorial and pecuniary expense, the illustrations are all made to elucidate the vari- ous poems and prose pieces of the text. They form an artistic commentary on the choice subject-matter, and give a cliarming and picturesque effect to the entire work. In addition to the numerous full-page illustrations, there are countless smaller artistic engravings, each one selected because of its special fitness in clearly presenting and beautifying the text. Among the distinguished artists whose jiictorial gems adorn these pages, are Bensell, Parley, Grey, Hill, Hennessey, Heine, Herrick, Kensett, Linton, ^lacdonough, McEntee, Moran, Parsons, Smillie, Soo}', Schell, Sweeney (Boz.), and many others equally skillful. In short, whatever care and generous expenditure has been necessary to secure completeness and elegance has been lavishly given in preparing " Perfect Pearls of Poetry and Prose." It is now presented to the consid- eration of an appreciative public, with the hope that it will prove a blessing and iuspuation to all Avho become its happy possessor. "GEMS FOR THE FIRESIDE." "TREASURY FOR THE HOME CIRCLE." "LIBRARY OF PROSE AND VERSE." ;HESE terms from the title-page of the Publishers, admirably and sufficiently express the scope and aim of the present beautifully F illustrated volume. It has been the constant endeavor of both I Publishers and Editor to gather from the entire range of litera- t ture the very finest pieces, and the accumulated productions of the ages have been scanned, again and again, in order to secure such Gems as shall reach the high standard of excellence indicated by the Publishers in their prospectus. Every unique work in literature has a history which may be thoroughly known and felt by its author, and yet be unknown and unsus- pected by its reader. This history may be an extended one. Great preachers have said of their best sermons, that it had taken them many years to prepare them. They were the product of a lifetime spent in ob- servation and study. Gray's Elegy, revolved in his own mind, was re- written under fresh inspiration, and pruned again and again, until that brief poem stands as the one beautiful monument of his literary life. 11 12 INTRODUCTION. Poe's name and fame live chiefly in that wonderful production " The Raven;" the outcome, doubtless, of some deep, wild, intense, personal experience. Miss Nancy Priest wrote nothing comparable with her exquisite " Over the River," and Mrs. Alexander gave us, to be treasured forever, " The Burial of Moses." Exquisite gems of literature, in prose and poetry, are not often the pro- ductions of the cool thought of men and women of genius, but rather they are the outcome of some all-absorbing inspiration resulting from intense personal feeling, or from some momentous event. Patrick Henry's ever- memorable words were fired to the white heat of devotion to his country by the crisis upon which hung the destinies of her three millions of peo- ple, and the question of freedom to this New World. Only the demands of a terrible crisis in the great war of the Rebellion, could have produced the immortal Emancipation Proclamation. Not unfrequently the accumulated thought of years is fixed and formulated by the occurrences of an instant. Glowing devotion to our country's flag found quick expression in " The Star Spangled Banner," when, after a night of fierce bombardment, dawn disclosed it still proudly floating over the walls of old Fort McHenry. The overwhelming pride of an obedient British soldiery gave expression to the pen of Tennyson, in that intense and thrilling poem, " The Charge of the Light Brigade," when the noble six hundred made their famous dash at Balaklava. As the great crises of human history call forth the great utterances, the world may never have another " Uncle Tom's Cabin," or " Fool's Errand." As but few men have been permitted to impress humanity by many heroic deeds, so but few poets, philosophers, statesmen, or orators, have given many " apples of gold in [)ictures of silver " to the world. Because of these well-attested facts one may possess many volumes, in most of which a few beauties form the chief attraction. The gems im- part the value. Witliout thorn the volumes would lack their lustre. Not the mass of soil and rock, but the gold and jewels in that mass give value to the El Dorados and the Great Bonanzas of the world. And so it is with books. In gathering "Gems for the Fireside," real gems only have been Bought. Numberless productions of average worth have been passed by. INTRODUCTION. 13 Nothing but excellence finds a place in this treasury. By reason of its unique character and wonderful variety, the book will prove a welcome companion; it will meet every mood of the human heart. The most exquisite humor, the most touching pathos, the most thrilling patriotism, the grandest words of statesmanship, the most impressive utterances of the orator, the profound reasonings of the philosopher, the cutting satire of the critic, indeed every department of literature is fittingly repre- sented in this treasury. And these "Gems" are for the "Fireside." Nothing harmful must ever enter that Eden, but all influences of good must shield the purity, and stimulate the holy ambitions, which are so appropriately enshrined in that sanctuary of embowered bliss. "Home," to an ear refined, is sweetest of spoken words; "Home," to an appreciative heart, is fullest of good impulses and holiest memo- ries. " Home " is the goal to which wanderers return in thought and hope; it is the influence which longest retains its hold on earnest youth, casting its starry brightness even over the stormy seas of vice and dissipation ; it is the attraction which oftenest lures weary prodigals back from error and from sin to the peaceful happy isles of the blest; so. Home, which is to all men the symbol of love, and purity, and hope, must have its "treasury" of "gems of purest ray serene." To constitute this " Library of Prose and Verse," the literary stores of many lands have been put under contribution; England and Germany, and France and Italy are represented by their choicest Poets. Eussia, India, China, Greece and Rome are present in admirable translations. Our own America will be seen to be no whit behind the foremost in the full and copious list of men and women, who have made, and are daily increasing her claims for prominence in the world of letters. We have from Europe, the master mind of Shakespeare, the solid grandeur of Milton, the romantic beauty of Scott, the homely sincerity of Burns, the philosophic meditations of Wordsworth, the impassioned lines of Byron, the delicate fancy of Shelly, the melodious beauty of Moore, the mirth- ful humor of Hood, and from America the " very choicest productions " of the most famous of her sons and daughters. The topics and themes are as varied as the authors. 14 INTRODUCTION. Since " freedom's battle once begun " is a perpetual inheritance, so round the fireside the ruddy flame of a loyal patriotism must glow. And heroic sires will find inspiration for their sons in the selections from Campbell, Longfellow, Baker, Everett, Webster and Lincoln. As the Home must be the place for holy breathings and for conse- crated hearts, it will be found that a number of selections have been made from Addison, Bunyan, Montgomery, Muhlenburg, Bonar, Willis and others, whose verse and meditations are alike free from pious cant and bigoted sectarianism. It is believed that this collection contains vastly more of entertain- ment, culture and inspiration than any other volume of like size and price. It has been prepared at great expense and labor, to meet a want felt in every home, for a volume, that shall be for every day use, a source of constant instruction, inexhaustible entertainment and permanent good, that will cheer the solitary hour and charm the entire family circle. 0. PI. TlFFA'^Y. INDEX OF AUTHORS. (PROSE) Adeleb, Max, (Charles Heber Clarke). Catching the Morning Train . . 61 Ajtdessen. Hans Chkistiait. The Little Match Girl 156 Ajsionymous. The Generous Soldier Saved . . 91 Jimmy Butler and the Owl . » o 101 Good-night Papa, 118 Too Late for the Train 125 Yankee and the Dutchman's Dcg. 131 United in Death 137 De Pint wid Old Pete 143 Jenkins goes to a P'cnio .... 163 Pledge with Wine ...... 166 The Old Wife's Kiss 244 The Last Station 271 Sohooling a Husband 313 Lord Dundreary at Brighten . . 363 Ettgulas to the Roman Senate. . 370 Mypochondiiac ........ 403 Mariner's description of fisuio . 496 A Husband's Experience in Cook- ing 519 The Life of a Child Fairy ... 529 Selling a Coat ........ 585 My Mother's Bible .... 811 The Noble Revenge 6M The Grotto of Antiparos .... 636 Fingal's Cave . » 648 Winter Sports . = 667 Bailey, J. M., (Danbury News Man). Mr. Stiver's Horse 112 Sewing on a Button 169 Baxtee, Richard. The Rest of the Just .54-5 Beecher, Henry Ward. 'Biah Cathcart's Proposal. . . . 293 Death of President Lincoln . . . 598 Loss of the Arctic 633 Berkley, Bishop George. Industry the Source of Wealth . 180 li 16 AUTHORS OF PROSE. BiLLisGS, Josh, (Henry W. Shaw). Manifest Destiny 457 Beowk, Charles F., (Artemus Ward). Artemus Ward at the Tomb of Shakespeare 152 Artemus Ward visits the Shakers 420 Btjbke, Edmund. The Order of Nobility 227 On the Death of his Son ... . 231 BuiTTAN, John. The Golden City ...... . 303 Baker, Edward Dickinson. Worse than Civil War 516 Chapin, Rev. Dr. Er>wis Hubbfll. The Ballot-Box 617 Choate, Rufus. The Birth-day of Washington . 444 Clemens, Samuel L., (Mark Twain). Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer 121 European Guides 211 Jim Smiley's Frog 610 Buck Fanshaw's Funeral . . , . 671 CozzENs, Frederick S. The Dumb-Waiter ....... 279 Geoly, George. Constantius and the Li :ii ... 239 Cdmming, Rev. John, D. D. Voices of the Dead . .... 298 CuBTis, George William. Ideas the Life of a People . . . -110 Dickens, Charles. Mr. Pickwick in a Dilemma . . 71 Death of Little Joe 134 The Drunkard'H Death 189 Death of Little Nell 256 Pip's Fight 287 Recol lections of my Christmas Tree ''07 A Child's Dream of a Star ... 345 The Paufi'T's Funeral 365 Mr. Pickwick in the Wrong Room 375 Nicholas Nii'klehy leaves Dothe- hoys' Hall 390 Sam Weller's Valentine 532 DiBfcAKLi, Benjamin. The Hebrew Race 67 Jeru.nalern by Moonlight .... 568 De Qxjincet, Thomas. Execution of Joan of Arc. . . . 145 Dougherty, Daniel. Pulpit Oratory „ . . 81 DwiGHT, Timothy. The Notch of the White Moun- tains o . 423 Emmet, Robert. A Patriot's Last Appeal .... 546 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Self-Reliance 607 Everett, Edward, Hon. LL.D. Last Hours of Webster .... 153 Morning 355 The Indian to the Settler .... 463 The Pilgrim Fathers 524 The Clock-work of the Skies . . 630 Feanklin, Benjamin. Arrival in Philadelphia 657 Feoude, James Anthony. The Coronation of Anne Boleyn 194 Garfield, James A., President. Golden Gems (Selected from Ora- tions and Writings) .... 640 Greenwood, Francis W. P. Poetry and Mystery of the Sea . 175 GouGH, John B. Buying Gape-seed 57 What is a Minority 270 Haliburton, Thomas C Soft Sawder iuid Human Natur. 646 Hervey, James. Meditation at an Infant's Tomb 321 Hawthornk, Nathaniel. Sights from a Steeple 470 Holland, Josiah Gilbert. Tramp, Tramp, Tramp 201 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. The Front and Side Doors ... 43 Sea-shoro and Mountains .... 416 Howitt, Mrs. Mary. Mountains 427 Hugo, Viotoe. Cauf^ht in the Quicksand .... 223 The Gamin 275 Rome and Carthage 350 AUTHORS OF PROSE. 17 Ibvikg, Edward. David, King of Israel 486 Ievinq, Washington. Baltus Van Tassel's Farm ... 49 Sorrow for the Dead 88 Rural Life in England 284 A Time of Unexampled Prosperity 448 The Organ of Westminster Abbey 474 Sights on the Sea 574 The Tombs of Westminster . . 621 JiFFERsoN, Thomas. The Character of Washington . 559 Jerrold, Douglas. Winter 55 Mrs. Caudle needs Spring Clothing 478 Mrs. Caudle on Shirt Buttons . . 499 Jones, J. William. The Responsive Chord 614 Kane, Elisha Kent. Formation of Icebergs .... 627 Arctic Life 652 Kelly, Rev. William V. Sunrise at Sea . 337 Lamartine. Execution of Madame Roland . . 686 Landor, Walter Savage. The Genius of Milton 487 Lincoln, Abraham. Dedication at Gettysburg .... 141 Retribution 162 Macaulay, Thomas Babington. The Puritans 182 Milton 232 Images 264 Tacitus . . . . , 390 Massillon, Jean Baptists. Immortality 207 MacLeai., Mrs. Letitia E. The Ruined Cottage 96 Milton, John. The Freedom of the Press ... 172 Truth 198 MosELE-i , Litchfield The Charity Dinner 326 Making Love in a Balloon . . . 590 Pabk, Mimoo. African Hospitality 66 Paekee, Theodore. The Beauty of Youth ... .697 Phillips, Wendell. Political Agitation 506 PoE, Edgar A. The Domain of Arnheim .... 433 PooLE, John. Old Coaching Days 579 Porter, Noah. Advice to Young Men 598 Prime, William C. Morality of Angling 38 Habits of Trout 643 Prentiss, S. S. New England 105 Purchas, Samuel Praise of the Sea 75 Richter, Jean Paul. The Two Roads 109 Riddle, Mrs. J. H. The Ghosts of Long Ago .... 99 Russell, William H. The Light Brigade at Balaklava 58 RusKiN, John. Improving on Nature 503 Book Buyers 660 Selected. Gathered Gold Dust 4d Diamond Dust 521 Shellev, Percy Bysshe. The Divinity of Poetry .... 394 Shillaber, B. p., (Mrs. Partington.) Mouse Hunting 217 Sprague, William B. Voltaire and Wilberfcrce ... 661 Staitley, Arthur Pznrhyn. Children of the Desert 385 Stowe, Mrs. Harriet Beecheb. Zeph Higgins' Confession . . . 248 The Little Evangelist 359 Sumner, Charles. Progress of Humanity 453 Scott, Sir Walter. Rebecca Describes the Siege ] . . 539 Talmage, Rev. T. De Witt, D. L. Dress Reform 560 Mother's Vacant Chair .... 556 Grandmother's Spectacles. . . . 676 Shooting Porpoises 704 18 AUTHORS OF PROSE. Tab305, Charles. Scene at Niagara ........ 234 Taylor, Jeremt. Useful Studies 292 Wabker, Charles Dudley. Uncle Dan'l's Apparition and Prayer 121 The Coming of Thanksgiving . . . l-iS Out Debt to Irving 563 ffASursGTOS, George. Address to his Troops 408 Inaugural Address 603 Webster, Da-siel. Crime Self-Revealed 632 Whitcher, Frances Miriam. The Widow Bedott's Poetry Whitset, Mrs. Adeline D. T. The Little Rid Hin . . Whipple, Edwin F. The Power of Words. . . . WiET, William. The Blind Preacher . . . . Wiley, Charles A. Caught in the Maelstrom . Wylie, J. A. Defence of Pra Del Tor . . . 82 . 482 . 665 . 18S . 412 . 690 INDEX OF AUTHORS. (POETRY) Adams, Osables F. The Puzzled Dutciiman = . . . = 151 Pat's Criticism 154 The Little Conqueror 1'35 Der Drummer 297 Hans and Fritz ... ■ . 311 Leedle Yawcob Strauss 418 Aj)Diso5, Joseph. Cato on Immortality 391 Akees, Elizabeth. Rock me to Sleep, Mother . . . 274 Alexander, Mrs. C. F. The Burial of Moses ... .289 Algee. H., Jr. John Maynard 406 Alger, William Pw., (Translator). The Sufi Saint 2S4 The Parting Lov^ers -356 Altesburg, Michael. Battle Song of Gustavus Adol- phus 430 AUACREOH. The Grasshopper King 42 Axosraors. Shall we know each other there ? Song of the Decanter The Farmer and the Counsellor . Charley's Opinion of the Baby . Socrates Snooks Papa's Letter .... Betty and the Bear Love lightens Labor " Love me little Love me long ". Scatter the Germs of the Beautiful Old School Punishment The Poor Indian . Two Little Kittens Motherhood . . . Roll on thou Sun . Twenty Years Ago The Nation's Dead Call me not Dead . The Sufi Saint . . Putting up o* the Stove The Engineer's Story The Baggage Fiend . £9 87 100 120 124 168 171 182 191 195 209 007 229 229 234 261 266 269 284 290 295 300 19 20 AUTHORS OF FOEMS. The Song of the Forge = . . . Civil War Go feel what I have felt .... Paddy's Excelsior Chinese Excelsior Father Time's Changeling . . . Prayers of Children Now I lay me down to sleep . . The Frenchman and the Rats . The Parting Lovers ...... Annie Laurie = . . A Kiss at the Door. ...... Clerical Wit Lines on a Skeleton Song of the Stormy Petrel . . . Paying her Way The Chemist to his Love .... No Sects in Heaven Evening brings us Home . . . John Jankin's Sermon .... The Laugh of a Child ..... Dot Lambs what Mary Haf Got St. John the Aged ....... ■' The Penny ye meant to Gi'e." The Mystic Weaver Mrs. Lofty and I Our Skater Belle Searching for the Slain .... The True Temple The Drummer Boy Two Views Our Lambs Dorothy Sullivan Tlie Eggs and the Horses .... The Maple Tree „ . . A Wf»man's Love . A Mother's Love ....... A.RK WRIGHT, I'F.I.KO. Poor Little Joe Allinouam, William. The Fames Aehold, Edwis, (Trinslator). Call mo noL Dead Arnold, Qv.nnnr.. The Jolly Old PedaRogue . . . A.TTOUNK, William E. Til" Bnri'-'l KImW' r . . ■ • BiiCHE, Ahi*a Th.) Quilting 304 318 31S 323 324 324 329 332 335 356 385 401 401 417 440 452 469 500 502 543 549 567 575 581 587 596 597 602 615 616 625 629 685 694 609 702 703 358 515 269 258 56 Barxaed, Lady Anne. Auld Robin Gray ....... 173 Beattie, James. The Hermit ...... o.. 595 Law 679 Bell, Chas. A. Tim Twinkleton'p _ vvins .... 106 Besnaed De Moklaix. The Celestial Country 650 Bickersteth, Edward. The Ministry of Jesus , = . . . 703 Blake, William. The Tiger . 357 Bokee, Geoege H, Battle of Lookout Mountain . . 57ff Bonar, Hoeatius. Life from Death , . . 170 Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping 268 Beainaed, Mart G. He Knows 577 Beooks, Chaeles T., (Translator). Winter Song . 596 Beowning, Elizabeth Barrett. Sonnet from the Portuguese . . 370 A Portrait • . 388 The Cry of the Children .... 699 Brown, Emma Alice. Measuring the Baby 520 Bryant, Wm. Cullen. Forest Ilymn 37 Waiting by the Gate 77 Song of Marion's Men 133 Thanatopsis , 214 " Blessed are they that Mourn ". 242 The Death of the Flowers ... 349 Robert of Lincoln 387 The Murdered Traveler .... 402 To a Water Fowl ....... 626 The Crowded Strceta 567 God in the Seas 694 Buchanan, Robert. Noll S93 BuNOAY, George William. The Creeds ot tho Bells .... 309 Burns, Roisert. ninhliind Mary 262 Duncan Gray cam' Lore to woo. 336 John Anderson, My Jo 469 AUTHORS OF POEMS. 21 Bt«on, Lord Geobge Gordon. Cooke, Philip P. The Orient 221 Florence Vane 281 The Sea 262 Coolidge, Susan. The Destruction of Sennacherib 296 When 450 His Latest Verses 484 Cornwall, Barry, (Bryan W. Procter) Campbell, Thomas. Lord Ullin's Daughter 551 The Blood Horse The Poet's Song to his Wife . . The Sea 42 68 362 The Soldier's Dream Canning, George. The Needy Knife-Grinder . . . Gary, Phcebe. Kate Ketchem Dreams and Realities Gary, Alice. My Creed Cableton, Will. M. 578 228 The Owl The Stormy Petrel Cranch, Christopher Pearse. 422 439 461 485 266 By the Shore of the River . . . Cunningham, Allan. A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea Cutter, George W. The Miser 517 587 226 Gone with a handsomer Man . . 139 Dana, Richard Henry. Goin' Home To-day 265 The Pleasure Boat 60 Betsy and I are out 381 Derzhavin, Gabriel Romanovitch. Betsey Destroys the Paper . . . 383 God 537 The New Church Organ .... 588 Dobell, Sydney. Over the Hills to the Poor-House 679 How's my Boy ? 353 Out of the Old House, Nancy . . 697 Dodge, Mrs. Mary Mapes. Case, Phila H. Learning to Pray 331 Nobody's Child 302 The Minuet 340 Catlin, George L. Drake, Joseph Rodman. The Fire-Bell's Story 554 The American Flag 467 Bread on the Waters 612 Donnelly, Eleanor C. Chalkhill, John, (Isaak Walton). Vision of Monk Gabriel .... 659 The Angler 205 DuFFERiN, Lady. Gibber, Colley. Lament of the Irish Emigrant . 62 The Blind Boy 365 DuRYEA, Rev. William E. Cleveland, E. H. J. Shibboleth 583 A Song for Hearth and Home . 543 Clough, Arthur Hugh. Eager, Cora M. As Ships Becalmed 422 The Ruined Merchant 197 COATES, ReYNELL. Eastman, Charles Gamage. The Gambler's Wife 688 A Snow-Storm 409 Cobb, Henry N. Effie, Aunt. Father, Take my Hand .... 333 1 The Dove Cote 232 The Gracious Answer 334 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Collins, William. The Snow-Storm 63 Sleep of the Brave 605 Mountain and Squirrel .... 590 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. Sunrise in Valley of Chamounix. 663 Fawcett, Edgar. Coles, Abraham, (Translator). 1 A Prayer for my Little One. . . 682 Dies Irae 456 1 Fields, Jame.=! T. Stabat Mater 504 1 The Tempest 203 Cook, Eliza. Ford, Mary A. The Old Arm-Chair 285 ' A Hundred Years from Novf . . ir AUTHORS OF POEMS. Feeiligkath, Ferdinand. The Lion's Ride 45o Feeneao, Philip. Indian Death Song 518 Gage, Mes. F. D. The Housekeeper's Soliloquy. . 78 Gaedette, C. D. The Fire-Fiend 160 Gabrett, Edward. The Unbolted Door ..... 129 Geeot, Paul. The Children's Church 692 GiLMAJf, Caroline. The American Boy 268 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang. The Soul of Eloquence 97 The Church Window 358 GoDDAED, Julia. Hide and Seek 454 Goodrich, Orrin . Borrioboola Gha 525 Geahame, James, Rev. The Sabbath 610 Gray, Thomas. Elegy in a Country Church-Yard. 203 Haet, T. B. The Reveille 618 Habte, Feancis Bret. Miss Edith helps things Along . 2r)i Fate 258 Jim 3:;;9 Dow's Flat 42G Bill Ma.son'H Bride ^8 Haveroal, Frances Ridley. The Lull of Eternity 62G Hat, John. The Law of Death 517 Heine, HEiNuicn. The Fifiher's Cottage 25.^ Hemans, Frmcia Dorothea. Tlio IIomfM of England 64 Landing of the PilprirriR . . . . 205 The Mcoting of the Ship.^ . . . 230 Hour of Death 074 Hekderson, William H. " No more Sea." Oil Hetwood, Thomas. Song of Birds 371 Holland, Josfah Gilbert. Cradlr. Hong 277 vlradaiim 558 Whore Shall 15aby"H Dimjde Be? G8'J Holmes, C. E. L. You put no Flowers on my Papa's Grave 192 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. The wonderful One-hose Shay . 69 Under the Violets 267 Union and Liberty 273 A Tailor's Poem on Evening . . 445 Bill and Joe 458 The Last Leaf 512 Hood. Thomas. The Death-Bed 199 The Comet 260 I Remember 273 The Song of the Shirt 282 The Bridge of Sighs 354 Ruth 367 Faithless Nelly Gray 405 No 506 Nocturnal Sketch 609 Holty, Ludwig. Winter Song 596 Hoyt, Ralph. Old 431 Hugo, Victor. TheDjinns 468 Hunt, Leigh. Abou Ben Adhem 225 Ingelow, Jean. When Sparrows Build 471 Seven Times Two 619 Jones, J. A. The Gladiator 565 Jones, Sir William. What Constitutes a State? . . . 367 Key, Francls Scott. The Star Sjiangled Banner . . . 466 King, Henry. Life 642 Kinosley, Charles. The Lost Doll 311 The Sands o' Dee 392 The Merry Lark 463 Knox, William. Whv ^'huuld (he Spirit of mortal lie Proud? 411 KoKNER, Charles Theodore. Sword Song 313 LaMI'ERTIITS. A (Jeririan Trust Song 58f AUTHORS OF POEMS 23 Letghton, Robert. Jcha and Tibbie Davison's Dispute 572 Lelaud, Charles G., (Translator). The Fisher's Cottage 253 Levee, Charles James. Widow Malone 375 LoroFELLow, Henry Wadsworth. The Old Clock on the Stairs. . . 40 The Bridge 51 The Rainy Day . 88 Embarkation of the Exiles. . . 90 The Silent River 220 A Psalm of Life. . 241 Maidenhood 246 Resignation 251 Excelsior 322 Hiawatha's Journey 342 Hiawatha's Wooing 344 Hiawatha's Return 345 The Launching of the Ship. . , 389 The Arsenal at Springfield . . . 424 God's Acre 498 Evangeline on tie Prairie. . . . 505 Day-dawn 549 The Children's Hour ...... 656 The Chamber Over the Gate . . 693 The Day is Done . , 706 Lover, Samuel. The Angel's Whisper 277 Lowell, James Russell. The First Snow-fall 137 The Rose 669 LowBY, Rev. Robert, D. D. I Love the Morning Sunshine . . 275 Dust on her Bible . 666 Ltns, Ethel. Why ? ,655 Ltttok, Lord Edward Bulweb. There is no Death 451 Macdonald, George. Baby 82 Mackat, Charles. Little and Great 441 Cleon and 1 597 Clear the Way 623 MiGHONETTE, MaY. Over the Hills from Poor- House . 681 MiLLEB, Joaquin. Kit Carson's Ride 472 2 Miller, William E. Wounded. .....,,= . 188 Milman. Henry Hart. Jewish Hymn in Jerusalem. . • 502 Milnes, Richard Mokcrton London Churches ...••'. 237 The Brock Side. ....... 247 Mitchell, William. The Palace o' the King. , , . . 288 M'Callum, D. C. The Water-Mill . 20C M'Keever. Harriet B. The Moravian Requiem .... 225 Snow-flakes. . 243 Montgomery, James. My Country ......... 179 Servant of God, well doae . . . 254 Night 3Gi The Pelican . . , 446 Moore, Thomas. The Home of Peace 337 The ;Meeting of the Waters. . . 484 The Light-House , . 513 Echoes 645 Moreis, George P. My Mother's Bible ....... 523 Moultrie, John. The Three Sons 52S Muhlenberg, Rev. William A., D D. I would not live alway 353 Mulock, Dinah Maria. Buried To-day 243 Munfobd, William. To a Friend in Affliction .... 688 Nairne, Lady Carolina The Land o* the Leal .... 421 Norton, Caroline E. Bingen on the Rhine .... 86 The King of Denmark's Ride . 379 O'Brien, Fitz James. The Cave of Silver 568 Osgood, Frances S. Labor is Worship 619 Palmer, John W. For Charlie'.^ Sake .641 Payne, John Howard. Home, Sweet Home . . . . : 6JA u AUTHORS OF POEMS. PebcivaIv- 3 AiiES GAraa The Coral Gi«re. ...... . 678 Pbttee, Geoege W, Sleighing feoag , -. 338 PlE&POSJ, Jgh5 Net OD ifce Battle-field .... 531 PCE. EdGAB Al.i'.K.V. Ihe Raven . , . , 158 Ansabel Irte = . 553 TLc Beils ........ o . 593 pO TTAT iT). JOSSFHIBE. Tie First Party . , 414 PsiJXfs?. E. The Mysttery o<" Lil^ in Christ . 233 PbESTOS. MASaAEKT J, The Ile.'/o of the Commune . . . 278 Fbiest. Iij>:sc7 Amelia Woodbuet. Oxer the River 142 PBCCTOB. AlitLAIDE ANKE. A Legend oi Bregenz 62 A Fii8t Sorrov7 o ....... 179 A Woman's Question 358 Per Pacem ad Lucem, 553 The AngeVe Story. ...... 637 pjicuT, Fatheb. The Bells of Sliaaoloii. 573 Rai-eioh, Sis Walieb. The Wytart 9 Reply to the Shep- herd ........... 381 Ralph, Rev. vV S. WbiEtling in Heaven 116 Ratmofd Rossiier W Rambling^ in Greece. „ . . . . 696 Bead, Tho.yas Lvcha-SAN, Dnfting 210 Sherdan's Ride. 536 The CloBing Scene 556 BOBBIBS, AUCB. Left Aione tt Eighty 372 Joe o 514 Bosenoafxen Throagt Tnair. 658 Iam., .Scpv OorFKFY. /.TDcnoap Ariftocr»ry 71 touy of Iur*'aje» 95 7,Lo Cockney .',........ 193 Early Rising 341 BtiKd fJ';D iD'ltho Elephant . . 398 I as Qrowing Old 438 SooTT, SiE Walter. Patriotism 234 Selected. Life (From Thirty-eight authors). 496 Shakespeare, Willlam. Hark, hark the Lark 319 Airy Nothings 325 Mercy 379 Quarrel of Brutus and Caseins . 476 Selected Gems 634 Shelley, Percy Bysshe. To Night 242 The Cloud 437 The Sun is Warm, the Sky ... 601 Shillaeee, B. p., (Mrs. Partington.) My Childhood's Home .... 196 SiQOUEJfEY, Mrs. Lydia Huntley. The Coral Insect 146 The Bell of " The Atlantic" . . 184 Niagara .......... o 647 Smith, Dexter. Ring the Bell Softy ...... 282 Smith, Mary Riley. Sometime 373 Smith, James. The Soldier's Pardon . . . . 236 Smith, Horace. The Gouty Merchant 216 Hymn to the Flowers . . . • . 255 Smith, Seba. The Mother in the Snow-Storm . 513 Snow, Sophia P. Annie and Willie's Prayer . 395 Scuthey, Mrs. Caroline Bowle.s. The Pauper's Death-Bed .... 216 Southey, Robert. The Cataract of Lodore . ■ . . 248 The Ebb-Tide 418 Spenser, Edmund. The Ministry of Angela .... 702 Spooner, a. C. OM Times and New 429 Sprague, Charles I Sec Thee Still 144 Stedman, Edmund Claeesok. The Door-Step ........ 368 Stoddakt, William 0. The Doacon'c Prayer ..... 820 Stoddard, Richard Henby. Wind and Ram . 414 Funeral of Lincoln ...... OOO AUTHORS OF POEMS. 26 Stort, Rcbeet. The Whistle , . . 283 SUOKUNG, SlE JOEH. The Bride ......,,.. 642 SWINBUENE, ALGEEifOH ChAELEI. Kissing her Hair 52 Taylce, Benjamut F. The Rivar Time . . . . o « « . 64 The Old Viliago ChoiSj: . . . , , 677 Taylor, Bayae3>. The Quaker Widow ...... 110 Taylce, Jeffeeys. The Milkmaid ........ 199 XaiTNYSoir. Alfeed. Charge of the Light Brigade . . 59 Song of the Brock .__..... 222 Enoch Arden at the Wroidow . » 252 Death of the Old Year ..... 316 Break, Break, Brsak > . = . . 348 The Eagle 384 Now Year's Eve ....... 38? The Bugle .......... 436 The Day Dream ....... 480 Lady Clare. ...„,.... 631 ^ifHOMAS OF CeLANO. Dies Ira .....-... = c 466 ThuelotV; Loed, (Edward Hovel). The Patient Stork ,450 Tbowbeidgu, John Tcwjisekd. The Vagabonds ....... 130 Farm- Yard Song. .,..,.. 352 The Charcoal Man ...... 425 Uhland. Johastk Ludwig The Lost Church ..... 622 Vakjjyke, Maey E. The Bald-Headed Tyratti; ... 687 Watson, James W Beautiful Snow ....... 443 Weatheely, G. "A Lion's Head." , ...... 181 Westwood, Thomas. The Voices at the Throno. ... 527 '^i'/'niTE, Heney Kieke. The Star of Bethlehem . . . White, Mrs. Sallie J. Little Margery . Whitchee, Feances Mietam. Widow Bedott to Elder finiffles Y/hittiee, John Geeenleaf. Cobbler Keezar's Vision . . . Skipper Ireson's Rido .... Trust Barbara Fristchie Benedicito The Poet's Reward The Vaudois Teacher .... The Barefoot Boy Maud ^luller Mabel Martin The Ranger . Mary Garvin The River Path My Playmate The Countess The Changeling WiLCCX, Caelos Doing Good Tree Happineas . Willis, Nathaniel Paekee. Da.vid s Lament for Absalco: . The Dying Alchemist .... The Belfry Pigeon. . . . . - Wocdwoeth, Samuel. The Old Oaken Bucket, . . . Wilson, Mes. C )ekwall, BARoa'. Answer to the Eooi cf Death Woedswoeth, William. Intimations of Immortality . . The Reaper The Lost Love . Yates, John B. The Old Ways and the New The Model Church YotJL, Eeward. Song of Spring ...... 469 330 543 44 79 230 317 .^50 402 405 416 459 488 507 560 566 582 605 654 .^d9 305 437 613 549 G75 203 368 670 104 544 fS FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. «0. PAOK I. FRONTISPIECE 4 II. " THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES." 38 III. THE GRASSHOPPER KING 42 IV. SUMMER 68 V. DOMINION OVER THE FISH OF THE SEA 75 VI. MODERN TIMES IN THE GOLDEN AUTUMN 104 VII. " A TYPE OF GRANDEUR. STRENGTH AND MAJESTY." 181 ¥111. DRIFTING. . 210 IX. " TO HIM WHO IN THE LOVE OF NATURE." 214. 27 28 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS. KO. PAGE. X. NIGHT 242 XL "THUS DEPARTED HIAWATHA." 342 XII. "ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE FOREST." 344 XIII. "THE FIERCE, FOAMING, BURSTING TIDE." 362 XIV. " BLESSINGS ON THEE, LITTLE MAN: 416 XV. "I'M GROWING OLD." 438 XVI. "THE BEAUTIFUL SNOW." 443 XVII. PATIENCE. 450 XVIII. THE CHEMIST 469 XIX. FLYING FROM THE FIRE 472 XX. THE CRAFTY OLD FOX 482 XX I. "ICE BOUND TREES ARE GLITTERING." 696 X.XII. GROTTO OF ANTIPAROS 636 XXIIL ARCTIC LIFE 652 XXIV. GRANDPA AND HIS PETS 656 XXV WIN'lER JOYS. ^C8 QUOTATION PAOI Vase , , . . {Ornament.) Royal Necklace , '• Poet Laureate . . • " . An Outlook " Entablature '"• .......... Heraldic Eagle " . . . . Sculpture " Commemorative Vase " Aet Emblems " Good Luck " Repousse Work " Cupid . "' Tablet " The Djinn " Studiousness " The Old Skipper " Sitting in the boat at work." . . Getting Ready " You must first catch them." . . . The Old Clock " Half-way up the stairs it stands." The Blood Horse " Full of fire, and full of bone." . Cobbler at Work " Keezar sat on the hill-side.'' . . The Falls " Flashing in foam and spray.'' . The Arched Bridge " Down the grand old river Rhine." Poultry "Grand were the strutting turkeys." 7 8 9 10 11 14 15 18 19 26 27 28 29 34 35 39 40 41 42 44 45 46 46 The Cobbler's Joy " Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar." 47 49 50 51 53 55 Thb Dutch Mill " Which the Dutchfarmers are so fond of . The Cock " Clapping his burtmhed wings, and crowing." The Bridge " I had stood on that bridge at midnight " . . Heart of the Alps " Oirt round with rugged mountains." .... Winter in THE Country " The untrodden snoiv." Orr fob a Sail " The ripples lightly tost the boat." dO 29 30 ILLUSTRATIONS. TITLE QUOTATION. PASS SsAVETAED <....= " Tve laid you, darling, down to sleep." . . . , 58 Ancesteal HoiiESTEAB . = <....." The stately homes of England." 69 MoTHEE AKD Child . o . .... ." Look where our children start." 08 The Meadow Road *' This morning the parson takes a drive." .... 71 Baeeiees of the Sea "A wall of defence." 76 Skippee Ieesox's Ride '\Tarred and feathered and carried m a cart.'' . 79 Chaleue Bat " Looked for a coming that might not be" ... 80 Baby Deae '■' Where did you come from, baby dear f". . . . 82 BoEiAL Place , . .'■' A voice from the tomb sweeter than song." . . . 88 Embaekation of the Exiles . . . . " Busily plied the freighted boats." 90 Peesidest Lincoln '' ' God bless you, sir,' said Blossom." . . , . . 94 Ruined Cottage ' None will dwell in that cottage." 97 Vase OF Flowees , . . o " Learn of these gentle flowers." 98 Jimmy Butlee dieected " You've no time to lose." ...» 101 The Attack " / saw a pair of big eyes." 103 The Twins ON the Teain " ^fy twins, 1 shall ne'er see again." 108 TwiNKLETON ON Teial " You deserted your infants.'' 108 Stiver's Hoese " Sis ears back, his mouth open." 113 Stiver's Hoese "He ej:ereised me." 114 Stivee's Hoese " He turned about, and shot for the gate." . . . 116 Charley o . . ■' Muzzer's bought a baby." 120 Charley AND THE Baby " Ain't he awful ugly." 120 Chaeley's Cry '■' Nose ain't out of joy ent." 120 Chaeley's Hair Pulled. .... . " Zink I ought to love him .'" . . . 120 Chahley and Biddy " Be a good boy, Charley." 121 Chaeley's Comfoet '' Beat him on ze head." 121 Mr. Mann's Haste " Fly around." 128 Mr. Mann's Struggles "He began to sweat." . 127 Me. Mann's Defeat. . , " Glaring at the departing train." 129 Roger and I "We are two travelers." 130 SuEGEEY " Chock up." 13? The E.tPLANATioN " He' s that ' handsomer than than you.' ". . . . 141 Pete by the' Chimney '' Toasting ?ds shins." 143 Pete in Retreat '' No, sa, I runs." 113 Coral Reef . . . ^' Who build in the tossing and treachcro^is main." 147 Nutting " The squirrel is not more nimble." 149 Puzzled Dutchman " I'm a prokcn-Jtcartcd DculscJier.'' 151 Uan3 and Yawcob " I doosn't know my name." 152 Pat and the Doctor "Pat, hoiuisthatforasignV' 155 The Quack " Tlir song that it sings is ' Qiutck, Quack. '' . . 156 Lincoln's Monument " With malice towards none; with charity for all." 1G2 The Little CoNCiUEROR " ^fy arms are round my darling thrown." . . 1G5 Betty and the Bear. ." Smtrd himself on the hearth." 171 Betty AND THE Bear ." Tlie hear was no more" 172 The Sea ......" The calm, gently-heaving, silent sea.'' 1.76 Oliffs by THE S^.A " What r or ks ami cliffs arc SO glorious t" . . . 173 Cyclone " Lt. vamjuishrd them at last." 185 Papa's Ip.avk " Covrr ivith mscs each lowly green viournl." . . 192 Mt Childhood Home " A Utile low hut by t)u river's side." 196 ILLUSTRATIONS. gj TITLE. QUOTATION. PAiJE. The Water-Mill " The mill will never grind again." ...... 201 OLr Church- Yard " Through the church-way path we saw him borru," 203 Anqlinq "■ The gallant fisher's life, it is the best of any." . 206 Forest Depths . . c , " The venerable woods." 215 The Silent River " Tliou, hast taught me, Silent River." 221 The Brook *' I come from haunts of coot and hem" .... 222 Tower " Sounds of low wailing from the tower." . . . . 226 NoBiLiir " Nobility is a graceful ornament." 228 Two Kittens " The two little kittens had nowhere te go." . . . 229 Whittier's Birth-place " A picture memory brings to me." 230 Dove-Cote '' A pretty nursery." 233 The Old Church " I stood before ... alarge church door." . . . 238 Maidenhood " Maiden with the mceh brown eyes." ..... 24G The Brook Side , . . " ! zccndered by the mill" 247 Cataract of LoDORE " How does the water come down at Lodoref". . 248 The Fisher's Cottage .... . ." We sat by the fisher's cottag^" . . . . ... 253 Jolly Old Pedagogue " Me took the little ones upon his knee." .... 25a Ships on the Sea " Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee." 263 The American Boy " Look up, my boy." 263 Rock ME to Sleep " Mother, comeback from the echoless shore." . . 274 Ruined Church " The ruin lone and hoary." 281 Rural Comfort " In rural occupation there is nothing mean" . . 285 Mother's Chair " A sacred thing is that old arm-chair." .... 286 The Student " Spend not your time in that which profits not." 292 The Country Church " The steeplewas the only thing that folks couldsee." 294 Der Drummer " Who puts oup at der pest hotel f" 297 The Greeting " How you vas to-day." 297 At Business "Look, and see how nice.'' 29T Iv Society " Und kiss Eatrina on the mouth." 297 Indignation " Und mit a black eye goes away" 293 Gathering Night • • . . " When all around is peace." 302 The Forge " Clang, clang ! the massive anvils ring." . . . . 304 Tee Church Bell " In mellow tones rang out a bell." 310 Hans AND Fritz " Two Deutschers who lived side by side." . . . . 311 Dead on the Field " Till death united." 313 Singing Birds " The lark at heaven's gate sings." 319 Excelsior " His brotu was sad ; his eye beneath, flashed." . 322 Father Time " He lives forever, and his name is Tijiie." . . . 325 Fruit Piece " The dinner now makes its appearance." . . . 329 Little Margery " Dreaming of the coming years " 330 Learning to Pray " Kneeling fair in the twilight gray." 331 Rats AT Work " The rats a nightly visit paid." 335 Sleighing "'Tis the merry, merry sleigh." 339 Hiawatha's Home "I will bring her to your wigwam." 342 The Breaking Sea "Break, break, break, on thy cold stones, sea." 343 Rabbit " They rustle to the rabbit's tread.'' 349 Triumphal Arch "Eomeivith her army." 351 J'arm-yard "Into the yard the farmer goes." 352 MoEinifQ • " The east began to kindle." 356 32 ILLUSTRATIONS. TITLE. QUOTATION. PA( The TiGEE " Burning bright, in the forest of the night." . . 3; The Minstek Window " The minster window, richly glowing." . . . . 3£. Ship AT Sea " I was bom on the open sea." 362 Cave BY the Sea " Seek me the cave of Silver." 363 Sickle and Sheaf "She cuts and binds the grain.'' 368 The Lover's By-way " We left the old folks have the highway." . . . 369 BiBDS " Notes from the lark Til borrow." 374 King of Denmark's Ride " The king rode first." 380 MiEAGE " Bare as the surface of the desert." 386 Sands o' Dee " Never home came she." 392 Annie AND Willie " Well, why ' tant we pray f" 396 The Elephant " Who went to see the Elephant." 398 The Glen " Far down a narrow glen." 40i The Bcening Steamee "A noble funeral pyre." 40'? Buried in Snow " All day had the snow come down." 409 Feozen to Death " Cold and Dead" 410 Sea-Shore " The sea remembers nothing. It is feline." . . 415 Leedle Yawcob " I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart." 419 The Owl " The king of the night is the bold brown owl." . 423 Alpine Peaks " The far more glorious ridges." 428 The Old Man " Sat a hoary pilgrim sadly musing." 431 Appeoach to Aenheim " Tlie channel now became a gorge." 434 Stoemy Petrels " The stormy petrel finds a home." 439 Little and Great " Mighty at the last." 442 Pelicans " I7iat lonely couple on their isle." 447 Mother AND Babe " Love is a legal tender." 452 Maud Muller " Simple beauty and rustic health." 459 The Lark " The merry, merry lark wets up and singing." . 463 Innovations OF the White Man. . ." The red man is thy foe." 465 Star of Bethlehem " One alone a Saviour speaks." 469 The Birds' Home " Wfien sparrows build." 471 Interior of Westminster Abbey . . " These lofty vaults." 475 Terrace- Lawn " Every slanting terrace-lawn" 480 Meeting of the Waters " The bright waters meet." 484 The River Valley " You see the dull plain fall." 488 The Barn " Tlie old swallow haunted bams." 489 The Granary " I-'<^y f-he heaped ears." 490 Mabel Martin " Mahcl Martin sat apart." 490 The Horsehhok Charm " To guard against her mother's harm." .... 491 Mahkl in fjRlEK " Small leisure have the poor " 492 The Champio.n " I brook no insult to my guest." 492 The Streaming Lioht.s " Tlie harvest lights of Harden shone" 493 The Betrothal " Iler tears of grief were tears of joy." 494 God's Acre " 77tc burial ground Ood's acre." 498 The Comet " Save when a blazing comet was seen." .... 505 News FROM the Forkht " Straggling rangers ... homcwanl faring" . . 508 Call to tuk Boat " To the bmrh we all are going" 509 In the Foiieht "Some reil sfjuaw his moose meat's broiling." . . 509 The Return "'Robert I' 'Martha I'" all they say." . . . . 610 ILLUSTRATIONS. 33 TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. cJmiley's Fboq "He was planted as solid as an anvil." 512 The Light House " The Light-house fire blazed." 513 The River Shore " I hear the keel grating " 518 Steam-train " Down came the night express." 519 Old-time Fire-place " A fire in the kitchen." 520 Mother's Bible "My Mothers hands this Bible clasped." . . . 523 Plymouth Rock " The ice-clad rocks of Plymouth" 524 The Swan " Seek'st thou the plashy brink f" 527 Battle Monument " The Battle Monument at Baltimore." 531 Sheridan's Ride " Here is the steed that saved the day." 536 Ancient Stronghold " Stone walls and bulwarks." 540 The Old Man " The last leaf upon the tree." 542 The Stream " She found a Lotus by the stream." 547 Scene of my Childhood " The rude bucket which hung in the well." . . . 549 Lord Ullin " Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore " . . . . 552 Birds at Home " By every light wind . . . swung ." 557 By The Fireside " Right and left sat dame and goodman" . . . 561 The Surprise " What is this f" 562 The Forest Grave "On her wooden cross at Simcoe." 563 The River "No ripple from the water s hem.'' 566 The Lamb " Mary haf got one little lambs already." . . . 567 Battle of Lookout Mountain . . . ." Fortified Lookout." 570 Porpoise " Tumbling about the bow of the ship." .... 574 The Dead Soldier " The wounded to die." 578 The Playmates " The blossoms in the sweet May field." .... 582 The Tempest " The lightning flashing free." 587 Ballooning " The balloon was cast off." 591 The Mountain Torrent " The torrent is heard on the hill.'' 595 The Surf " I see the waves upon the shore." 601 Mount Vernon " Washington's modest home.'' 604 Draw-bridge " The dark tunnel of the bridge." 605 Hay-boat " The heavy hay-boats crawl." 605 The Abutment " The gray abutment's luall." 606 The Evening Walk " The walk on pleasant Newbury's shore." . . . 607 Calmness ..." Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud." 610 The Cathedral Tower " Proud Cathedral towers." 615 The Shore " Never the ocean wave falters in flowing." . . . 619 Harvesting " Lo, the husbandman reaping." 620 Work in the Meadows " With meadows wide.'' . . • 625 Iceberg " It then floated on the sea, an iceberg." .... 627 Home ." My lowly thatched cottage." 628 Castle and Lawn " My lands so broad and fair." 631 The Ravens " Child and flowers both were dead." 639 Trout " I have killed many flsh.'' 643 Cooking the Fish " Men have their hours of eating " 644 The Rocky Shore " Not of the watery home thou tellest." 645 Fingal's Cave " The cave of music.'' 649 Ecclesiastical Emblems " The cohort of the fathers." 652 Salt Meadows " The sweetness of the hay " . . • 654 34 1LLUSTRATI0:S'S. TITLE. QUOTATION. PAGE. At the Ferrv " He set his horse to the river/' 655 Day Dawn " Aicake! it in the day.'' 661 Valley of Chamounix . . . '' Green vales a)id icy cliffs.'' 664 The Cutter " Sjiring to their cutters." . ....... 667 Rustic Games " Its rough accompaniment of blind man'sbuff." QQl Snow Balling " The snowballs compliments." 668 The Poet " Forth into the nigl it he hurled it." .... 669 The Maiden " Tracing icords vpon the sand." 669 The Rose " Full of bliss .she takes the token." . . . .670 Blessedness " Kiss his moonlit forehead.'' 670 Grandmother's Spectacles . "She woidd often let her glasses slip down." . 676 Beauties of the Deep . . . " Dee}) in the wave is a coral grove.' .... 678 Work in the Field .... " And so ive worked together." 680 The Steamship " The great hull swayed to the current." . . . 683 The Bald-IIeadei) Tyrant . " He rides them all icith relentless hand." . . 687 Mountaineer's Warfare . . " A nnirderous rain of rocks." 691 The Gateway " The chamber over the gate." 693 Surges AND Shore .... " These restless surges eat atvay the shores." . 694 Greece " In Poestnm's ancient fanes I trod." . . . 696 The Old House " Bid the old house good-bye." 698 Country Rambles " Sing out, children, as the little ihru.shes do." 700 The Holy Land " Pavement for his footstep." 702 Shooting Porpoises .... " Tickling them tvith shot." 705 The Akar's Tent . . . - . " Shall fold their tents like the Arabs." . . . 707 T^E Scribe - (Ornament.) - ... 708 SYLVAN IIAPriXESS. Tf ERFEGT H^EARLS OF POETRY AND PROSE. FOREST HYMN. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 3HE groves were God's first temples, K^ ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, aX least. Here, in the shadow ol this aged wood, Offer one hymn, — thrico happy if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, Thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns. Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century- living crow. Whose birth was in their tops, graw old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood. As now they stand, massy and tall and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults. These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride, Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of Thy fair works. But Thou art here,— Thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft wind* 37 38 A FOREST HYMN. That run along the summit of these trees In music ; Thou art in the cooler breath That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Thee: Here is continual worship ; — nature, here, In the tranquility that Thou dost love. Enjoys Thy presence. Noiselessly around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes ; and yon clear spring that, midst its herbs. Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of Thy perfection. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of Thee. This mighty oak, — By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated, — not a prince. In all that proud old world beyond the deep. E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand hath graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in tlie glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile. Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling life, A visible token of the u[iholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awd within m<: whr-n I think Of the great mira'le that still goes on, In silence, round me, — the perpotual work Of Thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Writt'^u on Thy works, I read The loHflon of Thy own eternity. Lo ! all grow old and die ; but Bee again. How on the faltering foptwtcns of decay Youth presses, — ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty treea Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. 0, there is not lost One of Earth's charms ! Upon her bosom yet. After the flight of untold centuries. The freshness of her far beginning lies. And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle ba^e Of his arch-enemy, — Death,- —/':ji,, '.eats him- self Upon the tyrant's throne, the sepulchre. And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From Thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men who hid them- selves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them; — and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in Thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies. The passions, at Thy plainer footsteps shrink. And tremble, and are still. God ! when Thou Dost scare the world with tempest.^, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, Witli all the waters of tho firmament, Tiie swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woodb And drowns the villages ; when, at Thy call, Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities, — who forgets not, at tho sight Of these tremendous tokens of Thy jiowir. His prides, and lay his strifos aad follio3 by? •'The groves were God's tirst Trrnj '.■ .■-." AIORALITY OF ANGLING. 39 0, from Chese sterner aspects of Thy face Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, \inchained elements, to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate In these calm shades, Thy milder majesty. And to the beautiful order of Thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. MORALITY OF ANGLING. WILLIAM C. PRIME. jUT how about killing fish for sport? lu the name of sense, man, if God made fish to be eaten, what diflference does it make if I enjoy the killing of them before I eat them ? You would have none but a fisherman by trade do it, and then you v/ould have him utter a sio-h, a prayer, and a pious ejaculation at each cod or haddock that he killed ; and if by chance the old fellow, sitting in the boat at work, should for a moment think there was, after all, a little fun and a little pleasure in his business, you v/ould have him take a round turn with his line, and drop on his knees to ask for- giveness for the sin of thinking there was sport in fishing. I can imagine the sad- faced melancholy-eyed man, who makes it his business to supply game for the market as you would have him, sober as the sexton in Hamlet, and forever moralizing over the gloomy neces- sity that has doomed him to a life of murder ? Why, good sir, he would frighten respectable fish, and the market would soon be destitute. The keenest day's sport in my journal of a great many years of sport was when, in company with some other gentlemen, I took three hundred blue-fish in three hours' fishing off Block Island, and those fish were eaten 40 THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. the same night or the next morning in Stonington, and supplied from fifty to one hundred different tables, as we threw them up on the dock for any one to help himself. I am unable to perceive that I committed any sin in taking them, or any sin in the excitement and pleasure of taking them. It is time moralists had done with this mistaken morality. If you eschew animal food entirely, then you may argue against killing animals, and I will not argue with you. But the logic of this business is simply this : The Creator made fish and flesh for the food of man, and as we can't eat them alive, or if we do, we can't digest them alive, the result is we must kill them first, and (see the old rule of cooking a dolphin) it is some- times a further necessity, since they won't come to be killed when we call them, that we must first catch them. Show first, then, that it is a painful necessity, a necessity to be avoided if possible, which a good man must shrink from and abhor, unless starved into it, to take fish or birds, and which he must do when he does it with regret, and with sobriety and seriousness, as he would whip his child, or shave himself when his beard is three days old, and you havo your case. But till you show this, I will continue to think it great sport to supply my market with fish. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. H. W. LONGFELLOW. MEWTTAT back from the village street Stands the old -fashioned country Hcat; Across ittt antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; And, from its station in the hall, An ancient timepiece says to all, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Half way up the stairs it stands, And points and bockons with its handa, From its case of niassivo oak, Like a monk who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas 1 With sorrowful voiio to all who pasi^ " Forever — never I Never — forever I" THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. ^1 By day its voice is low and light ; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say at each chamber door, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Through days of s:rrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitu(]e Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of a\j;e, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality ; His great fires up the chimney roared ; The stranger feasted at his board ; But, like the skeleton at the feast. That warning timepiece never ceased, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" There groups of merry children played; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; Oh, precious hours ! oh, golden prime And affluence of love and time ! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,— " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night ; There, in that silent robm below, The dead lay, in his shroud of snow ; And, in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" All are scattered, now, and fled, — Some are married, some are dead : And when I ask, with throbs of pain, " Ah ! when shall they all meet again f As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" Never here, forever there, * Where all parting, pain, and care And death, and time shall disap pear, — Forever there, but never here! The horologue of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, " Forever — never ! Never — forever !" 42 THE BLOOD HORSE. THE GRASSHOPPER KING. FROM THE GREEK OF ANACREON, B. C, 660. ^APPY insect, svhat can be ^^;4i -^^ happiness compared to thee? ^«y,S^ Fed with nourishment divine, \ The dewy morning's gentle wine ! iSature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill ; 'Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink and dance and sing. Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee ; All the summer hours produce. Fertile made with early juice, Man for thee does sow and plough. Farmer he, and landlord thou 1 THE BLOOD HORSE. BARRY CORNWALL. S^KAMAKRA is a dainty steed, gJ^K Strong, black, and of noble breed, ^fi:'\\j Full of fire, au'l full of bono, With all Ills linf! of fatherw known ; Fini^hifl nose, his nostrils thin. But blown abroad by the pride within His man*! is like a river flowing. And bis eyes like embers glowing In the darkne.sfl of the night, And bis pace as swift as light. I(0ok, — liow round liis straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float ; Sinewy strength \a in his reins. I And the red blood gallops through his veini. Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. I He can trace his lineage higher j Than the Bourbon dare aspire, — ! ] Douglas, Guzman, or the fJuelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself! He, who hath no peer, was born Hfrc, upon a red March morn ; But his famous fathers dead Wire Arabs all, and Arab bred, And tlie last of that great lino Trod likt? oin' of a race divine I THE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. 43 And yet, — ^b« was but friend to one, Who fed him at tha aet of sun By some lone fountain fringed with green ; With him, a roving Bedoui« lie lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sanda Where Balkh amidst the desert stAods I TEE FRONT AND SIDE DOORS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. I VERY person's feelings have a front-door and side-door by which they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. Some keep it always open ; some keep it latched ; some, locked ; some, bolted, — with a chain that will let you peep in, but not get in ; and some 1 nail it up, so that nothing can pass its threshold. This front-door • leads into a passage which opens into an ante-room, and this into the interior apartments. The side-door opens at once into the sacred chambers. There is almost always at least one key to this side-door. This is carried for years hidden in a mother's bosom. Fathers, brothers, sisters, and friends, often, but by no means so universally, have duplicates of it. The wedding-ring conveys a right to one ; alas, if none is given with it ! Be- very careful to whom you trust one of these keys of the side-door. The fact of possessing one renders those even who are dear to you very terrible at times. You can keep the world out from your front-door, or receive visitors only when you are ready for them ; but those of your own flesh and blood, or of certain grades of intimacy, can come in at the side- door, if they will, at any hour and in any mood. Some of them have a scale of your whole nervous system, and can play all the gamut of your sensibilities in semitones, — touching the naked nerve-pulps as a pianist strikes the keys of his instrument. I am satisfied that there are as great masters of this nerve-playing as Vieuxtemps or Thalberg in their lines of performance. Married life is the school in which the most accomplished artists in this department are found. A delicate woman is the best instru- ment ; she has such a magnificent compass of sensibilities ! From the deep inward moan which follows pressure on the great nerves of right, to the sharp cry as the filaments of the taste are struck with a crushing sweep, is a range which no other instrument possesses. A few exercises on it daily at home fit a man wonderfully for his habitual labors, and refresh him im- mensely a3 he returns from them. No stranger can get a great many notes 44 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. of torture out of a human soul ; it takes one that knows it well, — parent, child, brother, sister, intimate. Be very careful to whom you give a side- door key; too many have them already. COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. JOHN G. WHITTIER. ^FIE beaver cut his tirnl>f;r With patient teeth that day, The mink)? were fish-wards, and the crowH Surveyors o*" highway, — When Keezar sat on the liillaide Upon his cobbler's form, With a pan of coals on either han'l To keep his waxcd-cnds warm. And there, in the golden weather. He stitched and hammered and sung; In the brook he moistened his leather, In tlie pewter mug his tongue. Well knew the tough old Teuton Wlio bn;W(;d the stoutest ale. And Ik' paid the goodwifc's reekoniagi In the coin of song and talc. The songs they still are sin^^ing Who dress the hills of vine The tales that haunt the Hrocken, And whisper down the Rhine. YOUNG GIRLS IN Ra\ INL NEAR CAl'RI. COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 45 Woodsy and wild and lonesome, The swift stream wound away, Through birches and scarlet rnaples, Flashing in foam and spray, — " Why should folks be glum," said Keezar, When Nature herself is glad, And the painted woods are laughing At the faces so sour and sad ?" Down on the sharp-horned ledges, Plunging iu steep cascade, Tossing its white-maned waters Against the hemlock's shade. Woodsy and wild and lonesome, East and westt and north and south ; Only the village of fishers Down at the river's mouth ; Only here and there a clearing, With its farm-house rude and new, And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, Where the scanty harvest grew. No shout of home-bound reapers. No vintage-song he heard. And on the green no dancing feet The m-3rry violin stirred. Small heed had the careless cobbler What sorrow of heart was theirs Who travailed in pain with the births of (Jo^ And planted a state with prayers, — Hunting of witches and warlocks. Smiting the heathen horde, — One hand on the mason's trowel. And one on the soldier's sword ! But give him his ale and cider, Give him his pipe and song. Little he cared for Cliurch or State, Or the balance of right and wrong. " Tis work, work, work," he muttered,— And for rest a snuffle of psalms 1" lie smote on his Icathc-rn apron With his brown and waxen pulma. i6 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. " for the purple harvests Of the days when I was young ! For the merry grape-stained maidens, And the pleasant songs they sung ! • for the breath of vineyards, Of apples and nuts and wine! For an oar to row and a breeze to blow Down the grand old river Rhine 1" A tear in his blue eye glistened, And dropped on his beard so gray. " Old, old am I," said Keezar, " And the Rhine flows far away !" But a cunning man was the cobbler ; He could call the birds from the trees. Charm the black snake out of the ledges, And bring back the swarming bees. All the virtues of herbs and motals, All the lore of the woods, he knew, And the arts of the Old World mingled With the marvels of the New. Well he knew the tricks of magic, And the lapstone on his knee Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles. Or the stone of Doctor Dee. For the Tn\{!}ity master, Agrippa, Wrou^;ht it with spell and rhyme From a fragment of mystic moonstone In the lower of Neltesheim. To a cobbler, Minnesinger, The marvelous nUrnf gave he, — And ho gave it, in turn, to Keezar, Who brought it over the sea. He held up that mystic lapstone. He held it up like a lens. And he counted the long years coming By twenties and by tens. " One hundred years," quoth Keezar, " And fifty have I told : Now open the new before me. And shut me out the old !" Like a cloud of mist, the blackness Rolled from the magic stone, And a marvelous picture mingled, The unknown and the known. Still ran the stream to the river. And river and ocean joined ; And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, And cold north hills behind. But the mighty forest was broken, By many a steepled town, By many a white-walled ftxrm-house, And many a garner brown. Turning a score of mill-wheels, The stream no more ran free ; White sails on the winding river, White sails on the far-off sea. Below in the noisy village The flags were floating gay. And shone on a thousand faces The light of a holiday. Swiftly the rival ploughmen Turned the brown earth from theit sliarwis; Here were the farmer's treasures. There were the craftsman's wares. Golden the goodwife's butter. Ruby the currant-wine; Grand wore the strutting turko}'!, . Fat were the beeves and swinot. COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 4: yellow and red were the apples, And the ripe pears russet-brown, And the peaches had stolen blushes From the girls who shook them down. And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, That shame the toil of art. Mingled the gorgeous blossoms Of the garden's tropic heart. " What is it I see ?" said Keezar, " Am I here, or am I there ? Is it a fete at Bingen ? Do I look on Frankfort fair ? " Here's a priest, and there is a Quaker, — Do the cat and dog agree ? Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood' Have they cut down the gallows-tree? " Would the old folk know their children 7 Would they own the graceless town, With never a ranter to worry, And never a witch to drown ?" Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, Laughed like a school-boy gay ; Tossing his arms above him. The lapstone rolled away. ' But where are the clowns and puppets. And imps with horns and tail ? And where are the Rhenish flagons? And where is the foaming ale ? "Strange things I know will happen, — Strange things the Lord permit?; But that droughty folks should be jolly Puzzles my poor old wits. '' Here are smiling manly faces. And the maiden's step is gay, Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, Nor nopes, nor fools, are they. " Here's pleasure without regretting, And good without abuse, The holiday and bridal Of beauty and of use. It rolled down the rugged hillside, It spun like a wheel bewitched. It plunged through the leaning willowi, And into the river pitched. There in the deep, dark water, The magic stone lies still. Under the leaning willows In the shadow of the hill. But oft the idle fisher Sits on the shadowy bank, And his dreams make marvelous pictuMi Where the wizard's lapstone sank And still, in the summer twilights. When the river seems to run Out from tlie inner glory, Warm with the melted sun, 48 GATHERED GOLD DUST. The weary mill-girl lingers Beside the charmed stream, And the sky and the golden water Shape and color her dream. Fair wave the sunset gardens, The rosy signals fly ; Her homestead beckons from the cloud. And love goes sailing by '. GATHERED GOLD DUST. ^^^RITICS are sentinels in the grand army 01 letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author. i^Long fellow. We can refute assertions, but who can refute silence. {Dickens. Buy what thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy necessaries. {Franklin. The great secret of success in life is, for a man to be ready when his opportunity comes. {Disraeli. The truly illustrious are they who do not court the praise of the world, but per- form the actions which deserve it. {Tilton. Christ awakened the world's thought, and it has never slept since. {Howard. The Cross is the prism that reveals to us the beauties of the Sun of Righteousness. {Goulbur7i. Men have feeling ; this is perhaps the best way of considering them. {Richter. Fidelity is seventh-tenths of business suc- res.'f. {Parton. In the march ot life don't lifod tlio order of "right about" when you know yon are about right. {Holmes. He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend : Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure For life's worst ills, to have no time to feci Ihom. {Shakespeare. The worst kind of vico is advice. {Coleridge. A self-o'i.'fpicion of hypocrisy in a good evi- dcrico of sincority. {Hannah More. A. page digested is bettor than a volume hur- riedly read. {Macaulay. 1 am not one of those who do not belie?* A love at first sight, but I believe in mak- ing a second look. {Henry Vvntent. A man is responsible for how he uses his common sense as well as his rrv/Kil sense. (Beecher. When a man has no design bat to speak plain truth, he isn't apt to be talkative. {Prentict, The year passes quick, though the hour tarry, and time bygone is a dream, tliough we thought it never would go while it was going. {Newman. Good temper, like a sunny day, sheds a brightness over everything. It is the sweetener of toil and the soother of dis- quietude. {Irving. A profound conviction raises a man above the feeling of ridicule. {Ifdl. Our moods are lenses coloring the world with as many different hue.>^. {Emerson. Men believe that their reason governs their words, but it often happens that words have power to react on reason. {Bacon, Minds of moderate calibre ordinarily con- demn everything which is beyond their range. {La Rochefoucaxdt. Geology gives ua a koj' to tlio pationce of God. {Holland Do to-day thy nearest duty. {Goctht Many of our cares are bat a morbid way ol looking at our privileges. {Walter Scott. The greatness of melancholy men is seldom strong and healthy. {Bidwer. Cowarilice nsks, Is it safe ? Expediency asks, Is it politic? Vanity anks, Is it popu- lar ? but CoQscicDco asks, Ik it right? {Punahon, BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. 49 God made the country and man made the town. {Coiuper. Sorrows humanize our race. Tears are the showers that fertilize the world. (Ingelow. It ia remarkable with what Christian fortitude and resignation we can bear the suffer- ing of other folks. (Dean Swift. One can neither protect nor arm himself against criticism. We must meet it defiantly, and thus gradually please it. {Goethe. Silence and reserve suggest latent power. What some men think has more effect than what others say. {Chesterfield. Stratagems in war and love are only honor- able when successful. {Bulwer A man behind the times is apt to speak ill of them, on the principle that nothing looks well from behind. {Holmet. He who isn't contented with what he has wouldn't be contented with what he would like to Aave. {Auerbach. Architecture is a handmaid of devotion. A beautiful church is a sermon in stone, and its spire a finger pointing to Heaven. {Schaff. A sorrow's crown of sorrow, Is remembering happier things. {DanU. BALTUS VAN TASSEL'S FARM. WASHINGTON IRVING. ICHABOD Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex ; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes; more especially after he had visited her in her paternal I mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfiei4 Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; ^'■^ The bay is fair and wide. ¥ The ripples lightly tap the boat. I Loose ! Give her to the wind ! Hhc shoots ahead ; tliey're all afloat ; Tlie strand is far b.-hind. The sunlight falling on her sheet, It glitters like the drift, Sparkling, in scorn of summer's heat, High up some mountain rift. Tin; winds are fresh ; she's driving fast Upon the bending tide ; The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast, Cto with her side by side. Tlio parting sun sends out aglow A(To.>XNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky. Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, I Seems nowhere to alight ; tho whited > air t Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, A.nd veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected root Round every windward stake or tree or door; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Farian wreath* , A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gat« A tapering turret overtoj* the work. And when his hours are numbered, and th* world 64 THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. Is all his own, retiring as he were not, L*iaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone hy stone. Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. THE RIVER TIME. BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR. H ! a wonderful stream is the river Time, ? jgii As it runs through the realm of tears, %^ With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme And a broader sweep and a surge sub- lime, As it blends in the ocean of years ! How the winters are drifting like flakes of enow, And the summers like birds between, And the years in the sheaf, how they come and they go On the river's breast with its ebb and its flow. As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! There's a magical isle up the river Time, Where the softest of airs are playing, There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime. And the Junes with the roses are straying. And the name of this isle is the " Long Ago," And we bury our treasures there ; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, There are heaps of dust — oh ! we loved then: so — There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are fragments of songs that nobody sings. There are parts of an infant's pra3-er, There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings, And the garments our loved used to wear There are hands that are waved wlien tha fairy shore By the fitful mirage is lifted in air, And we sometimes hear through the turbn- lent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone h^ fore. When the wind down the river was fair. Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, All the day of our life until night; And when evening glows with its beautiful smile. And our eyes are closing in slumbers awhile, May the greenwood of soul be in sight. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. FELICIA D. HEMANS. I^HK -tat'ly Homes of England, ^ How beautiful thoy stand! Htfi.'Y .Vrni'lst their tall ancestral trees. O'er all the plea-sant land ; The deer across their greensward bound Tlirough shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides pa«t thom with the Hound Of i>ome rejoicing stream. The merry Homes of England I Around tlieir hearllis by night, What gla:vt&. THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. 69 Ah ! With what thankless heart I mourn and sing ! Look, where our children start, Like sudden spring ! With tongues all sweet and low Like a pleasant rhyme. They tell how much I owe To thee and time ! SHALL WE KNOW EACH. OTHER THERE? ANONYMOUS. [TEN we hear the music ringing In the bright celestial dome — When sweet angels' voices, singing. Gladly bid us welcome home To the land of ancient story, Where the spirit knows no care ; In that land of life and glory — Shall we know each other there ? When the holy angels meet us, As we go to join their band, Shall we know the friends that greet us In that glorious spirit land ? Shall we see the same eyes shining On us as in days of yore ? Shall we feel the dear arms twining Fondly round us as before ? Yes, my earth- worn soul rejoices, And my weary heart grows light. For the thrilling angel voices And the angel faces bright, That shall welcome us in heaven. Are the loved of long ago ; And to them 'tis kindly given Thus their mortal friends to know. Oh, ye weary, sad, and tossed ones, Droop not, faint not by the way ! Ye shall join the loved and just ones In that land of perfect day. Harp-strings, touched by angel fingers, Murmured in my raptured ear ; Evermore their sweet song lingers — " We shall know each other there." THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHA Y. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. i?AVE you heard of the wonderful Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, r? one-boss shay. That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened, with- out delaj' — Scaring the parson into fits. Frightening people out of their wits — Have you ever heard of that I say? Oeorgius Secundus was then aliv( Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-boss shay. Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY. There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still. Find it somewhere you must and will — Above or below, or within or without — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do. With an " I dew vum " or an "I tell yeou ") — He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn't break daown ; — " Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak. That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke — That was for spokes, and floor, and sills ; He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese. But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs from logs from the "Settler's ellum" — Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em — Never an ax had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips. Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-lips ; Stop and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, Found in the pit where the tanner died. That was the way ho " put her through." "There!" said the Deacon, " uaow t^hu'll dew!" Do ! I tell you, I rather guesH She was a wonder, and nothing 1<;hh ! Colts f?rew horscH, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away. Children and grandchildren — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen Hundred — it came, and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came— Running as usual — much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive ; And then came fifty — and Fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large ; Take it. — You're welcome. — no extra charge.) First of November — the Earthquake-day — There are traces of age in the one-ho.ss shay, A general flavor of mild decay — But nothing local, as one may say, There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as tlie for«, And spring, and axle, and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will bo worn out! First of November, 'Fifty-fivo! This morning the jiarson takes a drive. Now, small boys, got out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailoil, ewe-necked bay. " Iluddup I" said the parson. — Ofl" went they. The par.son was working his Sunday text — Had got to Ji/ihl;/, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at onco the horae stood still, MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. 71 Ciose by the meet'n'-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill — And the parson was sitting upon a rock. At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock — Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around ? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground) You .see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once — All at once, and nothing first — Just as the bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. i Logic IS Logic. That's all I say. AMERICAN ARISTOCRACY. JOHN G. SAXE. 5^^I^F all the notable things on earth, W^^Ml The queerest one is pride of birth ^gj^ Among our " fierce democracy !" &[hi A bridge across a hundred years, ^ Without a prop to save it from sneers. Not even a couple of rotten peers, — A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, Is American aristocracy ! English and Irish, French and Spanish, Germans, Italians, Dutch and Danish, Crossing their veins until they vanish In one conglomeration! So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed In finding the circulation. Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, Your family thread you can't ascend, Without good reason to apprehend You may find it waxed, at the farther end, By some plebeian vocation : Or, worse than that, your boasted line May end in a loop of stronger twine, That plagued some worthy relation ! MR. PICKWICK IK A DILEMMA. CHARLES DICKENS. |R. PICKWICK'S apartments in Goswell street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor front, his bed-room was the second floor front ; and thus, whether 72 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the dressing- glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the reUct and sole executrix of a de- ceased custom-house officer — was a comely woman of bustUng manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor ; and the' infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behaviour, on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatansville, would have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at inter- vals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience, very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contem- plation ; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been able to discover. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very long time gone." " Why, it's a good long way to the Borough, sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. "Ah," said Mr. Pickwick, "very true; so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. " Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. " Do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ?" " La, Mr, Pick- wick," said Mrs. Bardell, coloring uj) to the very bordor of her cap, a-s she fancied slie observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of hor lodger; "La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!" "Well, but do you?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEiMMA. 73 t the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on the table ; " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pick- wick ; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir." " That's very true," said Mr. Pickwick ; " but the person I have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities ; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell, which may be of material use to me." " La, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap- border again, " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his woat in speaking of a subject which interested him. " I do indeed ; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind." " Dear me, sir," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. " You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a good-humored glance at his com- panion, " that I never consulted you about this matter, and never men- tioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning — eh ?" Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose — a deliberate plan, too — sent her little boy to the Borough to get him out of the way — how thoughtful — how considerate ! — " Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you think ?" " Oh, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation "you're very kind, sir." "It will save you a great deal of trouble, won't it ?" said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir," replied Mrs. Bardell; "and of course, I should take more trouble to please you then than ever ; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness." "Ah to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick; " I never thought of that. "Wlien I am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will." "Pm sure I ought to be a very happy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. " And your little boy — " said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless his heart," interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. " He, too, will have a companion," resumed Mr. Pickwick, " a lively one, who'll teach him, ril be bound, more tricks in a week, than he would ever learn, in a year." And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. " Oh, you dear — " said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. " Oh you kind, good, playful dear," said Mrs. Bardell ; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. '•' Bless my soul," cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; — "Mrs, Bardell, my good woman — deai* me, 74 MR. PICKWICK IN A DILEMMA. what a situation — pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should come—" "Oh, let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; "I'll never leave you — dear, kind, good, soul;" and with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter, " Mercy upon me," said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, " I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't, don't, there's a good creaturej don't." But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing ; for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's arms ; and before ho could gain time to deposit her on a chair. Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr, Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr, Snodgrass. Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. Tliey, in their turn, stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative situation until the suspended anima- tion of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain ; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward, with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement allowed. " Take this little villain away," said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, "he's mad." "What is the matter?" said the three tongue-tied Pick- wickians, " I don't know," replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. " Take away the boy — (here Mr, Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the farther end of the apartment.) Now help me to lead this woman down stairs. " Oh, Pm better now," said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. " Lot me lead you down stairs," said the ever gallant Mr. Tup- man, " Thank you, sir — thank you ;" exclaimed Mrs. Bard(;l], hysterically. And down stairs she was led, accordingly, accompaiiir(l l,y Ikt afFoctionate son. " T cannot conceive " — said Mr. Pickwick, when his friiuid inlurned — " I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. T had merely announced to her my int^'ntion of keeping a man-servant, when iiilt..'jlJ fiiilini PRAISE OF THE SEA. 75 she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing." " Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation," continued Mr. Pickwick. " Very;" wa^ the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. — "There is a man in the passage now," said Mr. Tupman. " It's the man that I spoke to you about," said Mr. Pickwick, " I sent for him to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass." PRAISE OF THE SEA. Ar SAMUEL PURCHAS. God hath combined the sea and land into one globe, so their joint (Combination and mutual assistance is necessary to secular happi- '*^^° ness and glory. The sea covereth one-half of this patrimony of man, whereof God set him in possession when he said, " Replenish the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over eveiy living thing that moveth upon the earth." .... Thus should man at once lose half his inheritance, if the art of navigation did not enable him to manage this untamed beast, and with the bridle of the winds and saddle of his shipping to make him serviceable. Now for the services of the sea, they are innumerable : it is the great purveyor of the world's commodities to our use; conveyer of the excess of rivers ; uniter, by traffic, of all nations : it presents the eye with diversified colors and motions, and is, as it were, with rich brooches, adorned with various islands. It is an open field for merchandise in peace ; a pitched field for the most dreadful fights of war ; yields diversity of fish and fowl for diet ; materials for wealth, medicine for health, simples for medicines, pearls, and other jewels for ornament; amber and ambergris for delight ; " the wonders of the Lord in the deep " for instruction, variety of creatures for use, multiplicity of natures for contemplation, diversity of accidents for admiration, compendiousness to the way, to full bodies health- ful evacuation, to the thirsty earth fertile moisture, to distant friends pleasant meeting, to weary persons delightful refreshing, to studious and religious minds a map of knowledge, mystery of temperance, exercise of continence ; 76 PRAISE OF THE SEA. school of praj^er, meditation, devotion and sobriety ; refuge to the dis- tressed, portage to the merchant, passage to the traveller, customs to the HAIUtlKUS prince, springs, lakes, rivers to the earth ; it halli on it tempests ;uid calms to chastise the sins, to exercise the f.iitli of seamen ; manifold WAITING BY THE GATE. 77 affections in itself, to affect and stupef)'' the subtlest philosopher ; sustaineth movable fortresses for the soldier ; maintaineth (as in our island) a wall of defence and watery garrison to guard the state ; entertains the sun with Tapors, the moon with obsequiousness, the stars also with a natural looking- glass, the sky with clouds, the air with teraperateness, the soil with sup- pleness, the rivers with tides, the hills with moisture, the valleys with fertility : containeth most diversified matter for meteors, most multiform shapes, most various, numerous kinds, most immense, difformed, deformed, unformed monsters ; once (for why should I longer detain you ?) the sea yields action to the body, meditation to the mind, the world to the world, 841 parts thereof to each part, by this art of arts, navigation. WAITING BY THE GATE. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. ^J^^ESIDE the massive gateway built up in years gone by, ^ Upon whose top the clouds in eter- nal shadow lie, While streams the evening sunshine on the quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me. The tree tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, A soft soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night ; I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more, And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. Behold the portals open and o'er the thres- hold, now, There steps a wearied one \\'\ih. pale and fur- rowed brow ; His count of years is full, his alloted task is wrought ; He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. In. sadness, then, I ponder how quickly fleets the hour Of human strength and action, man'af cour- age and his power. I Kuse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day, And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. Again the hinges turn, and a youth, depart- ing throws A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes; A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair. Moves wonderfully away from amid the j'oung and fair. Oh, glory of our race that so suddenly de- cays ! Oh, crimson flush of morning, that darkens as we gaze ! Oh, breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies we know not where. I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn; But still the sun shines round me ; the even- ing birds sing on ; THE HOUSEKEEPER'S SOLILOQUY. And I again am soothed, and beside the an- cient gate, In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. Once more the gates are opened, an infant group go out. The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. Oh, frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward strews Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows ! So from every region, so enter side by side. The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. Steps of earth's greatest, mightiest, between those pillars gray, And prints of little feet, that mark the dust away. And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, And some whose temples brighten with joy are drawing near, As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. I mark the joy, the terrors; yet these, with- in my heart. Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart ; And, in the sunshine streaming of quiet wood and lea, I stand and calmly wait until the hinges turn for me. THE HOUSEKEEPERS SOLILOQUY. MRS. F. D. GAGE. (•;* FARE'S a big washing to be done — One pair of hands to do it — 3 Sheets, shirts and stockings, coats and pants, How will I e'er get through it ? ^ Dinner to get for six or more. No loaf left o'er from Sunday ; And baby cross as he can live — He's always so on Monday. 'Tifl time the meat was in the pot, The bread was worked for baking, The clothes were taken from thf; boil — Oh dear ! the baby's waking ! Hu.th, baby dear! there, hush-sh-sh! I wish he'd sleep a little, 'Till I could run and get some wood, To hurry up the kettle. Oh dear ! oh dear ! if P conies home. And finds thingn in this pother, H';'!! just be^in and t (•xllil-,M' LINCULN. wa.s Jemmies night, not his ; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bonnie never thouglit about himself, that he was tired too." " What is thi.s you say, cliild ? Come hero; I do not und(>rstand," and the kind in.in caught eagiit it in hunfjlea neat ; Then soon a Yankee will cornc along, and set to work and larn fo reap it, and tlirenh it, and bag it up, and eend it into the barn. John kinder laughed when he said it -, but I said to the hired men, " I have seen so much on my pilgrimage through my threescore years and ten, That I wouldn't be surprised to see a railroad in the air. Or a Yankee in a flyin' ship a-goin' most any- where." There's a difference in the work I done, and the work my boys now do ; Steady and slow in the good old way, worry and fret in the new ; But somehow I think there was happiness crowded into those toiling days, That the fast young men of the present will not see till they change their ways. To think that I ever should live to see work done in this wonderful way 1 Old tools are of little service now, and farinin' is almost play ; The women have got their sewin'-machines, their wringers, and every sich thing, And now play croquet in the door-yard, or .sit in the parlor and sing. 'Twasn't you that iia l:ite, a toilin' for you and I. There were cows to milk ; there was buttiT to make; and many a day did you stand A wiu'hin' rny toil-stained ganiii'iita, and wringiii' em out by hand. Vi'»-'iF NEW ENGLAND. 105 Ah ! wife, our children will never see the hard work we have seen, For the heavy task and the long task is now done with a machine ; No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower — there ! hear it afar ? A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass with the noise of a railroad car. Well ! the old tools now are shoved away ; they stand a-gatherin' rust. Like many an old man I have seen put aside with only a crust ; When the eye grows dim, when the step is weak when the strength goes out of his arm, The best thing a poor old man can do is to hold the deed of the farm. There is one old way that they can't imprcvt, although it has been tried By men who have studied and studied, and worried till they died ; It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold re- fined from its dross ; It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by the simple way of the cross. MEW ENGLAND. S. S. PEENTISS. LORIOUS New England ! thou art still true to thy ancient fame, and worthy of thy ancestral honors. We, thy children, have assembled in this far distant land to celebrate thy birthday. A thousand fond associations throng upon us, roused by the spirit of the hour. On thy pleasant valleys rest, like sweet dews of morning, the gentle recollections of our early life ; around thy hills and mountains cling, like gathering mists, the mighty memories of the Kevolution ; and, far away in the horizon of thy past, gleam, like thy own bright northern lights, the awful virtues of our pilgrim sires ! But while we devote this day to the remembrance of our native land, we forget not that in which our happy lot is cast. We exult in the reflection, that though we count by thousands the miles which separate us from our birth-place, still our country is the same. We are no exiles meeting upon the banks of a foreign river, to swell its waters with our home- sick tears. Here floats the same banner which rustled above our boyish heads, except that its mighty folds are wider, and its glittering stars increased in number. The sons of New England are found in every state of the broad repub- lic ! In the East, the South, and the unbounded West, their blood mingles freely with every kindred current. We have but changed our chamber in the paternal mansion ; in all its rooms we are at home, and all who inhabit it are our brothers. To us the Union ha^ but one domestic hearth ; its household gods are all the same. Upon us, then, peculiarly devob^es the X06 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. duty of feeding the fires upon that kindly hearth ; of guarding with pious care those sacred household gods. We cannot do with less than the whole Union ; to us it admits of no division. In the veins of our childi-en flows Northern and Southern blood ; how shall it be separated ? — Who shall put asunder the best affections of the heart, the noblest instincts of our nature ? We love the land of our adop- tion : so do we that of our bii'th. Let us ever be true to both ; and always exert ourselves in maintaining the unity of our country, the integrity of the republic. Accursed, then, be the hand put forth to loosen the golden cord of anion ! thrice accursed the traitorous lips which shall propose its severance ! But no ! the Union cannot be dissolved. Its fortunes are too brilliant to be marred ; its destinies too powerful to be resisted. Here will be their greatest triumph, their most mighty development. And when, a century hence, this Crescent City shall have filled her golden horns : — when within her broad-armed port shall be gathered the products of the industry of a hundred millions of freemen ; — when galleries of art and halls of learning shall have made classic this mart of trade ; then may the sons of the Pilgrims, still wandering from the bleak hills of the north, stand up on the banks of the Great River, and exclaim, with mingled pride and wonder. — " Lo ! this is our country ; — when did the world ever behold so rich and magnificent a city — so great and glorious a republic ! " TUr TWINKLETON'S TWINS. CHARLES A. BELL. YiyrM TWINKLETON was, I would ihika^ have you to know, J'^^ A cheery -faced tailor, of Pinoapjilo J*- Row ; J- \\\a Hympathiea warm a.s the irons ho J M.sod, And his temper quite even, because not abixflcd. As a fitting reward for bin kindness of heart, He was blessed with a partner, both comely and smart, And ten "olivo branches," — ;four girls and six boys — Oompletod the household, divided it« joys. But another " surprise" was in store for Tim T., Who, one bright Christmas morning was sipping coffee. When a neighbor (who afted as nurse,) said with glee, "You've just been iiresentrd with twins! Do you see?" "Good gracious!" said Tim, f>vorwhi'liiied with surprise. For be scarce could In- mailo to believe his own eyes ; His astoni.shment o'er, ho acknowledged, of course, TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. 107 That the trouble, indeed, might hav3 been a deal worse. The twins were two boys, and poor Tim was inclined To believe them the handsomest pair you could find, But fathers' and mothers' opinions, they say, Always favor their own children just the same way. " Would you like to step up, sir, to see Mrs. T.?" The good lady said : "she's as pleased as c-a>n be." Of course the proud father dropp'd both fork and knife, And bounded up stairs to embrace his good wife. Now, Mrs. Tim Twinkleton — I should have said — An industrious, frugal life always had led, And kept the large family from poverty's woes. By washing, and starching, and ironing clothes. But, before the young twins had arrived in the town, She'd intended to send to a family named Brown, Who resided some distance outside of the city, A basket of clothes ; so she thought it a pity That the basket should meet any further de- lay. And told Tim to the depot to take it that day. He promised he would, and began to make haste, For he found tJiat there was not a great while to waste, So, kissing his wife, he bade her good-bye, And out of the room in an instant did hie ; And met the good nurse, on the stairs, com- ing up With the " orthodox gruel," for his wife, in a cup. ' Where's the twins ?" said the tailor. " Oh, they are all right," The good nurse replied: "they are lookin;^ so bright ! I've hushed them to sleep, — they look so like their Pop, — And I've left them down stairs, where they sleep like a top." In a hurry Tim shouldered the basket, and got To the rail-station, after a long and shar|i trot. And he'd just enough time to say " Brown — Nornstown — A basket of clothes — ' and then the train was gone. The light-hearted tailor made haste to return For his heart with afl'ection for his family did burn ; And it's always the case, with a saint or a sinner, Whate'er may occur, he's on hand for his dinner. " How are the twins ?" was his first inquiry ; " I've hurried home quickly, my darlings to see," In ecstacy, quite of his reason bereft. " Oh, the dear little angels hain't cried since you left ! "Have you, my sweets?" — and the nurse turned to where Just a short time before, were her objects of care. " Why — which of you children," said she, with surprise, " Removed that ar basket? — now don't tell no lies !" " Basket! what basket?" cried Tim with af- fright ; j " Why, the basket of clothes — I thought it all right To put near the fire, and, fearing no harm. Placed the twins in so cozy, to keep them quite warm." Poor Tim roared aloud : " Why, what have I done? You surely must mean what you say but in fun! That basket', my twins I shall ne'er see again ! 108 TIM TWINKLETON'S TWINS. IThy, I sent them both off by the 12 o'clock j " What's the charge?" asked the tailor of the train /" magistrate. The nurse, at these words, sank into a chair And exclaimed, " Oh, my precious dears, you hain't there ! Go, Twinkleton, go, telegraph like wildfire !" " Why," said Tim, " they cant send the twiri^ home on the wire.'" " I'd like to find out, for it's getting quite late ;" " So you shall," he replied, " but don't look so meek, — You deserted your infants, — now hadn't you cheek?" "Oh dear!" cried poor Tim, getting ready to go; ■* Could ever a body have met with such woe? Sure this is the greatest of greatest mistakes; Why. the turins will be all squashed down into pancakes!" Tim Twinklfton hurried, afl if all creation Were aftf;r him, quick, on his way to the sta- tion. " Tlial's the man, — O you wretch !" and, ti^^lit a-f a rasp, Poor Tim found himself in a constable's gra.'fp. "Ah! ha! I have got yer, nov/ don't say a word, Yer know very well about what has occurred ; Come 'long to the station house, hurry up now. Or 'twnon you and mc there'll be a big row." Now it happened that, during the trial oi the case. An acquaintance of Tim's had stepped into the place. And he quickly perceived, when he hoard in detail The facts of the case, and said he'd go bail To any amount, for good Tim Twinkleton, For he knew he was innocent, " sure as a gun.' And the railway-clerk's evidence, given in detail, Was not quite sufficient to send him to jail. It was to effect, that the squalling began Just after the baskft in the bagpagc van Had been placed liy Tim T., wlio solemnly swore That he was qtiite ignorant of their |iresenct before. So the basket wjw brought to tlie magistrate'; sight, THE TWO ROADS. - iQQ And the twins on the top of the clothes looked so bright, That the magistrate's heart of a sudden en- larged, And he ordered that Tim Twinkleton be dis- charged. Tim grasped up the basket and ran 'or dear life, 1 when he reached home he first ask.^v.. for his wife ; train But the nurse said with joy, " Since you left she has slept, And from her the mistakes of to-day I have kept." Poor Tim, and the nurse, and all the small fry, Before taking dinner, indulged in a cry. The twins are now grown, and they time and life, again And when he reached home he first ask.^v.. Relate their excursion on the railway THE TWO ROADS. RICHTER. ^I^T was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a windo'Vf. §1^ He mournfully raised his eyes towards the deep blue sky, where the Jl^ stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more helpless beings than himself were moving towards their inevitable goal — the tomb. Already he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind unfurnished, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort. The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads, one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile har- vest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs ; while the other conducted the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled. He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his anguish : "0 youth, return ! my father, place me once more at the crossway of life, that I may choose the better road ! " But the days of his youth had passed away, and his parents were with the departed. He saw wandering lights float over dark marshes, and then disappear. "Such," he said, "were the days of my wasted life!" He saw a star shoot from heaven, and vanish in darkness athwart the church-yard. "Behold an emblem of myself ! " he exclaimed; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck him to the heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who had entered life with 8 no THE QUAKER WIDOW. tiim, but who having trod the paths of vh"tue and industry, were no\/{ happy and honored on this New Year's night. The clock in the high church-tower struck, and the sound, falUng on his ear, recalled tlie many tokens of the love of his parents for him, their erring son ; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven where they dwelt. His darkened eyes dropped tears, and, with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, " Come back, my early days ! Come back ! " And his youth did return ; for all this had been but a dream, visiting his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young, his errors only were no dream. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own ; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that when years shall be passed, and your feet shall stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, "0 youth return ! Oh, give me back my early days ! " THE QUAKER WIDOW. BAYARD TAYLOB j^IIEE finds me in the ganlcn, ILuinali ; come in ! 'Tis kind of thee !^^ To wiiit until the Friends were gone who came to comfort me, J- The still and quiet company a peace T may give indeed, But blessed is the single heart that comes to us at need. Come, sit thee down! Il'-re is the Ixinch where Benjamin would sit On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows flit; He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hoar the pleasant bees tio humming round the lilacs and through the apple trees. I lliiiik beloved the spring; not that he cared lor flowers -. moat men Think siu'h tilings foolishness ; but we were first acquainted then. One spring; the next he spoke his iniml ; tlie third I was his wife. And in the spring (it happened so) our cliil dren entered life He was but . , ■UZZER'S bought a baby, Ittle bit's of zmg; Zink I mos could put him Froo my rubber ring. v^. Ain't he awful nj^ly ? Ain't he awful pinV ? JuB come down from Heaven, Dat'.s a fib, I zink. Doctor told anozzer Great big awful lie; Nose ain't out of joyent, Dat ain't why I cry. Zink I ought to love hiru ! No, I won't! so zere; Na.ssy, crying baby, Ain't got any hair. UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 121 Send me off wiz Biddy Evry single day ; ' Be a good boy, Charlie, Run away and play." Dot all my nice kisses, Dot my place in bed; Mean to take my drumstick And beat Lim on ze head. UNCLE BAWL'S APPARITION AND PEA YER. FROM THE GILDED AGE OF CLEMENS AND WAENER. 'HATEVER the lagging, dragging journey may have been to the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and a delight to the children, a world of enchantment; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were in the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. At the end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house, by house into the hungry Missis* sippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile- breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but they had ever seen before. " Uncle Dan'l " (colored,) aged 40 ; his wife, " aunt Jinny," aged 30, "Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, "Young Mars" Washington Hawkins and " Young Mars " Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvelous river and discussed 122 UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. it. The moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud- wreaths ; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light ; a deep silence pervaded the air and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baying of a dog, or the muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. The little company assembled on the log were all children, (at least in simpHcity and broad and comprehensive ignorance,) and the remarks they made about the river were in keeping with their character ; and so awed were they by the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings, that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed : " Chil'en, dah's sumfin a comin' ! " All crowded close together and every heart beat faster. Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his bony finger. A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, way toward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape and sent a long brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glaring eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom, and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the farther darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. " What is it ! Oh, what is it. Uncle Dan'l ! " With deep solemnity the answer came : " It's de Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kni'cling, in a moment. And then whil*; the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger and the throatf-ning glare reached farther and wider, the negro's Voice lifted up its siif)])lication8 : " Lorrl, we's ben mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zervc to go to do bad place, but good Lord, dcah Lord, wo aint ready yit, we aint ready — let these po' chil'en hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take de olc niggah if you's got to hab somebody. — Good Lord, good dcah Lord, we don't know whah you's a gwine to, we don't know who you's got yo' eye on, but we knows by de way you's a comin', we knows by the way UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION AND PRAYER. 123 you's a tiltin' along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po' sinner's a gwine to ketch it. But good Lord, dese chil'en don't b'long heah, day's f m Obeds town whah dey don't know nuffin, an' yoa knows, yo' own sef, dat dey aint 'sponsible. An' deali Lord, good Lord, it aint like yo' mercy, it aint like yo' pity, it aint like yo' long-sufferin' lovin'-kindness for to take dis kind c^ 'vantage o' sich little chil'en as dese is when dey's so many ornery grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f 'm dey frens, jes' let 'em off dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. Heah I is, Lord, heah I IS ! De ole niggah's ready, Lord, de ole " The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted, (but rather feebly :) " Heah I is, Lord, heah I is ! " There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and comfort of the party, it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough " the Lord " waa just turning a point a short distance up the river, and while they looked, the lights winked out and the coughing diminished by degrees and pre- sently ceased altogether. " H'wsh ! Well now dey's some folks says dey aint no 'ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben 7iow if it warn't fo' dat prah ? Dat's it. Dat's it ! " " Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the prayer that saved us ? " said Clay. " Does I reckon ? Don't I know it ! "Whah was yo' eyes ? Warn't de Lo]-d jes' a comin' chow ! chow ! chow ! an' a goin' on turrible — an' do de Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin don't suit him ? An' warn't he a lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a reachin' for 'err ? An' d'you spec' he gwine to let 'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it ? No indeedy ! " " Do you reckon he saw us, Uncle Dan'l ? " " De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a lookin' at us ? " " Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l ? " "No sah! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he aint 'fraid o' ruffin- dey can't nuffin tetch him." 124 SOCRATES SNOOKS. "Well what did you run for ? " " Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit, lie do-no what he's 'bout — no sah ; dat man do-no what he's 'bout. You might take an' tah de head off'n dat man an' he wouldn't scasely fine it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt considable — ob coase dey was; but dei/ didn't know nuffin 'bout it — heal right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, (hair,) maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn." " /don't know but what they were girls. I think they were." " Now Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a saying what you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." " But how should /know whether they were boys or girls? ' " Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say ? 'Sides, don't it call 'em de /Te-brew chil'en ? If dey was gals would'n dey be de she- brew chil'en? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey do read." " Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that My ! here comes another one up the river ! There can't be two ! " " We gone dis time — we done gone dis time sho' ! Dey aint two, Mars Qlay — dat's de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a second. Goodness, how de fiah an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, honey. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time you's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid you — ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah — de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you agin." He did go to the woods and pray ; but he went so far that he doubted, himself, if the Lord heard him when He went by. SOCRATES SNOOKS TER Socrates Snooka, a lord of] When on? morning to Xantippe, Socrates said " I think, for a man of my Btanding in life, This house is too small, as I now have a wife So, as early as possible, carpenter Carey Shall Vie sent for to widen my house and my dairy." creation, li" .second time entered the married relation : Xantij)pe CJaloric accepted his hand, And they thought him the happiest man in the land. Bu*. scarce had the honeymoon passed o'er his hea^l, " Now, Socrates, dearest," Xantippe replied, " I hate to hear everything vulgarly my'd; TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 125 Now, whenever you speak of your chattels again, Say, our cow-house, our barn-yard, our pig- pen." " By your leave, Mrs. Snooks, I will say what I please Of my houses, my lands, my gardens, my trees." ■Say our," Xantippe exclaimed in a rage. "I won't, Mrs. Snooks, though you ask it an age !" Oh, woman! though only a part of man's rib, If the story in Genesis don't tell a fib. Should your naughty companion e'er quarrel with you. You are certain to prove the best man of the two. In the following case this was certainly true ; For the lovely Xantippe just pulled off her shoe, And laying about her, all sides at random. The adage was verified — " Nil desperandum." Mister Socrates Snooks, after trying in vain. To ward off the blows which descended like Concluding that valor's best part wag discre- tion — Crept under the bed like a terrified Hessian ; But the dauntless Xantippe, not one whit afraid. Converted the siege into a blockade. At last, after reasoning the thing in his pate, He concluded 'twas useless to strive against fate: And so, like a tortoise protruding his head, Said, " My dear, may we come out from un- der our bed ?" " Hah ! hah !" she exclaimed, " Mr. Socrates Snooks, I perceive you agree to my terms by your looks : Now, Socrates — hear me — from this happy hour. If you'll only obey me, I'll never look sour." 'Tis said the next Sabbath, ere going to church. He chanced for a clean pair of trowsers to search : Having found them, he a.sked, with a few nervous twitches, " My dear, may we put on our new Sunday breeches ?" >imM yj>< TOO LATE FOB THE TRAIN. [TEN they reached the depot, Mr. Mann and his wife gazed in unspeakable disappointment at the receding train, which was just pulling away from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a minute. Their first impulse was to run after it, but as the train iwas out of sight and whistling for Sagetown before they could act upon the impulse, they remained in the carriage and discon aolately turned their horses' heads homeward. Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly : " It all comes of having to wait for a woman to get ready." " I was ready before you were," replied his wife. ''Great heavens," cried Mr. Mann, with great impatience, nearly jerking the horse's jaws out of place, "just listen to that ! And I sat m 9 126 TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. the buggy ten minutes yelling at you to come along until tlie whole neigh- borhood heard me." " Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the provoking placidity which no one can assume but a woman, " and every time I started down stairs, you sent me back for something you had forgotten." Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much to bear," he said, " when everybody knows that if I were going to Europe I would just rush into the house, put on a clean shirt, grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you would want at least six months for preliminary preparations, and then dawdle around the whole day of starting until every train had left town." "Well, the upshot of the matter was that the Manns put off their visit to Aurora until the next week, and it was agreed that each one should get himself or herself ready and go down to the train and go, and the one who failed to get ready should be left. The day of the match came around in due time. The train was going at 10.30, and Mr. Mann, after attending to his business, went home at 9.45. "Now, then," he shouted, "only three-quarters of an hour's time. Fly around; a fair field and no favors, you know." And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged into this room and flew through that one, and dived into one closet after another with incon- ceivable rapidity, chuckling under his breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. Mann would feel when he started off' alone. He stopped on his way up stairs to pull off" his heavy boots to save time. For the same rea- son he pulled off" his coat as ho ran through the dining-room, and hung it on a corner of the silver-closet. Then he jerked off his vest as he rushed through the hall and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, and by the time he had reached his own room he was ready to pkinge into his ck'an clothes. He pulled out a bureau- drawer and began to paw at the things like a Scotch terrier after a rat. "Eloanor," he shrieked, "where are ray shirts?" " In your bureau drawer," calmly replied Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a glaas calmly and doliberatcly coaxing a refractory crimp into place. TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 127 " Well, but they ain't," shouted Mr. Mann, a little annoyed. " I've emptied everything out of the drawer, and there isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, held her head on one side, and after satisfying herself that the crimp would do, replied : " These things scattered around on the floor are all mine. Probably you haven't been looking into your own drawer." '^ I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann, " why you couldn't have put my things out for me when you had nothing else to do all the morning." " Because," said Mlrs. Mann, setting herself into an additional article of raiment with awful deliberation, " nobody put mine out for me. A fair field and no favors, my dear." Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like a bull at a red flag. " Foul ! " he shouted in malici- ous triumph. " No buttons on the xieck ! " " Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweet- ly, after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting, impatient man, during which she buttoned her dress and put eleven pins where they would do the most good, " because you have got the shirt on wrong side out." When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three times before he got it on, and while it was over his head he heard the clock strike t«n. When his head came through he saw Mrs. Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her necktie. " Where are my shirt-studs ? " he cried. Mrs. Mann went out into another room and presently came back with gloves and hat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the boxes he could find in and around the bureau. Then she said, " In the shirt you just pulled off." Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. Mann hunted up and down the room for his cuff-buttons. " Eleanor," he snarled at last, " I believe you must know wher« those cuff-buttons are." 12S TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. "I haven't seen them," said the lady settling her hat; *' didn't you lay them down on the window-sill in the sitting-room last night ? " Mr. Mann remembered, and he went down stairs on the run. He stepped on one of his boots and was immediately landed in the hall at the ibot of the stairs with neatness and dispatch, attended in the transmis- »ion with more bumps than he could count with Webb's Adder, and landed with a bang Uke the Hell Gate explosion. " Are you nearly ready, Algernon ? " sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, leaning over the banisters. The unhappy man groaned. " Can't you throw me down the other Soot?" he asked. Mrs. Mann piteously kicked it down to him. " My valise ? " he inquired, as he tugged at the boot. " Up in your dressing-room," she answered. "Packed?" " I do not know ; unless you packed it yourself, probably not," she rephed, with her hand on the door-knob ; " I had barely time to pack my own." She was passing out of the gate when the door opened, and he shouted, " Where in the name of goodness did you put my vest ? It has all my money in it." " You threw it on the hat-rack," she called. ''Good-bye, dear." Before i)he got to the corner of the street she was hailed again : " Eleanor ! Eleanor ! Eleanor Mann ! Did you wear off my coat ? " She pansed and turned, after signaling the street-car to stop, and cried, " You threw it in the silver-closet." The street-car engulfed her graceful form and she was seen no more. But the neighbors say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, rushing out of the front-door every now and then, shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where she put the valise key, and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And when he went away at last, ho loft the kitchen-door, the side-door and the front-door, all the down-stairs windows and the front-gate wide open. The loungers around the depot were somewhat amused, just as the train was pulling out of sight down in the yards, to S(^o a flushod, cnter- pri.sing man, with his hat on Hid(!wayH, his vest unbuttoned and necktie flying, and his grij)-sack flapping open and shut like a dcnKnited shutter on a March night, and a door-key in his hand, dash wildly across the plat- *brm and halt in the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, impotent THE UNBOLTED DOOR. 12(' wrathful mortification at the departing train, and snaking his fiat at a pretty woman who was throwing kisses at 'him from the rear platform o'. the last car. TBF UNBOLTED DOOE. EDWARD GARRETT. CARE-WORN widow sat alone Beside her fading hearth ; Her silent cottage never hears The ringing laugh of mirth. Six children once had sported there, but now the church-yard snow Fell softly on five little graves that were not long ago. She mourned them all with patient love; But since, her eyes had shed Far bitterer tears than those which dewed The facer- of the dead, — The child which had been spared to her, the darling of her pride, The woful mother lived to wish that she had also died. Those little ones beneath the snow She well knew where they are ; ' Close gathered to the throne of God," And that was better far. But when she saw where Katy was, she saw the city's glare. The painted mask of bitter joy that need gave sin to wear. Without, the snow lay thick and whit« ; No step had fallen there ; Within, she sat beside her fire. Each thought a silent prayer ; When suddenly behind her seat unwont«4 noise she heard, As though a hesitating hand the rustic latch had stirred. She turned, and there the wanderer stood With snow-flakes on her hair ; A faded woman, wild and worn, The ghost of something fair. And then upon the mother's breast th« whitened head was laid, " Can God and you forgive me all ? for I have sinned," she said. The widow dropped upon her knees Before the fading fire, And thanked the Lord whoss love at last Had granted her desire ; The daughter kneeled beside her. tco, teart streaming from her eyes, And prayed, " God help me to be good to mother ere she dies." 130 THE VAGABONDS. They did not talk about the sin, " My child;" the widow said, and smiled The shame, the bitter woe ; A smile of love and pain, They spoke about those little graves " I kept it so lest you should come And things of long ago. And turn away again ! And then the daughter raised her eyes and I've waited for you all the while — a mother's asked in tender tone, love is true ; "Why did you keep your door unbarred Yet this is but a shadowy type of His who -when you were all alone?" died for jou!" S-j*^ THE VAGABONDS. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. are two travelers, Roger and I. I '• i^er'fi my dog ; — como hero, you Hcamp! Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye! Over tho tahln, — look out for the lamji ! — Tho rogue is growing a little old : Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors wlif^n nights were cold, And ate an'l drank — and starved to gethor. We've learned what comfort is, I ti{ the tail close over the log. SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 133 " Ya ! dat isli right. Now, you von ticf sheep, I learns you better hick," said Von Vloni Schlopsch, as he raised the axe. It descended ; and as it did so, Hiram, with characteristic presence of mind, gave a sudden jerk, and brought BUtzen's neck over the loa: ; and the head rolled over the other side. " Wall, I swow ! " said Hiram with apparent astonishment, as he dropped the headless trunk of the dog ; "that was a leetle too close." "' Mine cootness ! " exclaimed the Dutchman, "you shust cut 'im off de wrong end /" CHOCK UP !" SONG OF MARION'S MEN. W. C. BRYANT. R band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold ; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree ; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea ; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass. Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near ! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear ; When, waking to their tents on firo. They grasp their arms in vain. And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again ; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind. And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil ; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the .soldier's cup. With merr}' songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves. And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads, — The glitter of their rifles,. The scampering of their steeds. 134 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. Tifl life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlit plain ; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp — A moment — and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs ; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton Forever from our shore. DEATH OF LITTLE JO. CHARLES DICKENS. is very glad to see his old friend ; -and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangbsy, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half-a-crown ; that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds. "And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?" inquired the sta' tioner, with his cough of sympathy. " I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, " and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir." The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done. " Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yet as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being so good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come horsolf and see me yes'day, and she ses, *Ah Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo!' she scs. And she eits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I does, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I sec him a forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, ho come fur to give me somcthink for to ease me, wot he's alius a doin on day and night, and wen he comos a bendin over me and a H})f!akin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. Sangsby." A YOUNG CAVALIER. From a Celebrated Painting by Reni Reinickf DEATH OF LITTLE JO. 135 The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will relieve his feelings. "Wot I wos thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?" "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. " Uncommon, precious large, p'raps ? " says Jo, with eagerness. " Yes, my poor boy." Jo laughs with pleasure. " Wot I wos thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be moved no furder, whether you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that any one could see it anywheres, as that I was wery truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I never went fur to do it ; and that though I didn't know nothink at all, I knowd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and was alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the writin could be made to say it wery large, he might." " I shall say it, Jo ; very large." Jo laughs again. " Thankee, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unfinished cough, slips down his fourth half-crown, — he has never been so close to a case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this httle earth, shall meet no more. No more. {Another scene. — Enter Mr. Woodcourt) " Well, Jo, what is the matter ? Don't be frightened." " I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, " I thought I was in Tom-All-alone's agin. An't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot?" " Nobody." "And I an't took back to Tom-All-alone's, am I, sir?" " No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I am wery thankful." After watching him closely a little while, Allan puts his mouth very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice : " Jo, did you ever know a prayer ? " "Never knowd nothink, sir." " Not so much as one short prayer ? " " No, sir. Nothing at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin wunst 136 DEATH OF LITTLE JO. at Mr. Sangsby's, and I heerd him, but he sounded as if he wos a speakin to hisself, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but / couldn't make out nothink on it. Different times there wos other genlmen come down Tom- all-x\lone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be talkin to theirselves, or a passin blame on the t'others, and not a talkin to us. We never knowd nothink. /never knowd what it wos all about." It takes him a long time to say this ; and few but an experienced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes, of a sudden, a strong effort to get out of bed. " Stay, Jo, stay ! What now ? " " It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he re- turns, with a wild look. "Lie down, and tell me. What burying ground, Jo?" " Where they laid him as wos wery good to me ; wery good to me indeed, he wos. It's time for me to go down to that there berryin ground, sir, and ask to be put along with him. I wants to go there and be berried. He used fur to say to me, ' I am as poor as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor as him now, and have come there to be laid along with him." " By-and-by, Jo ; by-and-by." " Ah ! P'raps they wouldn't do it if I was to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him?" " I will, indeed." " Thankee, sir ! Thankee, sir ! They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take mc in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. — It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a comin ?" " It is coming fast, Jo." Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is very near its end. " Jo, my poor frillow ! " " I hear, you sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin — a gropin — let mo catch hold of your liuixl." " Jo, can you say what I say ? " " I'll say anything as you say, sir, lur I knows it's good." "Our Father." "Our Father! — yes, that's wery good, sir." "Which art in Heaven." UNITED IN DEATH. 13; "Art iu Heaven !" — Is tlie light a comin', sir?" "It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name." "Hallowed be — thy — name !" The light has come upon the benighted way. Dead. Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my Lords and Gentlemen. Dead, Eight Reverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Dead, men and women, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day. THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. JAMES R. LOWELL. HE snow had began in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tfee Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow, The stiff rails were softened to swan's down, And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds. Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood ; How the flakes were folding it gently. As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, " Father, who makes it snow f And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall. And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow. When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe. And again to the child I whispered, " The snow that husheth aU, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall !" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her . And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister. Folded close under deepening stow. UNITED IN DEATH. aSiepHERE was no fierceness in the eyes of those men now, as they sat ^i^ face to face on the bank of the stream ; the strife and the angei J^ had all gone now, and they sat still, — dying men, who but a few i hours before had been deadly foes, sat still and looked at each 138 UNITED IN DEATH. other. At last one of them spoke : " We haven't either of us a chance tti hold on much longer, I judge." " No," said the other, with a little mixture of sadness and reckless- ness, " you did that last job of yours well, as that bears witness," and he pointed to a wound a little above the heart, from which the life blood was slowly oozing. " Not better than you did yours," answered the other, with a grim smile, and he pointed to a wound a little higher up, larger and more ragged, — a deadly one. And then the two men gazed upon each other again in the dim light ; for the moon had come over the hills now, and stood among the stars, like a pearl of great price. And as they looked a soft feeling stole over the heart of each toward his fallen foe, — a feeling of pity for the strong manly life laid low, — a feeling of regret for the in- exorable necessity of war which made each man the slayer of the other ; and at last one spoke : " There are some folks in the world that'll feel worse when you are gone out of it." A spasm of pain was on the bronzed, ghastly features. "Yes," said the man, in husky tones, " there's one woman with a boy and girl, away up among the New Hampshire mountains, that it will well-nigh kill to hear of this ; " and the man groaned out in bitter anguish, " God have pity on my wife and children ! " And the other drew closer to him: "And away down among the cotton fields of Georgia, there's a woman and a little girl whose hearts will break when they hear what this day has done ; " and then the cry wrung itself sharply out of his heart, " God, have pity upon them ! " And from that moment the Northerner and the Southerner ceased to be foes. The thought of those distant homes on which the anguish was to fall, drew them closer together in that last hour, and the two men wept hke little children. And at last the Northerner spoke, talking more to himself than to any one else, and he did not know that the other was listening greedily to every word : — "She used to come, — my little girl, bless her heart! — every night to meet me when I came home from the fields ; and she would stand under tlie groat plum-tree, that's just beyond the back-door at home, with the sunlight making yellow- brown in her golden curls, and the laugh dancing in her eyes when she heard the click of the gate, — I see her now, — and I'd take her in my arms, and she'd put up her little red lips for a kiss ; but my little darling will never watch under the plum-tree by the well, for her father, again. I shall never hear the cry of joy as she catches a glimpse GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. 139 of me at the gate. I shall never see her little feet running over the grass to spring into my arms again ! " " And then," said the Southerner, " there's a little brown-eyed, brown-haired girl, that used to watch in the cool afternoons for her father, when he rode in from his visit to the plantations. I can see her sweet little face shining out now, from the roses that covered the pillars, and hear her shout of joy as I bounded from my horse, and chased the little flying feet up and down the verandah again." And the Northerner drew near to the Southerner, and spoke now in a husky whisper, for the eyes of the dying men were glazing fast : " We have fought here, like men, together. "We are going before God in a Httle while. Let us forgive each other." The Southerner tried to speak, but the sound died away in a mur- mur from his white lips ; but he took the hand of his fallen foe, and his stiffening fingers closed over it, and his last look was a smile of forgive- ness and peace. When the next morning's sun walked up the gray stairs of the dawn, it looked down and saw the two foes lying dead, with their hands clasped in each other, by the stream which ran close to the battle- field. And the little girl with golden hair, that watched under the plum-tree among the hills of New Hampshire, and the little girl with bright brown hair, that waited by the roses among the green fields of Georgia, were fatherless. GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. WILL CARLETON, John. lirl'VE wi-'-ked in the field all day, a plowin' ^\^ tlie " stony streak ;" e^? I've ,s;olded my team till I'm hoarse; i IVe tramped till my legs are weak; j- I've choked a dozen swears, (so's not to tell Jane fibs,) WTien the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs. I've put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats ; I've fed 'em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats ; And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin' feel And Jane won't say to-night that I don't make out a meal. Well said ! the door is locked ! out here she'e left the key, Under the step, in a place known only to hei and me ; I wonder who's dyin' or dead, that she's bus tied off pell-mell ; But here on the table's a note, and probably this will tell. 140 GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN. Good God .' my wife is ^ne ! 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 ! Whj', that ain't much to say ; There's han'somer men than me go past here every day. There's handsomer men than me — I ain't of the han'some kind ; But a loveri'er 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 spoken be changed to scorpion stings ! 'Jh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt, And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart's blood out ! Curse her ! curse her ! say I, she'll some time rue this day ; She'll some time 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. Ab 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, rhat she who is false to one, can be the same with two. An'l whfin her face grows pale, and wh'n her eyes grow dim, An! when he ia tired of lier and she is tirod of him, She'll do what she ought to have done, anc coolly count the cost ; And then she'll see things clear, and know what she has lost. And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind. And she will mourn and cry for what she 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 heart there was some- thin' or other she had That fastened a man to her, and wasn't en- tirely 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 'em 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 — Th?.*^ she always will sorry be that she went with that han'somer man. Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur ; It seems when I look at tliat, as if 'twaa holdin' her. And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat, And yonder's her weddin' gown ; I wonder she diS CRITICISM. CHARLES F. ADAMS. HERE'S a story tiiat s oLI, Hut goo'l if twice toll], Wlio rurod bo.-uil. and man On tho " cold-wak-r plan," jv' Of a doctor of limited skill, I Without tho small help of a piU. FAT'S CRITICISM. 156 On his portal of pine Hung an elegant sign, Depicting a beautiful rill, And a lake where a sprite, With apparent delight, Wfts sporting in sweet dishabille. When the doctor with pride Stepped up to his side. Saying, "Pat, how is that lor a signi' " There's wan thing," says Pat, "You've lift out o' that, Which, be jabers ! is quoite a mistake Pat McCarty one day, As he sauntered that way. Stood and gazed at that portal of pine ; It's trim and it's nate; But, to make it complate, Ye shud have a foine burd on tne late' 166 THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. "Ah • indeed ! pray ihen, tell, To make it look well, Wtat bird do you think it may lack?" Says Pat, " Of the same I've forgotten the name, But the song that he sings is ' Quack ! quack !' THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. ^T was very cold, the snow fell, and it was almost quite dark ; for it was evening — yes, the last evening of the year. Amid the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, was roaming through the streets. It is true she had a pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were very large slippers ; so large, indeed, that they had hitherto been used by her mother; besides, the little creature lost them as she hurried across the street, to avoid two carriages that were driving very quickly past. One of the slippers was not to be found, and the other was pounced upon by a boy, who ran away with it, saying that it would serve for a cradle when he should have children of his own. So the little girl went along, with her little bare feet that were red and blue with cold. She carried a number of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of tli.in in hor hand. Nobody had bought anything from hor the whole livelong day ; nobody ha. hccdcid them not now. Lights were streaming from all th* rele vancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber-door, Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber- door With such name as " Nevermore !" But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feath- er then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have flown before, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopei liave flown before. Then the bird said, "Nevermore!" Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster FoUow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songa one burden bore. Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore," Of — ' Never — nevermore !' " But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door, IGO THE FIRE-FIEND. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook my- self to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this omi- nous bird of yore— - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore!" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sylla- ble expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned in- to my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- light gloated o'er. But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp- light gloating o'er She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! Then methought the air grew denser, per- fumed from an unseen censer Swung by Fera[ihim, whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted Qoor, " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee, — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy mem- ories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and for- get this lost Lenore !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this homo by liorror haunted — tell me truly, I iiiiplurf', — Is there — is there balm in Qilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore !" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore !" " Prophet !" said I, " thing of evil I — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore. Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the an- gels name Lenore ; Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!" " Be that word our sign of parting, bird oi fiend !" I shrieked, upstarting, — " Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door !" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore!" And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber-door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- mon's that is dreaming. And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore! THE FIRE-FIEND. C. D. GARDETTE. }N the deepest dearth of Midnight, while the sad and solemn swell Still wa.s floating, faintly echoed from the Forfwt Chapel Bfll— Fainting, faltcringly floating o' er the Bablo wavea of air That were through (ho Midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling — In my chamber I lay dn^aming by the fire- light's fitful gleaming, And my dreams wr-ro rlrfains foreshadotred on a heart furedoonuil to Carol THE FIRE-FIEND, 161 As the last long lingering echo of the Mh*. night's mystic chime — Lifting through the sable billow.s to the Thither Shore of Time- Leaving on the starless silence not a token nor a trace — In a quivering sigh departed ; from my couch in fear I started : Started to my feet in terror, for my Dream's phantasmal Error Painted in the fitful fire, a frightful, fiend- ish flaming face ! On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak, Seemed to gibe and grin this riiantoni when in terror I awoke, And my slumberous eyelids straining as I staggered to the floor, Still in that dread Vision seeming, turned my gaze toward the gleaming Hearth, and — there ! — oh, God ! I saw It ! and from out Its flaming jaw It Spat a ceaseless, seething, hissing, bubbling, gurgling stream of gore ! Speechless ; struck with stony silence ; fro- zen to the floor I stood, Till methought my brain was hissing with that hissing, bubbling blood : — Till I felt my life-stream oozing, oozing from those lambent lips : — Till the Demon seemed to name me : — then a wondrous calm o'ercame me. And my brow grew cold and dewy, with a death-damp stiff and gluey. And I fell back on my pillow in apparent soul-eclipse ! Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the icy Pall of Fear I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear : — Canf a murmur like the murmur of assas- sins in their sleep : — Muttering, " Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am Demon of the Fire ! I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire! and each blazing roofs my pyre. And my sweetest incense is the blood and t'Oars my victims weep > How I revel on the Prairie ! IIow I roar r.mong the Pines ! How I laugh when from the village o'er the snow the red flame shines. And I hear the shrieks of terror, with a Lifo in every breath ! How I scream with lambent laughter as 1 hurl each crackling rafter Down the fell abyss of Fire, until higher I higher ! higher ! Leap the High-Priests of my Altar in their merry Dance of Death ! " I am Monarch of the Fire! I am Vassal- King of Death ! World-encircling, with the shadow of its Doom upon my breath ! With the symbol of Hereafter flaming from my fatal face ! I command the Eternal Fire! Higher! higher ! higher ! higher ! Leap my ministering Demons, like Phantas- magoric lemans Hugging Universal Nature in their hideous embrace !" Then a sombre silence shut me in a solemn, shrouded sleep. And I slumbered, like an infant in the " Cra- dle of the Deep," Till the Belfry in the Forest quivered with the matin stroke. And the martins, from the edges of its lichen- lidded ledges. Shimmered through the russet arches where the Light in torn files marches. Like a routed army struggling through the serried ranks of oak. Through my ivy-fretted casement filtered in a tremulous note From the tall and stately linden where a Ro- bin swelled his throat : — Querulous, quaker-crested Robin, calling quaintly for his mate ! Then I started up, unbidden, from my slum- ber Nightmare ridden. With the memory of that Due Demon in my central Fire, Ou mv eve's interior mirror like the shadow oi a Fate i 162 RETRIBUTION. Ah ! the fiendish Fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap, And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep ; But around its very centre, where the Demon Face had shone, Forked Shadows seemed to linger, pomtins as with spectral finger To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carv ed and olden — And I bowed, and said, "All Power is ol God, of God alone!" RETRIBUTTON. A. LINCOLN. Wj Almighty has His own ) m rj )o,sf's. " Woe unto tlic world b«cnuae of r)froiK;cs ! for it must ueods l»c that ofTonccs come; hut woo to that man by whom the offence cometh." If W(^ shall suppose that American slavery is one of tliose offences which, in the providence of God, muKit needs come, hut which, having continual through Ilis appointed tim<\ He now wills to rcinov, and that II<' gives to JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. 163 both North and South this terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offence came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him ! Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years d unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, " The judgments of the Lord are true and ricrhteous altoo;ether." With malice toward none ; with charity for all ; with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in ; to bind up the nation's wounds ; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan — to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves, and with all nations. JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. 'IfAE.IA ANN recently determined to go to a picnic. Maria Ann is my wife — unfortunately she had planned it to t^^ go alone, so far as I am concerned, on that picnic excursion ; but when I heard about it, I determined to assist. She pretended she was very glad ; I don't believe she was. " It will do you good to get away from your work a day, poor fellow," she said ; " and we shall so much enjoy a cool morning ride on the cars, and a dinner in the woods." On the morning of that day, Maria Ann got up at five o'clock. About three minutes later she disturbed my slumbers, and told me to come to breakfast. I told her I wasn't hungry, but it didn't make a bit of differ- ence, I had to get up. The sun was up ; I had no idea that the sun began business so early in the morning, but there he was. " Now," said Maria Ann," " we must fly around, for the cars start at half-past six. Eat all the breakfast you can, for you won't get anything more before noon." I could not eat anything so early in the morning. There was ice to be pounded to go around the pail of ice-cream, and the sandwiches to be cut, and I thought I would never get the legs of the chicken fixed so that I could get the cover on the big basket. Maria Ann flew around and 164 JENKINS GOES TO A PICNIC. piled up groceries for me to pack, giving directions to the girl about taking care of the house, and putting on her di'ess all at once. There is a deal of energy in that woman, perhaps a trifle too much. At twenty minutes pa.st six I stood on the front steps, with a basket on one arm and Maria Ann's waterproof on the other, and a pail in each hand, and a bottle of vinegar in my coat-skirt pocket. There was a camp- chair hung on me somewhere, too, but I forget just where. " Now," said Maria Ann, " we must run or we shall not catch the train." " Maria Ann," said I, " that is a reasonable idea. How do you suppose I can run with all this freight?" " You must, you brute. You always try to tease me. If you don't want a scene on the street, you will start, too.'' So I ran. I had one comfort, at legist. ]\Iaria Ann fell down and broke her para- sol. She called me a brute again because I laughed. She drove me all the way to the depot at a brisk trot, and we got on the cars ; but neither of us could get a seat, and I could not find a place where I could set the things down, so I stood there and held them. " Maria," I said, " how is this for a cool morning ride ? " Said she, " You are a brute, Jenkins." Said I, " You have made that observation before, my love." I kept my courage up, yet I knew there would be an hour of wrath when we got home. "While we were getting out of the cars, the bottle in ray coat-pocket broke, and consequently I had one boot half-full of vinegar all day. That kept me pretty quiet, and Maria Ann ran off with a big whiskered music-teacher, and lost her fan, and got her feet wet, and tore her dress, and enjoyed herself so much, after the fashion of picnic goers. I thought it would never come dinner-time, and Maria Ann called lue a pig because I wanted to open our b;iskct before the rest of the ba.skots were o])onod. At last dinner camo — the "nice dinii'T in the woods," you kixiw. Over three thousand little red ants halimity around; a river runs through, and bright flowers grow to the water's edge. There is a thick, warm mist that the sun seeks vainly to pierce ; trees, lofty and beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds ; but there, a group of Indians gather; they flit to and fro with something like sorrow upon their dark brow; and in their midst lies a manly form, but his cheek, how deathly; his eye wild with the fitful fire of fever. One friend stands beside him, nay, I should say kneels, for he is pillowing that poor head upon hia breast. " Genius in ruins. Oh ! the high, holy-looking brow ! "Why should death mark it, and he so young? Look how he throws the damp curls! see him clasp his hands ! hear his thrilling shrieks for life ! mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, imploring to be saved. Oh ! hear him call piteously his father's name ; see him twine his fingers together as he shrieks for his sister — his only sister — the twin of his soul — weeping for him in his distant native land. " See ! " she exclaimed, while the bridal party shrank back, the un- tasted wine trembling in their faltering grasp, and the Judge fell, over- powered, upon his seat ; " see ! his arms are lifted to heaven ; he prays, how wildly, for mercy ! hot fever rushes through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping ; awe-stricken, the dark men move silently, and leave the living and dying together." There was a hush in that princely parlor, broken only by what seemed a smothered sob, from some manly bosom. The bride stood yet upright, with quivering lip, and tears stealing to the outward edge of her lashes. Her beautiful arm had lost its tension, and the glass, with its little troubled red waves, came slowly towards the range of her vision. She spoke again; every lip was mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed her sorrowful glance upon the wine-cup. " It is evening now ; the great white moon is coming up, and her beams lay gently on his forehead. He moves not; his eyes are set in their sockets ; dim are their piercing glances ; in vain his friend whispers the name of father and sister — death is there. Death ! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. His head sinks back ! one convulsive shudder ! he is dead ! " A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her description, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. They noticed also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands and was weeping. "Dead! " she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and faster, and 168 PAPA'S LETTER. her voice more and more broken : " and there they scoop him a grave ; and there without a shroud, they lay him down in the damp reeking earth. The only son of a proud father, the only idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-day in that distant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he Hes — my father's son — my own twin brother ! a victim to this deadly poison." " Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained down her beautiful cheeks, " father, shall I drink it now ? " The form of the old Judge was convulsed with agony. He raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered — " No, no, my child, in God'a name no." She lifted the gHttering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye watched her movements, and instantaneously every wine-glass was transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. Then, as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the company, saying: — "Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that terrible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand ; who watched over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband ? " His glistening eyes, his sad, sweet smile was her answer. The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of the bridal guasts, no one could fail to read that he, too, had determined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely rooms. Those who were present at that wedding, can never forget the impres- sion so solemnly made. Many from that hour forswore the social glass. FAPA'S LETTER. WAS Hitting in my Htnrly, Writing letters, when I licanl, rii:;i8o, dear rnurnina,, Mary told me Mamma rnuHtn't bo 'iHturbcd. " But IVf) tired of tlie kitty, Want Home ozzcr fing to do. Witing lf!tt<^!rH, in 'ou, mamma? Tan't I witon tho fliill horizon ; it V>ut goofl I'ij^afc^ToHhino in othor nkioH.lhnn rcappfMir In ourH, aa fresh a« when it firHt The river is not lost, when, o'er tho rock, It pours its flood into tho abyss bolow , Its Hcattorcd force rc-gathoring from th« HllDck, It haatena ouward with vet fuller flow. BETTY AND THE BEAR. Z71 The bright sun dies not, when the shading orb Of the eclipsing moon obscures its ray It still is shining on ; and soon to us Will burst undimmed into the joy of day. The lily dies not, when both flower and leaf Fade, and are strewed upon the chill, sad ground ; Gone down for shelter to its mother-earth, 'Twill rise, re-bloom, and shed its fragrance round. The dew-drop dies not, when it leaves the flower, And passes upward on the beam of morn ; It does but hide itself in light on high. To its loved flower at twilight, to return. The fine gold has not perished, when the flame Seizes upon it with consuming glow ; In freshened splendor it comes forth anew. To sparkle on the monarch's throne oi brow. Thus in the quiet joy of kindly trust, We bid each parting saint a brief fare- well; Weeping, yet smiling, we commit their dust To the safe keeping of the silent cell. The day of re-appearing I how it speeds ! He who is true and faithful speaks the word. Then shall we ever be with those we love — Then shall we be forever with the Lord. BETTY AND THE BEAR. j)N a pioneer's cabin out West, so they say, f 5 A great big black grizzly trotted one I day, ) And seated himself on the hearth, and began To lap the contents of a two-gallon pan Of milk and potatoes, — an excellent meal,— And then looked about to see what he coulJ steal. The lord of the mansion awoke from his sleep, And, hearing a racket, he ventured to peep Just out in the kitchen, to see what was there, And was scared to behold a great grizzly bear. So he screamed in alarm to his slumbering frow, " Thar's a bar in the kitching as big's a cow !" " A what ?" " Why a bar !" " Well, murder him, then !" " Yes, Betty, I will, if you'll first venture in.'" So Betty leaped up, and the poker she seized. While her man shut the door, and against it he squeezed. As Betty then laid on the grizzly her blows, Now on his forehead, and now on his nose, Her man through the key-hole kept shouting within, " Well done, my brave Betty, now hit him agm. Now a rap on the ribs, now a knock on the snout. Now poke with the poker, and poke his eyes out." So, with rapping and poking, poor Betty alone, Ai laet laid Sir Bruin as dead as a stone. 172 THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. Now •ft-hen the old man saw the bear was nc more, He ventured to poke his nose out of the door, And there was the grizzly, stretched on the floor. Then off to the neighbors he hastened, to tell All the wonderful things that that morning befell ; And he published the marvellous story afar. How "me and my Betty jist slaughtered a bar! yes, come and see, all the neighbors hev sid it. Come see what we did, me and Betty, we did it." THE FREEDOM OF THE PRESS. JOHN MILTON. -'7E,DS and Commons of England ! consider what nation it is wheroof ye are, and whereof ye are the governors; a nation not slow and dull, but of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit ; acute to invent, subtile and sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point that human capacity can soar to. Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzlcd eyes at the full mid-day beam ; purging and unsealing lior long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means. Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upc i the earth, so Trutli bo in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and pro- hibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Lot her and falsehood grapple ; whoever know Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter? Her confuting is the best and surest suppressing. He who hears what praying there is for light and clear knowledge to bo sent down among us, would think of other matters to be constituted beyond the disci])linc of AULD ROBIN GRAY. 173 Geneva, framed and fabricked already to our hands. Yet when the new light which we beg for shines in upon us, there be who envy and oppose, if it come not first in at their casements. What a collusion is this, when as we are exhorted by the wise men to use diligence, "to seek for wisdom as for hidden treasures," early and late, that another order shall enjoin us to know nothing but by statute! When a man hath been laboring the hardest labor in the deep mines of knowledge, hath furnished out his findings in all their equipage, drawn forth his reasons, as it were a battle ranged, scattered and defeated all objections in his way, calls out his adversary into the plain, offers him the advantage of wind and sun, if he please, only that he may try the matter by dint of argument; for his opponents then to skulk, to lay ambushments, to keep a narrow bridge of licensing where the challenger should pass, though it be valor enough in soldiership, is but weakness and cowardice in the wars of Truth. For who knows not that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty? She needs no policies, nor stratagems, nor licensings, to make her victorious; those are the shifts and the defences that error uses against her power ; give her but room, and do not bind her when she sleeps. AULD ROBIN GRAY. ANNE BARNARD. Lady Anne Barnard, daughter of the Earl of Balcarre-s, was born in 1750. Robin Gray chanced to be the name of a shepherd at Balcarres. While she was writing tliis ballad, a little sister looked in on her. " What more shall I do," .\nne asked, " to trou>)le a poor girl ? I've sent lier Jamie to sea, brokea her father's arm, made her mother ill, and given her an old man for a lover. There's room in the fouf lines for one sorrow more. What shall it be?" "Steal the cow, sister Anne." Accordingly the cow was stolen. The second part, it is said, wa.s written to please her mother, who often asked "how that unSuckJ business of Jeanie and Jamie ended." FIRST PART. ^^gjig^i . . But saving a crown be bad naetbing el»e beside ; To mak tbe crown a pound my Jamie gae local unity, for there is but one ocean, and the inhabitants of any one maritime spot may visit the inhabitants (A any vtlk. in the wide woi'ld. Its dej»th is subrm-: who can sound it'' -'U POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 177 strength is sublime : what fabric of man can resist it ? Its voice is sub- Hme, whether in the prolonged song of its ripple or the stern music of its roar, — whether it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or thunders at the base of some huge promontory, or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies away, in the calm and fading twilight, in gentle murmurs on some sheltered shore. The sea possesses beauty, in richness, of its own ; it borrows it from earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various dyes of their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses of their shadows as they go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow laves in it its many-colored feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the moon and the glittering brother- hood of planets and stars, for they delight themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams return from it in showers of diamonds and glances of fire ; the moonbeams find in it a pathway of silver, where they dance to and fro, with the breezes and the waves, through the livelong night. It has a light, too, of its own, — a soft and sparkling light, rivahng the stars ; and often does the ship which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a Milky Way of dim and uncertain lustre, like that which is shining dimly above. It harmonizes in its forms and sounds both with the night and the day. It cheerfully reflects the light, and it unites solemnly with the darkness. It imparts sweetness to the music of men, and grandeur to the thunder of heaven. What landscape is so beautiful as one upon the borders of the sea ? The spirit of its loveliness is from the waters where it dwells and rests, singing its spells and scattering its charms on all the coasts. What rocks and clifis are so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing sea ? What groves and fields and dwellings are so enchanting as those which stand by the reflecting sea ? There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. It is unfathomed, and, perhaps, unfathomable. Who can tell, who shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the world ? Who can tell what wells, what fountains, are there, to which the fountains of the earth are but drops ? Who shall say whence the ocean derives those in- exhaustible supplies of salt which so impregnate its waters that all the rivers of the earth, pouring into it from the time of the creation, have not been able to freshen them ? What undescribed monsters, what unimagi- nable shapes, may be roving in the profouiidest places of the sea, never seeking— and perhaps never able to seek — the upper waters and expose themselves to the gaze of man ! What glittering riches, what heaps of gold, what stores of gems, there must be scattered in lavish profusion in 178 POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. the ocean's lowest bed ! "What spoils from all climates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go down to examine and reclaim this im counted and idle wealth ? Who bears the keys of the deep ? And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart and mysterious to the mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, welter- ing, unsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of those lost ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been chanting requiem ? CMKI'S BY THK SKA. What shroudri were wrapped round the liiub.s of beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were laid on the dark floor of that secret tomb? Where are the bones, the relics, of the brave and the timid, the good and the bad, the parent, the child, the wife, tlio husband, tlie brother, the sister, the lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the washing, wasting, wandering sea? The journeying winds may sigh as year after yv/dv they pass over their beds. The solitary i-ain-cloud may weep in darknesss over the mingled remains which He strewcul in that un- wonted cemetery. But who sliall tvll tlin lMT<'aviMl to what sptjt their affections may cling? And where shall human tears boshed throughout MY COUNTRY. 179 that solemn sepulchre ? It is mystery all. When shall it be resolved? Who shall fmd it out? Who hut IIo to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom all nature bows; He who shall one day speak, and be heard in ocean's profoundest caves ; to whom the deep, even the lowest leep, shall give up its dead ; when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and the isles shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, and there shall be no more sea ! A FIRST SORRO W. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTOR. ?RISE ! this day shall shine Forevermore, To thee a star divine On Time's dark shore. Till now th}^ soul has been All glad an'd gay ; Bid it awake, and look At grief to-day ! No shade has come between Thee and the sun ; Like some long childish dream Thy life has run : But now the stream has reached A dark, deep sea, And Sorrow, dim and crowned Is waiting thee. Each of God's soldiers bears A sword divine : Stretch out thy trembling hand* To-day for thine ! To each anointed priest God's summons came : Soul, he speaks to-day, And calls thy name. Then, with slow, reverent step. And beating heart, From out thy joyous days Thou must depart, And, leaving all behind. Come forth alone. To join the chosen band Around the throne. Raise up thine eyes — be strong, Nor cast away The crown that God has given Thy soul to-day ! MY COUNTRY. JAMES MONTGOMERY. ?Kil|?HERE is a land, of every land the "^iti I^'^^oved by Heaven o'er all the world ^ beside, Where brighter suns dispense serener light. And milder moons imparadise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth : The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores. Views not a realm so bountiful and fair. Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air. In every clime, the magnet of his soul, Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race 180 INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. The heritage of nature's noblest grace, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Wbere man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life: In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. An angel-guard of love and graces lie ; Around her knees domestic duties meet. And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. " Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? " Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look arou/id , 0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely blest. A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. INDUSTRY THE ONLY TRUE SOURCE OF WEALTH. DR. GEORGE BERKELEY. pNDUSTEY is the natural sure way to success; this is so true, that it is impossible an industrious free people should want the necessaries and comforts of life, or an idle enjoy them under any form of govern- ment. Money is so far useful to the public, as it promoteth industry, and credit having the same eflfect, is of the same value with money ; but money or credit circulating through a nation from hand to hand, without producing labor and industry in the inhabitants, is direct gaming. It is not impossible for cunning men to make such plausible schemes, as may draw those who are less skilful into their own and the public ruin. But surely there is no man of sense and honesty but must see and own, whether he understands the game or not, that it is an evident folly for any people, instead of prosecuting the old lionest methods of industry and frugality, to sit down to a public gaming-table and play off their money one to another. The more methods there are in a state for acquiring riclies without industry or merit, the less there will bo of either in that atace: this is ae evident as the ruin that attends it. Besides, when money is shifted from hand to hand in such a blind fortuitous manner, that some men shall from nothing acquire in an instant viust estates, without the least desci't; while others are as suddenly stripped <>| plentiful r sliarc ; WILLIAM E. MILLER. Weary and faint. Prone on the soldier's couch, ah, how can I rest. With this shot-shattered head and sabre- pierced breast? Comrades, at roll-call wlien 1 sliall be sought, Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought, Wounded and faint. Oil, til at last charge! Right tiirougli the dread lioll-firo of slirapnel and shell, The tempCHt, — itfl fury and thunder were Tlirough without faltering, — clear lliioiigh there : with a yell ! On, on, o'er entrenchments, o'er living and ' Right in their midst, in the turmoil and dead, gloom. With the foe under foot, and our flag over- liead , Oil, It was grand I Like heroes wo daslied, at the mandate ol doom ! Oh, that hint cliart,;! qITH sable-draped banners, and slow Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired measured tread, j child ^ . .le flower-laden ranks pass the Besought him in accents which grief render- gates of the dead ; ed wild ; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests, " °^ ' ^'^' ^^ ^*' g°°*^' ^°^ ^^^^ '^>' ^^ '^'^'^ Leave tear-bedewed garlands to ^^^* bloom on his breast. ^^ ' ^^^ ' ^"^ y°" P^^' ^^ '"3' '^^^' P^P^'^ grave ? I know he was poor, but as kind and a.s true As ever marched into the battle with you — His grave is so humble, no stone marks tlie spot. You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not 1 For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there. And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. He didn't die lowly — ho poured his heart's blood. In rich crimson streams, from the (op crowning soil Of tlio breastworks wlmli stood in front .if the fight— And died shouting, ' Onward ' lor (Iml and the right!' Ended at last is the labor of love ; Gtice more through the gateway the saddened line« move — A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle scarred , 0'provc by voice and act, or they must ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 203 consent to be left behind and left out. There can bo no concession and no compromise on the part of temperance men, and no quarter to the foe. The great curse of our country and our race must be destroyed. Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of sixty thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, some are wild with hilarity and dance along the dusty way, some reel along in pitiful weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous impulses on one another, or on the helpless women and children whose destinies are united to theirs, some stop in wayside debaucheries and infamies for a moment, some go bound in chains from which they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding wrists, and all are poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. ■'^-^K^' EXTRACT FROM GRAY'S ELEGY. THOMAS GRAY. ULL many a gem of purest ray serene gjip The dark, unfathonied caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush v;nseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 14 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntlssf breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton hf^re, may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless ot hia country's blood. 204 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The applause of listening senates to com- mand, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the mad'ning crowd's ignoble strife. Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh. With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, implores \he passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlet- tered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews. That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On Bome fond breast the parting soul relies. Some piou,^ drops the closing eye requires ; K'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale re- late; If chance, bj'- lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Haply some hoary -headed swain may say :— " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn. Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. " There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so His listless length at noontide would he stretch. And pore upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. " One morn I missed him on the customed hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came, — nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; " The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne ; — Approadi and read (for thou canst rem!) tlie lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." TliK KriTAPH. Here rests his head upon tliolap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frowned not on liis liunil>lr hirtli. And iMi'lan'huly marked liiiu for her ywi» THE ANGLER. 205 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; He gave to misery (all lie had) a tear, He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. FELICIA HEMANS. sfes., ^prw?HE breaking waves dashed high i/jLv; On a stern and rock-bound coast, Y?,^4-i ^"^^ ^^ woods against a stormy sky ^% Their giant branches tossed ; I And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er. When a band of exiles moored their ba_k On the w -J New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums. And the trumpet that F/lngs of fame ; Not as the flying come. In silence and in fear ; — They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. A.midst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared,— This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim-band : Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? Bright j ewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground. The soil where first they trod ; They have left unstained what there they found, — Freedom to worship God. TEE ANGLER. CHALKHILL. THE gallant fisher's life. It is the best of any ! 'Tis full of pleasure, void of strife! And 'tis beloved by many ; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is ; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure. 206 THE ANGLEK. In a morning, up we rise, Ere Aurora's peeping ; Vrink a cup to wash our eyes, Leave the sluggard sleeping ; Then we go When we please to walk atwoftd For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation. Where, in a brook. I') tin- gallant fishf-r'n life It JH the best of any !" To and fro, With our knacks At our backn, To Hudi HtiHiarns Ah the Thames, If we have the leiHure. Willi II liofik, — Or a lake,— Fish we take ; Thero we sit, For a hit, Till wc fish entangle. IMMORTALITY. 207 We have gentles in a horn, Roach or dace. We have paste and worms too ; We do chase. We can watch botli night and morn, Bleak or g-^dgeon, Suffer rain and storms too ; Without grudging; None do here We are still conter 'od. Use to swear: Oaths do fray Fish away ; We sit still, Watch our quill : Fishers must not wrangle. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a sho ,ver Making earth our pillow ; Where we may If the sun's excessive heat Think and pray. Make our bodies swelter, Before death To an osier hedge we get, Stops our breath ; For a friendly shelter ; Other joj-s Where, in a dike, Are but toys. Perch or pike, And to be lamented. IMMORTALITY. MASSILLON. H^F we wholly perish with the body, what an imposture is this whol'9 ^1^ system of laws, manners, and usages, on which human society m f founded ! If we wholly perish with the body, these maxims of charity, patience, justice, honor, gratitude, and friendship, v;hich I sages have taught and good men have practised, what are they but 1 empty words possessing no real and binding efficacy? Why should we heed them, if in this life only we have hope? Speak not of duty. What can we owe to the dead, to the living, to ourselves, if all are or will he, nothing? Who shall dictate our duty, if not our own pleasures,^ If not our own passions ? Speak not of morality. It is a mere chimera, a bugbear of human invention, if retribution terminate with the grave. If we must wholly perish, what to us are the sweet ties of kindred ? What the tender names of parent, child, sister, brother, husband, wife, or friend ? The characters of a drama are not more illusive. We have no ancestors, no descendants ; since succession cannot be predicated of nothing' ness. Would we honor the illustrious dead ? How absurd to honor thai which has no existence ! Would we take thought for posterity ? How frivolous to concern ourselves for those whose end, like our own, must soon be annihilation ! Have we made a promise ? How can it bind nothing to nothing? Perjury is but a jest. The last injunctions of the dying, what 208 THE TEMPEST. sanctity have they, more than the last sound of a chord that is snapped, of an instrument that is broken ? To sum up all : If we must wholly perish, then is obedience to the laws but an insane servitude; rulers and magistrates are but the phantoms which popular imbecility has raised up ; justice is an unwarrantable in- fringement upon the liberty of men, — an imposition, a usurpation ; the law of marriage is a vain scruple; modesty a prejudice; honor and probity, Buch stuff as dreams are made of; and incests, murders, parricides, the most heartless cruelties and the blackest crimes, are but the legitimate sports of man's irresponsible nature ; while the harsh epithets attached to them are merely such as the policy of legislators has invented, and imposed upon the credulity of the people. Here is the issue to which the vaunted philosophy of unbelievers must inevitably lead. Here is that social felicity, that sway of reason, that emancipation from ei-ror, of which they eternally prate, as the fruit of their doctrines. Accept their maxims, and the whole world falls back into a frightful chaos ; and all the relations of life are confounded; and all ideas of vice and virtue are reversed ; and the most inviolable laws of society vanish ; and all moral discipline perishes ; and the government of states and nations has no longer any cement to uphold it ; and all the harmony of the body politic becomes discord ; and the human race is no more than an assemblage of reckless barbarians, shameless, remorseless, brutal, de- naturalized, with no other law than force, no other check than passion, no other bond than irreligion, no other God than self! Such would be the world which impiety would make. Such would be this world, were a belief in God and immortality to die out of the human heart. THE TEMPEST. %-"^' ^ J. T. FIELDS. wore crowded in the cabin, Not a Roul would daro to fileej), — It was midnight on the waters >. 1 .,X. And a Htorrn upon the deep. 'T is a fearful thing in winter To he shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, " Cut away the mast !" So wo sluiddorod thorn in pilenco, — For the Htoutest held his hrciitli, While the hungry sea was roaring, And the breakers talked with Death. As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, " We are lost!" the captain shouted As ho staggered down (in! stairs. OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. 209 But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, " la n't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land ?" Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining cie«r. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. >QR birth is but a sleep and a forget- ting ; The soul that rises with us, our life's star. Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar. Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory, do we come From God, who is our home. Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing boy ; But he beholds the light, and whence it fiows,- He sees it in his joy. The youth who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended : At length the man perceives it die away. And fade into the light of common day. Oh joy ! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction : not, indeed. For that which is most worthy to be blest, — Delight and libertv, the simple creed Of childhood, whether busy or at rest. With new-fledged hope blill fluttering in his breast, — Not for these I j aise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinaic questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before whi' h our mortal saturd Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised, — But ""or those first a (lections. Those shadowy lenillections. Which, be they what iliey may, Are yet the fountain-ligbi of all our day Are yet a master light of all our seeing. Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. To perish never, — Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be. Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither, — Can in a moment travel thither. And see the children sport upon the shore. And hear the mighty waters rolling evermora OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. IfMLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, And his face looked angry and red. " Go, seat j'ou there, now, Anthony Blsdr, Along with the girls," he said. Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air With bis head down on his breast. 210 DRIFTING. Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet That he loved, of all, the best. And Anthony Blair, seemed whimpering there, But the rogue only made believe ; For he peeped at the girls with the beautLfd curls, And ogled them over his sleeve. DRIFTING. T. BUCHANAN EEAD. qY soul to-day ;3 Is far away. Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; My winged boat, A bird afloat. Swims round the purple peaks remote : — Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw. Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim ; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands. The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, II'T sa{ii)hire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float Kwift or .slow from did to clifT; — With dreamful eyes My spirit lie.i Under tlie walls of Paradi.se. Tinder tlic walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A closd upon this liquid nky. The day, so mild. Is Heaven's own child. With earth and ocean reconciled \-^ The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail, A joy intense. The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies, — O'erveiled with vines. She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The clifft amid. Are gamboling with tlie gamboling kid; Or down the walls. With tii)sy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's cliild, With tresses wild. Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far ofl" ships. Yon deep bark goon WlnTi^ Iriirtic blows. From hinds of sun to lands of unows;-* This happier ono, Its course is run I'Vnin hinds of snow to lands of sun. EUROPEAN GUIDES. 211 happy ship, No more, no more To rise and dip, The worldly shore With the blue crystal at your lip ! Upbraids me with its loud uproar f happy crew, With dreamful eyes My heart with you My spirit lies Sftils, and sails, and sings anew! Under the walls of Paradise 1 EUROPEAN GUIDES. S. L. CLEMENS. IPIIlJEOPEAISr guides know about enough English to tangle everything ii^ up so that a man can make neither head nor tail of it. Thev know Jk their story by heart, — the history of every statue, painting, catlie- ^ dra], or other wonder they show you. They know it and tell it « as a parrot would, — and if you interrupt, and throw them off the track, they have to go back and begin over again. All their lives long they are employed in showing strange things to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. It is human nature to take delight in exciting admiration. It is what prompts children to say "smart " things, and do absurd ones, and in other ways " show off" when company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling bit of news. Think, then, what a passion it becomes with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to strangers wonders that throw them into perfect testacies of admiration ! He gets so that he could not by any possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies any more, — we never admired anything, — we never showed any but impassible faces and stupid indifference in the face of the sublimest wonders a guide had to dis- play. We had found their weak point. We have made good use of it ever since. We have made some of those people savage, at times, but we, have never lost our serenity. The doctor asks the questions generally, because he can keep hi* countenance, and look more like an inspired idiot, and throw more imbe- cility into the tone of his voice than any man that lives. It comes natural to him. The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an American party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about aa ^12 EUROPEAN GUIDES. if he had swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation, — full ol impatience. He said : — " Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come ! I show you ze letter writing by Christopher Colombo! — write it himself! — write it wis his own hand! —come !" He took us to the municipal palace. After much impressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the stained and aged document was spread before us. The guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped the parchment with his finger : — "What I tell you, genteelmen ! Is it not so ? See ! handwriting Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself!" We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor examined the docu- ment very deliberately, during a painful pause. Then he said, without any .show of interest, — "Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the name of the party who wrote this ?" " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Colombo !" Another deliberate examination. " Ah, — did he write it himself, or, — or how ?" " He write it himself ! — Christopher Colombo ! he's own handwriting, write by himself!" Then the doctor laid the document down and said, — " Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years old that could write better than that." " But zis is ze great Christo— ■" " I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever saw. Now you mustn't think you can impose on us because we are strangers. We are not fools, by a good deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanshi[> «f real merit, trot them out ! — and if you haven't, drive on !" We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, but he made one more venture. He had something which he thought wouki overcome us. He said, — " Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us I I show you beautiful, oh, mag- nificent l)U.st Christopher Colombo I — splendid, grand, magnificent!" He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it vas iKviutiful, — and •prang back and struck an attitude : — " Ah, look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Christopher Co- Jcmbo! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal !" The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such occ) him, who, in the love of Nature, hoM.'j i' Communion with her visihle forms, she speaks ^ A various language: for his gayer •f hours J She has a voice of gladness and a smile And f!loquf;nce of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker muHings with a mild Ad 1 gentle sympathy, that sU-als away Th-ir sharpncHS, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight C "'-.T thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow houHC, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart. Go forth under the open sky and list To Nature's teachings, wliilo from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice, — Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his cournc ; nor yet in the cold ground. Where thy pale form was laid, with m»taj tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall ezU'. • To him, who, in the love of Nature, holds Communioa with her visible forms, she speaks 4. various laneuaae." TIIANATOPSTS. 215 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements ; To be a brother to the insensible rock. And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak THE VENERABLE WOODS. Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world, — with king.s, The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the the Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills. Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks. That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 15 Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings. — Yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone ! So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou with draw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? The gay wi«l laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will A\. His favorite phantom ; yet all these i^\u. leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men — The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid. The bowed with age, the infant in the smilei And beauty of its innocent age cut ofl:" — Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live that when thy summons comes t« join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the -silent halls of deatn, 216 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy gravf. Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGEB. HORACE SMITH. ^^N Broad Street buildings (on a winter ^^ Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight dlib Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing k His feet rolled up in fleecy hose, J With t'other he'd beneath his nose The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing. He noted all the sales of hops. Ships, shops, and slops ; Gum, gaUs, and groceries ; ginger, gin, Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin ; WHien lo! a decent personage in black. Entered and most politely said — " Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar, which I Observed in passing by ; And thought it neighborly to give you notice." "Ten thoasand thanks!" the gouty man replied; " You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ; — " Ten thousand thanks how very few do ge^ In time of danger, Such kind attention from a stranger ! Assuredly, that fellow's throat is Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf,) That there's no soul at home except my self." "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave,) " Then he's a double knave: He knows that rogues and thieves by scorea Nightly beset unguarded doors ; And see, how easily might one Of these domestic foes. Even beneath your very nose. Perform his knavish tricks: Enter your room as I have done, Blow out your candles — thus — and thus — Pocket your silver candlesticks : And — walk off — thus " — So said, so done ; he made no more remark Nor waited for replies. But marched off with his prize. Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. ! THE PAUPERS DEATH-BET). MRS. C. B. SOUTHEY. I:EAD softly, bow tlio head; In reverent silence bow ; No passing bell doth toll, Yet an immortal soul Ih pa-Hsing now. Stranger ! however great, With lowly reverence bow ; There's one in tliat poor slied, One by that jialtry bed, Oreat*-T than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keeji liis slate, Enter — no crowds attend ; Ent«r — no guards defend This palace gate. That pavement, damp and lold, No smiling courtiern troad ; One silent woman stands. Lifting with meagre liands A dying hoa, Among my skimming swallows ; But I go on forever. CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND. VICTOR HUGO. Wm^ sometimes happens that a man, traveler or fisherman, v,- diking ou ^^ the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for X several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is Hke pitch ; his soles stick in it ; it is sand no longer ; it is glue. The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step lie takes, as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change ; the immense strand is smooth and tran- quil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so ; the joyous little crowd of sand-flies continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer's feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious. Anxious about what ? Only he fee)s, somehow, as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in. He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right road ; he stops to take his bearings ; now he looks at hia feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand ; he will retrace his steps. He turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles ; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the left — the sand half leg deep. He throws himself to the right ; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught v^ the guicksand, and that he has beneath him the terrible 224 THE ORIENT. tnedium in which man can no more walk than the tish can swim. Ho throws ott'his load if he has one, lightens himself as a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over. He is condemned to that appalling burial, long, infallible, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten ; which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free, and in full health, and which draws you by the feet; which, at every effort that you attempt, at every siiout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him ; he straightens up, he sinks in; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs. Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath; sobs frenziedly ; the sand rises; the sand reaches his shoulders; the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it — silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them — night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand ; a hand comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave. THE ORIENT. FROM BYRON S BRIDE OF ABYDOS. NOW yo tlio land whore the cypress and myrtle Aro rmiblems of deeds that are done in tlioir clime, Wli'^re the rago of thf vulturf, (lie love of the turth-, Now melt into Borrow, now madden to rrimf ' Know yo the land of tho codar and vin*-, Where the flowers over blossom, tho beams ever sbino : Whore tho light wings of Zephyr, opprossA with perfume, Wax faint o'er tho gardens of Gul in lui bloom ! Wli0U Ben Adhem, — may his tribe in- crease, — ^L Awoke one night from a sweet ^ dream of peace, I And saw, within the moonlight in t his room, '*' Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold. Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. And to the Presence in the room he said, " What writest thou ?" The vision raised its head. And with a look made all of sweet accord, Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." " And is mine one ?" said Abou. " Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.' The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had bless'd ; And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest TEE MORA VIAN REQUIEM. HARRIET B. M KEEVER. It is customary with the Moravians at Bethlehem, Pa., to announce the decease of a member of their com IDunion, from the tower of tlie church adjoining the cemeterj', by three appropriate strains of melody rendered by a trombone band. The closing straius designate the age and sex of the departed one. 1 heard it for the first time at sunset, in the cemetery, unexpectedly ; the effect was indescribable ; the custom is beautiful, sweetly ex pressive of loving brotherhood. ^HP^T twilight hour, when mem'ry's power Wakes up the visions of the buried past, -. From earth retreating, soft silence «f greeting, J I wandered, where the weary rest at last. The sun retiring, sad thoughts inspiring, I mused in solemn silence 'mid the dead; When softly stealing, death's call reveal- ing, Sounds of low wailing from the tower were sped. 226 THE MISER. First faintly swelling, the tidings telling, In notes of tenderest sorrow, one has gone ; vVe've lost another, a youthful brother ; Mourn for a home bereft, a spirit flown. The notes of anguish first seem to lan- guish, Like to the moaning of a parting sigh ; Then raptured swelling, a tale they're tell- ing. Of triumph over death, of victory. " Farewell to sorrow ! I'll wake to-morrow, When the long slumber of the tomb is o'er; Then rising glorious, o'er death victorious, We'll meet, we'll meet, where partings are no more." Thus wails the trombone, and as its soft tone Breathes a sad requiem for death's fre- quent calls, 'Tis sweet to render this tribute tender, Whene'er a brother from among us falls. THE MISER. GEORGE W. CUTTER. ;N old man sat by a fireless hearth, Though the night was dark and ■ i chill. And mournfully over the frozen earth The wind sobbed loud and shrill. Ilis locks were gray, and his eyes were gray, And dim, but not with tears ; And his skeleton form had wasted away With penury, more than years. A. ruHh-light waa ca.'tting its fitful glare O'er the damp and dingy walls, Where the lizard hath made his slimy lair, And the venomous spider crawls ; Bnt the meanest thing in this lonosomo room Was the miser worn and bare, Where ho sat like a ghost in an empty tomb, On his broken and only chair. He had bolted the window and barred the door. And every nook had scanned ; And felt the fastening o'er and o'er. With his cold and skinny hand ; And yet he sat gazing intently round. And trembled with silent fear, And started and shuddered at every sound That fell on his coward ear. " Ila, ha !" laughed the miser: " I'm safe at last From this niglit so cold and drear. From the drenching rain and driving Mast, Witii my gold and treasures here. I am cold and wot with the icy rain, And my health is bad, 'tis true ; Yet if I should light that fire again, It would cost mo a cent or two. THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. 227 " But I'll take a sip of the precious wine : It will banish my cold and fears : It was given long since by a friend of mine — I have kept it for many years." So he drew a flask from a mouldy nook, And drank of its ruby tide ; And his eyes grew bright with each draught he took, And his bosom swelled with pride. Let me see ; let me see !" said the miser then, " 'Tis some sixty years or more Since the happy hour when I began To heap up the glittering store ; And well have I sped with my anxious toil, As my crowded chest will show : I've more than would ransom a kingdom's spoil, Or an emperor could bestow." He turned to an old worm-eaten chest, And cautiously raised the lid. And then it shone like the clouds of the west, With the sun in their splendor hid: And gem after gem, in precious store. Are raised with exulting smile ; And he counted and counted them o'er and o'er. In many a glittering pile. Why comes the flush to his pallid brow, While his eyes like his diamonds shine ? Why writhes he thus in such torture now? What was there yi the wine ? He strove his lonely seat to gain : To crawl to his nest he tried , But finding his efforts all in vain, He clasped his gold, and — died. THE POOR INDIAN! W^ KNOW him by his falcon eye, ^^' His raven tress and mien of pride ; fM^ Those dingy draperies, as they fly, (|;it^ Tell that a great soul throbs inside ! fNo eagle-feathered crown he wears. Capping in pride his kingly brow ; But his crownlesss hat in grief de- clares, " I am an unthroned monarch now !" " noble son of a royal line !" I exclaim, as I gaze into his face. " How shall I knit my soul to thine? How right the wrongs of thine injured race? " What shall I do for thee, glorious one ? To soothe thy sorrows my soul aspires. Speak ! and say how the Saxon's son May atone for the wrongs of his ruthless sires !" He speaks, he speaks ! — that noble chief! From his marble lips deep accents come ; And I catch the sound of his mighty grief,— " Pie gi me tree cent for git some rumf" THE ORDER OF NOBILITY. EDMUND BURKE. |0 be honored and even privileged by the laws, opinions, and in- veterate usages of our country, growing out of the prejudice of ages, has nothing to provoke horror and indignation in any man. Even to be too tenacious of those privileges is not absolutely a crime. The strong struggle in every individual to preserve posses- sion of what he has found to belong to him, and to distinguish him, is 228 THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. one of the securities against injustice and des- potism implanted in our nature. It operates as an instinct to secure property, and to preserve communities in a settled state. What is there to shock in this? Nobility is a graceful orna- ment to the civil order. It is the Corinthian capital of polished society. Omnes boni nobili- tati semper favemus, was the saying of a wise and good man. It is, indeed, one sign of a liberal and benevolent mind to incline to it with some sort of partial propensity. He feels no ennobling principle in his own heart who wishes to level all the artificial institutions which have been adopted for giving a body to opinion and permanence to fugitive esteem. It is a sour, malignant, and envious disposition, without taste for the reality, oi- for any image or representa- tion of virtue, that sees with joy the unmerited fall of what had long flourished in splendor and in honor, to see anything destroyed, any void produced in society, ai face of the land. I do y ruin not like on the THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. GEORGE CANNING. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. EEDY knife-grinder! whither are you going ? ?' Rough is the roa'l ; your wheel is out of order. BU;ak hlows the hlast; — your hat hiw got a hole in't; So have your breeches ! Weary knife-grinder ! little think the proud ones, Who in their coache.n roll along the turnpike- roaine tree, How happy were the doves In their little nursery ! The young Turtle Doves Never quarreled in their nest ; For they dearly loved each other, Though they loved their mother best. " Coo," said the Turtle Doves, " Coo," said she. And they played together kindly In their little nurser3^ Is this nursery of yours. Little sister, little brother, Like the Turtle Dove's nest? — Do you love one another ? Are you kind, are you gentle, As children ought to be ? Then the happiest of nests Is your own nursery. PATRIOTISM. SIR WALTER SCOTT. REATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself liath said. This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; For him no minstrel raptures swell : High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living shall forfeit fair renown. And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung. Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. THE MYSTERY OF LIFE IN CHRIST MRS. E. PRENTISS. WALK along the crowded streets, and mark The eager, anxious, troubled faces ; Wondering what this man seeks, what that heart craves, In earthly places. Do I want anything that they are want- ing? Is each of them my brother ? Could we hold fellowship, speak heart to heart, Each to the other ? 234 SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. Nay, but I know not ! only this I know, That sometimes merely crossing Another's path, where life's tumultuous waves Are ever tossing, He, as He passes, whispers in mine ear One magic sentence only. And in the awful loneliness of crowds I am not lonely. Ah, what a life is theirs who live in Christ; How vast the mystery ! Reaching in height to heaven, and in its depth The unfathomed sea. ROLL ON, THOU SUN. ANONYMOUS. gl^pOLL on, thou Sun, forever roll, ^^^;^ Thou giant, rushing through the •■^■^Jif heaven! Creation's wonder, nature's soul. Thy golden wheels by angels driven ! The planets die without thy blaze. And cherubim, with star-dropt wing. Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays. Thou brightest emblem of their king ! Roll, lovely Earth, and still roil on. With ocean's azure beauty bound ; While one sweet star, the pearly moon. Pursues thee through the blue profound ; And angels, with delighted eyes, Behold thy tints of mount and stream, From the high walls of Paradise, Swift wheeling like a glorious dream. Roll, Planets ! on your dazzling road, Forever sweeping round the sun ! What eye beheld when first ye glowed ? What eye shall see your courses done ? Roll in your solemn majesty, Ye deathless splendors of the skies ! High altars, from which angels see The incense of creation rise. Roll, Comets ! and ye million Stars ! Ye that through boundless nature roam ; Ye monarchs on your flame-wing cars ; Tell us in what more glorious dome, — What orbs to which your pomps are dim, What kingdom but by angels trod, — Tell us where swells the eternal hymn Around His throne where dwells your God? SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. CHARLHS TAIWON. is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the iron briilgo that extends from the American shore to Goat's Island, about a quarter of a mile above the Falls. Just as they are about to leave, while watching the stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock — caught on the very verge of the Falls. Scarcely willing to believe hia SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 235 own vision, he directs the attention of his companions. The terrible news spreads like lightning, and in a few minutes the bridge and the surround- ing shores are covered with thousands of spectators. " Who is he ?" " How did he get there ?" are questions every person proposed, but answered by none. No voice is heard above the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals exceed the eloquence of words ; they are irresistible, and something must be done. A small boat is soon upon the bridge, and with a rope attached sets out upon its fearless voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and another are tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. A large one might possibly survive; but none is at hand. Away to Buflfalo a car is dispatched, and never did the iron horse thunder along its steel- bound track on such a godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-boat is upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as trembling and tossing amid the boiling white waves it survives the roughest waters. One breaker past and it will have reached the object of its mission. But being partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that next wave sends it hurling to the bottom. An involuntary groan passes through the dense multitude, and hope scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun goes down in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins to scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battlements on high drop a tear of pity on the scene. The silvery stars shine dimly through the cur- tain of blue. The multitude are gone, and the sufierer is left with his God. Long before morning he must be swept over that dreadful abyss ; he clings to that rock with all the. tenacity of life, and as he surveys the horrors of his position, strange visions in the air come looming up before him. He sees his home, his wife and children there ; he sees the home of his child- hood; he sees that mother as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast ; he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears. In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and mingled prayers and curses die upon his lips. No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again rush to tlio scene of horror. Soon a shout is heard : he is there — he is still alive ! Just now a carriage arrives upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes to the most favorable point of observation. She had driveu from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls; her husband had crossed the river, night before last, and had not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the anxious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her, fixed upon the object than she shrieks, "Oh, my husband!" and sinks senseless to the 236 THE SOLDIER'S PARDON. earth. The excitement, before intense, seems now almost unendurable, and something must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the sufferer has clung for the last forty- eight hours. He instantly throws himself full length upon it. Thousands are pulling at the end of the rope, and with skillful management a few rods are gained toward the nearest shore. What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety with which that little bark is watched, as, trembling and tossing amid the roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound coast ? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as the grave. His wife sees it, and is only restrained by force from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into every bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. The angel of death has spread his wings over that little bark ; the poor man's strength is almost gone ; each wave lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, the next moment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last look of earth, he shrieks, above Niagara's eternal roar, "Lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of man. THE SOLDIER'S PAEDON. JAMES SMITH. LI) blew the gale in Gibraltar one night, ' As a soldier lay stretched in his t And anon, 'mid the darkness, the II moon's silver light I On his countenance dreamily fell. Nought could she reveal, but a man true as steel. That oft for his country had bled ; And the glance of his eye might the grim king defy, For despair, fear, and trembling liad fled. But in rage lie liad struck a well -merited blow At a tyrant who held him in scorn ; 4.nd his fate soon was sealed, for alas! honest Jfjo Was to die on the following morn. Oh ! sad was the thought to a man that luvd fought 'Mid the ranks of the gallant and brave, — To be shot througli the breast at a coward's behest, And laid low in a criminal's grave ! The night call had sounded, when Joe w;ia aroused By a stop at the door of his coll ; ' Twas a comrade with wIkhu Iki iiad oft«« caroused, Tliat now entered to bid him farewell. " Ah, Tom ! is it you come to bid me adieu ? 'Tis kind my lad ! give mo your liand ! Nay — nay — don't get wiM, man, and make me a child ! — I'll bo soon in a happier land 1" LONDON CHURCHES. 237 With hands clasped in silence, Tom mourn- fully said, " Have you any request, Joe, to make ? — Remember by me 'twill be fully obeyed : Can I anything do for your sake ?" When it's over, to-morrow!" he said, filled with sorrow, ■' Send this token to her whom I've sworn All my fond love to share 1" — 'twas a lock of his hair, And a prayer-book, all faded and worn. " Here's this watch for my mother ; and when you write home," And he dashed a bright tear from his eye— " Say I died with my heart in old Devon- shire, Tom, Like a man, and a soldier !— Good bye !" Then the sergeant on guard, at the grating appeared. And poor Tom had to leave the cold cell, By the moon's waning light, with a husky " Good-night ! God be with you, dear comrade ! — fare- well !" Gray dawned the morn in a dull cloudy sky, When the blast of a bugle resounded ; And Joe ever fearless, went forward to die, By the hearts of true heroes surrounded. 'Shoulder arms" was the cry as the pris- oner passed by : " To the right about — march !" was the word ; And their pale faces proved how their com- rade was loved. And by all his brave fellows adored. Right onward they marched to the dread field of doom : Sternly silent, they covered the ground ; Then they formed into line amid eadnesa and gloom. While the prisoner looked calmly around. Then soft on the air rose tlie accents of prayer, And faint tolled the solemn death-knell. As he stood on the sand, and with uplifted hand. Waved the long and tl.e lasting farewell. " Make ready !" exclaimed an imperions voice : " Present !" .struck a chill on each mind ; Ere the last word was spoke, Joe had cause to rejoice. For "Hold! — hold!" cried a voice from behind. Then wild was the joy of them all, man and boy, As a horseman cried, "Mercy! — Forbear!" With a thrilling " Hurrah ! a free pardon ! huzzah !" And the muskets rang loud in the air. Soon the comrades were locked in each other's embrace : No more stood the brave soldiers dumb : With a loud cheer they wheeled to the right- about-face, Then away at the sound of the drum ! ■ And a brighter day dawned in sweet Devon's fair land. Where the lovers met never to part ; And he gave her a token — true, warm, and unbroken — The gift of his own gallant heart ! LONDON CHURCHES. RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. STOOD, one Sunday morning, Before a large church door, || The congregation gathered And carriages a score, — From one out stepped a lady I oft had seen before. Her hand was on a prayer-book, And held a vinaigrette ; The sign of man's redemption Clear on the book was set, — But above the Cross there glistened A golden Coronet. 238 LONDON CHURCHES. THE OLD CUURCU. For hor tho obsequious beadle The inner door flung wide, Ligbtly, as np a ball-room, Her footsteps seemed to glide, — Thero migbt be good thoughts in her For all hor evil pride. But aftf-r her a woman Peeped wiHtfully within On whoso wan face was graven Life's hardest discipline, — The trace of the sad trinity Of weakness, pain, and sin. The few free-seats were crowded Where she could rest and pray ; With her worn garb contrasted Each side in fair array, — ' Ood's house holds no poor sinnerB," ►She sighed, and crept away. OONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. £39 CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION, GEORGE CROLY. ^^p POETAL of the arena opened, and the combatant, with a mantle ^i^ thrown over his face and figure, was led into the surroundery. """^^ The Hon roared and ramped against the bars of his den at the I' sight. The guard put a sword and buckler into the hands of the I Christian, and he was left alone. He drew the mantle from his face, and bent a slow and firm look around the amphitheatre. His fine countenance and lofty bearing raised a universal shout of admira- tion. He might have stood for an Apollo encountering the Python. His eye at last turned on mine. Could I believe my senses ? Constantius was before me. All my rancor vanished. An hour past I could have struck the be- trayer to the heart, — I could have called on the severest vengeance of man and heaven to smite the destroyer of my child. But to see him hopelessly doomed, the man whom I had honored for his noble qualities, whom I had even loved, whose crime was, at the worst, but the crime of giving way to the strongest temptation that can bewilder the heart of man ; to see that noble creature flung to the savage beast, dying in tortures, torn piecemeal before my eyes, and his misery wrought by me, I would have obtested heaven and earth to save him. But my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused to stir. I would have thrown myself at the feet of ISTero ; but I sat like a man of stone — pale — paralyzed — the beating of my pulse stopped — my eyes alone alive. The gate of the den was thrown back, and the lion rushed in with a roar and a bound that bore him half across the arena. I saw the sword glitter in the air : when it waved again, it was covered with blood. A howl told that the blow had been driven home. The lion, one of the lar- gest from Nuraidia, and made furious by thirst and hunger, an animal of prodigious power, crouched for an instant, as if to make sure of his prey, crept a few paces onward, and sprang at the victim's throat. He was met by a second wound, but his impulse was irresistible. A cry of natural horror rang round the amphitheatre. The struggle was now for an instant, life or death. They rolled over each other ; the lion, reared upon his hind feet, with gnashing teeth and distended talons, plunged on the man ; again they rose together. Anxiety was now at its wildest height. The sword now swung around the champion's head in bloody circles. They fell again, covered with blood and dust. The hand of Constantius had 240 CONSTANTIUS AND THE LION. grasped the lion's mane, and the fiu'ious bounds of the monster could not loose his hold ; but his strength was evidently giving way, — he still struck his terrible blows, but each was weaker than the one before ; till, collecting his whole force for a last effort, he darted one mighty blow into the lion's throat, and sank. The savage beast yelled, and spouting out blood, fled howHng around the arena. But the hand still grasped the mane, and the conqueror was dragged whirling through the dust at his heels. A uni- versal outcry now arose to save him, if he were not already dead. But the lion, though bleeding from every vein, was still too terrible, and all shrank from the hazard. At last the grasp gave way, and the body lay motionless on the ground. What happened for some moments after, I know not. There was a struggle at the portal ; a female forced her way through the guards, and fluncy herself upon the victim. The sight of a new prey roused the lion ; he tore the ground with his talons ; he lashed his streaming sides with his tail ; he lifted up his mane and bared his fangs ; but his approaching was no longer with a bound; he dreaded the sword, and came snuffing the blood on the sand, and stealing round the body in circuits still diminishing. The confusion in the vast assemblage was now extreme. Voices innumerable called for aid. Women screamed and fainted, men burst into indiofnant clamors at this prolonged cruelty. Even the hard hearts of the populace, accustomed as they were to the sacrifice of life, were roused to honest curses. The guards grasped their arms, and waited but for a sign from the emperor. But Nero gave no sign. I looked upon the woman's face ; it was Salome ! I sprang upon my feet. I called on her name, — called on her, by every feeling of nature, to fly from that place of death, to come to my arms, to think of the agonies of all that loved her. She had raised the head of Constantius on her knee, and was wiping the pale visage with hor hair. At the sound of my voice, she looked up, and, calmly cariting back the locks from her forohoad, fixed her eyes upon me. She still knelt; one hand supported tho In-ad, — with the other she pointed to it as her only answer. I again adjured hoi-. There wa.s the BilencG of death among the thousands around mo. A fire flashed into hor eye, — her cheek burned, — .she waved her hand with an air of su])irb sorrow. " I am como to die," she uttered, in a lofty tone. " This bkieding body luos niy husljand, — I have no father. The world contains to mo but tliis clay in my arms. Yet," and she ki-sscd the ashy lips before her, " yet, my A PSALM OF LIFE. 241, Constantius, it was to save that father that your generous heart defied the peril of this hour. It was to redeem him from the hand of evil that you abandoned your quiet home ! — Yes, cruel father, here lies the noble being that threw open your dungeon, that led you safe through the conflagration, that, to the last moment of his liberty, only sought how he might serve and protect you. Tears at length fell in floods from her eyes. " But," said she, in a tone of wild power, " he was betrayed, and may the Power whose thunders avenge the cause of his people, pour down just retribution upon the head that dared " — I heard my own condemnation about to be pronounced by the lips of my own child. "Wound up to the last degree of suffering, I tore my hair, leaped upon the bars before me, and plunged into the arena by her side, The height stunned me ; I tottered a few paces and fell. The lion gave a roar and sprang upon me. I lay helpless under him, I heard the gnashing of his white fangs above. An exulting shout arose. I saw him reel as if struck, — gore filled his jaws. Another mighty blow was driven to his heart. He sprang high in the air with a howl. He dropped ; he was dead. The amphitheatre thundered with acclamations. With Salome clinging to my bosom, Constantius raised me from the ground. The roar of the lion had roused him from his swoon, and two blows saved me. The falchion had broken in the heart of the monster. The whole multitude stood up, supplicating for our lives in the name of filial piety and heroism. Nero, devil as he was, dared not resist the strength of popular feeling. He waved a signal to the guards ; the portal was opened, and my children, sustaining my feeble steps, showered wiib garlands from innumerable hands, slowly led me from the ajrena. A PSALM OF LIFE. fyTViELL me not, in mournful numbers, pJLU Life is but an empty dream ! 4;^S:^ For the soul is dead that slumbers, X And things are not what they I seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; Dust thou art, to dust returnest. Was not spoken of the soul. HENEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting. And our hearts, though stout and br&YeL Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. 242 TO NIGHT. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act in the living Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ;- Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. ''BLESSED ABE THEY THAT MOUBN." %*■ WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. T>EEM rot they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; The Power who pities man has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep. The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears ; And weary hours of woe and pain Are [iromises of happier years. There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night ; And grief may bide an evening guest. But joy shall come with early light. And thou, who, o'er thj' friend's low bier, Sheddest the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again. Nor let the good man's trust depart. Though life its common gifts den)^ — Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, And spurned of men, he goes to die. For God hath marked each sorrowing day. And numbered every secret tear. And heaven's long ago of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here. TO NIGHT PEllCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. ^^^VIFTLY walk over tho wostcrn wave, |j^' S[.irit of Night! ' lilt of tho misty ca-stern cave. Where all the long and lone daylight, Tlion weavest dreams of joy and fear, Which mako theo terriblo and dear, — Swift bfl thy flight 1 J Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought! Blind with thy hair tho eyes of day, Kiss her until she 1)0 wearied out, Tlion wander o''!-- SNOW-FLAK EB. 243 When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee ! When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on floor and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest. Lingering, like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee ! Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me ? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side ? Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied, No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead. Soon, too soon, — Sleep will come when thou art fled ; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night — Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon ! BURIED TO-DAY. DINAH MARIA MULOCK. URIED to-day. When the soft green buds are burst- ^^3^ ing out, jj I And up on the south-wind comes a el shout W Of village boys and girls at play j In the mild spring evening gray. Taken away Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, From eyes that drew half their light from him. And put low, low underneath the clay. In his spring, — on this spring day. Passes away, All the pride of boy -life begun, All the hope of life yet to run ; ^Vho dares to question when One "Nay." Murmur not, — only pray. Enters to-day Another body in churchyard sod. Another soul on the life in God, His Christ was buried — and lives alway : Trust Him, and go your way. ia.th SNOW-FLAKES. HARRIET B. M KEEVER. BEAUTIFUL snow ! beautiful snow ! Falling so lightly, Daily and nightly. Alike round the dwelling of lofty and low. Horses are prancing, Children are dancing, Stirr'd by the spirit that comes with the snow. Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! Atmosphere chilling. Carriage wheels stilling, Warming the cold earth, and kindling the glow Of Christian pity For the great city. For wretched creatures, who freeze 'mid the snow. Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow ! Fierce the wind blowing, Deep the drifts strowing. Night gathers round us, how warm the red glow 244 THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. Of the fire so bright, On the cold winter night, As we draw in the curtains, to shut out the Beautiful snow ! beautiful snow Round the dear fireside, In that sweet eventide, Closely we gather, though keen the wind blow, Safely defended, Kindly befriended. Pity the houseless, exposed to the snow. THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. •HE funeral services were ended; and as the voice of prayer ceased, ^1^ tears were hastily wiped from wet cheeks, and long-drawn sighs ^riT^ relieved suppressed and choking sobs, as the mourners prepared to take leave of the corpse. It was an old man who lay there, ^ robed for the grave. More than three-score years had whitened those locks, and furrowed that brow, and made those stiflf limbs weary of life's journey, and the more willing to be at rest where weariness is no longer a burden. The aged have few to weep for them when they die. The most of those who would have mourned their loss have gone to the grave before them ; harps that would have sighed sad harmonies are shattered and gone ; and the few that remain are looking cradleward, rather than to life's closing goal ; are bound to and living in the generation rising, more than in the generation departing. Youth and beauty have many admirers while living, — have many mourners when dying, — and many tearful ones bend over their coffined clay, many sad hearts follow in their funeral train ! but age ha.s few admirers, few mourners. This was an old man, and the circle of mourners was small : two cliildrcn, who had themselves passed the middle of life, and who had children of their own to care for and be cared for by them. Beside these, and a few friends who had seen and visited him while he was sick, and possibly had known him for a few years, there were none others to shed a tear, except his old wife ; and of this small company, the old wife aeemcd to be the only heart-mourner. It is respectful for his friends to be sad a few moments, till the service is performed and the hearse is out of sight. It is very proper and suitable for children, who have out- grown the fervency and affection of youth, to shed tears when an aged parent says farewell, and lies down to quiet slumber. Some regrets, some recollection of the past, some transitory griefs, and the pangs are over. THE OLD WIFE'S KISS. 245 The old wife arose with difficulty from her seat, and went to the coffin to look her last look — to take her last farewell. Through the fast falling tears she gazed long and fondly down into the pale, unconscious face. What did she see there ? Others saw nothing but the rigid features of the dead ; she saw more. In every wrinkle of that brow she read the history of years ; from youth to manhood, from manhood to old age, in joy and sorrow, in sickness and health, it was all there ; when those chil- dren, who had not quite outgrown the sympathies of childhood, were infants lying on her bosom, and every year since then — there it was. To others those dull, mute monitors were unintelligible ; to her they were the alphabet of the heart, familiar as household words. Then the future : " What will become of me? What shall I do now?" She did not say so, but she felt it. The prospect of the old wife is clouded ; the home circle is broken, never to be reunited ; the visions of the hearth- stone are scattered forever. Up to that hour there was a home to which the heart always turned with fondness. That magic is now sundered, the key-stone of that sacred arch has fallen, and home is nowhere this side of heaven ! Shall she gather up the scattered fragments of the broken arch, make them her temple and her shrine, sit down in her chill solitude beside its expiring fires, and die ? What shall she do now ? They gently crowded her away from the dead, and the undertaker came forward, with the coffin-lid in his hand. It is all right and pi'oper, of course, it must be done ; but to the heart-mourner it brings a kind of shudder, a thrill of agony. The undertaker stood for a moment, with a decent pro- priety, not wishing to manifest rude haste, but evidently desirous of being as expeditious as possible. Just as he was about to close the coffin, the old wife turned back, and stooping down, imprinted one long, last kiss upon the cold lips of her dead husband, then staggered to her seat, buried her face in her hands, and the closing coffin hid him from her sight forever ! That kiss ! fond token of affection, and of sorrow, and memory, and farewell ! I have seen many kiss their dead, many such seals of love upon clay-cold lips, but never did I see one so purely sad, so simply heart- touching and hopeless as that. Or, if it had hope, it was that which loolcs beyond coffins, and charnel-houses, and damp, dark tombs, to the joys of the home above. You would kiss the cold cheek of infiincy ; there is poetry; it is beauty hushed; there is romance there, for the faded flower is still beauti- ful. In childhood the heart yields to the stroke of sorrow, but recoils again with elastic faith, buoyant with hope ; but here Wiis no beauty, no poetry, no romance. The heart of the old wife was like the weary swimmer, whose strength 19 246 MAIDENHOOD. has often raised him above the stormy waves, but now, exhausted, sinks amid the surges. The temple of her earthly hopes had fallen, and what was there left for her but to sit down in despondency, among its lonely ruins, and weep and die ! or, in the spirit of a better hope, await the dawning of another day, when a Hand divine shall gather its sacred dust, »nd rebuild for immortahty its broken walls ! MAIDENHOOD. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. ■^ AIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, i In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies ! Thou whose locks outshine the sun, Golden tresses, wreathed in one, As the braided streamlets run ! Standing with reluctant feet. Where the brook and river meet, Womanhood and childhood fleet ! Gazing, with a timid glance, On the brooklet's swift advance, On llie river's broad expanse ! Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, Ab the river of a dream ! Then why pause with indecision. When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Seest thou shadows sailing by. As the dove, with startled eye. Seen the falcon's shadow fly ? O, thou child of many [)rayerH! Life hath quicksands,— Life hatii snares Ca>-e and age come unawares I Bacon-b]a/.f! allures The bird of pasnago, till he ma '}-. :r; X X C " ?« ^ > p. H 3 r> 5' ffi :fq ^ — > '< r^ p pi W c /C H O i« , , ^^ •> 5C CO M 50 THE FISHER'S COTTAGE. 253 The mother glancing often at her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong. And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled. Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee. And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place. Lord of ilia rights and of his children's love, — Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden-wall. Lest he should swoon and tumble and oe found. Crept to the gate, and opened it, and clcsed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door. Behind him, and came out upon the waste. And there he would have knelt, but that his knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed THE FISHEES COTTAGE. HENRY HEINE, TRANSLATED BY CHARLES G. LELAND. l^pSE sat by the fisher's cottage, And looked at the stormy tide ; i*%^^^ The evening mist came rising, ^^^;i^ And floating far and wide. J. One by one in the lighthouse J The lamps shone out on high ; And far on the dim horizon A ship went sailing by. We spoke of storm and shipwreck,— Of sailors, and how they live ; Of journeys 'twixt sky and water. And the sorrows ami joys they give We spoke of distant countries, In regions strange and fair, And of the wondrous beings And curious customs there ; 254 MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, Which are launched in the twilight hour ; And the dark and silent Brahmins, Who worship the lotos flower. Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland, — Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small, — Who crouch round their oil fires, cooking. And chatter and scream and bawl. And the maidens earnestly listened, Till at last we spoke no more ; The ship like a shadow had vanished, And darkness fell deep on the shore. SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE. Suggested by the sudden death of tho Rev. Thomas Taylor, who had preached the previous eveaic JAMES MONTGOMERY. ^ERVANT of God, well done; Rest from thy loved employ ; ^ The battle fought, the victory won, Enter thy master's joy." The voice at midnight came ; He started up to hear, A mortal arrow pierced his frame ; He fell, — but felt no fear. Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him in the field, A veteran .slumbering on his arms. Beneath his red-cross shield : His Bword was in his hand. Still warm with recent fight ; Ready that moment, at command, Through rock and steel to smite. At midnight came the cry, " To meet thy God prepare ! " He woke, — and caught the Captain's eye Then strong in faith and prayer, His spirit, with a bound. Burst its encumbering clay ; His tent at sunrise, on the ground, A darkened ruin lay. The pains of death are past. Labor and sorrow cease ; And life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ ! well done ; Praise be thy new employ ; And while eternal ages run. Rest in thy Saviour's joy. MLSS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG. F. BRET HARTE. HJHter'll be down in a minute, and Hays you're to wait, if you please; V ', .. \nd says I might stay till she came, "^'i • '* '^ ^ '^ i)roiniHO her never to toaso, ] Nor spnak till you spoke to mo first. T But that's nonsonso ; for liow would J you know What she t<^)ld me to n.iy if T di<]n't? Don't you really and truly think ho? " And then you'd fee] strange here alon*. And you wouldn't know just wiiere to sit; For that chair isn't strong on its logs, and we never use it a bit: We keep it to inatcli with tho sofa; but Jack says it would be like you To flop yoTirself right down ujion it, and knock out tho very last screw. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 255 " Suppose you try ! I won't tell. You're afraid to ! Oh ! you're afraid they would think it mean ! Well, then, there's the album : that's pretty if you're sure that your fingers are clean. For sister says sometimes I daub it ; but she only says that when she's cross. There's her picture. You know it ? It's like her ; but she ain't good-looking, of course. "This is ME." It's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me, you'd never have thought That once I was little as that ? It's the only one that could be bought ; For that was the message to pa from the photograph-man where I sat, — That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money for that. "What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often she's longer than this. There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front curls to friz. But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me ! Do you think you'll be coming here often ? Oh, do ! But don't come like Tom Lee, — " Tom Lee, her last beau. Why, my goodness! he used to be here day and night, Till the folks thought he'd be her husband ; and .Tack says that gave him a fright. You won't run away then, as he did? foi you're not a rich man, they say. Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. Now, are you ? and how poor are they ? " Ain't you glad that you met me ? Well, I am ; for I know now your hair isn't red ; But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said. But there I must go : sister's coming ! But I wish I could wait, just to see If she ran up to you, and she kissed you in the way that she used to kiss Lee." HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. HOEACE SMITH. AY-STARS! that ope your eyes at ^mk morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation ; «| And dewdrops on her lovely altars sprinkle As a libation. Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye, Pour from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high. Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty The floor of nature's temple tosselate — What numerous lessons of iu.structive duty Your forms create ! 'Neath cloister'd bough each floral bell that swingeth. And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to those domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand. But to that fane most catholic and solemn. Which God hath plann'd ; To that cathedral boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply ; Its choir, the wind and waves ; its organ, thunder ; Its dome, the sky. 256 DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. rtere, as in solitude and shade, I wander Through the lone aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God. Not useless are ye, flowers, though made for pleasure. Blooming o'er hill and dale, by day and night; On every side your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight ! Your voiceless lips, flowers! are living preachers ; Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book ; ■Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, In loneliest nook. Floral apostles, that with dewy splendor Blush without sin, and weep without a crime ! Oh ! may I deeply learn, and ne'er sur- render Your lore divine ! " Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory Array'd," the lilies cry " in robes like ours ; How vain your glory — Oh ! how transitory Are human flowers !" In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, With which thou paintest nature's wide- spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all ! Posthumous glories — angel-like collection, Upraised from seed and bulb interr'd in earth ; Ye are to me a type of resurrection And second birth ! Ephemeral sages — what instructors hoary To such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Were 1, God ! in churchless lands remaining, Far from the voice of teachers and divines, My soul would find in flowers of thy ordaining Priests, sermons, shrines! DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. CHARLES DICKENS. Y little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner "^ chamboi-, while these words were spoken. He j)ointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips, — " You plot among you to wean my heart from her. You will never do that — never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never will have. She is all in all to It is too late to part us now." Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered, — followed him. They moved so gently that their footsteps made no noise, but there were sobs from among the group and sounds of grief and mourning. me DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. 257 For she was dead. There, upon her Httle bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. " When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." Those were her words. She was dead. Dear,- gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child-mis- tress was mute and motionless forever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face ; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care ; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death. The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now ; and as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her. She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own v/as waning fast, — the garden she had tended, — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday — could know her no more. "It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and give his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed 258 THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. in solemn terms above this bed could call Her back to life, which of U8 would utter it?" FATE. , F. BRET HARTE §CT^HE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, ^m^ Tlie spray of the tempest is white in 3.*i The winds are out with the waves J at play— I And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb: And the lion's whelps are abroad at play— ' And I shall not join the chase to-day. But the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was built upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. TEE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. GEORGE ARNOLD. '^!lCT^\VAS a jolly old pedagogue, long ago, ^M^ Tall and slender, and sallow and ^f^ dry; 'j;it^ Hie form was bent, and his gait was slow, His long, thin hair was as white as snow, But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye ; And he sang every night, as he went to bed, *' Let us be happy, down here below ; The living should live, though the dead be dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He taught his scholars the rule of three. Writing, and reading, and history, too ; He took the little ones upon his knee, /or a kind old heart in his breawt had ho. And the wants of the littlest child he knew : " Learn wliile you're young," ho often said; " There is much tof:njoy,down hero Ijelow; iife for tlie living, and rest for the dead !'" 3aid the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. With the Htujtidest boys he was kind and cool, Speaking only in gi!nlle.st tones; The rod was hardly known in his school— Whi[>ping to him was a barbarous rule, And too hard work for his poor old bones ; Beside, it was painful, he sometimes said : " We should make life pleasant, down here below, The living need charity more than the dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He lived in the house by the hawthorn lane, With roses and woodbine over the door ; His rooms were quiet, and neat, and plain, But a spirit of comfort there held reign, And made him forget he was old and poor; " I need so little," he often said ; " And my friends and relatives here below Won't litigate over me when I am dead," Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. But the pleasantest times that he had, of all, Were the sociable hours ho used to pa.ss, With his chair tipjicd back to a neighbor's wall Making an unceremonious call, Over a ])ipo and a friendly gla-ss . This was the finest ploafluro, he said, Of the many ho tfisted hero below, " Who has no cronies, had better be dead T Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. ThiMi tho jolly old podagoguo's wrinkled iaot Melted all over in aunshiuy "milcB; THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 250 He stirred his glass with an old-school grace, Chuckled, and sipped, and prattled apace. Till the house grew merry from cellar to tiles. " I'm a pretty old man," he gently said, " I ha /e lingered a long while, here below ; Leaving his tenderest kisses there, On the jolly old pedagogue's jolly old crown ; And, feeling the kisses, he smiled, and said, 'Twas a glorious world, down here below ^ " He took the little ones upon his knee.' But my heart is fresh, if my youth is fled !' Said the jolly old pedagogue, long --" ago. He 3moked his pipe in the balmy air, Every night when the sun went down, Wtiite the soft, wind played in his silvery iiftir, " Why wait for happiness till we are deua • Said the jolly old pedagogue, long ago. He sat at his door, one midsummer night, After the sun had sunk in the west. And the lingering beams of golden light Made his kindly old face look warm and bright 260 THE COMET. While the odorous night-wind whispered, "Rest!" Gently, gently, he bowed his head — There were angels waiting for him, I know ; He was sure of happiness, livi»g or dead, This jolly old pedagogue, long a^o. THE COMET. THOMAS HOOD. ^P^MONG professors of astronomy, Sj«a^ Adepts in the celestial economy, c^— ^ The name of Herschel's very often f^ cited ; ^ And justly so, for he is hand in glove J With every bright intelligence above, Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, Watching the stars, upon the house's top ; That once upon a time he got benighted. In his observatory thus coquetting. With Venus or with Juno gone astray, All sublunary matters quite forgetting In his flirtations with the winking stars, Acting the spy, it might be, upon Mars, — A new Andre ; Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping At Dian sleeping ; ,., Or ogling through his glais Bome heavenly lass, Tripping with pails along the Milky way ; Or looking at that wain of Charles, the Martyr's. Thus was he sitting, watchman of the sky, When lo! a something with a tail of flame Made him exclairn, " My stars !" — he always puts that stress on my, — " My stars and garters !" " A comet, Huro as I'm alive ! A noble one a.s I should wish to view ; It can't bf Ilalley's though, that is not due Till fighteen thirty-five. Magnificent How fine his fiery trail ! Zounds ! 'tis a pity, though, he comes unsought, Unasked, unrockoncd, — in no human thought ; IIo ought — ho ought — ho ought To have been caught With scientific salt upon hi.^^ tail. " I looked no more for it, I do declare. Than the Great Bear ! As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead, It really entered in mj^ head No more than Berenice's hair !" Thus musing, heaven's grand inquisitor Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor. Till John, the serving man, came to the uppe? Regions, with " Please your honor, come to supper." " Supper ! good John, to-night I shall not sup, Except on that phenomenon — look up." " Not sup !"' cried John, thinking with con« sternation That supjting on a star must be stor-vation, Or even to batten On igncsfatui would never fatten. His visage scemea to say, " that very odd is," But still his master the same tune ran on, " I can't come down ; go to the parlor John, And say I'm supping with the heavenly bodies." " The heavenly bodies !" echoed John, "ahem!" His mind still full of famishing alarms, " Zounds ! if your honor sups with them, In helping, somebody must make long arms." Ho thought hi.'' mastor's stomach was in ilaiii;cr, But .'^lill iu the same lone replied tht kiiiglil, "Go down, John, go, I have no appetite; Say I'm engaged with a celestial stranger.* Quoth John, not much aufait in such affairs, "Wouldn't tho stranger take a bit down stairs ?" "No," said the master, smiling and n« wonder, At such a blunder, TWENTY YEARS AGO. 261 " The stranger is not quite the thing you " A what ? A rocket, John ! Far from it ' think ; What you behold, John, is a comet; He wants no meat or drink ; One of those most eccentric things And one may doubt quite reasonably whether That in all ages He has a mouth, Have puzzled Sages Seeing his head and tail are joined together. And frightened kings ; Behold him ! there he is, John, in the south." With fear of change, that flaming meieor John looked up with his portentous eyes, John, Each rolling like a marble in its socket; Perplexes sovereigns throughout its rai.gt At last the fiery tadpole spies, " Do he ?" cried John ; And, full of Vauxhall reminiscence, cries, " Well, let him flare on. " A rare good rocket 1" /haven't got no sovereigns to change !" TWENTY YEARS AGO. ^^'VE wandered to the village, Tom, I've ^|P sat beneath the tree, 'W' Upon the school-house play-ground, that • sheltered you and me ; ,f. But none were left to greet me, Tom ; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon the green, some twenty years ago. The grass is just as green, Tom ; bare-footed boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay. But the " master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow. Afforded us a sliding-place, some twenty years ago. The old school-house is altered now ; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our pen- knives once defaced ; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to an(^ fro ; It* music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago. The boys were playing some old game, beneath that same old tree ; I have forgot the name just now, — you ve played the same with me. On that same spot ; 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so ; ^8 The loser had a task to do, — there, twenty years ago. The river's running just as still ; the willow- on its side Are larger than they were, Tom ; the 'stream appears less wide; But the grape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the beau, And swung our sweethearts, — pretty girls,— just twenty years ago. The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Is very low, — 'twas then so high that we could scarcely reach. And, kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I started so. To see how sadly I am changed since twenty years ago. 'Twasby that spring, upon an elm, youkno\? I cut your name, Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same ; Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow. Just as she died, whose name you cut; somu twenty years ago. My lids have long been diy, Tom, but tears came to my eyes ; 262 THE SEA. I thought of her I loved so well, those early- broken ties ; 1' visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strow Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago. Some are in the church-yard laid, some sleep beneath the sea ; But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, I hope they'll lay us where we played, jusj twenty years ago, HIGHLAND MARY. ROBERT BURNS. E banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. Your waters never drumlie ! There simmer first unfaulds her robes. And there the langest tarry ; there I took the last fareweel ' my sweet Highland Mary. How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk. How rich the hawthorn's blossom. As underneath their fragrant shade I cla.sped her to my bosom ! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie ; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender ; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder ; But, 0, fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early ! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay That wraps my Highland Mary ! pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly ; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed mo dearly ! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary. THE SEA. FROM BYRON S "ClIILDE HAROLD. iTpKlIFRE is a pleasiiro in llw pathli-sa 5-JAL^ woods, •).* ■ *i There is a rapture on the; lonoly %^ shore, There is society wli'^ro none intrudes By the deej) sea, and music in itfl roar: I love not man the less, but nature more. From these our interviews, in which I steal From all 1 may be, or liiive hcni before. To mingle witli the universe, ami fed What I can ne'er express, yet cannot ali conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, — roll : Ten thousand flKetssweejiover time in vain ; Man marks the earth with niiu, — hm control THE SEA. 263 ^tops with the shore ; — upon the watery plaia 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, lie sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Vithout a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields Vor earth's destruction thou dost all despise, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which rnar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils ol 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 decay Has dried up realms to deserts ; not so thou; Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay. And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals. The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee and arbiter of war, — Those are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, Time writes no wrinkles on thine azurs brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests : in all time Calm or convulsed, — in breeze, or gale, or -storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime. The image of Eternity, — the throne Of the Invisible ! even from out tfiy slime The monsters of the deep are niade ; each zone 264 IMAGES. Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathom- less, alone. And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Some, like thy bubbles, onward ; from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers, — they to m( Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; For I was as it were a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near. And laid my hand upon thy mane, — as I do here. IMAGES. T. B. MACAULAY. lOGICIANS may reason about abstractions. But the great mass oi men must have images. The strong tendency of the multitude in all ages and nations to idolatry can be explained on no other prin- ciple. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, wor- shipped one invisible Deity. But" the necessity of having something more definite to adore produced, in a few centuries, the innumerable crowd of gods and goddesses. In like manner, the ancient Persians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. Yet even these trans- ferred to the sun the worship which, in speculation, they considered due only to the Supreme Mind. The history of the Jews is the record of a continued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible sanctions, and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible and tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which Christianity spread over the world, while Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more powerfully than this feeling. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so noble a conception; but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity, embodied in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the mang<'r, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and the doubts of tlie Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces oi tije Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in the dust. Soon after Christianity har> ■ THE NATION'S DEAD. 'jt »UR hiindrod thousand inf:n Th*! brave — the good — the true. In tangled wood, in mountain glen, On battle plain, in prison pen. Lie dead for mo and you 1 Four hundred thousand of the brave Have made our ranHoiiU'd soil thoxr grave. For mo and you ! Good friend, for mo and you I UNDER THE VIOLETS. f^67 In many a fevered swamp, By many a black bayou, In many a cold and frozen camp, The weary sentinel ceased his tramp. And died for me and you ! From Western plain to ocean tide Ar« stretched the graves of those who died For me and you ! QocKi friend, for me and you ! On many a bloody plain Their ready swords they drew, And poured their life-blood, like the rain A home — a heritage to gain, To gain for me and you ! Our brothers mustered by our side ; Tliey marched, they fought, and bravely died For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you ! Up many a fortress wall They charged — those boys in blue — 'Mid surging smoke, the volley'd ball ; The bravest were the first to fall 1 To fall for me and you ! These noble men — the nation's pride — Four hundre'l thousand men have died. For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you i In treason's prison-hold Their martyr spirits grew To stature like the saints of old. While amid agonies untold, They starved for me and you ! The good, the patient, and the tried, Four hundred thousand men have die^ For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you I A debt we ne'er can pay To them is justly due. And to the nation's latest day Our children's children still shall say, " They died for me and you ! " Four hundred thousand of the brave Made this, our ransomed soil, their gr»7a, For me and you ! Good friend, for me and you I UNDER THE VIOLETS. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. |ER hands are cold ; her face is white ; No more her pulses come and go ; ^P^^ Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — •[ Fold the white vesture, snow on tf snow, J And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run. And through their leaves the robins call. And, ripening in the autumn sun, The acorns and the chestnuts fall. Doubt not that she will heed them alL For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel-voice of spring; That trills beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry. When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pasb Her little mourners clad in black, The cricket«, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening maas. 268 BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise ! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below? Say oulj' this : A tender bud. That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow THE AMERICAN BOY. . r4:|>-^ CAROLINE OILMAN. bOK up, my young American ! Stand firmly on the earth, Where noble deeds and mental power Give titles over birth. A hallow'd land thou claim'st my boy, By early struggles bought. Heaped up with noble memories, And wide, ay, wide as thought! What though we boast no ancient towers Where " ivied " streamers twine, The laurel lives upon our soil, The laurel, boy, is thine. And though on " Cressy's distant field," Thy gaze may not be cast, While through long centuries of blood Rise spectres of the past, — The future wakes thy dreamings high. And thou a note mayst claim — AsjiiringH which in after times Shall swell the trump of fame. And when thou'rt told of knighthood's shield, And Engli.-h battle.s won. Look up, ray boy, and breathe one word- The name of Washington. BEYOND THE SMILING AND Tllh: WEEPING. _c^^ HORATIUS HONAU. '' VON I) Uie smiling and tlie wecjung I nhall bo Hofjn ; I'.ijyondtho waking and tfio sleeping, Ueyond the sowing and the reaping, I shall bo soon. Love, rest, and home I Swccl kmne I Lord, lorry not, but come CALL ME NOT DEAD. 269 Beyond the blooming and the fading I shall be soon ; Beyond the shining and the shading, Beyond the hoping and the dreading, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the rising and the setting I shall be soon Beyond the calming and the fretting. Beyond remembering and forgetting, I shall be soon. Love^ rest, and home ! Beyond the gathering and the strowing I shall be soon ; Beyond the ebbing and the flowing, Beyond the coming and the going, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Beyond the parting and the meeting I shall be soon ; Beyond the farewell and the greeting, Beyond the pulse's fever beating, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home I Beyond the frost chain and the fever I shall be soon ; Beyond the rock waste and the river Beyond the ever and the never, I shall be soon. Love, rest, and home ! Sweet home ! Lord, tarty not, but come. CALL ME NOT BEAD. Translated from the Persian of the 12th Century by Edwin Arnold. E who dies at Azim sends This to comfort all his friends. — Faithful friend, it lies, I know. Pale and white, and cold as snow ; And ye say, " Abdallah's dead " — Weeping at the feet and head. I can see your falling tears ; I can see your sighs and prayers; Yet I smile and whisper this : I am not the thing you kiss ! Cease your tears and let it lie ; It was mine, it is not I. Sweet friends, what the women lave For the last sleep of the grave Is a hut which I am quitting, Is a garment no more fitting ; Is a cage from which, at last Like a bird my soul has passed. Love the inmate, not the room ; The wearer, not the garb — the plume Of the eagle, not the bars That kept him from the splendid stars Loving friends, rise and dry Straightway every weeping eye ^ What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a single tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell — one Out of which the pearl is gone. The shell is broken, it lie? there ; The pearl, the all, the soul is here 'Tis an earthen jar whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid The treasure of his treasury — A mind that loved him, let it he, Let the shards be earth once mor^ Since the gold is in his store. Allah, glorious! Allah, good! Now thy world is understood — Now the long, long wondiT end."'; Yet ye weep, my erring friends, While the man whom you call dead In unbrokea bliss instead Lives and loves you — lost, 'tis trua, In the light that shines for you: 270 WHAT IS A MINORITY? But in the light you cannot see, In undisturbed felicity — In a perfect paradise, And a life that never dies. Farewell, friends, yet not farewell, Where I go, you too shall dwell, I am gone before your face — A moment's worth, a little space. When you come where I have stept, Ye will wonder why ye wept ; Ye will know, by true love taught, That here is all and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain — Sunshine still must follow rain ; Only not at death, — for death, Now I know, is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is, of all life, centre. Be ye certain all seems love, Viewed from Allah's throne above j Be ye stout of heart, and come Bravely onward to your home ! La Allah ilia Allah. Yea ! Thou love divine ! Thou love alwayl He that died at Azim gave This to those who made his grave. WHA TIS A MINORITY? JOHN B. GOUGH. - HAT is a minority ? The chosen heroes of this earth have been in a minority. There is not a social, poHtical, or rchgious privi- lege that you enjoy to-day that was not bought for you by the blood and tears and patient suffering of the minority. It is the minority that have vindicated humanity in every struggle. It is a minority that have stood in the van of every moral conflict, and achieved all that is noble in the history of the world. You will find that each generation has been always busy in gathering up the scattered ashes of the martyr-'^d lieroes of the past, to deposit them in the golden urn of a nation's history. Look at Scotland, where they are erecting monuments — to whom ? — to the Covenanters. Ah, they were in a minority. Read their history, if you can, without the blood tingling to the tips of your fingers. These were in tlic minority, that, through blood, and tears, and bootings and scourgings — bcnrath the snow. Where are now tiio flowers we tended ? Withered, broken, branch and stem ; Where are now the hopes we cherished ? Scattered to the winds with Ihorn. For ye, too, were flowers, ye tlcar ones ! Nursed in hope and reared in love. Looking fondly ever upward To the clear blue hoavon above , Smiling on the sun that cheered us. Rising lightly from the rain. Never folding up your freshness Save to give it forth again. 0, 'tis sad to lie and reckon All the days of faded J'outh, All tin; vows that WO believed in, AH (he words wo spoke in truth Severed, — wore it severi'n ; Yet, with strong yearning mid passiouat* pain. Long I to-night for your i)reBeuco again. THE GAMIN. 275 Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — Kock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone ; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have beem long Since I last listened your lullaby song ; Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping rny face. Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! THE GAMIN. VICTOE HUGO. ^HARIS has a child ; the forest has a bird. The bird is called a spar- ^^ row ; the child is called a gamin. His origin is from the rabble. X The most terrible embodiment of the rabble is the barricade, and * the most terrible of barricades was that of Faubourg St. Antoine. i The street was deserted as far as could be seen. Every door and J window was closed; in the background rose a wall built of paving stones, making the street a cul-de-sac. Nobody could be seen ; nothing could be heard; not a cry, not a sound, not a breath. A sepulchre! From time to time, if anybody ventured to cros3 the street, the sharp, low whistling of a bullet was heard, and the passer fell dead or wounded. For the space of two days this barricade had resisted the troops of Paris, and now its ammunition was gone. During a lull in the firing, a gamin, named Gavroche, took a basket, went out into the street by an opening, and began to gather up the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guards who had been killed in front of the barricade. By successive advances he reached a point where the fog from the firing became transparent, so that the sharp- shooters of the line, drawn up and on the alert, suddenly discovered some- thing moving in the smoke. Just as Gavroche was relieving a Grenadier of his cartridges a ball struck the body. " They are kilHng my dead for toe," said the gamin. A second ball splintered the pavement behind him. 276 I LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. A third upset his basket. Gavroclie rose up straight on his feet, his hair in the wind, his hands upon his hips, his eyes fixed upon the National Guard, who were firing ; and he sang : "They are ugly at Naterre — 'tis the fault of Voltaire; And beasts at Palaeseau — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." Then he picked up his basket, put into it the cartridges which had fallen out, without losing a single one ; and advancing toward the fusilade, began to empty another cartridge-box. Then a fourth ball just missed him again ; Gavroche sang : "I am only a scribe, 'tis the fault of Voltaire; My life one of woe — 'tis the fault of Rousseau." The sight was appalling and fascinating. Gavroche fired at, mocked the firing and answered each discharge with a couplet. The National Guards laughed as they aimed at him. He lay down, then rose up ; hid himself in a door-way, then sprang out; escaped, returned. The insurgents, breathless with anxiety, followed him with their eyes ; the barricade was trembling, he was singing. It was not a child, it was not a man ; it was a strange fairy gamin, playing hide and seek with Death. Every time the face of the grim spectre approached, the gamin snapped his fingers. One bullet, however, better aimed or more treacherous than the others, reached the will-o'-the-wisp child. They saw Gavroche totter, then fall. The whole barricade gave a cry. But the gamin had fallen only to rise again. A long stream of blood rolled down his face. He raised both arms in the air, looked in the direction whence the shot came, and began to sing : " I am bund in earth — 'tis the fault " He did not finish. A second ball from the same marksman cut him short. This time he fell with his face upon the pavement and did not stir again. That little great soul had taken flight. / LOVE THE MORNING SUNSHINE. ROBERT LOWRY. LOVE the morning Bunshine — For 'tis bringing to the flinging Of tlie oarly-matine'l birfla, Daylight'H troasuro, without moaflure, Speaking joy with gentle worda. 1 love the morning sunshine — For it lightens, warms, and briglitens Every hillside tinged with gloom ; Anartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 285 bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country ; and why the lat- ter have endured so many exces- sive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attribu- ted the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from " The Flower and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts— they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble m the breeze— a leaf could not rustle to the ground— a diamond drop could not patter in the stream— a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. ELIZA COOK. LOVE it, I love it ! and who shall uare To chide me for loving that old arm- chair ? r ve treasured it long as a sainted prize, I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,- Not a tic wdl break, not a link will start; me THE PALACE 0' THE K ING. Would you know the spell ? — a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. Id childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear ; ^nd gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible to bless hei child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled! I learnt how much the heart can bear. When I saw her die in her old arm-ch»ir. " In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear." She told me that shame would never betide With truth for my creed, and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer. As I kneit beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day. 'Tis past, 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now, With quivering breath and throbbing brow . 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there slie died. And memory flows with lava tide. 8ay it is folly, and deem me weak. Whilst scalding drops start down my choek W'lK-n her eyes grew dim, and lier locks were But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear gray ; • My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. Tiri'J PALACE 0' THE KING. WFLTJAM MITCHELL. *T'S a bonnie, bonnio warl' tliat Wi'n; For its beauty is as naelhing to the pal»«5« livin' in the noo, o' tlio King. P An-HunnyiH the Ian' we aft.m traivel , y^^_ ,,,^,^ ^,,^ ^^^^^ ^unmor, wi' its merry, ""'^' '< I merry tread, But in vain wo look for sornelhrng to ^,,. ^^,^ ^j^,, ^,_,.,, l.oary winter lays it« beaa J which our hearts ran cling, ^^^^ ^|. ^j^^ j,,^j . PIP'S FIGHT. 287 For though bonnie are the snawflakes, an' the down on winter's wing, It's fine to ken it daurna' touch the palace o' the King. Then again, I've juist been thinkin' that when a'thing here's sae bricht, The sun in a' its grandeur an' the mune wi' quiverin' licht, The ocean i' the simmer or the woodland i' the spring, What maun it be up yonder i' the palace o' the King. It's here we hae oor trials, an' it's here that he prepares A' his chosen for the raiment which the ran- somed sinner wears. An' it's here that he wad hear us, 'mid oor tribulations sing, "We'll trust oor God wha reigneth i' the palace o' the King." Though his palace is up yonder, he has king- doms here below. An' we are his ambassadors, wherever we may go ; We've a message to deliver, an' we've lost anes hame to bring To be leal and loyal-heartit i' the palace o' the King. Oh, it's honor heaped on honor that his cour- tiers should be ta'en Frae the wand'rin' anes he died for i' this warl' o' sin an' pain, An' it's fu'eat love an' service that the Chris- tian aye should bring To the feet o' him wha reigneth i' the palace o' the King. An' let us trust him better than we've ever done afore. For the King will feed his servants frae hij ever bounteous store. Let us keep closer grip o' him, for time is on the wing, An' sune he'll come and tak' us to the palace o' the King. Its iv'ry halls are bonnie, upon which the rainbows shine, An' its Eden bow'rs are trellised wi' a never fadin' vine. An' the pearly gates o' heaven do a glorioua radiance fling On the starry floor that shimmers i' the pa'i- ace o' the King. Nae nicht shall be in heaven an' nae deso- latin' sea, An' nae tyrant hoofe shall trample i' the city o' the free. There's an everlastin' daylight, an' a never- fadin' spring, Where the Lamb is a' the glory, i' the pal- ace o' the King. We see oor frien's await us ower yonder at his gate: Then let us a' be ready, for ye ken it's gettin' late. Let oor lamps be brichtly burnin' ; let's raise oor voice an' sing, "Sune we'll meet, to pairt nae mair, i' th« palace o' the King." PIP'S FIGHT. CHARLES DICKENS. |OME and fight," said the pale young gentleman. What could I do but follow him ? I have often asked mysell the question since : but what else could I do ? His manner was so final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a spell. 288 PIP'S FIGHT. "Stop a minute, though," he said, wheeling round before we had got many payees. '* I ought to give you a reason for fighting, too. There it is ! " In a most irritating manner he instantly slapped his hands against one another, daintily flung one of his legs up behind him, pulled my hair, slapped his hands again, dipped his head, and butted it into my stomach. The bull-like proceeding last mentioned, besides that it was unquestion- ably to be regarded in the light of a liberty, was particularly disagreeable just after bread and meat. I therefore hit out at him, and was going to hit out again, when he said, "Aha! Would you?" and began dancing backward and forward in a manner quite unparalleled within my limited experience. " Laws of the game ! " said he. Here he skipped from his left leg on to his right. " flegular rules !" Here he skipped from his right leg on to his left. "Come to the ground and go through the preliminaries ! " Here he dodged backward and forward, and did all sorts of things, while I looked helplessly at him. I was secretly afraid of him when I saw him so dexterous ; but I felt morally and physically convinced that his light head of hair could have had no business in the pit of my stomach, and that I had a right to consider it irrelevant when so obtruded on my attention. Therefore, I followed him without a word to a retired nook of the garden, formed by the junction of two walls and screened by some rubbish. On his asking me if I was satis- fied with the ground, and on my replying Yes, he begged my leave to ab- sent himself for a moment, and quickly returned with a bottle of water and a sponge dipped in vinegar. " Available for both," he said, placing these against the wall. And then fell to pulling off, not only his jacket and waistcoat, but his shirt too, in a manner at once light-hearted, busi- ness-like and blood-thirsty. Although he did not look very healthy — having pimples on his face, and a breaking-out at his mouth — these dreadful preparations quite appalled me. I judged him to be about my own age, but ho was much taller, and he had a way of spinning himself about that was full of appearance. For the rest, ho was a young gentleman in a gray suit (when not denuded for oattle), with his elbows, knees, wrists, and heels considerably in advance of the rest of him aa to development. My heart failed me when I saw him squaring at mo with every de- monstration of mechanical nicety, and eying my anatomy as if he were •nitiutoly choosing his bone. I never have been so surprised in my li!e as .1. was when I let out the first blow, and saw him lying on his Ijack, iooiv- THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 289 ing up at me with a bloody nose and his face exceedingly fore- shortened. But he was on his feet directly, and after sponging himself with a great show of dexterity began squaring again. The second greatest surprise I have ever had m my life was seeing him on his back again, looking up at me out of a black eye. His spirit inspired me with great respect. He seemed to have no strength, and he never once hit me hard, and he was always knocked down; but he would be up again in a moment, sponging himself or drink- ing out of the water-bottle, with the greatest satisfaction in seconding himself according to form, and then came at me with an air and show that made me believe he really was going to do for me at last. He got heavily bruised, for I am sorry to record that the more I hit him, the harder I hit him ; but he came up again and again and again, until at last he got a bad fall with the back of his head against the wall. Even after that crisis in our affairs, he got up and turned round and round confusedly a few times, not knowing where I was ; but finally went on his knees to his sponge and threw it up : at the same time panting out, " That means you have won." He seemed so brave and innocent, that although I had not proposed the contest I felt but a gloomy satisfaction in my victory. Indeed, I go so far as to hope that I regarded myself, while dressing, as a species of savage young wolf, or other wild beast. However, I got dressed, darkly wiping my sanguinary face at intervals, and I said, "Can I help you?" and he said, " No, thankee," and I said, " Good afternoon," and he said, " Same to you." THE BURIAL OF MOSES. MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER. "And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; bnt no man knowtUi of hu sepulchre unto this day." Deut. xxxiv. 6. |Y Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave ; But no man dug tnat sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturned the sod And laid the dead man there. That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth ; But no man heard the tramping, Or saw the train go forth ; Noiselessly as the daylight Comes when the night is done. And the crimson streak on the cheek Grows into the great sun, — 290 PUTTING UP 0' THE STOVE. Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves, — So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept. Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie. Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking. Still shuns the hallowed spot ; For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not. Lo ! when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war. With arms reversed, and muffled drum. Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won. And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun. Amid the noblest of the land Men lay the sage to rest. And give the bard an honored place. With costly marble dressed. In the great minster transept. Where lights like glories fall, And the clioir sings and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall. Tliis was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword ; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word ; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sa^ As he wrote down for men. And had he not high honor ? The hill-side for his 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 deep grave, without a name. Whence his uncoffined clay Shall break again, — wondrous thought 1— Before the judgment day ; And stand, with glory wrapped around. On the hills he never trod. And speak of the strife that won our life, With the incarnate Son of God. lonely tomb in Moab's land ! dark Beth-peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours. And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, — Waj's that we cannot toll ; lie hides them deep, like the secret sleep Of liim lie loved so well. PUTTING UP a THE STOVE. ^^^T^.^ OR THE RIME OF THE ECONOMICAL irOUSEHOLDER. \\\V, melancholy days have come that no householder lovoe. Days of the taking down of blindH and putting up of stoves ; The lengtlii of pipe forgotten lie in the Hhadnw of the nhed, Dinged out of symmetry they bo and all witli rust are red ; Tlio hiiHl)and gropes amid tlie mass thi*t ho placed them anon, And swears to find an elbow joint and eke* leg are gone. So fared it with good Mister I'.iown, wh«B liiHHpou.se remarkc'l ; " Behold I PUTTING UP 0' THE STOVE. 291 Unless you wish us all to go and catch our deaths of cold, Swift be yon stove and pipes from out their storing place conveyed, And to black-lead and set them up, lo ! I will lend my aid." This, Mr. Brown ho trembling heard, I trow his heart was sore, For he was married many years and had been there before. And timidly he said, " My love, perchance the better plan 'Twere to hie to the tinsmith's shop and bid him send a man?" His spouse replied indignantly : "So you would have me then To waste our substance upon riotov;s 'tin- smith's journeyrjen ? ' A penny saved is twopence earned,' rash prodigal of pelf, 60 ! false one, go ! and I will black and set it up myself." When thus she spoke the husband knew that she had sealed his doom : " Fill high the bowl with Samian lead and gimme down that broom," He cried ; then to the outhouse marched. Apart the doors he hove And closed in deadly conflict with his enemy, the stove. Bound 1. — They faced each other; Brown, to get an opening, s^oarred Adroitly. His antagonist was cautious — on its guard. Brown led off with his left to where a length of stove-pipe stood And nearly cut his fingers oS. ( The stove allowed First Blood.) Bound 2. — Brown came up swearing, in I Grseco-Roman style Closed with the stove, and tugged and strove j at it a weary while ; At last the leg he held gave way ; flat on his back fell Brown, And the stove fell on top of him and claimed the First Knock-down. * * * The fight is done and Brown has won; his hands are gasped and sore, And perspiration and black lead stream from his every pore ; Sternly triumphant, as he gives his prisoner a shove. He cries, "Where, my good angel, shall Ipiit this blessed stove?" And calmly 'Mj:s. Brown to him she indicates the spot, And bids him keep his temper and remartf that he looks hot. And now comes in the sweet o' the day ; the Brown holds in his gripe And strives to fit a six-inch joint into a five inch pipe ; He hammers, dinges, bends, and shakes, while his wife scornfully Tells him how she would manage if only she were he. At last the joints are joined, they rear a pyramid m air, A tub upon the table, and upon the tub a chair. And on chair and supporters are the stove pipe and the Brown, Like the lion and the unicorn, a-fighting foi the crown ; WTiile Mistress Brown she cheerily says tt, him, " I expec' 'Twould be just like your clumsiness to fali and break your neck." Scarce were the piteous accents said before she was aware Of what might be called " a miscellaneooft music in the air," And in wild crash and confiision upon the floor rained down Chairs, tables, tubs, and stovepipes, anathe- mas and — Brown. There was a moment's silence — Brown had fallen on the cat ; She was too thick for a book-mark but too thin for a mat, And he was all wounds and bruises, from hia head to his foot. And seven breadths of Brussels were ruined with the soot 292 USEFUL STUDIES. ' wedded love, how beautiful, how sweet a thing thou art I" Up from her chair did Mistress Brown, as she saw him falling, start, And shrieked aloud as a sickening fear did her inmost heart-strings gripe, " Josiah Winterbotham Brown, have you gone and smashed that pipe?" Then fiercely starts that Mister Brown, as one that had been wode And big his bosom swelled with wrath, and red his visage glowed ; Wild rolled his eye as he made reply (and his voice was sharp and shrill), " I have not, madam, but, by — by — by the nine gods, I will !" He swung the pipe above his head, he dashed it on the floor, And that s^tove-pipe, as a stove-pipe, it did exist no more ; Then he strode up to his shrinking wife, and his face was stern and wan, As in a hoarse, changed voice he hissed: " Send for that tirismith's man ! " USEFUL ^TUDJE^. JEREMY TAYLOR. ^PEND not your tirn<' in tliat wliidi profits not ; for your lal>or and M your lioaltli, your time and your studios, ai'o very valuable ; and it is a thousan sword, Hatli mcltfd like snow in tlie glance of tbo Lord I DER DRUMMER. 297 DER DRUMMER. CHAS. F. ADAMS. no puts oup at der pest hotel, ■ nd flakes his oysders on der schell, '1 mit der frauleins cuts a schwell ? Der drummer. Who vas it gomes indo mine schtore, Drows down his pundles on der vloor, Und nefer schtops to shut der door ? Der drummer. Who dakes me py der haadt, und say, " Hans Pfeiffer, how you vas to-day ?" Dnd goes vor peeseness righdt avay ? Der drummer. Who shpreads his zamples in a trice, Und dells me, " Look, und see how nice?' Und says I gets "der bottom price?" Der drummer. Who dells how sheap der goods vas bought, Mooch less as vot I gould imbort, But lets dem go as he vas " short?" Der drummer. Who says der tings vas eggstra vine, — " Vrom Sharmany, ubon der Rhine," — Und sheats me den dimes oudt 08" nine? Der drummer. 298 VOICES OF THE DEAD. \V ho varrants all der goots to suit L)er gustomers ubon his route, l.'nd ven dey gomes dey vas no goot? Der drummer. Who gomes aroundt ven I been oudt, Drinks cup mine bier, and eats mine kraut, Und kiss Katrina in der mout' ? Der drummer. Who, ven he gomes again dis vay, Vill hear vot Ffeiffer has to say, Und mit a plack ej-e goes avay ? Der drummer. VOICES OF THE DEAD. , <^f^ , JOHN GUMMING. ' R die, but leave an influence behind u.s that survives. The echoce of our words are evermore repeated, and reflected along the ages. It is what man was that lives and acts after him. What he said .sounds along the years like voices amid Uk^ mountain gorges ; and what ho did is repeated after him in ovor-multiplying and novcr- ' ceiifing reverberations. Every man has left bdiind him iiiHucnces for i^ood or for evil that will never exhaust themselves. The sphere in which ho ai ts may be small, or it may be gn^at. It may be his liresidc, or it may be a kmgdom ; a village, or a great nation ; it may be a parish, or broad Europe,- but act he does, cea-selcssly and forever. His friends, his family, his succes- sors in office, his relatives, are all receptive of an influence, a moral influ- ence which ho has transmitted and btyjueathed to mankind ; either a J)Ichs- ing which will repeat itself in show(!rs of benedictions, oi- a curHe which will multiply itself in ever-accumulating evil. p]very man is a missionary, now and foi-cver, for good or lor evil, w.i('the,r he intends and rlcsign.s it, or not. lie may bo a blot, radiating his VOICES OF THE DEAD. £99 dark influence outward to the very circumference of society, or he may be a blessing, spreading benedictions over the length and breadth of the world ; but a blank he cannot be. The seed sown in life springs up in harvests of blessings, or harvests of sorrow. Whether our influence be great or small, whether it be for good or evil, it lasts, it lives somewhere, within some limit, and is operative wherever it is. The grave buries the dead dust, but the character walks the world, and distributes itself, as a benediction or a curse, among the families of mankind. The sun sets beyond the western hills, but the trail of light he leaves behind him guides the pilgrim to his distant home. The tree falls in the forest ; but in the lapse of ages it is turned into coal, and our fires burn now the brighter because it grew and fell. The coral insect dies, but the reef it raised breaks the surge on the shores of great conti- nents, or has formed an isle in the bosom of the ocean, to wave with har- vests for the good of man. We live and we die; but the good or evil that •we do lives after us, and is not " buried with our bones." The babe that perished o)i the bosom of its mother, like a flower that bowed its head and drooped amid the death-frosts of time — that babe, not only in its image, but in its influence, still lives and speaks in the cham bers of the mother's heart. The friend with whom we took sweet counsel is removed visibly from the outward eye ; but the lessons that he taught, the grand sentiments that he uttered, the holy deeds of generosity by which he was character- ized, the moral lineaments and likeness of the man, still survive and ap- pear in the silence of eventide, and on the tablets of memory, and in the light of morn and noon and dewy eve ; and, being dead, he yet speaks elo- f^uently, and in the midst of us. Mahomet still lives in his practical and disastrous influence in the East. Napoleon still is France, and France is almost Napoleon. Martin Luther's dead dust sleeps at Wittenberg, but Martin Luther's accents still ring through the churches of Christoiulom. Shakspeare, Byron, and Milton, all live in their influence for good or evil. The ap)Ostle from his chair, the minister from his pulpit, the martyr from his flame-shroud, the statesman from his cabinet, the soldier in the field, the sailor on the deck, who all have passed away to their graves, still live in the practical deeds that they did, in the lives they lived, and in the powerful lessons that they left be- hind them. " None of us liveth to himself; " — others are affected by that life ; — " or dieth to himself ;"- -others are interested in that death. Our queen's crown naay moulder, but she who wore it will act upon the ages which are 300 THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. yet to come. The noble's coronet may be reft in pieces, but the wearer of it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who wUl be made and moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and worthless ; but moral character has an immortality that no sword-point can destroy ; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind. What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that wUl never cease. What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak ; and the whole universe is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening; and all nature the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the pas- sions of mankind. Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, statesmen, are all influences that extend into the future ao^es. " The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle " still speaks. The Mantuan bard still sings in every school. Shakspeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated into every tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite is still felt in every academy. Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, they are influences fraught with power. How blest must be the recollection of those who, like the setting sun, have left a tarail of light behind them by which others may see the way to that rest which remaincth for the people of God ! It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all pro- ceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy also. Go forth, then, into the sphere that you occupy, the employments, the trades, the professions of social life ; go forth into the high places, or into the lowly places of the land; mix with the roaring cataracts of social convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic life ; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will radi- ate around you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficial influences. THE BAGGAGE-FIEND. WAS a ferocious baggage-man, with AtlanU>an back, And l)irf.pa upon each arm jiilcl in a formiflablo Btaok, That filie'l his flroa'l vocation hosido a railroad track. eggshell. Wildly ho tossed the baggage round tha {ilatform there, pollmoll, And crushod to naught llio frail bandbox where'er it shapfdess fnll, Or Ht/)vo tlie "Saratoga" like the fliinaieet NIGHT. 301 On ironclads, especially, he fell full ruthlessly, And eke the trunk derisively called "Cottage by the Sea ;" And pulled and hauled and rammed and jammed the same vindictively. Until a yearning breach appeared, or frac- tures two or three. Or straps were burst, or lids fell ofi, or some catastrophe Crowned his Satanic zeal or moved his dia- bolic glee. The passengers surveyed the wreck with di- verse discontent, And some vituperated him, and some made loud lament. But wrath or lamentation on him were vainly spent. To him there came a shambling man, sad- eyed and meek and thin. Bearing an humble carpet-bag, with scanty stuff therein. And unto that fierce baggage-man he spake, with quivering chin ; " Behold this scanty carpi.l-bag ! I started a month ago, With a dozen Saratoga trunks, hat-box, and portmanteau. But baggage-men along the route have brought me down so low. " Be careful with this carpet-bag, kind sir," said he to him. The baggage-man received it with a smil« extremely grim. And softly whispered " Mother, may I go out to swim ?" Then fiercely jumped upon that bag in wild, sardonic spleen, And into countless fragments flew — to hi>- profound chagrin — For that lank bag contained a pint of nitro- glycerine. The stranger heaved a gentle sigh, and stroked his quivering chin, And then he winked with one sad eye, and said, with smile serene, " The stuff to check a baggage-man is nitro- glycerine!" NIGHT. JAMES MONTGOMERY. I HIT is the time for rest; How sweet, when labors close. To gather '-ound an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed ! Night is the time for dreams : The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Mix in fantastic strife ; Ah ! visions, less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are ! Night is the time for toil : To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield ; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang, and heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep : To wet with unseen tears Those graves of Memory, where sleep The joys of other j'ears ; Hopes, that were Angels at their birth But died when young, like things of t-artl Night is the time to watch : O'er ocean's dark expanse. To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mina All wo have loved and left behind. 302 NOBODY'S CHILD. Night is the time for care : — • — ^ II >a. Night is the time to pray : Brooding on hours misspent, Our Saviour oft withdrew To see the spectre of Despair To desert mountains far away ; Come to our lonely teut; So will his followers do, Like Brutus, midst his slumbering host, Steal from the throng to haunts untrod. Summoned to die bj- Caesar's ghost. And commune there alone with Grod. Night is the time to think : Night is the time for Death : When, from the eye, the soul When all around is peace, Takes flight ; and on the utmost brink Calmly to yield the weary breath. Of yonder starry pole From sin and suffering cease. Discern beyond the abyss of night Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign The dawn of uncreated light. To parting friends ; — such death be mine. NOBODY'S CHILD. PIIILA H. CASE. LONE, in the dreary, pitiless street, With my torn old dross and bare 'M^'^f ^^^^ ^''^*^' 0/'* All day I wandered to and fro. Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go; The night's coming on in darknoss and dread. And the diill sleet beatinc; upon my bare liead ; Oh ! why docs tbe wind blow upon mo so wild? Is it becauBe I'm nobody's child? JuHt over the way there's a flood of liglit, And warmth and b' well' In rapture rang the Temperance bell. HANS AND FRITZ. Oil e^^9 HANS AND FRITZ. CHARLES F. ADAMS. f |aNS and Fritz were two Deutschers I Hans purchased a horse of a neighbor onr ll who lived side by side, '%- % Remote from the world, its deceit I And, lacking a part of the Geld,-^ they u and its pride: ^^J'' , With their pretzels and beer the | Made a call upon Fritz to solicit a loan spare moments were s.ent. | To help him to pay for his beautiful roan. And the fruits of their labor were peace And the iruits oi ^ consented the money to lend, and content. -' 312 KORNER'S SWORD SONG. And gave the required amount to his friend ; ' Und I prings you der note und der money Remarking, — ^his own simple language to I some day." quote, — " Berhaps it vas bedder ve make us a note." The note was drawn up in their primitive way,— "I Hans, gets from Fritz feefty tollars to- day ;" When the question arose, the note being made, " Vich von holds dot baper until it vas baid?" "You geeps dot," says Fritz, "und den you vill know You owes me dot money." Says Hans, " Dot ish so : Dot makes me remempers I haf dot to bay, A month had expired, when Hans, as agreed, Paid back the amount, and from debt he was freed. Says Fritz, " Now dot settles us." Hans re- plies, " Yaw : Now who dakes dot baper accordings by law?" "I geeps dot now, aind't it?" says Fritz; "den you see, I alvays remempers you paid dot to me." Says Hans, " Dot ish so : it vas now shust so blain, Dot I knows vot to do ven I porrows again." KORNERS SWORD SONG. Completed one hour before he fell on the battle-field, August 26, 1813. r^^WORD at my left side gleaming ! P^ Why is thy keen glance, beaming, So fondly bent on mine ? I love that smile of thine ! Hurrah ! " Borne by a trooper daring. My looks his fire glance wearing, I arm a freeman's hand : This well delights thy band ! Hurrah !" Ay. good Bword, free I wear thee ; And, true heart's love, I bear thee, Betrothed one, at my side, As rny dear, chosen bride ! Hurrah ! •'To thee till death united, Thy Btecl's bright life is plighted ; Ah, were my love but tried ! When wilt thou wed thy bride? Hurrah ' " The tempeflt'H fcHtal warning •shall hail our bridal mornmg ; When loud the cannon chide, Then clasp I my loved bride ! Hurrah ! " joy, when thine arms hold me ! I pine until they fold me. Come to me! bridegroom, come! Thine is my maiden bloom. Hurrah !" Wliy, 111 thy sheatli ujispringing, Thou wild, dear uteel, art ringing? Why clanging with delight, So eager for the fight ? Hurrah ! " Well may tliy scabbard rattle ; Trooper, I pant for battle ; Right eager for the fight, I clang witli wild delight. llurrali !" Wiiy tliUH, my love, (brtli creeping? Stay in tliy chamber, Hleefiing; Wait .Mlill, in tlie narrow room; Soon for my brido I come. Hurrah I SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 31-3 " Keep me not longer pining ! O for love's garden shining With roses bleeding rsd, And blooming with the dead ' Hurrah !" Come from thy sheath, then, treasure! Thou trooper's true eye-pleasure ! Come forth, my good sword, come Enter thy father-home ! Hurrah ! " Ha ! in the free air glancing, How brave this bridal dancing ! How, in the sun's glad beams ! Bride -like, thy bright steel gleams ! Hurrah !" Come on, ye German horsemen I Come on, ye valiant Norsemen ! Swells not your hearts' warm tide ? Clasp each in hand his bride ! Hurrah ! Once at your left side sleeping. Scarce her veiled glance forth peeping. Now wedded with your right, God plights your bride in the light Hurrah ! Then press with warm caresses, Close lips -and bridal kisses, Your steel ; — cursed be his head Who fails the bride he wed ! Hurrah ! Now till j^our swords flash, flinging Clear sparks forth, wave them singing. Day dawns for bridal pride ; Hurrah, thou iron bride ! Hurrah ! SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. piPvS. CENTRE was jealous. She was one of those discontented women who are never satisfied unless something goes wrong. When the sky is bright and pleasant they are annoyed because there is nothing to grumble at. The trouble is not with the out- ward world, but with the heart, the mind : and every one who wishes to grumble will find a subject. Mrs. Centre was jealous. Her husband was a very good sort oi person, though he probably had his peculiarities. At any rate, he had a cousin, whose name was Sophia Smithers, and who was very pretty, very intelligent, and very amiable and kind-hearted. I dare say he occasionally made her a social call, to which his wife solemnly and seriously objected, for the reason that Sophia was pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind- hearted. These were the sum total of her sins. Centre and his wife boarded at a private establishment at the South 314 SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. end of Boston. At the same house also boarded Centre's particular, inti- mate, and confidential friend, Wallis, with his wife. Their rooms might almost be said to be common ground, for the two men and the two women were constantly together. WaUis could not help observing that Mrs. Centre watched her husband very closely, and Centre at last confessed that there had been some difficulty. So they talked the matter over together, and came to the con- clusion that it was very stupid for any one to be jealous, most of all for Mrs. Centre to be jealous. What they did I don't know, but one evening Centre entered the room, and found Mrs. Wallis there. "My dear, I am obliged to go out a few moments to call upon a friend," said Centre. " To call upon a friend !" sneered Mrs. Centre. " Yes, my dear, I shall be back presently;" and Mr. Centre left the room. " The old story," said she, when ho had gone. " If it was my husband I would follow him," said Mrs. Wallis. " I will !" and she immediately put on her bonnet and shawl. " So- phia Smithers lives very near, and I am sure he is going there." Centre had gone up stairs to put on his hat and overcoat, and in a moment she saw him on the stairs. She could not mistake him, for there was no other gentleman in the house who wore such a peculiarly shaped Kossuth as he wore. He passed out, and Mrs. Centre passed out after him. She followed the queer shaped Kossuth of her husband, and it led her to C Street, where she had suspected it would lead her. And further, it led her to the house of Smithers, the father of Sophia, where she suspected also it would lead her. Mrs. Centre was very unhappy. Her husband had ceased to love her; he loved another ; he loved Sophia Smithers. She could have torn the pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted cousin of hor husband in pieces at that moment ; but sho had the fortitude Ko curl) her belligerent tendencies, and ring the door-bell. She was shown into the sitting-room, where the U-autiful girl of many virtues was engaged in sewing. "Is my husband here?" she (h.-inandi'd. "Mr. ('cuivc? Bless you, no! H*; hasn't been lien; for a inontii." Graoiou.s! What a whopper ! Was it true that slie whoso multitudi- nous qualities had Ixien so often rehoars(!d to her could tell a lio ? Hadn't she fifon the peculiar Kossuth of her liusband enter that door? Hadn't she followed that unmistakable hat to the house ? SCHOOLING A HUSBAND. 3x5 She was amazed at the coolness of her husband's fair cousin. Before, she had believed it was only a flirtation. Now, she was sure it was some- thing infinitely worse, and she thought about a divorce, or at least a separa- tion. She was astounded, and asked no more questions. Did the guilty pair hope to deceive her — her, the argus-eyed wife ? She had some shrewd- ness, and she had the cunning to conceal her purpose by refraining from any appearance of distrust. After a few words upon commonplace topics, she took her leave. When she reached the sidewalk, there she planted herself, determined to wait till Centre came out. For more than an hour she stood there, nursing the yellow demon of jealousy. He came not. While she, the true, faithful, and legal wife of Centre, WdS waiting on the cold pavement, shivering in the cold blast of autumn, he was folded in the arms of the black-hearted Sophia, before a comfortable coal-fire. She was catching her death a-cold. What did he care — the brute ' He was bestowing his affections upon her who had no legal right to them. The wind blew, and it began to rain. She could stand it no longer. She should die before she got the divorce, and that was just what the inhuman Centre would wish her to do. She must preserve her precious life for the present, and she reluctantly concluded to go home. Centre had not come out, and it required a struggle for her to forego the exposure oi the nefarious scheme. She rushed into the house, — into her room. Mrs. Wallis was there still. Throwing herself upon the sofa, she wept like a great baby. Her friend tried to comfort her, but she was firmly resolved not to be comforted. In vain Mrs. Wallis tried to assure her of the fidelity of her husband. She would not listen to the words. But while she was thus weeping, Mr. Centre entered the room, looking just as though nothing had happened. "You wretch !" sobbed the lad3\ "What is the matter, my dear?" coolly inquired the gentleman, tor lie had not passed through the battle and storm of matrimonial warfare with- out being able to " stand fire." " You wretch !" repeated the lady, with compound unction. " What has happened ?" " You insult me, abuse me, and then ask me what the matter is '' cried the lady. " Haven't I been waiting in C Street for two hours for you to come out of Smithers' house?" " Have you ?" " I have, you wretch I" 31$ THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. "And I did not come out ?" "No! You know you didn't!" " There was an excellent reason for that, my dear. I wasn't there," said Centre, calmly. " You weren't there, you wretch ! How dare you tell me such an abominable he ! But I have found you out. You go there every day, yes, twice, three times, a day ! I know your amiable cousin, now ! She can lie as well as you!" " Sophia tell a lie ! Oh, no, my dear !" " But she did. She said you were not there." "That was very true; I was not." " How dare you tell me such a lie ! You have been with Sophia all the evening. She is a nasty baggage !" " Nay, Mrs. Centre, you are mistaken," interposed Mrs. Wallis. *'Mr. Centre has been with me in this room all the evening." " What ! didn't I see him go out, and follow him to C Street ?" " No, my dear, I haven't been out this evening. I changed my mind." Just then Wallis entered the room with that peculiar Kossuth on his head, and the mystery was explained. Mrs. Centre was not a little con- fused, and very much ashamed of herself. Wallis had been in Smithers' library smoking a cigar, and had not seen Sophia. Her statement that she had not seen Centre for a month was Btrictly true, and Mrs. Centre was obliged to acknowledge that she had been jealous without a cause, though she was not " let into " the plot of Wallis. But Centre should have known better than to tell his wife what a pretty, intelligent, amiable, and kind-hearted girl Sophia was. No hu» band should speak well of any lady but his wife. THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR ALFRED TENNYSON. ^T'LIj knoc-deep lies the winter anow, You came to us so readily, And the winter winds are wearily You lived with us so steadily ; ^^(^ sighing: Old year, you sliall not die. "iy. Toll ye tli(fclinrrh-bell, sad and slow, j And tread softly an.yi:H, iV;(!ping through the tangled hair, V^J.*^' " Now I lay mo — I'm ho tired — (to'w Aunty, God knowH all myjirayor; •% He'll keep little Margery." Watching by the little bed. Dreaming of tlio coming years, Mn(di I wonder what they'll bring, \l')Ht of HtiiileH or most of tears, To my littlo Margery. LEARNING TO PRAY. 331 Will the simple, trusting faith Shining in the childish breast Always be so clear and bright? Will God always know the rest, Loving little Margery? As the weary years go on, And you are a child no more, But a woman, trouble-worn, Will it come — this faith of yours — Blessing you, dear Margery ? If your sweetest love shall fail, And your idol turn to dust. Will you bow to meet the blow. Owning all God's ways are just? Can you, sorrowing Margery ? Should your life-path grow so dark You can see no steps ahead, Will you lay your hand in His, Trusting by him to be led To the light, my Margery ? Will the woman, folding down Peaceful hands across her liieast, Whisper, with her old belief, " God, my Father, knows the rest, He'll take tired Margery ?" True, my darling, life is long. And its ways are dark and dim ; But God knows the path you tread ; I can leave you safe with Him, Always, little Margery. He will keep your childish faith, Throi:.;h your weary woman years, ShiniuT: ever strong and bright, Never Ci.mmed by saddest tears, Trusting little Margery. You have taught a lesson sweet To a yearning, restless soul ; We pray in snatches, ask a part, But God above us knows the whole, And answers, baby Margery. LEARNING TO PRAY. «^^ MARY M. DODGE. 'XEELING fair in the twilight gray, A beautiful child was trying to r^ pray ; His cheek on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden. His smile still coming unbidden. And his heart brimful of glee. " I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, mamma ! I've had such fun to-day 1 hardly can say my prayers. I don't feel just like praying ; I want to be out-doors playing. And run, all undressed, down stairs. " I can see the flowers in the garden bed, Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; And Sammy is swinging, I guess. Oh ! everything is so fine out there, I want to put it all in the prayer, — Do you mean I c"*« do it by ' Yes ?' ^ " When I say, ' Now I lay me, '-word for word It seems to me as if nobody heard. Would ' Thank you .1 ar God,' be right? He gave me my mammy, And papa, and Sammy, — mamma ! you nodded I might.' 332 A GLASS OF COLD WATER. Clasping his hands and hiding his face, Unconsciously yearning for help and grace, The little one now began ; Hia mother's nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran : " Thank you for making this home so nice. The flowers, and my two white mice, — I wish I could keep right on ; I thank you, too, for every day — Only I'm most too glad to pray, Dear God, I think I'm done. " Now, mamma, rock me — just a minute — ■ And sing the hymn with ' darling * in it. I wish I could say my prayers ! When I get big, I know I can. Oh I won't it be nice to be a man, And stay all night down stairs !" The mother, singing, clasped him tight. Kissing and cooing her fond " Good-nightv" And treasured his every word. For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent bo ;, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. iJj^OLDEN head so lowly bending, Little feet so white and bare. Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, Lisping out her evening prayer. i" Now I lay," — repeat it, darling — " Lay me," lisped the tiny lips Of my daughter, kneeling, bending O'er the folded finger tips. " Down to sleep,"-" To sleep," she murmured. And the curly head bent low ; " I pray the Lord," I gently added, " You can say it all, I know." " Pray the Lord," the sound came faintly, Fainter still — " My soul to keep ," Th'.n the tirf;il heart fairly nodded. And the child was fast asleep. But the dewy eyes half opened When I clasped her to my breast. And the dear voice softly whispered, " Mamma, God knows all the rest." Oh, the trusting, sweet conliding Of the child-heart ! would that I Thus might trust my Heavenly .Father, He who hears my feeblest crJ^ 0, the rapture, sweet, unbroken. Of the soul who wrote that prayer! Children's myriad voices floating Up to Heaven, record it there. If, of all that has been written, I could choose what might bo mine. It should be that child's petition, Rising to the throne divine. A GLASS OF COLD WATER. ARRINGTON. %,Wt^^ f^y^lIERE ifi tho liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his chilfl- rrjii? Not in the simmering .still, ovor smoky firos ch(jk(>(l with })oi3onouH gasos, surroiUKh.'d with tho str lh^ ?VER the hill the farm -boy goes : His shadow lengthens along the land, ^S5d "^ giant staff in his giant hand ; I In the poplar-tree above the spring The katydid begins to sing; The early dews are falling : Into the stone-heap darts the mink, The swallows skim the river's brink, L And home to the woodland tly the crows, When ov^T the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' I' Farther, farther over the hill, Faintly calling;, calling still — " Co', bwH ' i-m\ boss! co' 1 co' I" Into the yard the farmer goes. With grateful lie:irt, at the close of day : Harness and chain are hung away ; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow ; The cooling dews are falling ; The friendly sheep his welcome bleat. The pigs come grunting to his feet, The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling — "Co', boss! co', boss! co' ! co' ! co' !" While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those who have gone astray— " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' 1 Now to her task the milkmaid goes ; The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicksomt; yearlings frisk and jump, While the jileasant dews are falling: The new milch heifer is quick and shy. But the old cow v/aits with tranquil eye-, And the white stream into the bright pail flows. When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly c.illing — " So, boss ! 80, boss ! so ! so ! so I The cheerful milkmaid takes hor stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, " So, so, boss! so, sol" To supper at last tlie farmer goes : The appl(!S are pared, tlie paper is rea