mm;!0^^iifim^:: ' ! <'/'/-'r, THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. COMPILED AND EDITED BY JOHN A. JENNINGS, M.A., T.C.D. ' And lend tu the rhyme of (he poet The beauty of tliy voice." NEW EDITIOX-REVISED AXD E X L A E E D, DUBLIN: CARSON BROTHERS, 7, GRAFTON STREET. LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.; HAMILTON, ADAMS, & CO. ilU tlffhi ini^'vvJi TO THIS BOOK, BY MOST KIND PERMISSION, IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BT HER GRACE'S OBLIGED AND OBEDIENT SERVANT, JOHN A. JENNINGS. 1123117 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. Having for some years past been engaged in teaching Elocution in this city, during my leisure hours, and in giving so-called " Readings," I have naturally devoted considerable attention to the selection of fresh pieces from the best authors, for my own recitation and that of my pupils. Lately it has been suggested to me on all sides, by the Principals of Schools, Pupils, and friends in Trinity College, that it would be desirable to compile a new Elocutionist. At first I was unwilling so to do, on account of the nimiber of books of like natm-e — some of them very capital volumes — already before the public ; but at length I determined to undertake the task, %vith the object in view of bringing together more modern, or less-known, selections, eminently suitable for the desired purpose. This task I have endeavoured to accomplish, avoiding those recita- tions which, however beautiful many of them undoubtedly are, yet have become so hackneyed as to be wearisome, owing to constant repetition — that repetition not being in all cases pleasing to the ear nor intelligible to the understanding. How I have accomplished my object I leave my readers to decide. A very hearty word of thanks is more than due to those authors and publishers who have so generously and willingly placed their works at my disposal, and without whose kind co-operation many of the following pages could not have been inserted. Elsewhere, throughout the book, my obligations to them severally are acknowledged in detail. I have been most anxious to avoid violation of copyright in my selections, and have used my utmost endeavours to ascertain the various possessors of the rights appertaining thereto. Should there, however, be any unconscious infringement, I desire to express my deep regret, and trust that such an en-or may be kindly overlooked and forgiven. A double Index wUl be found — one in the early part of the volume, comprising the selections generally, another at the conclusion, containing the names of the authors alphabetically arranged. J. A. J. PEEFACE TO THE NEW EDITION. An extremely large edition of this book having been exiiausted in little more than a year, it is my pleasing task to offer very grateful thanks for the appreciation accorded to my labours. I have also to express my obligations to the Reviewers by whom this little volume has been so carefully, considerately, and favourably criticised ; and to whom I am indebted for many valuable suggestions, some of which have been followed in the present issue. It only remains for me to offer similar words of thanks to the authors and publishers by whose kindness new pages have been added, and to again express my hope that in the insertion of fresh selections no imconscious infringement of coiiyright has taken place. Two additional features may be noticed — the extracts selected from various prose works having proved so acceptable, Condensations and Adaptations ai-e here introduced ; and Notes on such selections as seemed to require elucidation will be found at the end of the volume. One word more. Were this to be simply a collection of modern poetry, some pages might have been different ; but I trust that I hava done my utmost to combine Elocutionary fitness vrith Literary merit. J. A. J Ddblin, 1882. CONTENTS. [Selections marked thus (f) appear for the first time, in the present Edition, being either substitutions or additions.] Pago Dedication, - - . . - . . iii Preface, ........ \- Introduction, ....... xiii The Value of Words in Modern English Verse, - DIVISION I.— SERIOUS, PATHETIC, &c. Part I. — Prose. The Death of Jo, Early Scenes Re-visited, One Niche the Highest, - The Mother and her Dead Child, + Noble Revenge, tA City by Night, fThe Drunkard's Death, The Widow and her Son, The Poetry of City and Country The Three Cherry-stones, The Death of Little NeU, Part The Cry of the Children, First Love, A Wish, Hally's Flower, - The Boat-race, - • Love-Letter, Wedding Bells, - The Dream of Eugene Ai-am, In the Tunnel, - In the Engine-shed, The Old Familiar Faces, The Children's Hour, - From India, Lost and Found, • Lif€ Charles DicJcens, Charles Lamb, - Elihu Burritt, > Hans Andersen, De Quince]/, Thomas Carhjlc, Charles Dickens, Charles DicJcens, II. 17. Longfellow, Anonymous, Charles Dickens, II. — Poetry. - Eliz. B. Broicning, . Edward Dowdcn, • Frederick Locker, . Samuel K. Coican, . IF. C. Bennett, • - W. Wilkins, - - Charlotte M. Griffiths, - Thomas Hood, • ' Bret Ilartc, - W. Wilkins, . - Charles Lamb, - • U. W. Lonrjfellou; - 17. C. Bennett, • - Hamilton Aide, • -XXIV 1 5 8 12 18 20 22 23 26 27 31 40 45 47 48 51 56 60 64 71 73 77 78 80 82 viii ■ CONTENTS. Pago Poor Jack, i . . . Samuel K. Cowan, . 85 The Raven, .... Edrjar A . Poe, • - 91 " How they brought the Good News from Ghent," .... Robert Browning, . 96 Eingen on the Rhine, ... Hon. Mrs. Norton, . 98 The Children, .... Charles Dickens, - 101 The Dirty Old Man, William Allingham, - 103 Lost on the Shore, . » - Holme Lee, - 106 The Diver, .... Schiller, ■ - - 110 A Greyport Legend, ... Bret Hartc, - 116 On the Landing, ... Bret Harte, - 117 The Baron's Last Banquet, Albert G. Greene, . 119 The Lament of the Irish Emigrant, Lady Bufferin, - - 121 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture, William Cowper, - 123 A Ballad of War, M. B. Smedley, - . 127 Horatius — an extract, • Lord Macaulay, - 129 Baby May, W. C. Bennett, - - 182 Baby Bell, T. B. Aldrich, ■ - 134 Measuring the Baby, A nonymous, . 137 Bessie and I. — Part I., - Edwin Caller, - - 139 Bessie and I. — Part II., - Edwin Caller, - - 148 In the Mirror, • Samuel K. Coivan, - 158 Annabel Lee, Edgar A . Poe, - - 160 The Orphan's Dream of Christm as, Mrs. M'Intosh, - - 161 Beautiful Snow, - Anonymous, - 166 The Vagabonds, - J. T. Trowbridge, - 168 Poor Little Joe, - • < Peleg Arhwright, - 172 TTie Newsboy's Debt, . Anonymous, - 174 Betsey and I are out. Will Carlcton, - - 179 How Betsey and I made up, Will Carlcton, • - 182 The Haunted Mere, Holme Lee, - 185 Not One to Spare, Anonymous, - 187 t In the Cathedral Close, Edward Dowdcn, - 190 + Flowers, John A. Jennings, - 191 fRequiescat, - • ■ Matthew Arnold, - 192 3\ry Child, John Pierpoint, - 192 Tlie Legend Beautiful, - H. W. Longfellou; - 194 The Leper, ... N. P. Willis, ■ - 199 t The Day is Done, H. W. Longfclloiv, - 204 The Alma, Archbishop Trench, - 205 CONTENTS. IX + Tho Law of Love, t Sea-mews in Winter- time, + Major and Minor, The Boys, Poor People, t The Arsenal at Springfield, + Alone, ... Abou Ben Adiiem and the Angel The Bells, The Battle of the Lake Regillus Out of the Old House, Nancy, The Relief of Luclcnow, - t Behind the Mask, The Old Sergeant, The Sparrow at Sea, Killed at the Ford, Becalmed, Dickens in Camp, Cowper's Grave, Left Alone at Eighty, • A Dream, Sheridan's Ride, The Outlaw, Barbara Frietchie, The Opening of the Piano, After the Accident, Not in the Programme, - The Parting of Marmion and Douglas, t Twenty Golden Years Ago, t My Grave, + The Bells of Shandon, - t The First Snowfall, - The Voiceless, - Song to INIary, - ■ I remember, - ■ Life, - . • Rest, - - . t The Last Scene. Page Arclibisliop Trench, - 206 Jean Ingelow, - - 207 Gcorr/e W. Curtis, • 209 0. W. Holmes, - - 209 Victor Hugo, • .211 //. W. Longfelloio, - 217 William Wordsivorth, - 219 H. W. Longfellow, • 220 HdgarA. Poe, • - 220 Lord Macaiday, - 224 Will Carleton, - - 228 R. T. S. Loiccll, - 231 Adeline D. T. Wliitncy, 234 Byron F. Willson, - 235 E. A.Allen, - • 240 H. W. Longfellow, - 242 Samuel K. Cowan, - 243 BretHartc, ■ - 247 Miz. B. Broioning, - 243 A. R, . - . 251 William AllingJiam, - 253 T. B. Reed, - - 254 Mrs. Henderson, • 25G John G. Whittier, - 259 0. W. Holmes, • • 261 Bret Ilarte, - - 262 Edwin Coller, - • 264 Walter Scott, - . 273 James Clarence Mangan, 275 Thomas Davis, - • 277 Francis Mahony, - 278 James R Lo\ceU, - 280 0. W. Holmes, - - 282 C. Wolfe, - - 282 Thomas Hood, - - 283 Sainiiel K. Cowan, - 285 John A. Jennings, • 285 William Winter, ■ 2S6 CONTENTS. DIVISION II.— HUMOROUS. Part I. — Prosk. Page The Charity Dinner, - Litclifield Moseley, - 287 Copperfield and the Waiter, - Charles Dickens, - 295 European Guides, • Marie Twain, • - 300 A Curtain Lecture, • Dour/las Jerrold, - 304 High Art — Music, - Max Acleler, - 308 I Vant to Fly, - - Anonymous, - 310 The Bouquet, - John Hahherton, - 312 Aurelia's Unfortunate Young Man, • Mark Twain, - 318 + The Parlour Orator, - - • Charles Dickens, - 321 Concerning Chambermaids, - - Mai-k Twain, • - 325 The Difficulty about that Dog, - - Anonymous, - 327 Cheap Jacks and Dear Jacks, - - Charles Dickens, - 332 Mrs. Mayton Interviewed, - • John Hahherton, - 335 The Duties of a Secretary, - - Charles Dickens, . 339 Pakt II. — POETET. The Pied Piper of Hamelin, - Eohert Browning, - 345 Nothing to Wear, - William A, Butler, . 354 The Walrus and the Carpentei- ) ' • Lewis Carroll, • - 861 Domestic Asides, • Thomas Hood, • - 364 The General Post Office, • Edioin Hamilton, - 366 Human Nature, - Anonymous, - 368 The Enchanted Shirt, - • John Hay, - 370 i" The Sword of Damocles, - Henry S. Leigh, - 372 + A Touch of Nature, . Mrs. Hewett, - 373 A Sea Dirge, . Anonymous, - 374 Father William, - - Leiois Carroll, - - 376 A-sitting on a Gate, - Lewis Carroll, - - 377 The Declaration, - N. P. Willis, - - 380 The Demon Ship, - :;■*, y - Thomas Hood, - - 331 (.'>¥ Ptichcllcu, "■ • WiUiam Tell, - The School for Scandal, DIVISION III.— DRAMATIC. BELECTIONS FROM . - Lord Lylton, Sheridan Knoxdes, Buchard B. Sheridan, ' 385 - 390 - 394 CONTENTS. XI The Rivals, No. I., The Rivals, No. II., - She Stoops to Conquer, - Richard B. Sheridan, Richard B. Sheridan, Oliver Goldsmith, Pase ■ 398 • 402 ■ 404 DIVISION IV.— SHAKSPERE. Richard III.— Act I., Scene IV., - King John — Act III., Scene III., - King John— Act IV,, Scene I., King Henry IV. (Part II.)— Act III., Scene I., King Henry V. — Act III., Scene I., Kmg Henry V.— Act IV., Scene III., As You Like It — Act III., Scene II., Hamlet — Act I., Scene II., Hamlet — Act III., Scene II., Othello— Act I., Scene III., King Lear — Act II., Scene IV., Macbeth — Act II., Scenes I. and II., The Tempest— Act IV., Scene I., - 409 411 413 418 419 420 422 426 431 432 434 437 443 ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS— PROSE. Adaptatioks AND Condensations, t Paddy the Piper, - - Samuel Lover, • ■ 445 fMrs. Comey makes Tea, - . Charles Dickens, - 451 t Love in a Balloon, - - Anoivjmous, - 456 t O'Dempsy and the Duke, - - Samuel Lover, • - 460 +The Four Sisters, • - Charles Diclcms, - 462 + The Present to the Priest, - - Samuel Lover, - - 465 + Skating Experiences, - " - Charles Dickens, - 472 ADDITIONAL SELECTIONS— POETRY. Serious and Humorous, • Archlishop Trench, • 477 - Charles Kiiigsley, - 478 - H. W. Lonrjfellow, - 480 + Balaklava, t Ode to the North-East Wind, + Footsteps of Angels, - xu CONTENTS. r,yf: -/^ •.?>-.■ - Author of "Mrs. + Love's Divinity, t In School-days, + The Sands of Dee, + The Forsaken Merman, t Heroes — (I.), - t Children, tTheDay of theLord, - f Coming, t The Old Man Dreams, + The Owl Critic, t A Prologue, + The Twins, t Heroes — (II.)> - + The German March, - + Tired Mothers, + Little Pat and the Parson, + The Doorstep, - + Death-doomed, + The Old Clock on the Stairs, - Notes, . . . - Index or Authors and Subjects, , JerningJiam's Journal," 480 /. G. Whittier, - - 483 Charles Kingsley, • 484 Matthew Arnold, • 484 B., ■ - - 488 H. W. Longfelloiv, - 491 Charles Kingsley, - 492 B. M., - - - 493 0. W. Holmes, - - 496 James T. Fields, • 497 0. W. Holmes, - - 499 Henry S. Leigh, • - 501 Anonymous, - - 502 Cluxrles Casey, - - 504 Anonymous, • • 605 A., • - . 606 Edmund C. Stedman, • 608 Will Carleton, - • 509 H. W. Longfellow, - 511 . 513 . 617 INTRODUCTION. The following pages of an Introduction — if it may be so termed — are exceedingly brief. So much having been already written on the theoretical part of this subject, I do not feel it at all desirable to repeat a number of elaborate rules. Those who wish to find such directions can consult many learned treatises on Elocution. I simply desivo to say something concerning the book itself ; to give short hints to readers on the management of the voice, action, &c. ; and to offer a few thoughts on the advantages of this study. (I.) This little book differs from most other collec- tions in its freshness of selection ; and in that respect, I venture to hope, supplies a very generally felt and expressed want. Now that Elocution has been so "widely recognised as a branch of study in high-class schools, and "Readings" have been rendered so popular with the public throughout the three Kingdoms, most of the time-honoured, well-worn extracts have become hackneyed and so thoroughly known as not in the least degree to partake of the character of novelty, which is a very essential element with audiences, as, unless the reader be a person of more than usual talents, constant repetition becomes most wearisome. Although this is called a Modern Elocutionist, I felt that it Avould be an unpardonable fault were I to omit selections from Shakspere, so that an additional feature XIV INTKODUCTION. in these pages is a separate portion devoted exclusively to speeches and scenes from his works. These extracts have been arranged in their probable chronological sequence — thus showing the gradual growth of the poet's mind — and the text adopted has been that of the so-called " Globe " edition. For the order of the above I am indebted to the works of Professor Dowden, Trinity College, Dublin.* These books are marked by scholarly research, acute criticism, and thorough appreciation and reverence of his subject. I earnestly recommend them to such of my readers as take an interest in the motive-springs of our greatest poet's mind. They will find them per- fectly invaluable in suggestiveness when preparing a play for reading or recitation. While again thanking those authors who have so kindly helped me in my task, it is with extreme regret that I have been compelled — owing to the refusal of Mr. Tennyson's publishers in granting the required ])ermission — to omit some half-dozen selections from the Poet Laureate's works. The following extracts I recommend as being most suitable for reading aloud :— r "The Lady of Shalott." "Lady Clara Vere de Vere." "The May Queen" (Three Parts). "Dora." "Lockslcy Hall." "Lady Clare." * "Shakspere: a Critical Study of his Miud and Art." Post 8vo. 128. (Published by Messrs. C. Kegan Paul and Co.) "Shakspere." One of the Shilling English Primers. (Published by Messrs. Macmillau and Co.) INTRODUCTION. XV "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington." "The Lord of Burleigh." "The Charge of the Light Brigade." "The Grandmother." " Sea-Dreams." "The Coming of Arthur." The Death of Elaine ("Lancelot and Elaine"). " Guinevere." "The Passing of Arthur." The Death of Enoch Arden ("Enoch Arden"). "In Memoriam" — Stanza evi. "The Revenge" {Nineteenth Century^ March, 1878). All the above arc published by Messrs. 0. Kegan Paul and Co. A little volume entitled " Tennyson for the Young, and Kccitation " contains several of those mentioned. To American writers I must here tender a word of acknowledgment. Mr. Longfellow's place in the ensuing pages could not have been supplied by any other writer. For a blending of pathos and humour such names as Oliver Wendell Holmes and Bret Harto need only be mentioned. (IL) I shall now offer a few hints to readers. These remarks are simple, and will, I venture to think, be of practical utility to those who may follow the advice here given. Necessarily I have little that is new to say on this branch of the subject, most of what follows being compiled from other sources, or the result of observation whilst teaching, and here set down in convenient form. xvi INTRODUCTION. Elocution lias been well defined by Mr. Isbister to Ije " the art of delivering written or spoken language in the way best calculated to express the sense, beauty, or force of the words employed by the speaker." This is a perfectly sound definition, and I shall en- deavoui- to point out some of the ways in which such a desirable effect may be attained. The first thing 1 would say is— understand and feel what you read, and success is almost certain to crown your efforts. " To this sure standard make your just appeal ; Hei-e lies the golden secret — learn to fed.'" Do not imitate the peculiarities of others, no matter how much you may admire their styles, as what is suitable to one is out of character in another— merely producing a ludicrous resemblance, without the talent or genius, as the case may be, of the person copied. To produce a good clear voice — stand erect, speaking from the chest. Do not stoop, as though oppressed by disease, but have the chest expanded, taking breath silently, as gasping is very disagreeable to the hearers and wearisome to yourself; besides, if proper pauses be made, sufficient time is allowed for quiet breathing. Over-exertion is thoroughly distressing to yourself and gives pain to your audience, as the sympathy between speaker and listener is Avonderfully acute. When read- ing aloud, give the lungs full play, as otherwise the effect is most injurious ; but, if the sound come freely from the chest, no hurtful consequences can ensue. Avoid monotony. Some readers who have many natural qualifications, and would be most effective in INTRODUCTION, XVll this art, ruin all by the absence of variety. The best remedy for this will be found in the practice of drama- tic selections, since, in rendering these, change of voice is absolutely necessary for their proper understanding. Different characters require different tones in their delineation, the changes being as frequent as in real life. Shun bombast and rant, for, " though it make the un- skilful laugh, it cannot but make the judicious grieve." Great care, therefore, will be required in following this direction, for it is the most common fault of some of our (otherwise) very finest readers. " Be not too tame, neither," but remember that passion requires to bo slightly heightened, or modulated, according to the size of the place in which you read. Speak from the heart — placing yourself in the posi- tions of the characters which you are representing. If you do this, your words will surely reach the hearts of the auditors. Pay great attention to a simple narrative style, and practise the low notes, as few can use them distinctly. " Learn to speak slow, all other graces Will follow in their proper places." As to punctuation, do not adhere blindly to what is printed before you, but let common sense be your guide. Change of punctuation frequently causes an alteration in the sense. For instance, the general reading in " Hamlet " — " What, looked he frowniugly f I have heard changed by our greatest living actor, Mr. Henry Irving, to — •' What looked he ?— frowningly ?'* XVIU INTRODUCTION. The latter seems a mucli more natural rendering, when one thinks of the preceding sentences. Do not emphasise too much, as, if every Avord be rendered emphatic, very scant attention will be paid to what you say, and if the emphasis be wrongly laid, the Avhole sense of the passage is changed. The following example will illustrate my meaning; — Q. "Will you buy this now? A. No ; perhaps I may on to-morrow. Q. Will you buy this now ? A. No ; I shall buy the other. Q. Will you hi?/ this now ? A. No ; perhaps you Avill give it to me. Q. Will 9/ou buy this now ? A. No ; Arthur may do so. Q. Will you buy this now ? A. Yes ; did you imagiue that I would not ? In all the above cases, a change of emphasis effects a complete change of meaning. As to pronunciation, the best guide is the usage of good society. Observe the way in which words are generally pronounced by educated men and women. But do not pronounce the same word differently at different times, as I have frequently noticed to be the case, sometimes even in the same sentence. Lists of sounds have been published for the correc- tion of defective articulation, but I fear they arc of small value. I have found the best method of cure to be for the master to pronounce the word in imitation of tlie pupil, and then show the right method, drawing attention to the position of the different organs whilst INTRODUCTION. xix in the act of speaking. Pay particular attention to the vowel sounds. Do not neglect giving each letter or syllabic its due distinctness. Facial expression is also of great importance. If a man's countenance remain unchanged whilst speaking under the supposed influence of various emotions, half — nay, more than half the meaning is lost to his audience, simply because anything unnatural loses its interest almost altogether. None of us have ever heard syllables of fire proceeding from the mouth of an inanimate wax figure. "The Countenance is the true Index of the Soul." " A single look more mai'ks the internal woe, Than all the windings of tlie lengthened oh ! Up to the face the quick sensation flies, And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes. Love, transport^ madness, anger, scorn, despair, And all the passions, all the soul is there." Over-action is worse than none ; too literal gesture is ridiculous ; but action in moderation, combined with the other necessary qualities, is the sum-total of a good elocutionist. When Demosthenes was asked what was the first point of oratory, the second, and the third, he answered to each question, "Delivery, delivery, delivery." It is utterly impossible, and] consequently, futile to make the oft-repeated attempt of reducing this portion of Elocution to a science, with certain specific rules, as various people differ in those impulses which severally influence their modes of gesture. While on this subject, I cannot do better than quote XX INTRODUCTION. the following passage from Mr. Ilullali's treatise on the speaking voice : — "Whatever control we may acquire over our voices, of themselves, we shall never turn them to the best account till we have attained also considerable control over the rest of our bodies. In this Englishmen are singularly deficient, if not by nature, by art, which is second nature. Granted that action, not suggesting itself to the average Englishman as essential or even becoming to his every-day talk, is somewhat startling, has an air of unreality or aifectation — when made an accompaniment to English oratory, surely that does not justify our public utterances being disfigured, as they often are, by a thousand awkward and ridiculous tricks. If pro- found and original thought, expressed in well-chosen and Avell-sounding words, tells most on an English audience when these words issue from a frame Avhich betrays no more sympathy or connexion with them than does the case of a pianoforte with the music of which it is the medium — be it so. The Englishman is a reticent, undemonstrative creature, not predisposed even to vocal expression, and decidedly indisposed to pantomimic. No doubt ; then let him stand still when he speaks. But this he never succeeds in doing. One English orator will enforce his arguments by ponnneling, at frequent intervals, the table, desk, hand rail, or aught else within his i-each ; another cannot put forth half-a-dozen coherent sen- tences Avithout sawing himself backwards and forwards like the masts of a yacht at anchor ; another folds his arms over liis chest — one of the most unfavourable postures for vocal utterance into which the hiunan body can be thrown ; Avhile another, having tried a variety of ways of suiting the action to the word, frankly admits his faihu'C by putting the means of a(;tion — his hands — into his pockets. Experienced actors, however^ say that few things in the exercise of their calling INTRODUCTION. xxi are so difficult as this same standing still. Graceful inaction therefore would seem to be another added to the long list of the orator's accompUshnents^ and no more likely ' to come by nature' than graceful action." — ("The SrEAKiNft Voice," Ilullah, pp. 50 and 51). Finally — Be in earnest; 2'>^"cictise constantly ; learn hy heart. Till a reader tries it, lie will never know tlie immense advantage he gains by committing passages to memory. New beauties disclose themselves — beauties which we pass over entirely in simply reading a poem. But let the student learn a true poem by rote — one calculated to refine liis thoughts and elevate his senti- ments — having it once fixed in his mind, no power can ever take it away, but it remains his cherished posses- sion for all time. I think, indeed, that the words of reproach uttered by the banished Didcc of Norfolk might not inaptly be applied to the person who does not pay any attention to culture as a reader and speaker : — " And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up, Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony : Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue, Doubly portcuUis'd Avith my teeth and lips." (III.) Mucli has been said and written to prove a self- evident fact — viz., that it is an advantage to read and speak well. However, I believe the time lias at length arrived Avhen Elocution is considered to be a necessary branch of study in the vast majority of schools. Cer- XXll INTRODUCTION. tainly it Is a necessity for all entering the ministry of the Church, the Bar, or the Senate-house. In every-day life, is it not disgraceful to witness the futile eiforts of the schoolboy, Avhen asked by his family to read a passage in the daily paper ? Does he render it correctly and Avithout hesitation ? — or, rather, does he not stumble through the article, finding every unusual word a break-neck fence, and running sentence into sentence in the most ludicrous manner, until finally he is asked to cease altogether ; for the powers of human en- durance are limited? In reference to reading of poetry, De Quincey has "No accomplishment is so rare. People in general either read poetry without any passion at all, or else ' o'erstep the modesty of nature', and read not like scholars." When speaking of reading poetry with action, the great Lord Clarendon remarked that it was — " The best and most natural way to introduce an assurance and confidence in speaking, with that leisure and tone of pronunciation that is decent and graceful, and in which so few men are excellent, for want of information and care when they are young." Eloquence has won its trophies since the world began, and Avill go on conquering the souls of men to the end of time. One of the most important items of Oratory is Elocution, as commonplace remarks, delivered well, Avlll tell better than the most elaborate and talented speech uttered without life or energy. How sad it is to go into the house of God, and hear the service mumbled in an undertone, so that none, save INTRODUCTION. XXIU the select few who chance to have sittings within a dozen yards of the reading-desk, can hear what is being said. The dull, slow monotony, or irreverent, fast gabbling of the prayers is beyond expression painful. The sermon lifelessly delivered, with the head buried in the book, has no attractions for the worshippers, and certainly does not succeed in riveting attention. But if Ave look at the few churches where sermon, psalm, and prayer, are delivered Avith reverent fervour, and see Avhat large congregations attend, and hoAv much good is done in such places of Avorship, A\^e must readily admit that Elocution is of vital importance in the services of the Most High. Let a man enter Parliament, or attempt to succeed at the Bar — Avill he deliver his orations in a lazy monotone ? or, rather, Avill he not strive, by elocutionary poAver, to indulge in outbursts of fine declamation, or to melt his hearers by unutterable pathos ? True, " the orator's voice has a mighty poAver;" but Avould it have that omnipotent SAvay Avere it not modulated to express at Avill, passion and tenderness, and every various emotion of Avhich the human soul is capable ? Note. — It is but right to mention, Avith regard to the Humorous and Dramatic selections, that, in certain eases, Avords or phrases have been omitted; but in no instance has any substitution been adopted. The case of Condensations forms the only exception, sentences having, in a few instances, been inserted in order to connect the sense. THE VALUE OF WORDS IN MODERN ENGLISH VEESE. Frotn a Icnrjllnj Review vpoii- tins hooL icMch appeared in The Belfast News-Letter, April 3rd, 1879, the followbvj valuable remarks are extracted: — " However useful a knowledge of the art of gesticulation may be to pantomimists, it has long since become apparent that only disaster can be the result of an attempt to exercise any informa- tion of this kind that can be gained from diagrams. A gesticula- tion is an appeal to the grosser part of one's understanding — to the barbarian side, as Dr. Johnson put it — and it is a matter of fact (reducing the subject to its real level) that if one wishes a dog to lie down, the enforcing gesture employed will be that which comes naturally ; all the instruction in the world that can be imparted by ' speakers ' or diagrams will not assist one in adding power to the action Of course there are plays of action, and poems of action, but no action must be imitative, otherwise it ceases to be of any force. It is to be regretted that Mr. Jennings does not speak in his Preface more fully on this s^ubject, upon Avhich so many people have got but hazy ideas. "What it seems to us ho should insist on is the giving of the icords of every verse their due value. Modern English verse is csscu- tially verbally expressive," DIVISION I.-SERIOUS, PATHETIC, L. -^.rVC~^S^^TV-^— PART I.-PROSE. [Selections marbecl thus (*) are referred to in the Njtcs.] THE DEATH OF JO.* Jo 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. Snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him, im- mediately 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 ? " inquires the stationer, with his cough of sympathy. "I am in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, "and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think. Mr. vSangsby ! I'm Avery 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 avos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'era never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being ser good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yesday, and she ses, ' Ah Jo ! ' she ses. ' We thought we'd lost you, Jo ! ' she ses. And she sits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I B 2 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to giv me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's alius a doin on day and night, and wen he come a bendin over me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr. Sangsby." The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy Avill relieve his feelin2:?. " Wot I wos a thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, " wos, as you wos able to write Avery large, p'raps ? " "Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. " Uncommon precious large, p'raps ? " says Jo, with eager- ness. " Yes, my poor boy." .To laughs with pleasure. " Wot I wos a thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that when I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go and couldn't be moved no furder, Avhcther you might be so good p'raps, as to write out, wery large so that any one could see it anywiieres, as that I wos 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 Mi\ Woodcot once cried over it and wos alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as he'd be able to forgive me in his mind. If the Avritin could be made to say it wery large, he might." " It shall say it, Jo. Very large." Jo laughs again. " Thank'co, Mr. Sangsby. It's wery kind of you, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I was al'ore." The meek little stationer, with a broken and unflni>-hcd cougli, slips down his fourth half-crown — he has never been 8o close to a case requiring so many — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he, upon this little earth, shall meet no more. No more. THE 3IODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 3 For the cart so hard to draAV, is near its journey's end, and drags over stony ground. All round tlie clock, it labours up the broken steeps, shattered and -worn. Not many times can the sun rise, and behold it still upon its weary road. * » * * The cart had very nearly given up, but labours on a little more. The trooper stands in the doorway, still and silent. Phil ' has stopped in a low clinking noise, with his little hammer in his hand. iNIr. AVoodcourt looks round with that grave pro- fessional interest and attention on his face, and, glancing significantly at the trooper, signs to Phil to carry his table out. AVhen the little hammer is next used, there will be a speck of rust upon it. " 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. Ain't there nobody here but you, Mr. Woodcot ? " "Nobody." " And I ain't took back to Tom-all-Alone's. Am I, sir ? " " No." Jo closes his eyes, muttering, " I'm 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. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadl)ands he wos a prayin Avunst at Mr. Sangsby's and I hcerd 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 was other genlmen come down Tom- all-Alone's a prayin, but they all mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded to be a talkincr 4 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. to tlieii'selves, or a passing blame on tbe t'otliers, and not a talkin to u.^. We never knowd nothink. / never knowd Avhat it wos all about." It takes liim a long time to say this ; and few but an ex- perienced 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! What now?" " It's time for me to go to that there berryin ground, sir," he returns 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 fur 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 mc, ' 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 wos to go myself. But will you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with him ? " » I will, indeed." " Thank'ee, sir. Thank'ec, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate afore tliey can take mc in, for it's alius locked. And there's a step there, as I used fur to clean Avitli 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 fellow ! " "I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin— a gropin— let me catch hold of your hand." THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 5 " Jo, can you say what I say ? " '• I'll say anytliink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." "Ouii Father." " Our Father ! — yes, that's wery good, sir." " Which art in Heaven." " Art in Heaven — is the light a comin, sir ? " " It is close at hand. Hallowed be thy name ! " " Hallowed be— thy— " The light is come upon the dark benighted way. Dead ! Dead, your Majesty. Dead, my lords and gentlemen. Dead, Right 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. Charles Dickens, [From "Bleak House."— By kind permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.] EARLY SCENES RE-VISITED.* Strange things have happened unto me — I seem scarce awake — but I will re-collect my thoughts, and try to give an account of what hath befallen me in the few last weeks. Since my father's death our family have resided in London. I am in practice as a surgeon there. JMy mother died two years after avc left Widford. ■* » * * I felt a strong desire to re-visit the scenes of my native village. * * * A kind of dread had hitherto kept me back ; but I was restless now, till I had accomplished my wish. T set out one morning to walk ; I reached AVidford about eleven in the forenoon — after a slia;ht breakfast at my inn — where, I was mortified to perceive, the old landlord did not know me again (old Thomas Billet — he has often made angle rods for me when a child) — I rambled over all my accustomed haunts. 6 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Our old house was vacant, and to be sold. I entered, unmolested, into the room that had been my bed-chamber. I kneeled down on the spot where my little bed had stood — I felt like a child — I prayed like one — it seemed as thouo-h old times were to return again ; I looked round involuntarily, expecting to see some face I knew — but all was naked and mute. The bed was gone. My little pane of painted window, through which I loved to look at the sun, when I awoke in a fine summer's morning, was taken out, and had been re- placed by one of common glass. I visited, by turns, every chamber — they were all desolate and unfurnished, one excepted, in Vvdiich the owner had left a harpsichord — probably to be sold. I touched the keys ; I played some old Scottish tunes, which had delighted me when a child. Past associations revived with the music — blended with a sense of iinreality^ which at last became too powerful — I rushed out of the room to give vent to mv feelina:s. I wandered, scarce knowing where, into an old wood that stands at the back of the house — we called it the Wilderness. A well-known furm was missing, that used to meet me in this place — it was thine, Ben Moxam — the kindest, gentlest, politest of human beings, yet was he nothing higher than a gardener in the family. Honest creature, thou didst never pass me, in my childish rambles, Avithout a soft speech and a smile. I remember thy good-natured face. But there is one thing for which I can never forgive thee, Ben Moxam ; that tiiou didst join with an old maiden aunt of mine in a cruel plot to lop away the hanging branches of the old fir-trees. I remember them sweeping to the ground. I liave often left my childish sports to ramble in tin's place ; its glooms and its solitude had a mysterious charm for my young mind, maturing within me that love of quietness and lonely thinking Avliich liave accompanied me to maturer years. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 7 In this Wilderness I found myself after a ten years' absence. Its stately fir-trees -were yet standing, with all their luxuriant company of underwood ; the squirrel was there, and the melancholy cooings of the wood-pigeon — all was as I had left it. My heart softened at the sight ; it seemed as though my character had been suffering a change since I forsook these shades. My parents were both dead ; I had no counsellor left — no experience of age to direct me — no sweet voice of reproof. The Lord had taken away my friends, and I knew not where he had laid them. I paced round the wilderness, seeking a comforter. I prayed that I might be restored to that state of innocence in which I had wandered in those shades. Methought my request was heard, for it seemed as though the stains of manhood were passing from me, and I were relapsing into the purity and simplicity of childhood. I was content to have been moulded into a perfect child. I stood still, as in a trance ; I dreamed that I was enjoying a per- sonal intercourse with my Heavenly Father, and extrava- gantly put off the shoes from my feet — for the place where I stood, I thought, Avas holy ground. This state of mind could not last long ; and I returned, with languid feelings, to my inn. I ordered my dinner — green peas and a sweetbread — it had been a favourite dish with me in my childhood — I was allowed to have it on my birthdays. I was impatient to see it come upon the table — but when it came I could scarce eat a mouthful ; my tears choked me. I called for Avine — I drank a pint and a half of red wine, and not till then had I dared to visit the church- yard, where my parents were interred. * * * * I had been present at ray father's burial, and knew the spot again ; my mother's funeral I was prevented by illness from attending. A plain stone was placed over the grave, 8 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. with their initials carved upon it — for they both occupied one grave. I prostrated myself before the spot; I kissed the earth that covered them — I contemplated, with gloomy delight, the time when I should mingle my dust with theirs — and kneeled, with my arms incumbent on the grave-stone, in a kind of mental prayer — for I could not speak. Having performed these duties, I arose with quieter feel- ings, and felt leisure to attend to indifferent objects. Still I continued in the churchyard, reading the various inscriptions, and moralising on them with that kind of levity which will not unfrequently spring up in the mind in the midst of deep melancholy. I read of nothing but careful parents, loving husbands, and dutiful children. I said, jestingly, where be all the had people buried ? Bad parents, bad husbands, bad children — what cemeteries are appointed for these ? Do they not sleep in consecrated ground ? or is it but a pious fiction, a generous oversight, in the survivors, which thus tricks out men's epitaphs when dead, who in their lifetime discharged the offices of life, perhaps, but lamely? Their failings, with their reproaches, now sleep with them in the grave. Man ivars not with the dead. It is a trait of human nature, for which I love it. CiiAELES Lamb. [From " Rosamund Gray."] ONE NICHE THE HIGHEST.* The scene opens with a view of the great Natural Bridge in Virginia. There are three or four lads standing in the channel below, looking up with awe to that vast arch of imhewn rocks, which the Almighty bridged over those ever- lasting butmentp, "when the morning stars sang together.' THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 9 The little piece of sky spanning those measureless piers is full of stars, although it is mid-day. It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those perpendicular bulwarks of limestone to the key of that vast arch, which appears to them only of the size of a man's hand. The silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream that falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is darkened, and the boys have uncovered their heads, as if standing in the presence-chamber of the Majesty of the Avhole earth. At last this feeling begins to wear away ; they look around them ; and find that others have been there before them. They see the names of hundreds cut in the limestone hutments. A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are in their hands in an instant. "What man has done, man can do," is their watchword, while they draw themselves up, and carve their name a foot above those of a hundred full-grown men who have been there before them. They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion except one, whose example illustrates perfectly the forgotten truth, that there is "no royal road to learning." This ambitious youth sees a name just above his reach — a name which will be green in the memory of the world when those of Alexander, Cajsar, and Bonaparte will rot in oblivion. It was the name of AVashington. Before he marched Avith Braddock to that fatal field, he had been there and left his name, a foot above any of his predecessors. It was a glorious thought to write his name side by side with that great father of his country. He grasps his knife with a firmer hand, and clinging to a little jutting crag, he cuts again into the lime- stone, about a foot above Avhere he stands ; he then reaches up and cuts another for his hands. 'Tis a dangerous adven- ture ; but as he puts his feet and hands into those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full length, he finds himself 10 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty wall. While his companions are regarding him with concern and admiration, he cuts his name in wide capitals, large and deep into that flinty album. His knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and a new created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, and again he carves his name in larger capitals. This is not enough ; heedless of the entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow Avider apart. He measures his length at every gain he cuts. The voices of his friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on his ear. He now for the first time casts a look beneath him. liad that glance lasted a moment, that mo- ment Avould have been his last. He clinirs with a convulsive O sliudder to his little niche in the rock. An awful abyss awaits his almost certain fall. He is faint with severe exer- tion, and trembling from the sudden view of the dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His knife is Avorn half- way to the haft. He can hear the voices, but not the words, of his terror-stricken companions below. What a moment ! what a meagre chance to escape destruction ! there is no retracing his steps. It is impossible to put his hands into the same niche with his feet, and retain his slender hold a moment. His companions instantly perceived this new and fearful dilemma, and await his fall Avith emotions that " freeze their young blood." He is too high to ask for his father and mother, his brothers and sisters, to come and Avitness or avert his destruction. But one of his companions anticipates his desire. SAvift as the Avind, he bounds down the channel, and the situation of the fated boy is told upon his father's hearth-stone, IMinutcs of almost eternal length ]-()ll on, and there; arc hundreds standing in that rocky cliaiiiiel, and hundreds on the bridge above, all holding their breath, and awaiting the fearful catastrophe. The poor boy THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 11 hears the hum of new and numerous voices both above and below. He can just distinguish the tones of his father, who is shouting with all the energy of despair, — " William ! William ! don't look dowii ! Your mother, ^ind Henry, and Harriet, are all here praying for you ! Don't look down ! Keep your eye towards the top !" The boy didn't look down. His eye is fixed like a fliu J; towards heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. lie grasps again his knife. He cuts another niche, and another foot is added to the hundreds that remove him from the reach of human help from below. How carefully he nscs his wasting blade? How anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier ! How he avoids every flinty grain ! How he economises his physical powers, resting a moment at each gain he cuts. How every motion is watched from below ! There stand his father, mother, brother, and sister, on the very spot, where if he falls, he will not fall alone. The sun is half-way down in the west. The lad has made fifty additional niches in that mighty Avail, and now finds himself directly under the middle of that vast arch of rock, earth, and trees. He must cut his way in a new direction, to get from this overhanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is in his bosom ; its vital heat is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds perched upon cliffs, trees, and others who stand with ropes in their hands upon the bridge above, or Avith ladders beloAV. Fifty more gains must be cut before tlie longest rope can reach him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy is emerging painfully foot by foot from under tliat lofty arch. Spliced ropes are in the hands of those Avho are leaning over the outer edge of the bridge. Two minutes more, and all Avill be over. Tliat blade is worn to the last half-inch. The boy's head reels ; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is dying in his heart, his life must hang upon the next gain he 12 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. cuts. That niche is his last. At the last flint gash he makes, his knife — his faithful knife — falls from his little nerveless hand, and ringing along the precipice, falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs like a death-knell through the channel below, and all is still as the grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted boy lifts his hopeless heart and closing eyes to commend his soul to God. 'Tis but a moment — there ! one foot swings off! — he is reeling — trembling — toppling over into eternity. Hark ! — a shout falls on his ears from above ! The man who is lying with half his length over the bridge, has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. Quick as thought, the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking youth. No one breathes. With a faint convulsive effort, the swooning boy drops his arm into the noose. Darkness comes over him, and with the words " God ! " and " mother ! " whispered on his lips just loud enough to be heard in heaven — the tightening rope lifts him out of his last shallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is dangling over that fearful abyss ; but when a sturdy Virginian reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms before the tearful, breathless multitude — such shouting, and such leaping and weeping for joy never greeted a human being so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity. Elihu Burritt. THE MOTHER AND HER DEAD CHILD.* There sat a mother with a little child. She Avas so down- cast, so afraid that it should die ! It was so pale, the small eyes had closed themselves, it drew its breath so softly, and now and then with a deep respiration, as if it sighed ; and the mother looked still more sorrowfully on the little creature. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 13 Then a knocking was heard at the door, and in came a poor old man Avrapped up as in a large horse-cloth, for it warms one, and he needed it, as it was the cold winter season ! Everything out of doors was covered with ice and snow, and the wind blew so that it cut the face. As the old man trembled with cold, and the little child slept a moment, the mother went and poured some ale into a pint pot and set it on the stove, that it might be warm for him ; the old man sat and rocked tlie cradle, and the mother sat down on a chair close by him, looked at her little sick child that drew its bi*eath so deep, and raised its little hand. " Do you think that I shall save him ? " said she. " Our Lord will not take him from me ! " And the old man — it was Death himself — he nodded so strangely, it could just as well signify yes as no. And the mother looked down in her lap, and the tears ran down over her cheeks ; her head became so heavy — she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights ; and now she slept, but only for a minute, when she started up and trembled with cold : " What is that ? " said she, and looked on all sides but the old man was gone, and her little child was gone — he had taken it with him ; and the old clock in the corner burred, and burred, the great leaden weight ran down to the floor, bump ! and then the clock also stood still. But the poor mother ran out of the house aud cried aloud for her child. Out there, in the midst of the snow, there sat a woman in long, black clothes ; and she said, " Death has been in thy chamber, and I saw him hasten away with thy little child ; he goes faster than the Aviud, and he never brings back what he takes ! " " Oh, only tell me which way he went ! " said the mother. " Tell me the Avay, and I shall find him ! " " I know it ! " said the woman in black clothes, " but before 14 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. I teli it, thou must sins for me all the sonars thou hast suns; for thy child ! — I am fond of them, I have heard them before ; I am Night ; I saw thy tears whilst thou sang'st them ! " "I Avill sing them all — all!'' said the mother; "but do not stop me now — I may overtake him — I may find my child." But Night stood still and mute. Then the mother wrung her hands, sang and Avept, and there were many songs, but yet many more tears : and then Night said, "Go to the right, into the dark pine forest : thither I saw Death take his way with thy little child ! " The roads crossed each other in the depths of the forest, and she knew no longer whither she should go ; then there stood a thorn -bush, there was neither leaf nor flower on it, it was also in the cold winter season, and ice-flakes hung on the branches. " Hast thou seen Death go past with my little child ? " said the mother. "Yes," said the thorn-bush; "but I will not tell thee which way he took, unless thou Avilt first warm me up at thy heart. I am freezing to death ; I shall become a lump of ice ! " And she pressed the thorn-bush to her breast, so firmly, that it might be thoroughly warmed, and the thorns went right into her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops, but the thorn-bush shot fov^h fresh green leaves, and there came flowers on it in the cold winter night, the heart of the afllicted mother was so warm ; and the thorn-bush told her the way she should go. She then came to a large lake, where there was neither ship nor boat. The lake was not frozen sufliciently to bear her ; neither was it open, or low enough that she could wade through it; and across it she must go if she would find her child. Thcoj she Iny down to drink up the lake, and that THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 15 was an impossibility for a human being, but the afflicted mother thought that a miracle might happen nevertheless. " Oh, what would I not give to come to my child ! " said the weeping mother ; and she wept still more, and her eyes sunk down into the depths of the waters and became two l^recious pearls ; but the water bore her up, as if she sat on a swing, and she llcw in the rocking Avavcs to the shore on the opposite side, where there stood a mile-broad, strange house, one knew not if it were a mountain with forests and caverns, or if it were built up ; but the poor mother could not see it, she had wept her eyes out. "Where shall I find Death, who took away my little child ? " said she. " He has not come here yet ! " said the old grave-woman, who was appointed to look after Death's great green-house ! "How have you been able to find your way hither? and who has helped you ? " ^^ Our Lord has helped me," said she. " He is merciful, and you will also be so ! Where shall I find my little child ? " "Nay, I know not," said the Avoman, "and you cannot see ! Many flowers and trees have withered this nigiit ; Death will soon come and plant them over again ! You certainly know that every person has his or her life's tree or flower, just as every one happens to be settled ; they look like other plants, but have pulsations of the heart. Children's hearts can also beat ; go after yours, perhaps you may know your child's ; but what will you give me, if I tell you what you shall do more ? " " I have nothing to give," said the afflicted mother, " but I will go to the world's end for you ! " "Nay, I have nothing to do there!" said the woman, " but you can give me your long black hair ; you know yourself that it is fine, and that I like ! You shall have my white hair instead ! that's always something ! " 16 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. "Do you demand nothing else?" said she — "that I will gladly give you ! " And she gave her fine black hair, and got the old woman's snow white hair instead. So they went into Death's great green-house, where flowers and trees grew strangely into one another. There stood fine hyacinths under glass bells, and there stood strong-stemmed peonies ; there greAV water-plants, some so fresh, others half sick, the water-snakes lay down on them, and black crabs pinched their stalks. There stood beautiful palm-trees, oaks, and plantains ; there stood parsley and flowering thyme : every tree and every flower had its name ; each of them was a human life, and the human frame still lived — one in China, and another in Greenland — round about in the world. There were large trees in small pots, so that they stood so stunted in growth, and ready to burst the pots ; in other places, there was a little dull flower in rich mould, with moss round about it, and it was so petted and nursed. But the distressed mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard witliin them how the human heart beat; and amongst millions, she knew her child's. " Tlierc it is ! " cried she, and stretched her hands out over a little blue crocus, that hung quite sickly on one side. "Don't touch the flower!" said the old woman, "but place yourself here, and when Death comes — I expect him every moment — do not lot him pluck the flower up, but threaten him that you will do the same with the others. Then he will be afraid ! he is responsible for them to Our Lord, and i\o one dares to pluck them up before He gives leave." All at once an icy-cold rushed through the great hall, and the blind mother could feel that it was Death that came. "IIow hast thou been able to find thy Avay hither ? " he asked. "How could'st thou come rpiicker than I?" " 1 am a mother," said she. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 17 And Death stretched out his long hand towards the fiiic little flower, but she held her hands fast round his, so tighl, and yet afraid that she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death blew on her hands, and she felt that it was colder than the wind, and her hands fell down powerless. "Thou canst not do anything against me ! " said Death. "But that Our Lord can ! " said she. " I only do His bidding ! " said Death. " I am His gardener, I take all His flowers and trees, and plant them out in the great garden of Paradise, in the unknown land ; but how they grow there, and how it is there, I dare not tell thee." " Give me back my child ! " said the mother, and she wept and prayed. At once she seized hold of two beautiful flowers close by, with each hand, and cried out to Death, " I will tear all thy flowers off, for I am in despaii*." " Touch them not ! " said Death. " Thou say'st that thou art so unhappy, and now thou wilt make another mother equally unhappy." " Another mother ! " said the poor woman, and directly let go her hold of both the flowers. " There, thou hast thine eyes," said Death ; " I fished them up from the lake, they shone so bright; I knew not they were thine. Take them again, they are now brighter than before : now look down into the deep well close by, I shall tell thee the names of the two flowers thou would'st have torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future life — their whole human existence ; see what thou wast about to disturb and destroy." And she looked down into the well ; and it was a happiness to see how the one became a blessing to the world, to see how much happiness and joy were felt everywliere. And she saw the other's life, and it was sorrow and distress, horror and wretchedness. 18 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " Both of them are God's will ! " said Death. " Which of them is Misfortune's flower ? and which is that of Happiness ? " asked she. '' That I will not tell thee," said Death ; " but this thou shalt know from me, that the one flower was thy own child ! it was thy child's fate thou saw'st — thy own child's future life ! " Then the mother screamed Avitli terror " Which of them was my child? Tell it me! save the innocent! save my child from all that misery ! rather take it away ! take it into God's kingdom ! Forget my tears, forget my prayers, and all that I have done ! " "I do not understand thee!" said Death. "Wilt thou have thy child again, or shall I go with it there, where thou dost not know ? " Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to our Lord : " Oh, hear me not when I pray against Thy will, which is the best ! hear me not ! hear me not ! " And she bowed her head down in her lap, and Death took her child and went with it into the unknown land. Hans Christian Andersen. NOBLE REVENGE. A young oflicer (in what army no matter) had so far fogotten himself, in a moment of irritation, as to strike a private soldier, full of personal dignity (us sometimes happens in all ranks), and distinguished for his courage. Tho inexorable laws of military discipline forbade to the injured soldier any practical redress. Pie could look for no retaliation by acts. Words only were at his command ; and in a tumult of indignation, as he turned away, the soldier said to his olHcer that he would " make him repent it." This, wearing the shape of a menace, naturally rekindled the officer's anger, and intercepted any disposition which THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 19 might be Yising witliiu him towards a sentiment of remorse ; and thus the irritation between the two young men grew hotter than before. Some weeks after this a partial action took place with the enemy. Suppose yourself a spectator, and looking down into a valley occupied by two armies. They are facing each other, you see, in martial array. But it is no more tlian a skirmish which is going on ; in the course of which, however, an occasion suddenly arises for a desperate service. A redoubt, which has fallen into the enemy's hands, must be recaptured at any price, and under circumstances of all but hopeless difficulty. A strong party has volunteered for the service ; there is a cry for somebody to head them ; you see a soldier step out from the ranks to assume this dan- gerous leadership ; the party moves rapidly forward ; in a few minutes it is swallowed up in clouds of smoke ; for one half-hour from behind these clouds you receive hiero- glyphic reports of bloody strife — fierce repeating signals, flashes from the guns, rolling musketry, and exulting hur- rahs, advancing or receding, slackening or redoubling. At length all is over ; the redoubt has been recovered ; that which was lost is found again ; the jewel which had been made captive is ransomed with blood. Crimsoned with glorious gore, the wreck of the conquering party is relieved, and at liberty to return. From the river you sec it ascending. The plume-crested officer in command rushes forward, with his left hand raising his hat in homage to the blackened fragments of what once was a flag ; whilst with his right hand he seizes that of the leader, though no more than a private from the ranks. IViat perplexes you not : mystery you see none in that. For distinctions of order perish, ranks are confounded, " high and low " are words without a meaning, and to Avrcck goes every notion of feeling that divides the noble from the noble, or the brave man from the 20 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. brave. But wherefore is it that now, when suddenly they wheel into mutual recognition, suddenly they pause ? This soldier, this officer — ^^vho are they ? reader ! once before they had stood face to face — the soldier it is that Avas struck ; the officer it is that struck him. Once again they are meet- ing ; and the gaze of armies is upon them. If for a moment a doubt divides them, in a moment the doubt has perished. One glance exchanged between them publishes the forgive- ness that is sealed for ever. As one who recovers a brother whom he had accounted dead, the officer sprang forward, threw his arms around the neck of the soldier and kissed him, as if he were some martyr glorified by that shadow of death from which he was returning ; whilst on his part, the soldier, stepping back, and carrying his open hand through the beautiful motions of the military salute to a superior, makes this immortal answer — that answer which shut up for ever the memory of the indignity offered to him, even whilst for the last time alluding to it : — " Sir," he said, " I told you before that I would make you repent it." Thomas De Quincey. A CITY BY NIGHT.* It is a true sublimity to dwell here. These fringes of lamp- light, struggling up through smoke and thousandfold exhala- tion, some fathoms into the ancient reign of Night, what thinks Bootes of them, as he leads his Hunting-Dogs over the Zenith in their leash of sidereal fire ? That stifled hum of Midnight, when Traffic has lain down to rest ; and the chariot-wheels of Vanity, still rolling here and there through distant streets, arc bearing her to Halls roofed-in, and lighted to the due pitch for licr ; and only Vice and Misery, to prowl or to moan like nightbirds, arc abroad : that hum, I say, like the stertorous, unquiet slumber of sick Life, is heard in Heaven! Oh, under THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 21 that hitleous coverlet of vapours, and putrefactions, and un- imaginable gases, what a Fermcnting-vat lies simmering and hid ! The joyful and the sorrowful are there ; men are dying there, men are being born ; men are praying, — on the other side of a brick partition, men ai-e cursing ; and around them all is the vast, void Night. The proud Grandee still lingers in his perfumed saloons, or reposes within damask curtains; "Wretchedness cowers into truckle-beds, or shivers hunger- stricken into its lair of straw : in obscure cellars, Eovge-d- Noir languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard hungry Villains ; while councillors of State sit plotting, and playing their high chess-game, whereof the pawns are Men. The Lover whispei"s his mistress that the coach is ready ; and she, full of hope and fear, glides down, to fly with him over the borders : the Thief, still more silently, sets-to his picklocks and crowbars, or lurks in wait till the watchmen first snore in their boxes. Gay mansions, with supper-rooms and dancing- rooms, are full of light and music and high-swelling hearts ; but, in the Condemned Cells, the pulse of life beats tremulous and faint, and bloodshot eyes look out through the darkness, which is around and within, for the light of a stei'n last morn- ing. Six men are to be hanged on the morrow: comes no hammering from the Rabensteiii? — their gallows must even now be o' building. Upwards of five-hundred-thousand two- legged animals without feathers lie round us, in horizontal positions ; their heads all in nightcaps, and full of the fool- ishest dreams. Riot cries aloud, and staggers and swaggers in his rank dens of shame ; and the Mother, with streaming hair, kneels over her pallid dying infant, whose cracked lips only her tears now moisten. — All these heaped and huddled together, with nothing but a little cai'pentry and masonry between them ; — crammed in, like salted lisli in their barrel ; — or weltering, shall I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed vipers, each struggling to get its head above the others s sucfi 22 THE MODEEN ELOCUTIONIST. work goes on under that smoke-counterpane ! — But I sit above it all ; I am alone with the Stars. Thomas Carlyle. [By kind permission of the author.] THE DRUNKARD'S DEATH. The long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and fast upon him. Looks that he had long forgotten Avere fixed upon him once more ; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of village hells. He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. He crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved ; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place from the river. The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet — so quiet that the slightest sound on the oppo- site bank, even the rippling of the Avater against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into the river. Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water's siu'face — Ijut what a change had taken place in that short time, in all liis tlioughts and feelings ! Life — life — in any THE MODERN' ELOCUTIONIST. 23 form, poverty, misery, starvation — anything but death. He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The shore — but one foot of dry ground — he could almost touch the step. One hand's breadth nearer, and he was saved — but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one instant — for one brief instant — the buildings on the river's banks, the lights on the bridge through which the current had boriie him, the black water, and the fast flying clouds, were dis- tinctly visible — once more he sunk, and once again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the Avater thundered in his eyes, and stunned him with its furious roar. A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Un- recognised and unpitied, it was borne to the grave ; and there it has long since mouldered away ! Charles Dickens. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. The new lodgers at first attracted our curiosity, and after- wards excited our interest. They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a widow's weeds, and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor — very poor ; for their only means of support arose from the pittance the boy earned by copying writings, and translating for booksellers. They had removed from some country place, and settled in London, partly because it afforded better chances of employ- ment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, with the natural desiie to leave a place where they had been in better circumstances. 24 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. and where their poverty was known. They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants and priva- tions to strangers. How bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but themselves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, could we hear the occasional raking up of the scanty lire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, which indicated his being still at work ; and day after day could we see more plainly that nature had set that unearthly light in his plaintive face, which is the beacon of her worst disease. Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then a close intimacy with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were realised ; the boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of the following spring and summer, his labours were unceasingly prolonged ; and the mother attempted to procure needlework, embroidery — any- thing for bread. A few shillings now and then were all she could earn. The boy Avorked steadily on ; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to complaint or murmur. One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our custom- ary visit to the invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to meet us. " I was telling William," she said, " that we must manage to take him into the country somewlicrc, so that he may get (juite well. He is not ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted liimself too much lately." Poor iliin? ! The. tcurs that streamed through her fingers as she THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 25 turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow's cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself. We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw the breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young form before us. At every respiration his heart beat more slowly. The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother's arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek. There was a pause. He sunk back upon his pilloAV, and looked long and earnestly in his mother's face. " William, William !" murmured the mother after a long interval, " don't look at me so — speak to me, dear !" The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze. " William, dear William ! rouse yourself, dear ; don't look at me so, love — pray, don't ! O my God ! what shall I do ?" cried the widow, clasping her hands in agony. "My dear boy ! he is dying !" The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded his hands together. " Mother ! dear, dear mother, bury me in the open fields — anywhere but in these dreadful streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, but not in these close crowded streets ; they have killed me ; kiss me again, mother ; put your arm round my neck " He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features ; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and muscle. The boy was dead. Charles Dickens. fRy kiiul permission ot Jfessrs. Cliapman anJ IIiUl.] 26 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. THE POETRY OF CITY AND COUNTRY LIFE. Where should the scholar live ? In solitude, or in society ? In the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat ; or in the dark, gray city, where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man ? I will make answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray city. Oh, they do greatly err who think that the stars are all the poetry which cities have; and therefore, that the poet's only dwell- ing should be in sylvan solitudes, under the green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are all the forms of Nature, when transfigured by the miraculous power of poetry ; hamlets and harvest fields, and nut-brown waters flowing ever under the forest vast and shadowy, Avith all the sights and sounds of rural life. But, after all, what are these but the decorations and painted scenery in the great theatre of human life ? What are they but the coarse materials of the poet's song ? Glorious, indeed, is the world of God around us — but more glorious the world of God within us. There lies the land of song ; there lies the poet's native land. The river of life, that flows through streets tumultuous, bearing along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks of humanity ; the many homes and households, each a little world in itself, revolving round its fireside, as a central sun ; all forms of human joy and suffering, brought into that narrow compass ; and to be in this and be a part of this ; acting, thinking, rejoicing, sor- rowing with his fellow-men — such, such should be the poet's life. If he would describe the world, he should live in the world. The mind of the scholar, also, if you would have it large and liberal, should come in contact with other minds. It is better that his armour should be somewhat bruised even by rude encounters, than hang for ever rusting on the wall. Nor will his themes be few or trivial, because apparently shut-in between the walls of houses, and having merely the THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 27 decorations of street scenery. A ruined character is a5? picturesque as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which can be rendered passable only by bridging them over with iron nerves and sinews ; as island channels and torrent ravines are spanned Avith chain bridges. These are the great themes of human thouglit ; not green grass, and flowers, and moonshine. Besides, the mere external forms of Nature avc make our own, and carry with us into the city, by the power of memory. H. W. Longfellow. THE THREE CHERRY-STONES. When I was a schoolboy, more than fifty years ago, I remember to have read a story which may have been a fiction, but which was very naturally told, and made a deep impression upon me then. I will endeavour to draw it forth from the locker of my memory, and relate it as nearly as I can recollect. Three young gentlemen, who had finished the most substantial part of their repast, were lingering over their fruit and wine at a tavern in London, when a man of middle age, and middle stature, entered the public room where they were sitting, seated himself at one end of a small unoccupied table, and calling the waiter, ordered a simple mutton chop and a glass of ale. His appearance, at first view, was not likely to arrest the attention of any one. His hair was beginning to be thin and gray ; the expression of his countenance was sedate, with a slight touch perhaps of melancholy; and he wore a gray surtout with a standing collar, which manifestly had seen service, if the wearer had not — just such a thing as an otricer Avould bestow upon his serving man. He might be taken, plausibly enough, for a 28 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. country magistrate, or an attorney of limited practice, or a schoolmaster. He continued to masticate his chop and sip his ale in silence, without lifting his eyes from the table, until a cherry-stone, sportively snapped from the thumb and finger of one of the gentlemen at the opposite table, struck him upon his right ear. His eye was instantly upon the aggressor, and his ready intelligence gathered from the ill-suppressed merriment of the party that this petty impertinence was intentional. The stranger stooped, and picked up the cherry-stone, and a scarcely perceptible smile passed over his features as he carefully wrapped it up in a piece of paper, and placed it in his pocket. This singular procedure, Avith their preconceived impressions of their customer, somewhat elevated as the young gentlemen were by the wine they had partaken of, capsized their gravity entirely, and a burst of irresistible laughter proceeded from the group. IJjimoved by this rudeness, the stranger continued to finish his frugal repast in quiet, until another cherry-stone, from the same hand, struck him upon the right elbow. This also, to the infinite amusement of the other party, he picked from the floor, and carefully deposited Avith the first. Amidst shouts of laughter, a third cherry-stone Avas soon after discharged, Avhich hit him upon the left breast. This also he very deliberately took from the floor, and deposited with the other two. As he rose, and Avas engaged in paying for his repast, the gaiety of these sporting gentlemen became slightly subdued. It Avas not easy to account for this. Lavater Avould not have been able to detect the slightest evidence of irritation or I'cscntment upon the features of the stranger. He seemed a little taller, to be sure, and the carriage of his head might llnve appeared to thcin ralher more erect. He Avalked trt THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 29 the tabic at which they were sitting, and with that uir of dignified calmness, which is a thousand times more terrible than ^vrath, drew a card from his pocket, and presented it with perfect civility to the offender, who could do no less than offer his own in return. While the stranger unclosed his surtout, to take the card from his pocket, they had a glance at the undress coat of a military man. The card disclosed his rank, and a brief inquiry at the bar was sufficient for the rest. He was a captain whom ill-health and long service had entitled to half-pay. In eai'lier life he had been engaged in several affairs of honour, and, in the dialect of the fancy, was a dead shot. The next morning a note arrived at the aggressor's residence, containing a challenge, in form, and one of the cherry-stones. The truth then flashed before the challenged party — it was the challenger's intention to make three bites at this cherry — three separate affairs out of this unwarrantable frolic! The challenge Avas accepted, and the challenged party, in deference to the challenger's reputed skill with the pistol, had half decided upon the small sword ; but his friends, who were on the alert, soon discovered that the captain, Avho had risen by his merit, had, in the earlier days of his necessity, gained his bread as an accomplished instructor in the use of that weapon. They met, and fired alternately, by lot — the young man had selected this mode, thinking he might win the first fire — he did — fired, and missed his opponent. The captain levelled his pistol and fired — the ball passed through the fiap of the right ear, and grazed the bone ; and, as the wounded man involuntarily put his hand to the place, he remembered that it was on the right ear of his antagonist that the cherry-stone had fallen. Here ended the first lesson. A month had passed. His friends cherished the hope that he would hear nothing more from the captain, when another 30 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. note — a challenge of course — and another of those ominous cherry-stones arrived, with the captain's apology, on the score of ill-health, for not sending it before. Again they met — fired simultaneously, and the captain, who was unhurt, shattered the right elbow of his antagonist — the very point upon which he had been struck with the cherry-stone ; and here ended the second lesson. There was something awfully impressive in the modus operandi, and exquisite skill of his antagonist. The third cherry-stone was still in his possession, and the aggressor had not forgotten that it had struck the unoffending gentleman upon the left breast. A month had passed — another — and another, of terrible suspense; but nothing was heard from the captain. Intelligence had been received that he was confined to his lodging by illness. At length the gentleman who had been his second in the former duels once more presented himself, and tendered another note, which, as the recipient perceived on taking it, contained the last of the cherry-stones. The note was superscribed in the captain's Avell-known hand, but it was the writing evidently of one who wrote feebly. There was an unusual solemnity also in the manner of him who delivered it. The seal Avas broken, and there was the cherry-stone in a blank envelope. "And Avhat, sir, am I to understand by this?" inquired the aggressor. " You will understand, sir, that my friend forgives you — he is dead ! " Anonymous. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. ol THE DEATH OF LITTLE NELL. The heavy door had closed behind him, ou his entrance, with a crash that made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave in any other Avay the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was that of an old man, his white head akin in colom- to the mouldering embers upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin ! Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some Avords, though what they were he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low cry went on — still the same rocking in the chair — the same stricken figure was there, unchanged and heedless of his presence. He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form — distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up — arrested it. He returned to where he had stood before — advanced a pace — another — another still. Another, and he saw the face. Yes ! Changed as it was, he knew it well. "Master! " he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand. " Dear master ! Speak to me ! " The old man turned slowly towards him ; and muttered in a hollow voice : " This is another ! — How many of these spirits there have been to night ! " " No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now, I am sure ? Miss Nell — where is she — where is she?" "They all say that! " cried the old man. "They all ask the same question. A spirit ! " « Where is she ?" demanded Kit. " Oh, tell me but that— but that, dear master ! " 32 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " She is asleep — yonder — in there." "Thank God!" " Ay ! Thank God ! " returned the old man. " 1 have prayed to Him many, and many, and many a livelong night, when she has been asleep, He knows. Hark ! Did she call ? " "I heard no voice." " You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't hear thai?" He started up, and listened again. "Nor that?" he cried with a triumphant smile. "Can anybody know that voice so well as I ? Hush ! Hush ! " Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chambei". After a short absence (during which he could be heard to speak in a softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp. "She is still asleep," he whispered. "You were right. She did not call — unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in her sleep before now, sir ; as I have sat by watching, I have seen her lips move, and have known, though no sound came from them, that she spoke of me. I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so I brought it here." " She is sleeping soundly," he said ; " but no wonder. Angel hands have strewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest footstep may be lighter yet ; and the very birds are dead, that they may not wake her. She used to feed them, sir. Though never so cold and hungry, the timid things would fly from us. They never flew from her ! " Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely drawing breath, listened for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an old chest, took out some clothes as fondly as if they had been living things, and began to smooth and brush them with his hand. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 33 " Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell," he murmured, " when there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them ? Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends come creeping to the door, crying, ' Where is Nell— sweet Nell ? ' — and sob and weep because they do not see thee ? She was always gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding — she had a tender way with them, indeed she had ! " Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears. " Her little homely dress — her favourite ! " cried the old man, pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand. " She will miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here in sport, but she shall have it — she shall have it. I would not vex my darling for the wide world's riches. See here — these shoes — how worn they are ! — she kept them to remind her of our last long journey. You see where the little feet went bare upon the ground. They told me afterwards that the stones had cut and bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her! and, I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir, that I might not see how lame she Avas — but yet she had my hand in hers, and seemed to lead me still." He pressed them to his lips, and, having carefully put them back again, Avcnt on communing with himself — looking wistfully from time to time towards the chamber he had lately visited. " She was not wont to be a lie-abed ; but she was well then. AVc must have patience. AVhen she is well again, she will rise early as she used to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morning-time. I often tried to track fhe way she had gone, but her small footstep left no print upon the dewy ground to guide me." ^> * * * She was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. 34 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 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 tlie 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 hemes and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. " When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and iiad the sky above it always." Those were her words. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little l>ird — a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would liave crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her suffei-ings, 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 ilreside 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 tlie summer evening, before the furnace fh-e 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. Tlie old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It Avas the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile — the hand that had led him on througli all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips; then hugged it to Ills breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now ; and, us he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood around, as if iuiploring them to help her. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. o5 She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. Tlie ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast — the garden she had tended — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday — could know her never more. * * * * When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of their grief, they heard how her life had closed. She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night, but, as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old man ; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had helped and used them kindly, for she often said "God bless you ! " with great fervoui'. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music which she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been. Opening her eyes at last from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a lovely smile upon her face — such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could forget — and clung with both her arms about his neck. They did not know that she was dead at first. She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like dear friends to her. She Avished they could be told how much she thought about them, and hoAV she had watched them as they walked together by the rivei'-side at night. She would like to see poor Kit, she had often said of late. She wished there was somebody to take her love (o Kit. And, even then, she never thought or spoke about him but with something of her old clear, merry laugh. 36 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but, with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered, save that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to them — faded like the light upon a summer's evening. Tlie child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to lay upon her breast. It was he who had come to the window overnight and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces of small feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which she lay, before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, that they had left her there alone ; and could not bear the thought. * * * * And now the bell — the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice — rung its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life — to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing — grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old — the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and fornix, to see the closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in, to that which still could crawl and creep above it ? » # * * Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some — and they were not a few — knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow. ^ V '^ V Oh ! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths THE ]«Or>EIlN ELOCUTIONIST. 37 i will tcaoli ; but let no man reject it, for it is one that all nuist learn, and is n mipjlity, universal Truth. AVhen Dealli strikes down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven. * * * * It was late when the old man came home. He repaired to her chamber straight. Not finding what lie had left there, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they -were assembled. From that he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling her name. They followed close upon him, and, when he had vainly searched it, brought him home. With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they prevailed upon him to sit among them and hear Avhat they should tell him. Then, endeavouring by every little artifice to prepare his mind for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the happy lot to which she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, he fell down among them like a murdered man. For many hours they had little hope of his surviving ; but gi'ief is strong, and he recovered. If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death — the weary void — the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest minds, w^hen something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn — the connection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of recollection, when every household god becomes a monument, and every 38 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. room a grave — if there be any who have not known this, ami proved it by their own experience, they can never faintly guess how, for many days, the old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there as seeking something, and had no comfort. at m * * At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his knapsack on his back, his staff in his hand, her own straw hat, and little basket full of such things as she had been used ^,0 carry, was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened school-boy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the church— upon her grave, he said. Tliey hastened there, and, going softly to the door, espied him in the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, but kept a Avatch upon him all that 3ay. When it grew quite dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, "She will come to-morroAV ! " Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until niglit; and still at night he laid him down to rest, and murmui'ed, " She will come to-morrow ! " And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave for her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of resting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in the fields and woods, and paths not often trodden — how many tones of that one well-remembered voice — how many glimpses of the form, the fluttei'ing dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind — how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be — rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent church ! He never told them what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with thcui at night, pondering with a secret satisfaction, they could sec, upon the flight that he and she would U\kc THE MOBF.HN ELOCtltlONIST. 39 before ni»^ THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years ? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest. The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west — But the young, yoimg children, my brothers. They are weeping bitterly ! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in the sorrow Why their tears are falling so ? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago ; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost. The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest. The old hope is hardest to be lost : THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST, 41 But lliG younp', youns; children, O my brother?, Do you ask thcni why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mother.?, In our happy fatherland ? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy ; " Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary. Our young feet," they say, " are veiy weak ; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — Our grave-rest is very far to seek ; Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold. And Ave young ones stand Avithout, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old. "True," say the children, ''it may happen That we die before our time : Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapcn Like a snowball, in the rime. AVe looked into the pit prepared to take her : Was no room for any work in the close clay ! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, ' Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries ; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for grooving in her eyes : And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud, by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens," say the children, " That we die before our time." 42 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Alas, alas, tlie children ! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have : They are binding u^) their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do ; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through ! But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine ? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows. From your pleasures fair and fine ! " For oh," say the children, " we are weary. And we cannot run or leap ; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees ti'emble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground ; Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round. " For all day, the wheels are droning, turning; Their wind comes in our faces, Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their jilaccs : Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling. Turns the long light that drops adown the Avail, Turn the black flics that crawl along the ceiling, All are turning, all the day, and Ave Avith all. THE MODERN ELOCUTTONTST. 43 And all day, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, ' ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning) ' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " Ay, be silent ! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth ! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreatliing Of their tender human youth ! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals : Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, wheels ! Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark. And the childi-en's souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark. Now, tell the poor young children, my brothers, To look up to Him and pray ; So the Blessed One Avho blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, " Who is God that he should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred ? When Ave sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And loe hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round him, Hears our Avceping any more ? " Tavo words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight's hour of harm, ' Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber, "We say softly for a charm. 44 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. We know no other words except ' Our Father,' And we think that, in some pause of angels' song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. ' Our Father ! ' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, ' Come and rest with me, my child.' " But, no ! " say the children, weeping faster, " He is speechless as a stone : And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to ! " say the children, — " up in heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbelieving : We look up for God, but tears have made us blind." Do you hear the children Aveeping and disproving, my brothers, what ye preach ? For God's possible is taught by His world's loving, And the children doubt of each. And well may the children weep before you ! They are weary ere they run ; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom ; They sink in man's despair, without its calm ; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom ; Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm ; Are Avorn as if Avith age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap, — Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them Aveep ! let them Aveep ! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 45 Tliey look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity. " How long," they say, " how long, cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart, — Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation. And tread onward to your throne amid the mart ? Our blood splashes upward, gold-heaper. And your purple shows your path ! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath." Elizabeth Barrett Browning. [By kind permission of Robert Browning, Esq.] FIRST LOVE. My long first year of perfect love, My deep new dream of joy ; She was a little chubby gu'l, I was a chubby boy. I wore a crimson frock, white drawers, A belt, a crown was on it ; She wore some angel's kind of dress And such a tiny bonnet, Old-fashioned, but the soft brown hair Would never keep its place ; A little nuiid with violet eyes. And sunshine in her face. my child-queen, in those lost days How sweet was daily living ! How humble and how proud I grew, How rich by merely giving ! 46 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. She went to school, the parlour-maid Slow stepping to her trot ; That parlour-maid — ah, did she feel How lofty was her lot ! Across the road I saw her lift My Queen, and with a sigh I envied Raleigh ; my new coat Was hung a peg too high. A hoard of never-given gifts I cherished, — priceless pelf ; 'Twas two whole days ere I devour'd That peppermint myself. In church I only prayed for her — " God bless Lucy Hill ; " Child, may his angels keep their arms Ever around you still. But when the hymn came round, with heart That feared some heart's surprising Its secret sweet, I climb'd the seat 'iMid rustling and uprising ; And there against her mother's arm The sleeping child was leaning, While far away tlie hymn went on, The music and the meaning. Oh I have loved with more of pain Since then, with more of passion, , Lnvcd with the aching in my love After GUI' grown-up fashion ; THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 47 Yet could I almost be content To lose here at your feet A year or two, you murmuring elm, To dream a dream so sweet. Edward Dowden. [By kind permission of tlic author.] A WISH. To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew, A pair of child-lovers I've seen ; IMorc than once were they there, and the years of the two When united, might number thirteen. They sat by a grave that had never a stone The name of the dead to determine ; It was Life paying Death a brief visit, — a knov/n And a notable text for a sermon. They tenderly prattled ; oh what did they say ? The turf on that hillock was new. Little friends, could ye know aught of death or decay ? Could the dead be regardful of you ? I wish to believe, and believe it I must, That there her loved father was laid ; I wish to believe — I will take it on trust- That father knew all that they said. My own, you are five, very nearly the age Of that poor little fatherless child. And some day a true-love your heart will engage, When on earth I my last may have smiled. 4S THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST, Tlien come to my grave, like a good little lass, Where'er it may happen to be ; And if any daisies should peer through the grass, Be sure they are kisses from me. And place not a stone to distinguish my name. For stranger and gossip to see ; But come with your lover, as these lovers came, And talk to him sweetly of me. And Avhile you are smiling, your father will smile Such a dear little daughter to have ; But mind, — oh yes, mind you are happy the while — / li'ish you to visit my grave. Frederick Lockeu. [From " London Lyrics."— By kind permission of tlie author.] HALLY'S FLOWER. I am the soft blue flower that, willow-shaded. In Hally's garden gi-ew : Once loved and fair, but now forlorn and faded— And Hally is faded too. For one sweet morn in May (or April, maybe), Weaned by the wind's cai-ess, I raised mine eyes and saw the bright boy-baby, Drcss'd in his morning dress. Mcthinks I sec him now in golden fancy, When thro' the wild broad lea lie passed by pink and dahlia, rose and pansy. Until he came to mc. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 49 Then lie bowed down liis sweet cliild-lips and kiss'd me, Called mc liis own flower-pet ; And when he past, I saw his pure heart missed me, For his blue eyes were wet. So every day, for three sweet mornings after, Down the soft path he came, And kissing me, with smiles and baby-laughter, Called me a pretty name. Then dark rain fell, thick, fast, and ever faster — A sad and cheerless rain ; And then in grief I cried for my boy-master — I cried, but cried in vain. No sunbeam thro' those clouds could eye discover. And each song-bird Avas dumb : And then in grief I cried for my boy-lover, But still he did not come. Then some soft hand, from thence in anguish taking My shower-besprinkled bloom, "When dews, like tearsj upon my leaves were breaking, Brought mc to Ilally's room. There on the bed my bright boy-lord was sleeping, But ah, how changed his look ! His face was white as the tube-rose that weeping Wanes by the garden-brook. Then he turned round, and waking feebly, slowly, With all his Aveak child-power, Clasp'd me to his pale breast, and whispered lowly, " My flower, my pretty flower ! " • B 50 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. He held me all that day, but I was fading, And Hally was fading too : And his blue eyes were dim, for night was shading^ Their native heavenly blue. For that same night, upon the bed together, Two faded flowerets lay : The one to bloom no more upon the heather, And one to bloom for aye. For Hally, my boy-master, had not faded There in the cruel storm. But lived, yea brightly still, for death had shaded Only the frail pale form. The tender white camellia and pink pansy Told me the self-same day They heard him singing still — it was not fancy — Though faint and far away. And for his sake his baby friends still love me, ' And once, in tears and slow, They wi'ote " Dear Hally's pretty flower " above mc, But that was long ago. For I am dark and faded now. I wonder, After the starless rain. If he will raise the sod lie sleepeth under, And kiss me once again. Sajidel K. Cowan. [By kind permission of the auliior.] THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 51 THE BOAT-RACE. " There, win the cup, and you shall have my girl. I won it, Ned ; and yoa shall win it too, Or wait a twelvemonth. Books — for ever hooks ! Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes ! I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength To breast the world with, and to cleave j'our way, No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care. She needing yours. There — there — I love you, Ned, Both for your own, and for your mother's sake ; So win our boat-race, and the cup, next month, And you shall have her." . With a broad, loud laugh, A jolly triumph at his rare conceit. He left the subject ; and, across the wine. We talked — or rather, all the talk was his — Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known, Both of his set, and others — Clare, the boast Of Jesus', — and young Edmonds, he who fell, Cleaving the ranks at Lucknow ; and, to-day, There Avas young Chester might be named with them, " Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows, he wins ; Small chance for you, boy ! " And again his laugh, With its broad thunder, turn'd my thoughts to gall ; But yet I mask'd my humour with a mirth Moulded on his ; and, feigning haste, I went, But left not. Through the garden porch I turned, But, on its sun-fleck'd seats, its jessamine shades Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths Wander'd my eye, in rapid quest of one Sweeter than all its roses, and across Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells. There in the orchard's greenness, down beyond 52 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Its sweetbriai' hedge-row, found her — found her there, A summer blossom that the peering sun Peep'd at through blossoms — that the summer airs Waver'd down blossoms on, and amorous gold, Warm as that rain'd on Danae. With a step, Soft as the sun-light, down the pebbled path I pass'd ; and, ere her eye could cease to count The orchard daisies, in some summer mood Dreaming (was I her thought ?) my murmur'd '• Kate " Shocked up the tell-tale roses to her cheek, And lit her eyes with starry lights of love That dimm'd the daylight. Then I told her all, And told her that her father's jovial jest Should make her mine, and kiss'd her sunlit tears Away, and all her little trembling doubts. Until hope won her heart to happy dreams. And all the future smiled with happy love. Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east Gleam'd through the twilight, did we stay our talk, Or part, with kisses, looks, and whisper'd words Eemember'd for a lifetime. Home I went, And in my College rooms what blissful hopes Were mine — what thoughts, that still'd to happy dreams, Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life, Made my years Eden, and lit up my home (The ivied rectory my sleep made mine) With little faces and the gleams of curls, And baby crows, and voices twin to hers. happy night ! O more than happy dreams ! But with the earliest twitter from the caves, 1 rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard. As if but boating were the crown of life. Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes, Even my ecw tragedy upon the stocks, THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 53 I tlirong'd my brain with talks of lines and curves, And all that makes a Avherry sure to win, And f urbish'd up the knowledge that I had, Ere study put my boyhood's feats away, And made me book- worm ; all that day, my hand Grew more and more familiar with the oar, And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach Of the green river lengthen'd on my sight Its by-laid cunning back ; so, day by day, From when dawn touch'd our elm-tops, till the moon Gleam'd through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns, I flash'd the flowing Isis from my oars And dream'd of triumph and the prize to come, And breathed myself, in sport, one after one, Acainst the men with Avhom I was to row, Until I fear'd but Chester — him alone. So June stole on to July, sun by sun. And the day came ; how well I mind that day ! Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad To dim the golden greenness of the fields. And all a happy hush about the earth. And not a hum to stir the drowsing noon, Save where along the peopled towing-paths. Banking the river, swarm'd the city out. Loud of the contest, bright as humming-birds. Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks, That flush'd with boats and barges, silken-awn'd. Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls, Our College toasts, and gay with jest and laugh. Bright as their champagne. One, among them c, But stared aghast at Sleep : For Sin had rendered unto her The keys of Hell to keep ! " All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, Tliat racked me all the time ; A mighty yearning, like the hrit Fierce impulse unto crime ! " One stern tyrannic thought, (hat made All other thoughts its slave ; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and sec The Dead Man in his aravc ! o' " Heavily I rose up, as soon As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye ; And I saw the J)cad in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry. 70 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dewdrop from its wing ; But I never marked its morning liight, I never heard it sing : For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing. '•"With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran ; There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began : In a lonesome Avood, with heaps of Icavct:, 1 hid the murdered man ! '" And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere ; As soon as the midday task was done. In secret I Avas there: And a mighty Avind had SAvept the leaves, And still the corse AA-as bare ! " Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to Aveep, For I kncAv my secret then Avas one That earth refused to keep : Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. "So Avills the fierce avenging S'lrilo, Till blood for blood atones ! Ay, thongli he's buried in a cave. And trodden down Avith stones, And years have rotted off his llcsli, — The Avorkl shall sec his bones ! TUE WODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 7l " Oh God ! that horrid, horrid dream Iksets iiic noAv awake ! Again — again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take ; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake. " And still no peace for the restless clay, Will Avave or mould allow ; The horrid thing pursues my soul, — It stands before me now !" The fearful Boy looked up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow. That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kissed. Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walked between. With gyves upon his wrist. TuojiAs Hood. IN THE TUNNEL.^ Didn't know Flynn,— Flynn of Virginia, — Long as he's been 'yax? Look'ce here, stranger, Wbar hev you been ? Here iu this tunnel, He was my pardner^ 72 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. That same Tom Flynn, — Working together, In -wind and weather, Day out and in. Didn't know Flynn ! "Well, that is queer. Why, it's a sin To think of Tom Flynn,— Tom with his cheer, Tom Avithout fear, — Stranger, look 'yar! Thar in the drift Back to the wall lie held the timbers Ready to fall : Then in the darkness I heard him call — " Run for your life, Jake ! Run for your wife's sake ! Don't wait for me." And that was all Hoard in the din, Heard of Tom Flynn, — = Flynn of Virginia. That's all about Flynn of Virginia — That lets me out Here in the damp, — ■ Out of the sun, — That 'ar dern'd lamp ]\Iakes my eyes run, — Well, there, — I'm doncl THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 73 But, Sir, wlien you'll Hear the next fool Asking of Flynn, — • Flynu of Virginia, — Just you chip in, Say you knew Flynn ; Say that you've been 'yar. liuET Haute. IN THE ENGINE SHED.* The ail- was heavy with greasy vapour ; The wall was like cinders ; the floor, of slack : The engine-driver came to his labour, A good-humour'd corpulent old coal-sack. With a thick gold chain where it bulged the most, And a beard like a brush, and a face like a toast, And a hat half-eaten by fire and frost, And a diamond pin in the folded dirt Of the shawl that served him for collar and shirt Whenever he harness'd his steed of mettle, The shovel-fed monster that could not tire, With limbs of steel and entrails of fire ; Above us it sang, like a big tea-kettle. Now, I wouldn't have him think I'd note it, Much less — ever dream that I wrote it, But he came to his salamander toils In one of the Devil's cast-off suits, All charr'd, and discolour'd with rain and oil.^, And smear'd and sooted from niulUcr to boots : Some wiping, it struck him, his paws might suffer With a wisp of threads he found on the buffer ; 74 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. (The improvement, indeed, was not very great). Then he spat, and pass'd his pipe to his mate. And his whole face laugh'd with an honest mirth, As any extant on this grimy earth, "Welcomiuor me to his murky resrion ; And had you known him, I tell you this — Though your bright hair shiver and shrink at its roots, O piano-lingering fellow-collegian — You Avould have return'd no cold salutes To the cheery greeting of hearty Chris, But ungloved your hand, and lock'd it in his. The icy sleet-storm shatters and scatters, And falls on the pane like a pile of fetters ; He flies through it all Avith the Avorld's love-letters : The master of mighty leviathan-motions That make for him storm when the nights arc fair, And cook him Avitli lire and carve him with air, AVhilc we sleep soft in the carriage cushions, And he keeps watch on the signal red 0"s. Often had Chris over England roU'd me ; You shall hear a story he told me Of tender grace and the dewy meadows :— THE STORY. We were driving the down express-— Will at the steam, I at the coal- Over the valleys and villages ! Over the marshes and coppices ! Over the river, deep and broad ! Tlu'ough the mountain ! under the road ! Flying along! tearing along! Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, Fifty tons she was, whole and sole! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. iJ I Jiad been promoted to the express : I warrant yoii I was proud and gay. It was the evening tliat ended May, And the sky was a glory of tenderness. We were thundering down to a midland town- It makes no matter about the name — For we never stopp'd there, or anywhere For a dozen of miles on either side : So it's all the same — Just there you slide With your steam shut off, and your brakes in liaiul, Down the steepest and longest grade iu the land At a pace that I promise you is gi-and. We were just there with the express, When I caught si";ht of a muslin dress On the bank ahead ; and as we pass'd — You have no notion of how fast — A girl shrank back from our baleful blast. We Avere going a mile and a quarter a miuutc With vans and carriages down the incline, But I saAV her face, and the sunshine in it, I look'd in her eyes, and she look'd in mine As the train w'cnt bv, like a shot from a morlar. A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke ; And I mused for a minute, and then awoke, And she was behind us — a mile and a quarter. And the years v/eut on, and the express Leap'd in her black resistlcssness, Evening by evening, England throngli. Will — God rci-t him! — was found, a m;i>h Of bleeding rags, in a fearful sma.'rh He made with a Christmas train at Crewe. 76 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, Or I shouldn't now be here alive ; But thereafter the five-o'clock out express Evening by evening I used to drive. And I often saw her — that lady I mean That I spoke of before. She often stood A-top o' the bank : it was pretty high — Say twenty feet, and back'd by a wood. She would pick the daisies out of the giccn, To fling down at us as we went by. "We had got to be friends, that girl and I, Though I Avas a rugged, stalwart chap, And she a lady ! I'd lift my cap, Evening l)y evening, when I'd spy That she was there, in the summer aii", Watching the sun sink out of the sky. Oh, I didn't see her every night : Bless you ! no ; just now and then. And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. Then, one evening, I saw her again. Alone, as ever, but deadly pale. And down on the line, on the very rail, AVhilc a light, as of hell, from our wild wheels broke. Tearing down tlie slope Avith their devilish clamours And deafening din, as of giants' hammers That smote in a Avhirlwind of dust and smoke All the instant or so that wc sped to meet her. Never, O never, had she scem'd sweeter ! I let yell the Avhistle, reversing the stroke Down that awfid incline, and signall'd the guard To put on his brakes at once, and hard — Tliough wc couldn't have stopp'd. We tatter'd the rail Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. THE MODEKN ELOCUTIONIST. 77 We couldiit stop; and she would'nt stir. Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch Her arms to us ; — and the desperate wretch I pitied, comprehending her. So the brakes let off, and the steam full again, Sprang down on the lady the terrible train — She never flinch'd. We beat her down. And ran on through the lighted length of the town Before we could stop to see what Avas done. I've run over more than one ! Dozens of 'em, to be sure, but none That I pitied as I pitied her — If I could have stopp'd, Avith all the spur Of the train's Aveight on, and cannily— But it Avouldn't do Avith a lad like me And she a lady — or had been. — Sir ? Who was she ? Best say no more of her ! The Avorld is hard ; but I'm her friend — Stanch, sir, — doAvn to the Avorld's end. It is a curl of her sunny hair Set in this locket that I Avear. 1 pick'd it off the big Avheel there. Time's up, Jack. Stand clear, sir. Yes , We're going out Avith the express. W. WiLKINS. [Reprinted from "Kottabos"— Trinity College, Dublin.— No. 3, Vol. III. Hilary Term, 1S78. 13y kind permission of the author.] THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.* I Lave had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 78 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies- All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women. Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her— All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 1 have a friend, a kinder friend has no man. Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Fi-iend of my bosom, thou more than a brother ! AVhy wert not thou boru in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces. How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. Charles Lamb. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is begin- ning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, that is knoAvn as the Children's Hour. T hear in the chamber above me the patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, and voices soft and sweet. THE MODERN ELOCUTIOXIST. 79 From my study I see in the lamplight, descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, and Edith with golden hair. A whisper and then a silence ; yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together to take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, a sudden raid from the hall ! By three doors left unguarded they enter my castle wall ! They climb up into ray turret o'er the arms and back of my chair ; If I try to escape they surround me ; they seem to be every- where. They almost devour me with kisses, their arras about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen in his Mouse-tower on the Rhine ! Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, because you have scaled the wall, Such an old moustache as I am is not a match for you all ! I have you fast in my fortress, and will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon in the round-tower of ray heart. And there will I keep you for ever, yes, for ever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, and moulder in dust away. ir. W. Longfellow. 80 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. FROM INDIA. " come you from the Indies, and, soldier, can you tell Aught of the gallant 90th, and who are safe and well ? soldier, say my son is safe — for nothing else I care, And you shall have a mother's thanks — shall have a widow's prayer." " O I've come from the Indies— I've just come from the war ; And well I know the 90th, and gallant lads they are; From colonel down to rank and file, I know my comrades well, And news I've brought for you, mother, your Eobert bade me tell." '• And do you know my Robert, now ? tell me, tell me true, O soldier, tell me word for word all that he said to you ! His very words — my own boy's words— tell me every one 1 You little know how dear to his old mother is my son." " Through Havelock's fights and marches the 90th were there ; In all the gallant 90th did, your Robert did his share ; Twice he went into Lucknow, untouch'd by steel or ball, And you may bless your God, old dame, that brought liim safe through all." a " thanks unto the living God that heard his mother's prayer, The widow's cry that rose on high her only son to spare ! O bless'd be God, that turn'd from him the sword and shot away ! And what to his old mother did my darling bid you say?" THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 81 " Mother, he saved his colonel's life, and bravely it was done; In the despatch they told it all, and named and praised your son; A medal and a pension's his ; good luck to him I say, And he has not a comrade but w^ill wish him well to-day." *' Now, soldier, blessings on your tongue ; husband, that you knew How well our boy pays rae this day for all that I've gone through, All I have done and borne for him the long years since you're dead! But, soldier, tell me how he look'd, and all my Robert said." " He's bronzed, and tann'd, and bearded, and you'd hardly know him, dame, We've made your boy into a man, but still his heart's the same : For often, dame, his talk's of you, and always to one tune, But there, his ship is nearly home, and he'll be with you soon." " is he really coming home, and shall I really see My boy again, my own boy, home ? and when, when will it be? Did you say soon?" "Well, he is home; keep codl, old dame ; he's here." " Robert, my own blessed boy !" — " O mother — mother dear !" W. C. Bennett. [By kind permission of the author.] « 82 THE MODEEN ELOCUTIONIST. LOST AND FOUND. Some miners were sinking a shaft in Wales— (I know not where, — but the facts have fiU'd A chink in my brain, while other tales Have been swept away, as when pearls are spill'd, One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor :) — Somewhere, then, where God's light is kill'd, And men tear in the dark, at the earth's heart-core, These men were at work, when their axes knock'd A hole in a passage closed years before. A slip in the earth, I suppose, had block'd This gallery suddenly up, Avith a heap Of rubble, as safe as a chest is lock'd, Till these men picked it ; and 'gan to creep In, on all-fours. Then a loud shout ran Round the black roof, — " Here's a man asleep !" They all push'd forward, and scarce a span From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the lamp Fell on the upturn'd face of a man. No taint of death, no decaying damp Had touch'd that fair young brow, whereon Courage had set its glorious stamp. Calm as a monarch upon his thi-one, Lips hard clench'd, no shadow of fear,— > He sat there taking his rest, alone. He must have been there for many a year. The spirit had fled ; but there was its shrine, In clothes of a century old, or near I THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 83 The dry and embalming air of the mine Had arrested the natural hand of decay, Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line. Who was he, then ? No man could say When the passage had suddenly fallen in — Its memory, even, was past away ! In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal, They took him up, as a tender lass Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole, To the outer world of the short warm grass. Then up spoke one, "Let us send for Bess, She is seventy -nine, come Martinmas : Older than anyone here, I guess ! Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there. And remember the chap by his comeliness." So they brought old Bess with her silver hair, To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay. Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air. And the crowd around him all gave way, As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh. And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay. Then suddenly rang a sharp low cry ! . . . Bess sank on her knees, and wildly toss'd Her wither'd arms in the summer sky. . . . "0 Willie! Willie! my lad! my lost! The Lord be praised ! after sixty years. I see you again ! . . . The tears you cost, " Willie, darlin', were bitter tears ! . . . They never looked for yc underground, They told me a tale to mock my fears ! 84 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " They said ye were auver the sea — ye'd found A lass ye loved better nor me, to explain How ye'd a-vanisli'd f ra' sight and sound ! " darlin' ! a long, long life o' pain I ha' lived since then ! . . . And now I'm old, 'Seems a-most as if youth were come back again, " Seeing ye there wi' yer locks o' gold, And limbs sa straight as ashen beams, . . . I a'most forget how the years ha' roU'd " Between us ! ... "Willie ! how strange it seems To see ye here, as I've seen ye oft, . . . Auver and auver again in dreams !" . . . In broken words like these, with soft Low wails she rock'd herself. And none Of the rough men around her scoff'd. For surely a sight like this, the sun Had rarely looked upon. Face to face The old dead love, and the living one ! The dead, with its undimm'd fleshly grace. At the end of threescore years ; the quick, Pucker'd, and withered, without a trace Of its warm girl-beauty ! A wizard's trick Bringing the youth and love that were Back to the eyes of the old and sick ! Those bodies were just of one age ; yet there Death, clad in youth, had been standing still, "While Life had been fretting itself threadbare ! But the moment was come ; — (as a moment will, To all who have loved, and liavc parted here, And have toil'd alone up the thorny hill; THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 85 When, at tlio top, as their eyes see clear, Over the mists in this vale below, Mere specks their trials and toils appear, Beside the Eternal rest they know !) Death came to Old Bess that night, and gave The welcome summons that she should go. And now, though the rains and winds may rave, Nothing can part them. Deep and Avide, The miners that evening dusr one 2;rave. And there, while the summers and winters glide, Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side 1 Hamilton AiDfi. [By kind permission of llic author.] POOR JACK. Ah, yes — poor Jack : I mind him once His father's white-haired joy : A grand old gentleman was he : (Luff, Jack, lad : ship ahoy !) But he is dead now — and poor Jack Is only a sailor boy ! Gertrude — Squire Marmion's only child : Heaven ! how Jack's heart would quake At very mention of her name ! For her dear darling sake He would have died — poor Jack — and glad, To save her heart one ache ! 86 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Her face, like sunlight on the sea, Made his waste life rejoice : Like music on his rude, rough heart, Fell her soft, gentle voice : But she — ah, -well, perhaps poor Jack Was hardly a lady's choice ! Her hand, long since had been betrothed To a knight of noble name : And even now, to claim his bride. With wealth and martial fame, Son of Earl Eustace Evelyn, The Lord Fitzharding came! For long the distant war was done: " In one short month," wi'ote he, "I shall be home again, and love No more shall parted be ! " And now — even now — there stood a ship On the far horizon -sea. Beside the village wharf she stood : She watched the rising sail ; " Sailor, what ship is that ? " she cried ; Poor Jack — the fiercest gale Had never scared his heart, but now His very soul did fail. He knew the ship : he turned : he raised His mariner's glass to her eyes; And held it silently, while she Watched the ship rise and rise : Like a ship of blood, it rose and rose In the blood-red sunset skies ! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 87 " 'Tis he — 'tis he ! " down sank the sun, And a Avhite mist veiled the moon ; And a low rain-cloud rose up from the sea, And blackened the blood-red dune : And, big with swollen storm, the skies Drooped in a slumbrous swoon ! Then down it flashed : with sleet and snow The very dark grew pale : And the plunging billows, bursting, seethed In the wind and the whistling hail : And the blown surge hissed in a rushing stream Of foam, before the gale ! She stood so near — on his cheek, he felt One touch of a stray-blown tress : He heard her voice — when lo ! O God, From the wild wave-wilderness, The boom of a distant minute-gun, '* And the flash of a light of distress. o Down — down the bellying tempest swooped, With death in its blackening womb : Blinding the flash of the lights of distress, The white sleet flared thro' the gloom : And, deadening the sound of the gun, she heard The thundering breakers boom ! o And now, red lights, like beacon fires, Blaze from the ship's black hull. Flaring the dread rocks round. God, IIow many a ghastly skull Of drowned men lies, where they lie now. On the reef of InnishtrahuU ? 88 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Anon, in a huge sea-swoop, the ship Is gulphed in the blown sea-caves: Anon, high heaved in air, the lamps Glare on the hollow waves, That open beneath the sinking ship, Like yawning bloody graves. The tumbling seas swoop : the plunging foam bursts, And the drenched lamps glimmer between. Father of Life, Avill they see on shore The sinking ship's signal sheen ? God of storm, Thou art God of love : Ye are seen, pale lights, ye are seen! " Out with the lifeboat ! " rang the shout, And the stormy winds did blow : " Out with the lifeboat — steady, my lads : DoAvn with her : steady, boys — so : Bend to it, all : together, lads — now : Hurrah — away we go ! " Anon the boom of the minute-gun Rang low through the breezes' roar : And the lifeboat plunged thro' the plunging foam, And a lantern from the shore Showed Jack at the stern — with his rough, brave hand. Clutching the strong stroke-oar. " Steady ! " he cried ; " head her, my lads, Where the thundering billows break : Out, where the red lamps blaze, my boys : Let the brok'n sea boil in our wake : And save him, save him, save him, lads, For Gertrude Marmion's sake!" THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. SO And the nuiiden prayed — " O Father, Thou Who stillest the raging sea, Go with them through the deep : O Thou Father, their pilot be : And guide them home — and bring, oh, bring My true love back to me! " The lights on the ship — look, look ! " she cried, " They are dying, one by one ; No more across the wild storm comes The boom of the signal-gun : They have reached the ship — they have reached the ship — Thank God : brave souls, well done ! " Ho! how the foam flew — all around. Like a dead man's -winding sheet : A cheer — a crash — the lifeboat — swift Thro' the whistling hail and the sleet, Cleaving the rushing foam, it came, And plunging, dashed at her feet. In his arms she lay. "At last, true heart, We have met for evermore : " " Saved — saved ! " she cried ; " thank God — ye are saved : All saved — all safe — on shore : " " All saved," he said, " except the brave — Brave lad that rowed stroke-oar ! " Brave soul ! he saved us all — and ^Yhen His work of life was done, We saw him in the foam-light, stand Beside the signal-gun. Heaving the red lamps overboard. Slowly, and one by one. 90 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " We thouglit him mad : on the deck he stood Like a giant, chained by a spell, Heaving the red lamps overboard: And -when the last lamp fell, 'Heave-to,' he cried: 'thank God, 'tis done: And now she knows all's well ! ' ''Like a ghost, in the flashing foam, he stood Aloft on the hurricane deck : But when for the leap of life he rushed, And we neared the lifeboat back. The struck ship plunged, and he, brave soul, Sank with the sinking wreck ! " At daybreak, from the smiling sky. The stormy clouds had cleared ; And round the dewy headland cliff A slender shallop sheered : And Lord Fitzharding rowed the oars. And Gertrude IMarmion steered. " This is the place," he said—" just here, Where poor Jack's body dwells : " And overboard, Avith many a tear, Among the weeds and shells. She drop'd it down into his grave, A wreath of immortelles. So past the spring ; and when the fields Were green with summer corn, She and the noble lord were wed : And when the next May morn Gleamed sweetly on the wavelcss sea, Her first boy-babe was born. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 91 And the liusband stooped, and laid his arms About his pale wife's neck : "We'll call our son," he said, "to bring My father's dead name back, Eustace Fitzharding : " '• Nay," she said, " We'll call his name plain Jack ! " And night by night (the old folks say), There comes a wild sea-gull, And sittetli like a great white dove. Moaning and beautiful, Above the wreck, and the body of Jack, On tlie reef of InnishtrahuU. Samuel K. Cowan [By kind permission of tlie author.] THE RAVEN.* Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore ; AVhile I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. As of some one gently rapping — rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door ; Only this, and nothing more." All, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 92 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow From my hooks surcease of sorrow— sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — ■■ Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longei', " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore ; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping— tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you :" here I opened wide the door :— Darkness tliere, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wonder- ing, fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; r,ut the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. And tlic only word there spoken was the whispered word " Lenore ! " This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word " Lenore ! " Merely this, and notliing more. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 03 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somctliing louder than before. " Surely," said I, " surely tliat is something at my window lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and thia mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; 'Tis the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my s'ad fancy into smiling By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven. Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore ; Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore ; For Ave cannot help agreeing that no living human being Everyet 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." 94 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered ; not a feather then he flut- tered ; Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before ; On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store* Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, Of 'Never — nevermore."* But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door ; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking, " Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom'a core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at case 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 ! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 95 Then methought the air grew densci-, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. '• Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lcnore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! " Quoth the Eaven, " Nevermore ! " "Prophet! " said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! — Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore. Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — On this home by Horror haunted — toll me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilcad? — tell me, tell me, T implore ! " Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore ! " " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil !— prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels 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 or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore I 9G THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door 1 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the Eaven, " 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 demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore I t Edgar Allan Poe. "HOW TIIEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX." [16—] I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he ; 1 galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; " Good speed !" ci'ied the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ; " Speed !" echoed the wall to us galloping through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight ; Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right; Rebucklcd the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. Xni-: MOPERX ELOCUTIONIST. DT 'Twas moonset at starting; but, wliilc wc drew near Lokcren, tlie cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; At Ijoom, a great yellow star came out to see ; At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, — So, Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time !" At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, And I saw ray stout galloper Roland at last. With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray : And his loAv head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and tiie other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance O'er its Avliite edge at me, his own mastei", askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye aud anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Ilasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris " Stay spur ! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, AYe'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering; knees. And sunk tail, aud horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above lauglied a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff ; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! n 98 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " How they'll greet us !" — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate. With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack -boots, let go belt and all. Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer ; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground ; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, "Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. Robert Browning. [By kind permission of tlie autlior.] BINGEN ON THE RHINE. A Soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers — There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of Avoman's tears ; But a Comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 99 The dylii!^ soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, " And he said: "I never moi'o shall see my own, my native land ; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine ! "Tell my Brothers and Companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground. That we fought the battle bravely — and, when the day was done, I^uU many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars, — The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; But some wei'e young, — and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, — And one came from Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my Mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage : For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child. My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and Avild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, 1 let them take whate'er they Avould — but kept my father's sword ; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine. On the cottage-wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the Rhine ! " Tell my Sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallax\t tread ; 100 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, — and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, Avithout regret or shame ; And to hang the old sword in its place, (my father's sword and mine,) For the honour of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine ! " There's anothei* — not a Sister, — in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye : Too innocent for coquetry ; too fond for idle scorning ; — Oh, fi'iend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ! Tell hei-, the last night of my life — (for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison,) I (h-eamed I stood with lier, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-chul hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Khine ! " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along — I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 'J'hat echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad l)lue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path belov'd of yore, and well-remembered walk ; And lier little hand l:iy lightly, confidingly in mine . . . I'ut we'll meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on tlie liliine!" THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 101 His voice grew faint and hoarser, — his grasp was childish Aveak, — His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased to speak : His comrade bent to lift him, . . . but the spark of life had lied ! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead I And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down 0]i the red sand of the battlc-iield, Avith bloody corpses strown ; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine I Hon. Mrs. Norton. THE CHILDREN.* "When the lessons and tasks are all ended. And the school for the day is dismissed, And the little ones gather around me, To bid me "good-night" and be kissed; Oh the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace ; Oh the smiles that are halos of heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on ray face. And when they arc gone 1 sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last ; Of love that my heart will remember. While it Avakes to the pulse of the past, Ere the Avorld and its Avickedness made me A partner of sorroAV and sin ; When the glory of God Avas about rac, And the glory of gladness Avithin. 102 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. O, my heart grows as weak as a woman's, And the fountains of feeling will flow When I think of the paths steep and stony, Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, Of the tempest of fate blowing wild ; 0, there's nothing on earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child. They are idols of hearts and of households ; They arc angels of God in disguise ; His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses ; His glory still gleams in their eyes. Oh, those truants from home and from heaven, They have made me more manly and mild, And I know now how Jesus could liken The Kina;dom of God to a child. o^ I ask not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done ; But that life may have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the sun ; I Avould pray God to guard them from evil, I Jut my ])rayer would bound back to myself; Oh, a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I liave banished the rule and the rod ; J have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the wisdom of God. My heart is a dungeon of darkness. Where I shut them from breaking a rule ; My frown iy suflicicnt correction ; My love 15 the law of the school, THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 103 I sliall leave the old house in the Autumn, To traverse its threshold no more ; All ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones That mustered each morn at the door ! I shall miss the "good-nights " and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee, The group on the green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and at eve, Their song in the school and the street ; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet. ^Vhen the lessons and tasks are all ended. And Death says " the school is dismissed ! " l\Iay the little ones gather around mc, To bid mo " good-night " and be kissed. CiiAKLEs Dickens. THE DIRTY OLD MAN.* In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man, Soap, towels, or brushes, were not in his plan. For forty long years, as the neighbours declared, His house never once had been clean'd or repair'd. Twas a scandal and shame to the business-like street, One terrible blot in a ledger so neat ; The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. 104 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, Looked spotty in sunshine, and streaky in rain ; The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass. And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. On the rickety signboard no learning coidd spell The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell ; But for house and for man a new title took groAvth, Like a fungus, — the Dirt gave a name to them both. Within, there Averc carpets and cushions of dust, The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust ; Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof; 'Twas a spiders' elysium from cellar to roof. There king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man Lives busy and dirty as ever he can ; With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face. For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace. From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt, His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt ; The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding, — Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding. Fine dames irom their carriages, noble and fair, J lave entered his shop — less to buy than to stare ; And afterwards said, though the dirt was so friglitful, The Dirty Man's manners were truly dcliglitful. rp^tairs they don't venture, through dirt and lliroiigh gloom, — May'nt peep at the door ol' tlie wonderful room Such stories arc told of, not half of them true ; 'J'hc keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. THE MODEKN ELOCUTIOMST. 105 That room— forty years since, folk settled and deck'd it, The luncheon's prepared, and the guests arc expected. The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, For his love and her friends will be with him to-day. "With solid and dainty the table is drest. The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best ; Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, For his sweetheart is dead, us he sliortly shall hear. Full forty years since, turn'd the key in that door. 'Tis a room deaf and dumb 'mid the city's uproar. The guests, for whose joyancc that table was spread, May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go ; The seats are in order, the dishes a-row ; But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse, Whose descendants have long left tlic Dirty Old House. Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust, The flowers fall'n to powder, the wine swath'd in crust ; A nosegay was laid before one special chair, And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies tliere. The Old Man has play'd out his parts in the scene. "Wherever lie now is, let's hope he's more clean. Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban, To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Ohl Man. AViLi.iAM Allingham. [B> kind permission of the anthor. j 106 TUE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. LOST ON THE SHORE. Drowsy sunshine, noonday sunshine, shining full on sea and sand, Show the tiny, tiny footsteps trending downwards from the land ; In the dewy morning early, while the birds were singing all. My bonnie birdies flew away, loud laughing at my call : I did not follow after, for I thought they flew to hide, But they went to seek their father's boat, that sailed at ebb of tide. Along the dusty lane I track their hurrying little feet : Did no man coming up that way my bonnie birdies meet ? They lisped "Our Father" at my knee, they shared their bread with Nap, And kissed, and fought, and kissed again, both sitting in my lap; It was not long — for wc rau^twork — and soon upon the floor I set my merry little lads before the open door. A white-winged moth came flying in — in chase they sprang away; I watched them, smiling to myself, at all their pretty play; The golden-rippled darling heads flashed to and fro' my eyes. Until I saw them through a mist, Angels in Paradise. But wc who have to work to live must trust so much to God, That, with the vision in my heart, I left them on the sod. Plucking the daisies, one by one, to set them on a thorn, Wiiich Willie's sturdy little grasp out of the hedge had torn. And up and down the house went I, as I go every day, And Avhile I toiled, and father toiled, our darlings stole aAvay. 1 heard my Robin's joyous shout beyond the orchard trees, And answered back, "Yes, mother, here, her little birdy sees!" Tb*^ laugliing pair cried out again — on Avith my work, worked I ; ■\N'aking or sleepmg, we believe that God is always nigh : THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 107 And, U ! I must not doubt it now, though the little steps I sec, Trending alonG; the dus(v lane to the fast inflowinj; sea ! Here, Avhcre the yellow king cups grow, they have dropt the daisied thorn. They have rested under the shady hedge, and Robin his frock has torn^ Here is a rag of the faded stuff, he has worn it the summer through — My little lad was but three years old when his old frock was new. ! pray they have gone through the ripening lields — their footsteps are lost in the grass — Ah ! no ; for I see the king cups strewn down the ravine of Small-hope Pass ! L) Father ! to whom my darlings prayed, this morning, '• Thy will be done !" Show me their little golden heads in the gold of this summer sun ! Where arc they ? Here cease the tiny steps that the loving hearts wiled on ; Here comes the sweep of the heavy tide — but my babes, my babes are gone ! I cannot see for the burning haze and the glitter upon tlie foam ; But TIi02(, Thou Merciful ! hear my cry, bring me them safely home ! " Fisherman, cjtmc you over the rocks that lie under Hurtle Head? My two children have strayed from home — one white clad, the other red ; They have golden hair, and the prettiest eyes— their names are Wilhe and Rob ? ' 108 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. '*' 'So, mistress, I saw no children there, but only the waves' deep throb, And a storm brewing up in the windy west— God speed your master safe ! There's hardly a boat will live the night that's beating out- side the reef." " Fisherman, saw you the trace of steps, little steps, on the farther strand ? " '*No, mistress, the tide has been over it ; 1 saw but the wet, ribbed sand." '• Did you find aught, fisherman, as you came — a cap, or a little shoe ? " " I found nought, mistress, as I came, but some hedge-flowers, yellow and blue." " The king cups, the pretty forget-me-nots, they gathered the bank below ! My laddies dropt them, fisherman; how long ere the tide is low ? " '' How long? It is on the turn, mistress ; the rocks will soon be bare ; But Almighty God, in mercy forbid you find your laddies there/" ''The sea-caves, fisherman, under llic Head, 1 have taken them in to play." — "Yes, mistress, yes, but the tide has rolled both heavy .ma high to-day." "One wild night, when the wind was up, and the wjivcg were ebbing out, Wo three sat Avaiting under the Head lor the coming of father's boat ; '' THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 100 Tliere was a moon in the ragged clouds, and a swirl of vain in the air:" — " Ay, mistress, ay, but Heaven forbid you find your darlings there!" " Where shall I find them, fisherman, my bairnies, pretty and gweet?"— " If tliey strayed down on the beach this morn, you will find them at Jesus' feet." " Not drowned ! Not drowned in the cruel sea ? Is God in heaven unjust ? lie could not rob me of both my dears, or why are we bid to Unist? In the working hours they left ray side, they only Avent out to play : lie knoAvs tha<^, we who must earn our bread cannot watch and be still all day ! "What can I say when the boat comes home, and no darling to meet it runs ? Can I tell their father, who loved them so, I have lost him his little sons ? O ! 'tis hard in our lives of so little joy to rob us of that we had; Living and dying, the best of days with the poor are always sad!" ^ ^ " Speak low, mistress, when you speak so. God in heaven is great. I had three sons— they all went down — they perished and / wait. You have read it in the Book — 'The Lord gave; the Lord have taken awav: Blessed be the name of the Lord !' So say I this day. no THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. -^ And how David the Kiug, fasted and wept until the chikl was dead. Then to the mighty God he gave him up, rose, and was comforted." " ! the tiny, tiny footsteps, trending downwards from the Laud, The blessed little footsteps, softly printed in the sand! O, my birdies ! O, my birdies ! that have left an empty nest, I would I had my birdies noAV, warm nestled in my breast!" Holme Lek. [Hv liirnl permission of the autlioi'.] THE DIVER. " Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold As to dive to the howling Charybdis below ? — I east in the whirlpool a goblet of gold, And o'er it already the dark waters flow ; Whoever to me may the goblet bring Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king." lie spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, That, rugged and hoary, hung over the verge Of the endless and measureless Avorld of the deep, Swirled into the maolsti'om that maddened the surge. " And where is the diver so stout to go — I ask ye again — to the deep below ? " And the knights and the squires that gathered around, Stood silent — and fixed on the ocean their eyes ; Tlicy looked on the dismal and savage Pi'ofound, And the peril chilled back every thougiit of the prize. And thrice spoke the monarch — "The cup to win, Is there never a wight who will venture in ? " THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Ill And all as before heard in silence the king, Till a youth with an aspect unfearing but gentle, 'Mid the tremulous squires, stepped out from the ring, Unbuckling his girdle, and doning his mantle ; And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder. As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave One glance on the gulf of that merciless main, Lo ! the wave that for ever devours the wave, Casts roaringly up the Charybdis again ; And as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars. As when fire is with water commixed and contending, And the spray of its Avrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending ; And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, Like a sea that is labouring the birth of a sea. o Yet, at length, comes a lull o'er the mighty commotion, And dai'k through the Avhiteness, and still through the swilI. The whirlpool cleaves downward and downward in ocean A yawning abyss, like the pathway to hell ; The stiller and darker the farther it goes. Sucked into that smoothness the breakers repose. The youth gave his trust to his Maker ! Before That path through the riven abyss closed again. Hark ! a shriek from the gazers that circle the shore — And behold ! he is whirled in the grasp of the main I And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled, And the giant mouth closed on the swimmer so bold. 112 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST, All was still on the height, save the muriniir tliat went From the grave of the deep, sounding hollow and fell, Or save when the tremulous sighing lament Thrilled from lip unto lip, "Gallant youth, fare thee well! " More hollow and more wails the deep on the ear — More dread and more dread grows suspense in its fear. If thou shouldst in those waters thy diadem fling, And cry, " Who may find it shall Avin it and wear ;" God wot, though the prize were the crown of a king, A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. For never shall lips of the living reveal What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal. Oh, many a bark to that breast grappled fast, Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave ; Again, crashed together the keel and the mast, To be seen tossed aloft in the glee of the wave ! Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer. And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, As when fire is with water commixed and contending ; And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending, And as with the swell of the far thunder-boom. Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom. And lo ! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, Like the wing of the cygnet — what gleams on the sea ? Lo! an arm and a neck glancing up from the tomb! Steering stalwart and shoreward. () joy, it is he! The left hand is lifted in triumph; behold, It waves as a trophy the goblet of gold ! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 11." And he breathed deep, and he breatlied long, And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day. They gaze on each other — they shout as they throng — " He lives — lo, the ocean has rendered its prey ! And safe from the whirlpool and free from the grave, Comes back to the daylight the soul of the brave !" And he comes, with the crowd in their clamour and glee ; And the goblet his daring has won from the water, He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee — • And the king from her maidens has beckoned his dausrhter. She pours to the boy the bright wine which they bring, And thus spoke the Diver — " Long life to the King ! " Happy they Avhom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice. The air and the sky that to mortals are given! May the horror below nevermore iind a voice — Nor man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven, Nevermore, nevermore may he lift from the sight The veil which is woven with terror and night I " Quick brightening like lightning, the ocean rushed o'er mc, Wild floating, borne down fathom-deep from the day ; Till a torrent rushed out on the torrent that bore me, And doubled the tempest that whirled me away. Vain, vain was my struggle — the circle had won me, Round and round iu its dance the mad element spun me. " From the deep, then I called upon God, and He heard me ; In the dread of my need. He vouchsafed to mine eye A rock jutting out from the grave that interred me; I sprung there, I clung there, and death passed me by. And lo ! where the goblet gleamed through the abyss. By a coral reef saved from the far Fnthomless, t 114 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless Obscure ! A silence of horror that slept on the ear. That the eye more appalled might the horror endure ! Salamander, snake, dragon — vast reptiles that dwell In the deep — coiled about the grim jaws of their hell. '• Dark crawled, glided dark the unspeakable swarms, Clumped together in masses, misshapen and vast ; Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms ; Here the dark moving bulk of the hammer-fish passed ; And Avith teeth grinning Avhite, and a menacing motion, Went the terrible shark — the hyena of ocean. « " There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me, So far from the earth, where man's help there was none ! The one human thing, with the goblins before me — Alone — in a loneness so ghastly — Alone ! Deep under the reach of the sweet living breath. And begirt with the broods of the desert of Death. ■^o " Methought, as I gazed tlu-ough the darkness, that now It saw — a dread hundred-limbed creature — its prey ! And darted, devouring ; I sprang from the bough Of the coral, and swept on the horrible way; And the whirl of the mighty wave seized me once more, It seized me to save me, and dash to the shore." On the youth gazed the monarch and marvelled : quoth he, " Bold diver, the goblet I promised is thine ; And this ring I will give, a fresh guerdon to thee — Never jcAvels more precious shone up from the mine— If thou'lt bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, To xxy wliat lies hid in llii' innermost main 1 " THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 115 Then out spake the daughter in tender emotion — " Ah ! father, my father, what more can there rest ? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean — lie has served thee as none would, thyself has confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Let thy knights put to shame the exploit of the squire ! " The king seized the goblet, he swung it on high, And, whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide ! " But bring back that goblet again to my eye. And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side ; And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree. The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee." And heaven, as he listened, spoke out from the space. And the hope that makes heroes shot flame from his eyes ; He gazed on the flush in that beautiful face — It pales — at the feet of her father she lies ! How priceless the guerdon ! a moment — a breath — And headlong he plunges to life and to death ! They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell, Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along ! Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell. They come, the wild Avaters, in tumult and throng, Roaring up to the cliff — roaring back as before, But no wave ever brings the lost youth to the shore ! Schiller. (Translated by Lord Lyttox.) {By liind permission of Messrs. Routletlgc] IK) THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. A GRF.YPORT LEGEND. [1797.] They ran through the streets of the sea-port town; They peered from the decks of the ships that lay : The cold sea-fog that came whitening down "Was never as cold or white as they. " Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney, and Tenterden ! Run for your shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats in the lower bay." Good cause for fear ! In the thick midday The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, Filled with the children in happy play, l\arted its moorings, and drifted clear, — Drifted clear beyond the reach or call, — Thirteen children they were in all, — All adrift in the lower bay ! Said a hard-faced skipper, " God help us all ! She will not float till the turnins: tide !" Said his Avife, " My darling Avill hear i\iy call Whether in sea or heaven she bide." And she lifted a quavering voice and higli, Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. The fog drove down on each labouring crew, Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : There was not a sound but the breath thoy di'cw. And the lap of water and creak of oar : And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, But not from the lips tliat liad gone before^ THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 117 They come no more. IJut they tell the tale, That, Avhcii fogs are thick on the harbour reef, The mackerel fishers shorten sail ; For the signal they know will bring relief : For the voices of children, still at play In a phantom hulk that drifts alway Through channels whose waters never fail. It is but a foolish shipman's talc, A theme for a poet's idle page : But still when tlie mists of doubt prevail, And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, "Wc hear from the misty troubled shore The voice of the children gone before, Drawing the soul to its anchorage. BiiET Hakte. ON THE LANDING. AN IDYL OF THE DALUSTERS. Bobby, cetat oh Johnny, aiat ih Bobby. " Do you know why they've put us in that back room, Up in the attic, close against the sky, And made believe our nursery's a cloak room ? Do you know why ? " Johnny. " No more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye, Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other — No more don't I ! " 118 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Bobby. " Do you know why Nurse says it isn't manners For you and me to ask folks twice for pie, And no one hits that man with two bananas ? Do you know why ? " Johnny. " No more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress is Off of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die. When you and me gets croup when tve undresses ! No more don't I ! " Bobby. " Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is, And God don't want her up there in the sky, And lets her live — to come in just when pie is — Perhaps that's why ! " Johnny. "Do you know why that man that's got a cropped head Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly ? Could it be, Bobby, something that I dropdcd ? And is that why ? " Bobby. " Good boys behaves, and so they don't get scalded, Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by." Johnny [piously]. " Marbles would bounce on INIr. Jones' bald head — But I shan't try ! " Bobby. " Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling At you and me because we tells a lie. And she don't slap that man that called her darling ? Do you knoAV Avliy ? " THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 119 Johnny. " No more I don't, nor why that man with Mumma Just kissed her hand." Bobby. " She hurt it — and that's wliy, He made it well, the very way that Mamma Does do to I." Johnny. " I feel so sleepy. * * * Was that Papa kissed us .'' What made him sigh, and look up to the sky? " Bobby. " We wcr'n't down stairs, and ])e and God had missed us And that was why ! " Bket IIarte. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. O'er a Ioav couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay, — The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. "They come around mc here, and say my days of life are o'er, — That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more ; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own llegc lord and master born, that I — ha! ha! — must die. 120 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " And wliat is death ? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim spear ; Tliink ye he's entered at my gate — has come to seek me here ? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot ; — I'll try his might — I'll brave his power — defy, and fear him not ! " Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin ; Bid each retainer arm with speed ; call every vassal in : Up with my banner on the wall, — the banquet-board prepare. Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armour there!" An hundred hands were busy then : the banquet forth was spread, And rang the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread ; Wliile from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retaiuers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board ; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudigcr witli girded falchion sate. " Fill every beaker up, my men ! — pour forth the cheering wine. There's life and strengtii in every drop, — thanksgiving to the vine ! Are yc all there, my vassals true? — mine eyes are waxing dim. Fill round my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 12 i "Yc're there, but yet I see you not! — Draw forth each trusty sword, And let me bear your faithful steel clash once around my board ! I hear it faintly ; — louder yet ! What clogs my heavy breath ? Up, all! — and shout for Kudiger, 'Defiance unto Death !'" Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening cry. That made the torches flare around, and sliook the flags on high ; "Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown ? Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone ? " But I defy him ! — let him come ! " Down rang the massy cup, "NYliile from its sheath the ready Ijladc came flashing half- way up ; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, Thei-e, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger .-^at — dead ! Albert G. Greene. THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. I'm sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side. On a bright May morning, long ago, Avhen first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-liglit in your eye. 122 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again ! But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek ; And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak ! 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, and the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary — ^I see the spire from here : But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, and my step miglit break your rest ; For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, with your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely uoav, Mary, for the poor make no new friends ; But, oh, they love the better far, the few Our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, my blessing and my pride : — There's nothing left to care for now, since my poor Mary died! Yours was the brave good heart, Mary, that still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left my soul, and my arm's young strength was gone : There was comfort ever ou your lip, and the kind look on your brow ; I bless you for the same, Mary, though you cannot hear mc now! I thank you for the patient smile, when your heart was like to break, Wiien the hunger-pain was gnawing there, and you hid it for my sake ! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 12o I bless you for the pleasant word, when your heart was sad and sore ; Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, where grief can sting no more. I'm bidding you a long farewell, my Mary, kind and true, But I'll not forget you, darling, in the land I'm going to : They say there's bread and work for all, and the sun shines always there ; But I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair ! And often, in those grand old woods, I'll sit and shut my eyes. And my heart will travel back again to the place Avhcrc Mary lies ; And I'll tliink I see that little stile where we sat side by side, And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, when first you were my bride ! Lady Dufferix. ON THE EECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.* Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips arc thine ! — thy own sweet smile I see ! The same, tliat oft in cliildhood solaced me ; Voice only fails ; else, how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! " The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize. The art that bafUes Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on mc still the same. 124 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Faithful remembrancer of one so clear, Oh welcome guest, thougli unexpected here ! Who bidd 'st me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own : And, Avhile that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother ! when I learnt that thou wast dead. Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss— Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers Yes. I heard the bell tolled on tliy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigli, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ?— It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown— iMay 1 but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. WJiat ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. ]>y expectation every day beguiled, Bupe of to-morrow, even from a cliild. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went ; Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot ; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 12; Wlicrc once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery iloor : And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to ray chamber made, That thou mightest know me safe, and Avarmly laid ; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum ! The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they slione and glowed : All this, and more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interposed too often makes ; All this still legible in memory's page. And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may ; — Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere ; Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers — The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldat softly speak, and stroke my head, and smlle)'^-* 126 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Couid those few pleasant days again appear — Miglit one wish bring them, would I wish them here ? I would not trust my heart — the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might — But no ! — what here we call our life is such — So little to be loved, and thou so much — That I should ill requite thee, to constrain Thy unbound spii-it into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile ; There sits quiescent on the floods, that shoAv Her beauteous form reflected clear below ; While airs, impregnated with incense, play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay — So thou — with sails how swift ! — hast reached the shore, " Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar." And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life, long since, has anchored at thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attam that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed — IMe liowling winds drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ript, seams opening Avide, and compass lost, And day by day some currents thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course, But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. j\ry boast is not that I deduce my birtli Fi-oin loins entlironcd, and rulers of the earth : ]>ut higher far my proud pretensions rise — 'J'he son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell — Time inirevokcd has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done, THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 127 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine ; And, -while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee. Time has but half succeeded in his theft — Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. William Co^vrKn. A BALLAD OF WAR. " Oh ! were you at war in the red Eastern land ? What did you hear, and what did you sec ? Saw you my son, with his sword in his hand ? Sent he, by you, any dear Avord to me ?" " I come from red war, in that dire Eastern land ; Three deeds saw I done one might well die to sec ; But I know not your son, with his sword in his hand ; If you Avould hear of him, paint him to me." " Oh, he is as gentle as south winds in May !" "' 'Tis not a gentle place where I have been." " Oh, he has a smile like the outbreak of day !" "Where men arc dying fast, smiles are not seen." " Tell me the mightiest deeds that were done. Deeds of chief honour, you said you saw three : You said you saw three — I am sure he did one. My heart shall discern him, and cry ' This is he I' " " I saw a man scaling a tower of despair, And he went up alone, and the hosts shouted loud." '• That was my son I Had he streams of fair liair r" " Nay ; it was black as the blackest night-cloud. 128 THE MODEP.X ELOCUTIOXIST. " Did he live ?" '• Xo ; he died : but the fortress was won, And they said it was grand for a man to die so." " ALas for his mother? He was not my son. Was there no fair-hair'd soldier who humbled the foe ?" " I saw a man charcrinc; in front of his rank. Thirty yards on, in a hurry to die : Straight as an arrow hurled into the flank Of a huge desert-beast, ere the hunter draws nich." '- Did he live ? " '• No ; he died : but the battle was won, And the conquest-cry carried his name through the air. Be comforted, mother ; he was not thy son ; Worn was his forehead, and gi-ay was his hair." '"'• Oh ! the brow of my son is as smooth as a rose ; I kissed it last night in my dream. I have heard Two legends of fame from the land of our foes ; But you said there were three : you must tell me the third." " I saw a man flash from the trenches and fly In a battery's face ; but it was not to slay : A poor little drummer had dropp'd down to die, With his ankle shot through, in the place where he lay. " He earned the boy like a babe through the rain. The death-pouring torrent of grape-shot and shell ; And he walked at a foot's pace because of the pain, Laid his burden down gently, smiled once, and then fell." " Did he live ? " " No ; he died : but he rescued the boy. Such a death is more noble than life (so they said). lie had streams of fair haii-, and a face full of joy, And his name"*—" Speak it not I 'Tis my son 1 He ia dqftil J THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 129 " Oh, dig liim a grave by tte red rowan tree, Where the spring moss grows softer than frhigcs of foam 1 And Lay his bed smoothly, and leave room for me. For I shall be ready before he comes home. " And carve on his tombstone a name and a wreath, And a tale to touch hearts througli the slow-spreading years — How he died his noble and beautiful death. And his mother, who longed for him, died of her tears. " But what is this face shining in at the door, With its old smile of peace, and its flow of fair hair? Are you come, blessed ghost, from the far heavenly shore r Do not go back alone — let me follow you there !" " Oh ! clasp me, dear mother. I come to remain ; I come to your heart, and God answers your prayer. Your son is alive from the hosts of the slain. And the Cross of our Queen on his breast glitters fair 1'' Menella Bute Smedi.kv. [By kind permission of Messrs. Daldy, Isbister, & Co.] HORATIUS : A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME. (an extract.) « * * * Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. "Down with him!" cried false Sextus, AYith a smile on his pale face ; "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porscna, "Now yield thee to our gracci" w 130 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Round turned he, as not deigning Tliose craven ranks to see ; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on PaUitinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome: "Oh, Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day!" So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back Plunged headlong in the tide. And when above the surges They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing place : But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within. And our good father Tiber l^ore bravely up his chin. THE MODERN ELOCUTIOXIST. 131 "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town I" "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, " And bring him safe to shore ; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom : Now on dry earth he stands : Xow round him throng the Fathers To press his gory hands : And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-gate, Borne by the joyous crowd. They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right. As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night ; And they made a molten image. And set it up on high. And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium, Plain for all folk to see ; Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee : And underneath is written, In letters all of gold. How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old. 132 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST, * * * * When the good man mends his armour, And trims his helmet's plume; When the good wife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. Lord Macaulat. [From "Lays of Ancient Rome."— By kiml permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green, and Co.] BABY MAY.* Cheeks as soft as July peaches. Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches Poppies paleness — round large eyes Ever great with new surprise, Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, Minutes just as brimmed with sadness, Happy smiles and Availing cries, Crows and laughs and tearful eyes, Lights and shadows swifter born Than on the wind-swept Autumn corn, Ever some new tiny notion Making every limb all motion — Catchings up of legs and arms, Throwings back and small alarms, Clutching fingers — straightening jerks, Twining feet whose each toe works, Kickings up and straining risings, Motlier'.9 ever new surprisings. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 133 Hands all wants and looks all wonder At all things the heavens under, Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings, Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness, that Ave prize such sinning, Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes, PuUings off of all that's able To be caught from tray or table; Silences — small meditations. Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, .Breaking into wisest speeches In a tongue that nothing teaches, All the thoughts of whose possessing Must be wooed to light by guessing; Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings, That we'd ever have such dreamings, Till from sleep we see thee breaking, And we'd always have thee waking ; Wealth for which we know no measui'e, Pleasure high above all pleasure, Gladness brimming over gladness, Joy in care — delight in sadness, Loveliness beyond completeness. Sweetness distancing all sweetness, Beauty all that beauty may be — That's May Bennett, that's my baby. AV. C. Bennett. [By kind permission of the author.] loi THE BIODERN ELOCUTIONIST. BABY BELL. Have you not heard the poets tell How came the dainty Baby Bell Lito this world of ours? The gates of heaven were left ajar: With folded hands and dreamy eyes, Wandering out of Paradise, She saw this planet, like a star, Hung in the glistening depths of even,— Its bridges, running to and fro. O'er which the Avhite-winged Angels go, Bearing the holy Dead to heaven. She touched a bridge of flowers, — those feet. So light they did not bend the bells Of the celestial asphodels, They fell like dew upon the flowers: Then all the air grew strangely sweet ! And thus came dainty Baby Bell Into this world of ours. She came and brought delicious May. The swallows built beneath the caves; Like sunlight, in and out the leaves The robins went, the livelong day; The lily swung its noiseless bell; And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seemed bursting with its veins of wine. How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! 0, earth was full of singing-birds And opening springtide flowers. When the dainty Baby Bell Came to this woild of ours! rUE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. lo5 O Baby, dainty Baby Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes, AVliat poetry within thcin lay, — Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more: Ah, never in our hearts before AVas love so lovely born ! We felt wc had a link between This real world and that unseen, — The land beyond the morn; And for the love of those dear eyes, For love of her whom God led forth, (The mother's being ceased on earth When Baby came from Paradise,) — For love of Ilira who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said. Dear Christ! — our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. And now the orchards, which were white And red with blossoms when she came, AVere rich in autumn's mellow prime; The clustered apples burnt like flame, The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell. The ivory chestnut burst its shell. The grapes hung purpling in the grange: And time wrought just as rich a change In little Baby Bell. 136 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Her lissome form more perfect grew, And in her features we could trace, In softened curves, her mother's face. Her angel-nature ripened too : "We thought her lovely when she came, But she was holy, saintly now . . . Around her pale angelic brow "We saw a slender ring of flame ! 'o God's hand had taken away the seal That held the portals of her speech ; And oft she said a few strange words Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. She never was a child to vis, "We never held her being's key; We could not teach her holy things : She was Christ's self in purity. It came upon us by degrees, "\Ye saw its shadoAv ere it fell, — The knowledge that our God had sent His messenger for Baby Bell. We shuddered Avith unlanguaged pain, And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears Like sunshine into rain. We cried aloud in our belief, "0, smite us gently, gently, God! Teach us to bend and kiss the rod. And perfect grow through grief." Ah ! how we loved her, God can tell ; Her heart was folded deep in ours. Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell ! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 1^7 At last he came, the messenger, The messenger from unseen lands ! And what did dainty Baby Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair! We parted back her silken haii', We wove the roses round her brow, — White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — Wrapt her from head to foot in llowers . . . And thus went dainty Baby Bell Out of this world of Ours ! T. B. ALDiticn. MEASURING THE BABY We measured the riotous baby Against the cottage Avail, A lily grew at the threshold. And the boy was just as tall. A Royal Tiger-lily, With spots of purple and gold. And the heart of a jewell'd chalice The fragi'ant dew to hold. Without the blue-birds Avhistlcd, High up in the old roof -trees ; And to and fro at the Avindow The I'ed rose rocked her bees. And the wee pink fists of the baby Were never a moment stilly Snatching at shine and shadoAV That danced at the lattice-sill. 138 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. His eyes were as wide as blue-bells— His mouth like a flower unblown — Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, Peeped out from his snowy gown : And we thought Avith a thrill of rapture, That yet had a touch of pain, When June rolls around with her roses We'll measure the boy again. Ah me ! in a darkened chamber, With the sunshine shut away, Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, We measured the boy to-day : And the little bare feet that were dimpled And sweet as a budding rose Lay side by side together, In the hush of a long repose. Up from the dainty pillow. White as the risen dawn, The fair little face lay smiling, With the light of heaven thereon : And the dear little hands, like roseleavcs Dropped from a rose, lay still, Never to catch at the sunshine That crept to the shrouded sill. We measured the sleeping baby AVith ribbons white as snow. For the shiniiii; rosewood casket That waited him below : And out of the darkened chamber We went with a rhildless moan : — To the height of the sinless angels Our little one had grown. Anonymous. TUE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 139 BESSIE AND f. IN TWO PAKTS. I. Enjoy'd your dinner, have you, my boy ? Well, come, that's jolly, you know, Though I wish that Bessie had been here too — she's longing to see you so. Ilei'c, bring your chair to the fire, old man, and don't be afraid o' the wine ; And we'll have a quiet weed, if you like, and a chat on "auld lang syne." So 'tis seven years since you Avcnt away, and I have bceu married five : What! you thought I "hadn't tlie cheek" to propose to a girl? Why, man alive, 'Tis the strangest, most delightful thing that ever happen'd, you see : / didn't "pop the question" at all. 'Twas Bessie pi'oposcd to me ! Here, Edie and Sid, you may run off now, and have a game o' play ; Come, you know what mamma Avas to bring you home, if you be good children to-day : Your uncle and I have a lot o' things that we want to talk about ; And you shall come in again, my dears, when we've had our gossip out. And now for my tale, though I hardly know what Bessie would say if she knew — By Jove, how she'll open her eyes when she comes to be introduced to you ! 140 THE MODEKN ELOCUTIONIST. As I told you, she's spending the day with a friend — her cousin, by the bye — Who's just been obeying the old command, to increase and multiply. Well, you know what our prospects were, old man — our mother's, and Kate's, and mine — When you bade us good-bye to go to sea in the navy-doctoring line; With the mother's pension and jointure, you know, she was pretty well off, and then We thought I was sure to make my mark, what with the bar and the pen. I remember hoAV you laugh'd at my rhymes, you unbelieving Jew, And used to rout me out from my books to go and idle with you; But the mother and Kate believed in me, as our foolish woman-folks will, And Bessie dubb'd me her laureate, and knight of the gray goose-quill. You know what Bessie was as a child, in the dear old bygone days, With her big brown eyes and golden head and her pretty wilful Avays ; How she plagued, and charm'd, and quccn'd it o'er us youngsters oft and oft. Yet what a dear little heart it was, how clinging, and tender, and soft ! Her brother Willie and I were "old particulars," bear in mind. And the good old rector and his wife were always hearty and kind ; THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 141 So that havdly a day would pass away but I found myself, you see, In the quaint old garden with Bessie and Will, and who so happy as we ? Ilei'^ho! they were pleasant times, old man, — fresh, and hopeful, and true, Ere the foot of Time had trampled and soil'd the sheen of life's morning dew ! When I think of those garden walks and pranks what tender memories rise, With Bessie the centre figure of all, with her merry, mischievous eyes! Well, I went to Heidelberg, as you know, to finish my school career, In that quaint old home of spectacled lore, meerschaums, and Ulger-beer ; And when I came back, my child-playmate had vanish'd, and in her place Was a fair girl-woman, shy and sweet, with a gentle, winsome face. And I loved her, I loved her — God knows how well ! — from her first shy welcoming glance. With a passion as strong, and tender, and pure, as the love of old Romance ; And she ? — she was always pleasant and kind with the friend of her childhood gay. But whether my darling loved me or no was more than I could say, Willie and Kate were engaged, you know, and they'd look so conscious and shy, That we used to tease and banter them both, his sister Bessie and T ? 142 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. And when they'd begin to whisper and sigh, I couldn't do less, you'll own, Than draw sweet Bessie away with me, and leave the lovers alone. We were out iu the fields one summer's eve — how well I remember it still ! — And somehow we two had wander'd away from love-lorn Katie and Will, Till we came in the dusk to the lone black mere, where the aspen branches wave, And she coax'd me to tell her its legend grim of a love beyond the grave. Then I look'd down into her soft brown eyes, with their witching and lustrous spell. And I Avhisper'd, " Dear, I've another tale that I should like to tell !" When we heard a merry shout from behind, and up came Willie and Kate, And the loving words died out on my lips, and I knew my story must wait. But she seem'd from that very time to grow more shy and distant, you see : I never could meet her out alone, or tempt her to walk with rae; And when I tried to draw her aside to whisper a loving word She'd flush and tremble, and flutter away, like a pretty frighten'd bird. I saw she shunn'd me, and said to myself, with a proud and passionate throe, "She loves me not, and would spare us both the pain of telling me so ; THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 143 And I'd rather, God knows, that my heart should break, in its silence bitter and drear, Than I'd pester a woman with whispers and vows that she doesn't care to hear ! " So I put away all my hopes of love, and settled gloomily down To the dreary study of the law, in my chambers up in town : I left the lover's tender rule for the sterner Roman's part. And thought to live my passion down, and root it out of my heart. But in vain, in vain ; for while my eyes were bent on the musty page My truant thoughts would wander aAvay to the pleasant parsonage, And in fancy I'd see her winsome face — too winsome and fair to tell — With the soft, shy look in her lustrous eyes that I knew too well, too well ! Yet I kept to my work with a dogged heart that naught could conquer or tame ; " Since love is denied me," I bitterly said, " I'll make myself a name." I was up with the first faint streak of dawn, with pallid and haggard looks, And midnight found me with aching head still bending over my books. And you know the end ! — how a mist would clog my blood- shot waking eyes. And circles quiver about the liglits in dazzling rainbow dyes : Then a strange dim blur of lettei's and lines, and then — all darkness there ! And a poor blind man upon his knees, in an agony of prayer. 144 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST, Jack, dear brother ! 'twas hard — 'twas hard ! so young in sorrow and strife, To be left a sightless burden, old man, for all my useless life ! Never to see the sun or the flowers, nor the starry heavens above. Nor look in the dear home-faces again, so full of pity and love! 1 know that Katie wrote to you, lad ; but she couldn't tell, dear heart. Of her soothing words, and patient help, and tender sisterly part; Nor how the dear old mother would say, while her pitying tears would fall, " Poor boy, his home must be always here : there's more than enough for all ! " *o' But I must be a burden on them, I knew, as I bitterly felt at times, And by and by I took again to weaving stories and rhjones ; And Katie would write them out for me, and somehow they seemed to " take," For I did my poor best, Heaveii knows, for hers and the mother's sake. And quiet and peace at last came down, in gracious answer to prayer ; The chastening Hand that had dealt the blow help'd the mourner to bear ; And I came to think, with a heart resign'd, of even the brief love-dream Tluit hud brighten'd and blighted my bygone life with itfl /If^kle iiml fleeting gleanu THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 145 I seldom saw her — Bessie, I mean — for the wound woukl rankle still, But I'd hear of her almost every day from either Katie or Will ; And -when thoy talk'd of a legacy that had left her rich, you know, My broken prayers went up to God for her happiness below. But it chanced, as I sat and brooded alone, one summer's afternoon — By the pleasant warmth and the scent o' the flowers I knew it was " leafy June" — Kate came and coax'd me to take her arm, and ^valk out with her, to call At the roctory-house, or our friends would think I'd quite forgotten them all. And Bessie was there ! I could not see her winsome, wel- coming face, But the very sense of her presence seem'd to glorify the place ; And I trembled and flush'd in the foolish way that lovers understand. At the gentle sound of her pitying voice, and the touch of her dainty hand ! We sat in the quaint oak parlour — ah, how well I knew it of old !— And the good old rector prosed away about his church and his fold, The parish schools, and the state of the roads, and the pro- bable price of hay, Till Bessie at last jumped up from her chair, in her old impulsive way. 146 THE MODEEN ELOCUTIONIST. " Come, Avho's for my summer-house ?" she said ; " for it is so hot in here ! What ! none of you speak ? Then Charlie here shall be my cavalier. Mamma clear, ^vllere is that magazine ? 0, here it is, I see : I want to read him the poem, you know, that so delighted me!" Then she took my arm and led me out, with a tender sisterly care, To the dear old garden, so dark to me, to her so blooming and fair, Till we came to the arbour, the scene of some of my happiest hours o' life, Ere I'd put from my heart its crowning hope of calling her my Avife. 'Twas Tennyson's last new poem she read, and it may have been very fine, But somehow her sweet voice trembled so much, I could hardly follow a line ; And at last she gave it up with a sigh, and laid the book away. "I think it must be the heat," she said, " but I cannot read to-day !" Then there came a pause — a dreamy pause — when in fancy I could see The fair flush'd face of the gentle friend so full of pity for me : Then she laid her dainty hand on mine — her hand that trem- bled so ! And the tears were in her tender voice as she whispered soft and low : THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 147 " Charlie, we two arc such old, old friends, that you mustn't think me bold If I ask you to tell me a secret that else would ever be untold ! — What was it you wanted to say to me that evening by the mere ? Come, I'm sure you'll tell mc, won't you now ? for I should go like to hear ! " What ! you dare not tell me, you say ! — ah, well, I think I can guess ! — And, Cliarlie dear, I'm siu'e you know my answer would have been 'Yes!' You know I loved you, without the need of either promise or vow ; And yet — how cruel! — how cruel! — you thought I should turn away from you noio! "Now, when your poor dark life has need of a tender and trusty guide : Now, when I'm prouder of yonr love than of aught in the world beside : And did you think tliat this Avas the time I should choose to coldly part ? Ah, 'tis little indeed you men can know of the depths of a woman's heart ! " Charlie, don't think me unwomanly, dear — unwomanly and weak — Because I give a voice to the love I know you would never speak ! 'Tis better so than that both our lives should be forlorn and lone; And so, — if you care to have me, dear, — you may take me for your own I" 148 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. What need to tell of my answer, Jack, — of my heart's ecstatic bliss, — As my lips sought hers, and we seal'd our love with a first warm passionate kiss ? While my silent thanks went up to God on the Jacob's Ladder of prayer, — The God who had brighten'd my life with a joy that seem'd too great to bear ! II. And so we were married — Bessie and I — and every hour of my life I'd cause to bless the happy day that brought me my darling wife : Such a true and tender helpmeet, she — so patient, and ready, and kind, She almost made me think at times 'twas a blessing to be blind ! She came with gold in her hand, sweet wife ; but God knows that, far above The home and the wealth she brought, I prized the richer wealth of her love ; And she tried to persuade me that I help'd to pay our way, you see. By the stories and rhymings, grave and gay, she loved to scribble for me. And children were born to us, — first, a girl, who'd her mother's eyes, they said : 'Twas then that I wept my saddest tears since Bessie and I were wed ; For when they laid tlie wee mite in my arms, and spoke of its baby grace, I felt it hard I should never look in my little darling's face; THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 149 That I never in all the years to come her gentle face should see, Ne'er look in her laughing baby eyes as I danced her on my knee ; Nor mark, as the happy years roll'd on, each varying change and mood, — The baby pranks, and the childish grace, and the blush of maidenhood. Tlien our boy was born, and my life stood still, with a sudden horror and fright ! — Jack, old man, shall I ever forget that trying awesome night, When I paced this room here, through and through, with a groping, helpless dread. While my darling's precious life up-stairs was hanging on a thread ? But God heard my prayers — the blind man's prayers — and spared her to me, my sweet. And our home grew merry Avith cradle songs and the patter of little feet ; With the patter of little baby feet, that would toddle up to my chair, To lay a little soft head on my knee, that loved to nestle there. So the years pass'd on, and even life now often secm'd hard to me ; But when I sat in the eventide, with my little ones on my knee. While Bessie would sing us some quaint old song of love or of doughty deed, I'd tliink how good and pleasant it was to the life I had thou ah t to lead 150 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. Let's see, 'tis a twelvemontli ago since first I noticed, with strange surprise, That the darkness seem'd to grow lighter like at times to my poor blind eyes, And a yearning, passionate, trembling hope crept into my heart and brain ; But never a word I said to the wife, lest my thoughts should be false and vain : Never a word I said to my love, lest her heart should be overcast, To know I had cherished a hope like this, to llnd it a myth at last ; But I quietly told my story to Will, as we sauntered up and down The garden, and we two thought of a plan for getting mc up to town. Then I spoke to the wife of a book I'd plann'd, that I fancied would answer well. But I wanted some talk Avitli a firm in town, to see if they thought 'twould sell ; And Willie had promised to go with me and see nie through it, I said. For I knew that she couldn't leave the bairns, or I'd like her to go instead. She tried to persuade me from it at first, and dolefully prophesied All sorts of accidents and mishaps, and then she pleaded and tried To get mc to take her with us too ; but at last we settled it right, And Willie was pledged Again and again not to trust mc out of his sight. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 151 So wft went to town for a week or so, aud you'll easily understand My fluttering hopes, and doubts, and fears, now the test was near at hand : Enough, that one wondrous day, Saul-like, the scales dropp'd off from my sight, And I fainted in Willie's brotherly arms, in a sudden burst o' liglit I 1 was dazed and giddy-like for a while, but I soon got round again ; And O, the grateful, passionate joy that throbb'd in my every vein ! Dear God, what a happy world it was — how winsome and fair to see ! — The very stones of the London streets sccm'd beautiful to me I And deep, deep down in my heart of hearts there nestled this crowning bliss : " 0, what Avill she feel, my Bessie, my love, when she comes to hear of this ? the tears of joy, the clasping arms, the bonnie head on my breast. When I come to tell her the glorious newsj my beautiful, my best!" We sat far into that happy night, I and dear old Will — Ah, the rose-like spell of those rich deep hours is a fragrant memory still ! — And wc talk'd of the dear ones down at home, and the story we had to tell. And the wondrous love of the Master above, who '* doeth all things well." 152 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. We spoke of Bessie again and again, and always with moisten'd eyes, And we felt 'twould be best to spare my love too sudden a glad surprise ; So I was to keep on the old blue " specs " by way of a loving ruse, And to patiently bide the fitting time for gently breaking the news. You can easily guess what my feelings were when I got back home at last ; And how, as I trod on the threshold here, my heart beat thick and fast ; And how I had nearly told her all in a burst o' passionate bliss, As my darling flew to welcome me home with a loving clasp and kiss. Dear heart, 'twas the same sweet bonnie face, nay bonnier than before. With the old soft charm in the lustrous eyes that had won my heart of yore ! Sweet eyes, that were moist with tender tears, that it went to my heart to see : God knows that I never knew till then the depths of her love for me ! She put my hat and my stick away, and with tender and wifely care Led me, who sccm'd so helpless and dark, to my old accustom'd chair ; And there she left me a lllhiutc or so, with a kiss and a gentle word, While she ran to bring the children down ; and my heart was strangely stiri'd THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 153 As I look'd about at the pleasant room, and out on the gaixlca view, That all sccm'd so familiarly strange, so old, and yet so new ; And I dropp'd back into my chair once more, with a longing akin to pain. As I heard the children come skurrying down to welcome mc home ajrain. •o' Jack, there are times and feelings, old man, that language can never paint ; And words, when I speak of that croAvning scene, seem Aveak, and feeble, and faint, — Feeble indeed to show one tithe of my bosom's passionate swell ; But I daresay you can picture it all far better than words could tell. 1 could scarcely see them at first for the tears that dimm'd my yearning sight. As they ran to meet me, with eager joy, my younglings bonnie and bright ; And then they clamber'd up on my knees, with merry welcoming cries, And I look'd for the first time in my life in my little darlinga' eyes ! And what did I see? A wee •Av\ face, bricrhl, and casor, and fair. With her mother's lips, and lustrous eyes, and ripple of golden hair, And a darling rogue of a baby-boy with merry black eyes ; and, ah, They both were pleading with lips and eyes for " A story, a story, papa ! " lo4 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. "What sort of a story, my clears ? " I said ; "a fairy story, cli ? Well, come, as you've been good children, I hear, I must humour you to-day : Once on a time, in a beautiful wood there lived a fairy, you know ; I couldn't tell you the year, of course, but 'tis ever so long ago. "And all the people they loved her so, this fairy in the wood, For she never was cross and proud, my dear.-, but kind, and gentle, and good ; And she always was happiest Avhcn she'd made some neigh- bour hapi^y and bright — Unlike some little children I know, who tease, and quarrel, and fight ! "Not you, my dear ? Why, of course not, child ! Did yoit fancy I should suppose That Edie and Sid would ever do such naughty things as those ? 'Tis only bad little boys and girls that plague, and quarrel, and shout ; But now for this beautiful fairy, dears, I was telling you about. " AVliat was she like ? Why, Edie child, what a little plague you are ! Well, I fancy — I only fancy, you know — she was something like mannna : She'd nice brown eyes, and — let me think — yes, beautiful golden hair ; And lier face was quite a treat to see, it luok'd so pleasant and fair. TUE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 155 " Now ill this wood a hermit dwelt, in a cottage lone and poor ; He was blind, like poor papa, my dears, and his heart was heavy and sore. Till the fairy found him out one day, as he sat in his lonely cot, And thought, ' Poor man, I must do my best to brighten and cheer his lot ! ' " So she'd come and chat, and tell him the news, till he grew quite merry and bright, And she gave him all that she could — food, gold, and every- thing but sight ; And she brought little children to [)]iiy with him — such nice little children, miss — And he'd hear their prattle and tell them tales, and pull their cars — like this ! " "Well, the fairy had a brother, my dears, who was quite a giant, 'tis said, And could do, O my, such wonderful things when he took it into his head ; And when his fairy sister was out on an errand of good one day, He went alone to the blind man's hut, and gently led him away. " He led him away to a secret cave, where a mighty genii dwells, And with curious bottles, and drugs, and books, works wonderful cures and spells ; And he touched the man with his magic wand on his poor, dark sightless eyes, And he saw — the joy! — he saw again the beautiful fields and skies ! 156 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. " He was cured, my dears — he was blind no more ; and he thought, with a happy smile, ' I won't let her know it all at once, but keep it secret awhile ;' For the dearest thought of his heart was this, ' How glad the fairy will be, And what fun I shall have with the children now when they come to play with me ! ' " Well, he found the fairy waiting at home, and she started up from her chair, With her face all flush'd and eager-like, as mamma's is over there ; And she press'd her hands, as mamma does now, to her throbbing brow, just here — Why, Bessie, my darling, what is it now ? how you frighten a fellow, dear ! " For, ah, she had read my story right, and was sobbing on my breast, With her arms about the children and me, my fairy bonnie and blest ; And I clasped her to my heart of hearts, while my brimming eyes o'crran — Tlic truest helpmeet, the sweetest wife, Gud ever gave to man. 1 told her all as she lay on my breast, hand lovingly clasp'd in hand, And then the dear children had to be kiss'd, and made to understand ; And I had to tell who Edie was like, with her mother's eyes, dear heart. And whether little Syddic was not my very counterpart ! THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 157 And of course I had to be taken out around our little demesne, Wliei-e all its beauties were pointed out and admired again and aGfain ; And tlien, in the midst of a merry laugh or a lightly-utter'd jest, Poor Bessie would quite break down again, and be weeping on my bi'east ! Talk of the — hem ! why there slic is ! — that's her knock, as sure as a gun ! Now you take your cue from me, old man, and I'll show you a little fun : " Bessie, my dear, this gentleman here is a very old friend of mine — ]Mr. Smith, Mrs. C. ; Mrs. C, Mr. Smith— in the briefless- barrister line ! " Ila, ha ! why, where is your memory, dear ? As the singers say, ' Try back.' • Have you quite forgotten our old playmate, the illustrious Dr. Jack ? Hullo ! what now 1 Well, upon my word, this really is a surprise ! — Kissing another fellow, by Jove, under my very eyes ! " Only look at her now, old man — there's a picture for you, eh? Why, she's getting younger, and rosier, and handsomer every day! Come, get us some tea, there's a dear good girl, and don t stand laughing there. And we'll make it a jolly meeting to-night^ with Dr. Jack in the chair !" Edwin Coi.i.ki^ [Uy kind pcnnission of Mos«rs. Cliatto aivl WimUi-!.] 158 THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. IX THE MIRROR. (-WRITTEX AFTER A DANCE.) I look'd in the glimmering mirror In the mingled gleam and gloom, And I saw her standing beyond me At the door of the lonely room. For all the guests had departed, And the dawn rose grey and chill : And the liglit of the lamp was dying, And the sweet dance-music was still. Alone by the doorway I saw her, In her soft white shimmerinor dress. In the gleam of her maiden beauty, And her soul's white loveliness. I pass'd by the glimmering mirror, But she did not hear me pass : And I only saw her reflected. Like a dream, in the gleam of the glass. A pale soft dream in the mirror: A dim face, far Avithdrawn : A white-robed form in the starlight, Like the spirit of light and dawn. And lo! as I breathed and watch'd her, I saw the sweet vision decay, And her face, in my breath on the mirror. Faintly fading away. And I turn'd aside for an instant : And lo! from the mirror'd pane My breath had pass'd, and I saw her, Like a .spirit glimmer again. THE MODERN ELOCUTIONIST. 159 And I thought, as I watched her shining, When the heart's brief music is dumb, There are shining souls that await us In the strange bright worhl to come. And I thought the world was the chamber : And the gleaming mirror was death : And I, as I stood before it, Was the shadow of a breath. I breathed — a shadow — before it, A shadow — a breathing clod ! And I thought my darling beyond it Was the shining angel of God. Standing, Avhite-robed, at the doorway Of heaven to welcome and bless, In the gleam of her maiden beauty. And her soul's white loveliness. And oh, the day will be gracious — For on earth we are parted wide — AYhen the mirror of Death is broken. And we meet at the other side. And I hope I shall see her hereafter As I saw her there by the door — Not changed — but the same for ever, And ever, and evermore. For I know no face in heaven To me will lovelier seem, Thau hers which I saw reflected In the gleam of the glass, like a dream. Samukl K. Coavan. [From " Kottabos.'— T. C.P., Ili'nry Tevm, ISTS.— By liin