UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES UWIVEKSITY of CALIFORNIA UJS ANGELES CHOICE READINGS STANDARD AND POPULAE AUTHORS EMBRACING A COMPLETE CLASSIFICATION OF SELECTIONS, A COMPREHENSIVE DIAGRAM OF THE PRINCIPLES OP VOCAL EXPRESSION, AND INDEXES TO THE CHOICEST READINGS SHAKESPEARE, THE BIBLE, AND THE HYMN-BOOKS Compiled and Arranged by ROBERT I. FULTON, A.M. Dean of the School of Oratory and Professor of Elocution AND Oratory in the Ohio Wesleyan University THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD, A.M. Professor of Elocution and Oratory in the University of Michigan GINN AND COMPANY boston • NEW YORK • CHICAGO • LONDON ATLANTA • DALLAS • COLUMBUS • SAN FRANCISCO 150309 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1884, 1912, by R. I. FULTON AND T. C. TRUEBLOOD in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 225.11 ^ht iatf)enaeum 3^resii GINN AND COMPANY • PRO- PRIETORS • BOSTON • U.S.A. T/V TO AND OUR PUPILS This Volume is Affectionately Inscribed BY THE COMPILERS. PREFACE. "TN publishing this volume we make no apology for -■- its appearance among so many similar books now in the market. We believe there is a demand for it in the place it attempts to supply. Some features are novel. Many selections are new; others are old and standard. We invite a careful examination of the class of pieces employed, their arrangement under the four- teen divisions, the Diagram of the Elements of Vocal Expression, and the Indexes to Readings from Shake- speare, the Bible, and the Hymn-books. The pieces have been selected with regard to their literary merit and their adaptation to elocutionary pur- poses. The book contains only those selections which, if correctly delivered, will prove entertaining and in- structive as public and private readings. The fourteen classes or divisions are comprehensive, covering the entire range of thought, and at once indicate the character of the selections placed under them. To be sure, many shades of sentiment often occur in one piece ; but it is believed that each selection, as a wliole^ is correctly classified, so that the classification will be a safe guide to the pupil. The Diagrams of the Princi- ples, wliich are based upon the philosophy of Dr. James Hush, will prove valuable to any student of the art of expression, but they are intended more particularly to assist our own pupils in the interpretation and correct reading of the contents of tliis volume, and also to accompany '•'' Fulto7i avid Truehlood's New Chart of the Principles of JSxpression.^^ The Indexes are a feature VI PREFACE. which has not, we believe, been presented in any other book of readings. By them we are enabled to use a wide field of matter without reprinting so much that is already published in a cheap form and is universally accessible. In short, the book is intended for use in our growing profession, in social and reading circles, and in schools and colleges ; and we leave it upon its own merits to find its proper place in public favour. In compiling we have drawn from a number of sources, all of which have, in some form, been duly recognized. We here acknowledge our indebtedness for the valuable criticisms and suggestions of the Rev. Henry N. Hudson, the well-known Shakespearian, who has revised and ap- proved the selections, and has himself furnished some of them, and has also superintended and corrected the printing throughout ; which of itself should be endorse- ment enough to satisfy the most critical. We also wish to acknowledge the courtesy extended to us by the following well-known publishing firms in allowing us the use of selections of which they hold the copyright : — D. Appleton & Co., New York ; Clark & Maynard, New York , S. C. Griggs & Co., Chicago • Harper Brothers, New York j Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston ; J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia ; Robert Clark & Co., Cincinnati. F. AND T. Kansas City, Mo., July 24, 1884. ANALYSIS OF THE CONTENTS. PAGES. I, Narrative, Descriptive, Didactic 1-94 II. Love, Beauty, Tranquillity 05-124 III. Grave, Solemn, Serious, Tathetic 12-5-189 IV. Reverence, Devotion, Adoration 190-207 V. Grand, Bold, Sublime 208-225 VI. Patriotic, Senatorial, Oratorical 226-307 VII. Invective, Vehement, Indignant 308-327 VIII. Lively, Joyous, Gay 328-346 IX. Humorous, Comic .347-41.3 X. Dialectic : Cockney 414-419 French 420-427 German 427-430 Irish 430-444 Italian 444-449 Negro 449-458 Scotch 459-465 Spanish 465-470 XL Onomatopoetic 471-487 XII. For Young Folks 490-528 XIII. Dramatic, not in the Drama 529-585 XIV. Scenes from Popular Dramas : The Hunchback 586-602 Ingomar 603-619 Leah the Forsaken 619-623 Mary Stuart 62-3-629 Richelieu 630-633 School for Scandal 6-34-641 Virginius 641-657 Ion 657-670 Don Carlos 670-680 Index to Readings from Shakespeare 681 « " The Bible 694 « " The Hymn-Books 698 OOJ^TEJ^TS. Diagram of the Elements of Vocal Expression xvii I. NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, DIDACTIC. page. Adam's Account of His Creation Milton. 2 Advice to Young Lawyers Story. 4 Alpine Minstrelsy Schiller. 39 Bee-Hunt in the Far West Irving. 12 Blind Fiddler, The Wordsworth. 26 Blind Highland Boy, The Wordsworth. 69 Christmas Eve in the Olden Time Scott. 29 Child's Dream of a Star, A Dickens. 5 Conscience, A Good Anon. 15 Crusoe's Fight with Wolves Defoe. 83 Destruction of Pompeii Lijtton. 9 Edwin and Angelina Goldsmith. 34 Elegy in a Country Churchyard Grai/. 16 Eve, The Creation of Milton. 3 First Settler's Story, The Carleton. 20 Friday's Frolic with a Bear Defoe. 79 Happiness of Animals Cowper. 93 History Fronde. 27 Jennie M'Neal, The Ride of Carleton. 44 Knowledge and Wisdom Cowper. 1 Lady Clara Vere de Vere Tennyson. 88 Legend of Bregenz, A Procter. 40 Maud MuUer Whittier. 47 Mona's Waters Anun. 51 Morning Webster. 77 No Sects in Heaven Cleaveland. 31 Ode to the Passions .... Collins. 55 Order for a Picture, An Cary. 58 Our Travelled Parson Carleton. 90 X CONTENTS. PAGE. Painter of Seville, The Wilson. 61 Potency of English Words Mclijtosh. 66 Scott, Sir Walter, and His Dogs Irving. 75 n. LOVE, BEAUTY, TRANQUILLITY. Astrological Tower, The Schiller. 113 Bridge, The Longfellow. 107 Children, The Dickens. 109 Genevieve Coleridge. 95 Graham, Mr., and Lady Clementina MacDoriald. 99 Immortality of Love Southey. Ill Lost Chord, A Procter. 114 Memory Garjield. 115 Memory Wordsworth. 123 Over the River Priest. 117 Pictures of Memory Gary. 119 Sandalphon Longfellow. 120 Seen, Loved, Wedded Wordsworth. 98 Tears, Idle Tears Tennyson. 117 Tranquillity, Ode to Coleridge. 122 in. GRAVE, SOLEMN, SERIOUS, PATHETIC, Angels of Buena Vista, The Whittier. 125 Blacksmith's Story, The Olive. 136 Christmas Day Richards. 134 Curfew Must Not Ring To-Night Thorpe. 143 Death of Mr. Bertram, The Scott. 146 Forty Years Ago Anon. 159 Good Son, The Dana. 171 Hermit, The Beattie. 131 How He Saved St. Michael's Anon. 139 Isle of Long Ago, The Taylor. 156 Ladder of St. Augustine, The Longfellow. 132 Leonard and Margaret Southey. 165 Lucy Bertram and Dominie Sampson Scott. 150 Lucy Gray Wordsworth. 183 Michael and His Son Wordsworth. 162 CONTENTS. XI PAGE. Nearer Home Gary. 161 Ocean Burial, The Saunders. 169 Our Folks , Lynn. 185 Our Willie Anon. 158 Pauper's Death-Bed, The Southey. 157 Poor Little Joe Arkuright. 187 Rivermouth Rocks Whittier. 177 Song of the Mystic Ryan. 181 Stability of Virtue, The Marshall. 168 Thanatopsis Bryant. 128 Widow and Her Son, The Irving. 173 Winifreda > Anon. 135 IV. REVERENCE, DEVOTION, ADORATION. Break, Break, Break Tennyson. 198 Cato's Soliloquy Addison. 190 Closing Year, The Prentice. 193 Devotional Incitements Wordsioorth. 195 God Dershavin. 199 God's First Temples Bryant. 202 Hymn, A Coleridge. 192 Inspiration of the Bible Winthrop. 197 Primrose of the Rock, The Wordsworth. 206 Supreme Being, To the Michael Angela. 191 V. GRAND, BOLD, SUBLIME. Apollo, Ode to Keats. 220 Apostrophe to the Ocean Byron. 208 God in Nature , Wordsivorth. 224 Hymn to Mont Blanc Coleridge. 212 Hymn to the Night Longfelloiu. 210 Launching of the Ship Longfellow. 218 Marco Bozzaris Hallech. 214 St. Peter's Church at Rome Byron. 222 Vision of Mist-Splendours, A Wordsworth. 210 Xll CONTENTS. VI. PATRIOTIC, SENATORIAL, ORATORICAL.. The Seven Great Oratoes of the World. page. Fortune of ^schines Demosthenes. 226 Panegyric on Julius Caesar Cicero. 230 Divine Providence in Nature Chrysostom. 233 Eulogium on St. Paul Bossuet. 236 Against the Stamp-Act Chatham. 238 Impeachment of Hastings Finished Burke. 242 Supposed Speech of John Adams Webster. 245 Ambition of a Statesman Clay. 298 Appeal in Behalf of Ireland Prentiss. 296 Charge of the Light Brigade Tennyson. 307 Composed at Cora Linn , . . . Wordsn-orth. 249 Eulogy on Lafayette , Everett. 283 Flag, The American Drake. 270 Horatius at the Bridge Macauluy. 256 Independence Bell Anon. 267 Liberty and Union Webster. 266 Lochiel's Warning Campbell. 288 Massachusetts and South Carolina Webster. 304 " Matches and Overmatches " Webster. 280 Our Duties to the Republic Story. 264 Patriotism Scott. 251 Paul Revere 's Ride Longfellow. 252 Pitt's Reply to Walpole 262 Reply to Mr. Corry Grattan. 274 Reputation, Value of Charles Phillips. 300 Rienzi's Address to the Romans Mitford. 286 Rising of 1776, The Read. 272 Speech in the Virginia Convention Henry. 290 Speech of Vindication Emmett. 293 Toussaint L'Overture Wendell Phillips. 302 Walpole's Attack on Pitt 260 Wisdom Dearly Purchased Burke. 277 VTT. INVECTIVE, VEHEMENT, INDIGNANT. Arraignment of Ministers Burke. 318 Catiline's Defiance Croly. 308 CONTENTS. Xm PAGE. Fraudulent Party Outcries Webster. 324 Horrors of Savage Warfare Chatham. 315 Indignation of a Spaniard Wordsworth. 327 Marniion and Douglas Scott. 312 Revolutionary Desperadoes Mackintosh. 321 Seminole's Reply, The Patten. 314 Spartacus to the Gladiators Anon. 310 vni. LIVELY, JOYOUS, GAY. Boys, The Holmes. 339 Daffodils, The Wordsworth. 330 Expostulation and Reply Wordsworth. 341 Fish- Women at Calais Wordsworth. 346 I'm With You Once Again Morris. 334 L'Allegro Milton. 328 Last Leaf, The Holmes. 335 Morning Ride, A Anon. 333 New Year, The Tennyson. 345 Pleasure-Boat, The Dana. 343 Psalm of Life, A Lonyfelloiv. 338 Song of the Brook Tennyson. 336 Young Lochinvar Scott. 331 IX. HUMOROUS, COMIC. Aunt Tabitha Holmes. 347 Awfully Lovely Philosophy Anon. 348 Bald-Headed Man, The Anon. 350 Betsey and I Are Out Carleton. 409 Brakeman at Church, The Burdeite. 353 Champion Snorer, The Anon. 357 Courtship under Difficulties Anon. 359 Darius Green and His Flying-Machine Trowbridye. 364 Death of a Mad Dog Goldsmith. 408 How Betsy and I Made Up Carleton. 411 How " Ruby" Played Baghy. 371 How the Old Horse Won the Bet Holmes. 389 Our Guides Twain. 2!lb Xiv CONTENTS. FAOB, Pickwick's Proposal, Mr Dickens. 379 Pyramus and Thisbe Saxe. 386 Reflections in the Pillory Lamb. 404 Sam Weller's Valentine Dickens. 382 Tom's Little Star , . Foster. 395 Too Late for the Train Anon. 400 DIALECTIC. Cockney. Lord Dundreary Proposing SkiU. 414 The Swell Kyle. 417 French. Frenchman and Flea-Powder Anon. 420 A Frenchman on Macbeth Anon. 421 Monsieur Tonson Anon. 422 German. Leedle Yawcob Strauss .Adams. 427 " Sockery " Setting a Hen Anon. 429 Irish. Connor Anon. 430 Miss Malony on the Chinese Dodge. 437 Jimmy Butler and the Owl Anon 440 Italian. A Senator Entangled De MiUe. 444 Negro. Christmas-Night in the Quarters Russell. 449 The First Banjo Russell. 453 Uncle DanTs Apparition Clemens and Warner. 456 Scotch. Charlie Maehree Hoppin. 459 Cuddle Doon Anderson. 460 John Anderson, My Jo Bums. 461 Jeanie Morrison Motherwell. 462 Spanish. Magdalena , or, the Spanish Duel Waller. 465 CONTENTS. XV XI. ONOMATOPOETIC. VASE. Bella, The Poe. 471 Bugle Song Tennyson. 473 Charcoal Man, The Trowbridge. 474 Creeds of the Bells Bungay. 476 Drifting Read. 487 Evening at the Farm Trowbridge. 478 Last Hymn, The Farmingham. 480 Little Telltale, The Anon. 481 Robert of Lincoln Bryant. 483 ■"Rock of Ages" Rice. 485 xn. FOR YOUNG FOLKS. Annie and Willie's Prayer Sno%v. 490 Better in the Morning Coan. 521 Butterfly's Ball, The Roscoe. 515 Dead Doll, The Vandergrijl. 493 Evening with Helen's Babies Habberton. 495 In School Days Whittier. 609 Katie Lee and Willie Grey Hunt. 497 Keeping His Word Anon. 499 Leap for Life, A Colton. 501 Little Rocket's Christmas Brown. 502 Love and Prayer Coleridge. 528 Margaret Gray Lamb. 518 No Flowers on Papa's Grave C. E. L. Holmes. 514 Papa's Letter Anon. 507 Rats Loudon. 527 Smack in School, The Palmer. 517 Somebody's Mother Anon. 511 Tame Hares Cowper. 523 To Whom shall We give Thanks ? Anon. 512 XIII. DRAMATIC, NOT IN THE DRAMA. Beautiful Snow The Watson. 529 Bernardo del Carpio Hemans. 531 Claudius and Cjoithia Thompson, bll Coxmt Candaspina's Standard Boker. 533 XVI CONTENTS. PAGE. Famine, The Longfellow. 536 Gambler's Wife, The Coates. 543 Gone witli a Handsomer Man Carleton. 569 John Maynard, The Hero-Pilot Goiigh. 645 Johnny Bartholomew English. 584 Lady Clare Tennyson. 546 Maclaine's Child Mackay. 549 Mother and Poet Mrs. Browning. 652 Parrhasius and the Captive Willis. 555 Polish Boy, The Stephens. 557 Scotland's Maiden Martyr Anon. 582 Searching for the Slain A7ion. 575 Shelly, Kate , Hall. 541 Vagabonds, The Trowbridge. 572 Virginia : a Lay of Ancient Rome Macaulay. 561 Wreck of the Hesperus, The Longfellow. 566 Wounded Miller. 564 XIV. SCENES PROM POPULAR DRAMAS. The Hunchback, Act I. Scene II Knowles. ActL Scene III " -Act IV, Scene II " Act V. Scene I Ingomar, Act I. Scene I Halm. Act II. Scene I " Act IV. Scene I " Leah, the Forsaken, Act IV. Scene II Daly. Mary Stuart, Act III. Scene TV Schiller. Richelieu, Act IV. Scene I Lytton. The Scliool for Scandal, Act II. Scene I Sheridan. Act III. Scene I " Virginius, Act I. Scene II Knowles. Act II. Scene 11 " Act IV. Scene II Ion ; a Tragedy, Act I. Scene I Talfourd. Act I. Scene II Don Carlos, Act III. Scene IX Schiller. Index to Scenes from Shakespeare 681 Index to Readings from tlie Bible 694 Index to Hymns 698 Alphabetical Index of Selections 703 DIAGRAM OP THE ELEMENTS OF VOCAL EXPRESSION. [Note. — The object of tliis Diagram is to present at a glance all the Principles of vocal expression, and to show in a brief and convenient form the kinds of thought they express. There is no attempt here to give all the sentiments expressed by each Element, but only such repre- sentative words are used as will direct the thoughts of the pupil into the right channel. The different shades and changes of sentiment, as they occur in a selection, will at once be understood by the context ; and, by reference to tliis Diagram, the student can easily determine the Elements required for a correct and natural expression.] bJ hi a. QUANTITY . 6. PAUSE C MOVEMENT d. RHYTHMUS. LONG. MODERATE L SHORT INTERSYLLABIC PROSODIAL . . RHETORICAL . . . GRAMMATICAL . EMOTIONAL VERY RAPID RAPID MODERATE . SLOW VERY SLOW . {Pathos. Sorrow. Solemnity. Sub- limity. Awe. Reverence. Adora- tion. Apostrophe. Commanding. Calling. [■ Narrative, didactic, bold, and lofty -j thought. Secrecy. Alarm. Cour- (. age. Grandeur, rjoy. Mirth. Laughter. Exciting < appeal. Impatience. Detestation. L Fright. Anger. Contempt. Used between syllables of very emphatic words for articulative enforcement. ("Used to mark the prosody of verse . < only when the emjjhaeis and (. measure of speech coincide. rUeed in phrasing spoken discourse , . < to make the sense apparent to (. the ear. {Used to show the grammatical con- struction of written discourse, and represented to the eye by the punctuation marks, f Used before and after a word, or < group of words, expressing very { strong emotion. f Ecstatic joy. Laughter. Fright. •^ Lyric description. Wrath. Anxi- [ ety. Excitement. ("Gladness. Exciting appeal. Mirth. < Animated description. Anger. [ Defiance. Alarm. C Ordinary conversation. Didactic ■I and oratorical thought. Grandeur. [ Seriousness. Secrecy. Hate. ["Gravity. Solemn narration. Pathos. < Reverence. Awe. Sublimity. [ Command. f Melancholy. Gloom. Despair, -j Adoration. Profound repose. (. Deepest awe and sublimity XVlll DIAGRAM OF THE f NOKMAI. . r a. \ OROTUND 1 ORAL, . . . . ASPIRATE . b. ■[ GUTTURAL,. PECTORAL. . NASAL, . . . FALSETTO Elevating and Ennobling Thought. Secret and Malignant Thought. BUBLESQUt AND MiMIC THOUGHT. a. FORM . f EFFUSIVE EXPULSIVE ii^ORMAL .... Solemnity. Tranquillity. Pathos. Orotund . . . Reverence. Sublimity. Devotion. Oral Sicliuess. Feebleness. Weakness. Aspirate . . . Stillness. Secrecy. Suppressed fear. Pectoral . . . Deepest solemnity, awe, and adoration. C Normal .... Conversation. Didactic thought. Gladness I Orotund . . . Grandeur. Patriotism. Oratorical thought Oral Languor. Fatigue. Exhaustion. Aspirate . . . Sudden fear. Suppressed command. Guttural . . Impatience. Scorn. Hate. Revenge. Pectoral . . . Dread. Amazement. Horror. f Normal . EXPLGSIVE^OnoTUN^D. . Gaiety. Ecstatic joy. Laughier. . Courage. Defiance. Alarm. . Terror. Intense fear and horror. I. Guttural . . Violent hate. Anger. Rage. h. DEGREE-^ IMPASSIONED ENERGETIC . MODERATE Ecstatic joy. Rapture. Shouting. Courage. Defi- ance. Alarm. Intense fear. Terror. Anger. Loathing. Laughter. Gaity. Bold and lofty appeal. Grandeur. Fear. Suppressed command. Contempt. Lyric description. : Narration. Description. Didactic thought. Pathos. Solemnity. Sublimity. Devotion. Secrecy. Despair. Scorn. Seriousness. Tranquillity. Fatigue. Weakness. Feebleness. Stillness. Awe. Profound repose. m A run a t ) Didactic thought. Patriotism. Impatience. Secrecy. KAJJlCAL, j Dread. Mirth. Rapture. Intense fear. Anger. Surprise. Resolution. Determination. Stubborn, ness. Revenge. Hate. Scorn. Horror. Rage. Rebuke. L SUBDUED C. STRESS COMPOUND TTRT?TnsrT J Falling Ditone . ( CUKKJiJN 1 < Rising Tritone . f Falling Tritone [alternation . . . fUsed in connection with the differ- J ent degrees for giving variety to I the succession of speech-notes, as (. they occur iii all styles of thought f Triad . CADENCE i Duad Rising Falling , First . . I Used when the last three syllables . \ of the sentence are about equally ( emphatic S L'^sed when the antepenultimate syl- ■ ) lable of the sentence is accented. I Used when the penultimate syllable ■ ) of the sentence is accented. (Used when the ultimate syllable Second . . .1 of the sentence is moderately ' accented. (Used when the ultimate syllable of the closing .Monad } word is heuvily accented, or when the sentence I ends in a very emphatic monosyllable. Choice Readikgs. I. NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, DIDACTIC KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM. William Cowper. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men, Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass. The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smooth'd and squared and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn 'd so much ; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells, By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. Some to the fascination of a name Surrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the style Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them, by a tune entranced ; While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought. And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice, The total grist unsifted, husks and all. But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course CHOICE READINGS. Defies the check of Whiter, haunts of deer, And sheepwalks populous with bleathig lambs, And lanes in which the primrose ere her time Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, Not shy as in the world, and to be won By slow solicitation, seize at once The roving thought, and fix it on themselves. ADAM'S ACCOUNT OF HIS CREATION. John Milton. For man to tell how human life began, Is hard ; for who himself beginning knew? Desire with thee still longer to converse Induced me. As new-waked from soundest sleep, Soft on the flowery herb I found me laid, In balmy sweat ; which with his beams the Sun Soon dried, and on the reeking moisture fed. Straight towards heaven my wondering eyes I turn'd, And gazed awhile the ample sky ; till, raised B}^ quick instinctive motion, up I sprung, As thitherward endeavouring, and upright Stood on my feet. About me round I saw Hill, dale, and shady woods, and sunny plains. And liquid lapse of murmuring streams ; by these, Creatures that lived and moved, and walk'd or flew ; Birds on the branches warbling ; all things smiled ; With fragrance and with joy ray heart o'erflow'd. Myself I then perused, and limb by limb Survey 'd ; and sometimes went, and sometimes ran With supple joints, as livel}' vigour led : But who I was, or where, or from what cause. Knew not. To speak I tried, and forthwith spake ; My tongue obey'd, and readily could name ADAM DESCRIBING THE CREATION OF EVE. Whate'er I saw. " Thou Sun," said I, " fair light, And thou, enlighten'd Earth, so fresh and gay ; Ye hills and dales ; ye rivers, woods, and plains ; And ye that live and move, fair creatures ! tell, Tell, if ye saw, how came I thus? how here?" ADAM DESOEIBING THE OEEATION OF EVE. John Milton. Mine eyes he closed, but open left the cell Of fancy, my internal sight, by which Abstract, as in a trance, methought I saw, Though sleeping, where I lay, and saw the shape Still glorious before whom awake I stood ; Who, stooping, open'd my left side, and took From thence a rib, with cordial spirits warm, And life-blood streaming fresh ; wide was the wound. But suddenly with flesh fill'd up and heal'd : The rib he form'd and fashion'd with his hands ; Under his forming hands a creature grew, Man-like, but diflferent sex, so lovely fair, That what seem'd fair in all the world seem'd now Mean, or in her summ'd up, in her contain'd, And in her looks ; which from that time infused Sweetness into m}- heart unfelt before, And into all things, from her air, inspu'ed The spirit of love and amorous delight. She disappear'd, and left me dark ; I waked To find her, or for ever to deplore Her loss, and other pleasures all abjure ; When out of hope, behold her, not far off, Such as I saw her in my dream, adorn'd With all that Earth or Heaven could bestow To make her amiable. On she came. Led by her heavenly Maker, though unseen, CHOICE READINGS. And guided by his voice ; nor uninform'd Of nuptial sanctity and marriage rites : Griace was in all her steps, Heaven in her eye, In every gesture dignity and love. I, overjoy'd, could not forbear aloud : " This turn hath made amends ; Thou hast fulfill'd Thy words, Creator bounteous and benign, Giver of all things fair ! but fairest this Of all Thy gifts ; nor enviest. I now see Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, myself Before me : Woman is her name, of man Extracted : for this cause he shall forego Father and mother, and to his wife adhere ; And they shall be one flesh, one heart, one soul.*' ADYIOE TO YOUNG LAWYERS. Judge Story. Whene'er you speak, remember every cause Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws ; Pregnant in matter, in expression brief, Let every sentence stand with bold relief; On trifling points nor time nor talents waste, A sad offense to learning and to taste ; Nor deal with pompous phrase, nor e'er suppose Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose. Loose declamation may deceive the crowd. And seem more striking as it grows more loud ; But sober sense rejects it with disdain, As nought but empty noise, and weak as vain. The froth of words, the schoolboy's vain parade Of books and cases, — all his stock in trade, — The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play Of low attorneys, strung in long array, A CHILD S DREAM OF A STAR. Th' unseemly jest, the petulant replj', That chatters on, and cares not how or why, Strictly avoid ; — unworthy themes to scan, The}- sink the speaker and disgrace the man ; Like the false lights by flying shadows cast, Scarce seen when present, and forgot when past. Begin with dignity ; expound with grace Each ground of reasoning in its time and place ; Let order reign throughout ; each topic touch, Nor urge its power too little nor too much ; Give each strong thought its most attractive view. In diction clear and yet severel}- true ; And, as the arguments in splendour grow. Let each reflect its light on all below : When to the close arrived, make no delays By petty flourishes or verbal plays. But sum the whole in one deep, solemn strain, Like a strong current hastening to the main. A CHILD'S DEEAM OF A STAR. Charles Dickens. There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister who was a child too, and his constant companion. They wondered at the beauty of flowers; they won- dered at the height and blueness of the sky ; they won- dered at the depth of the water ; they wondered at the goodness and power of God, who made them lovely. They used to say to one another sometimes : Suppos- ing all the children upon Earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry? They believed they would be sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful CHOICE READINGS. streams that gambol clown the hillsides are the children of the water, and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night must surely be the children of the stars ; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more- There was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a window. Whoever saw it first, cried out, " I see the star." And after that, they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such friends with it that, before laying down in their bed, they always looked out once again to bid it good night; and when ihej were turning around to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star ! " But while she was still very young, O, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the window at night, and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and, when he saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, "I see the star! " and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, '"' God bless my brother and the star ! " And so the time came, all too soon, when the child looked out all alone, and when there was no face on the bed, and when there was a grave among the graves, not there before, and when the star made long rays down toward him as he saw it through his tears. Now these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a sliining way from Earth to Heaven, that when the cliild went to his solitary bed, he dreamed about the star ; and dreamed that, laying where he was, A child's dream of a star. 7 he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling- road by angels ; and the star, opening, showing hiin a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star : and some came out from the Ions: rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of ligltt, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified and ra- diant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither, " Is my brother come ? " And he said, " No ! " She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried, " O, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, — and it was night ; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him as he saw it through his tears. From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as the home he was to go to when his time should come ; and he thought that he did not belong to the Earth alone, but to the star too, because of his sister's angel gone before. There was a baby born to be a brother to the child, and, while he was so little that he never yet had spoken 8 Choick; readings. a word, he stretched out his tiny form on his bed, and died. Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels, witli their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ? " And he said, " Not that one, but another ! " As the child beheld his brother's an^l in her arms, he cried, " O, my sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And she turned and smiled upon him, — and the star was shining. He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him and said, " Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son." Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader, "Is my brother come ? " And he said, "Thy mother!" A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was re-united to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and cried, " O, mother, sister, and brother, I am here ! Take me ! " And they answered him, " Not yet ! " — ■ and the star was shining. He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is my brother come ? " And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter ! " And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII. 9 newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, " My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet is the baby of old time, and I can bear the part- ing from her, God be praised ! " — And the star was shining. Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he cried so long ago, " I see the star ! " They whispered one another, "He is dying." And he said, "I am. My age is falling from me like a gar- ment, and I move towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me ! " And the star was shining; and it shines upon his grave. DESTEUOTION OF POMPEII. Lord Edward Bulwer-Lytton. The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, had now settled into a solid and impene- trable mass. It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the close and blind dark- ness of some narrow room. But, in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues of fire ; no rainbow ever rivalled their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depth of a southern sky, —now of a livid and snake-like green, darting rest- 10 CHOICE READINGS. lessly to aud fro as the folds of an enormous serpent, — now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke, far and wide, and light- ing up the whole city from arch to arch, — then sud- denly dying into a sickly paleness, like the gliost of their own life ! In the pauses of the showers you heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea ; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing mur- mur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning, to assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of mon- ster shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss of shade ; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapours were as the bodily forms of gigantic foes, — the agents of terror and death. The ashes in many places were already knee-deep; and the boiling showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating vapour. In some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along the streets masses of con- fused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way ; and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt ; the footing seemed to slide and creep, nor could chariot or Utter be kept steady, even on the most level ground. Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plain DESTRUCTION OP POMPEII. 11 beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved ; for several houses, and even vineyards, had been set on flames ; and at various intervals the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to this partial relief of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there, in tlie more public places, such as the porticos of temples and the entrances to the forum, endeavoured to place rows of torches ; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the winds extinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which their fitful light was converted had something in it doubly terrible and doubly impressive on the impotence of human hopes, the lesson of despair. Frecjuently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties of fugitives encountered each other, some hur- rying towards the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land ; for the ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore ; an utter darkness lay over it, and, upon its groaning and tossing waves, the storm of cinders and rocks fell without the protection which the streets and roofs afforded to the land. Wild, haggard, ghastly with supernatural fears, these groups encountered each other, but without the leisure to speak, to consult, to advise : for the showers fell now frequently, though not contin- uously, extinguishing the lights, which showed to each band the death-hke faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuse beneath the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civihzation were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw the thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden with, and fearfully chuckling over the produce of his sudden gains. If, in the darkness, wife was sepa- rated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly 12 CHOICE READINGS. on. Nothing in all the various and complicated ma- chinery of social life was left save the primal law of self-preservation. A BEE-HUNT IN THE PAR WEST. Washington Irving. We had not been long in the camp when a party set out in quest of a bee-tree, and, being curious to witness the sport, I gladly accepted an invitation to accompany them. The party was headed by a veteran bee-hunter, a tall, lank fellow in home-spun garb that hung loosely about his limbs, and a straw hat shaped not unlike a bee-hive ; a comrade, equall}' uncouth in garb, and with- out a hat, straddled along at his heels, with a long rifle on his shoulder. To these succeeded half a dozen others, some with axes and some with rifles, for no one stirs far from the camp without his firearm, so as to be ready either for wild deer or wild Indian. After proceeding some distance we came to an open glade on the skirts of the forest. Here our leader halted, and then advanced quietly to a low bush, on the top of which I perceived a piece of honey-comb. This I found was the bait or lure for the wild bees. Several were humming about it, and diving into its cells. When they had laden themselves with honey they would rise into the air, and dart off in a straight line almost with the velocity of a bullet. The hunters watched attentively the course they took, and then set off in the same direction, stumbling along over twisted roots and fallen trees, with their eyes turned up to the sky. In this way they traced the honey-laden bees to their hive, in the hollow trunk of a blasted oak, where, A BEE-HUNT IN THE FAR WEST. 13 after buzzing about for a moment, they entered a hole about sixty feet from the ground. Two of the bee-hunters now plied their axes vigor- ously at the foot of the tree, to level it with the ground. The mere spectators and amateurs, in the meantime, drew off to a cautious distance, to be out of the way of the falling of the tree and the vengeance of its inmates. The jarring blows of the axe seemed to have no effect in alarming or disturbing this most industrious commu- nity. They continued to plj^ at their usual occupations, some arriving full-freighted into port, others sallying forth on new expeditions, like so many merchantmen in a money-making metropolis, little suspicious of impend- ing bankruptcy and downfall. Even a loud crack which announced the disrupture of the trunk failed to divert their attention from the intense pursuit of gain ; at length down came the tree with a tremendous crash, bursting open from end to end, and displaying all the hoarded treasures of the commonwealth. One of the hunters immediately ran up with a wisp of lighted hay as a defense against the bees. The latter, however, made no attack and sought no revenge ; they seemed stupefied by the catastrophe and unsuspicious of its cause, and remained crawling and buzzing about the ruins without offering us any molestations. Every one of the party now fell to, with spoon and hunting- knife, to scoop out the flakes of honey-comb with which the hollow trunk was stored. Some of them were of old date and a deep brown color ; others were beauti- fully white, and the honey in their cells was almost limpid. Such of the combs as were entire were placed in camp-kettles, to be conveyed to the encampment ; those which had been shivered in the fall were devoured upon the spot. Every stark bee-hunter was to be seen u ruou I ici vi'iN»;.< wltli n violi u\(M'Sol ui lus iiaml, vIiu'jmu^^- i»l>»>»u his tiugvvs, }uul vUsuppourin^^'us lapuUv us u rvoiuu tavt ho- t\)W tho hol'ulav uppotito v>t" a si^lnn>l-l>v\v. Nor WHS it {\\o l>t>o-lmutors uloiu^ thai piolih *l h\ (lu> (l.'wntall of this iiulustvious rouuuuiutv ; as iftht^ hot^s wouUl lanv thioui;h [\\o similitiuU' of ihtnr habits with thost' ot" l.ilH'vious aiul guiiirul man. I hrhrKl luim biMs tVom rival hivt'S urriviuj^" on t^a^vM- wiui;', to »MU'ii'h ihiMusi'U i>s with I ho ruins of thoir nttMrnllv as so inanv wrtH'kois on an Indiaiuan that has ho(Muh'iv»M» »>n shoro ; plnui^ini'; niio (ho it^lls »>!" tho hroKiMi hom\\' (MMnhs, l«,m.|Uoi in;'; !'aoo(lil\ on (ho spoil, and (lion win^ini^ ilioir \\,i\ lull lVol>',hioil to (lu'ir homos. As to [\w ptnu' piopiuMors (if ilio rnm, (lioN ^uHMn^Hl to havo n»> hoart to Ao anv thin;';, ni«( c\r\\ (o las(o (ho nov'tar that llowod aronml llioni; luil ciawloil l>aoU waithi and liuwanlM, in vaoant »losolation, as I ha\o s»>on a pt>or follow \\i(h his hamls 1m his poi^kots, whisllini;- vaoanlh and dos|>ond injdv ahoni llu> ^nin^; (d' his honsi^ thai had hoon Imint. It. is ditVionlt toch'soriho tlu* h(>\\ ildoniiont and <'oMi"ii sion of {\w hoos td' thi^ hankrupt hivo who had hooii ahsont al tho tinu-ol"(lu« oatasi ropho, and who anaNcd from timo to (in\o wiih lull oargoi^s iVom aluoad. Al lii'st thov wht-olod ahonI in I ho air, in tho placo whoio lh(> t'allon 1 1'0(^ had onoo roai'od ils hoad, nsttmishod at. limlim;- it. nil a. vaonum. Al lonj-lh, as if oomprohond in^' thoif disastor, Ihoy sotllod dow n in olustt'rH on a dry hranoh iA' a noii^hhourinj^' In-o, whonoo th(»v Hoomod In oonlomplalo tho |)ros|.ra.to rnin, and lo l>n,'/. foilh dolo ful laniontations ovt>r tho (h>w nfall of Ihi'ir ropnhliii. A <;«»oi» «;«>nh<;u<;n<'ic. 16 A nO(JJ) (JONHOIENOE, My Miirxl 1,0 UK' u kiiiji'loifi is; Sii<;li jM'iffct, joy llii'K'iii I fln«] Ah far <;x ! iJiim I l,i'iiiiti|ili lilvi* II liiii;^, (!<»iil,<'iil, willi wliiil, lll^ iniiifl flolli liiiiij^. I M«u» how itlfiily hiiilVil^i oil, Ani kooiichI, I'nJI ; I Mcc iJliil, MiK'li iif^ ; il niol'l, MiHliM|i (lolli llirciilcii iii(»hI, of III! : 'I'hcHc ^rl Willi Toil, JiiKJ l<<'('|» Willi (Viir; SiK'li riircH my miinl <E TO THE PASSIONS. 57 With eyes upraised, as oue inspired, Tale Melaneholy sat retired ; And Ironi lier wild sequoster'd seat. In notes by distance made more sweet, I 'our'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; And, ilashing soft from roeks around. HubMing runnels join'il tlu' sound : Through glades and glooms l\w mingled measure stoIe^ Or o'er some haunted stream, with fond dela}', Houml a holy oaliu ditTusing, Love of peace and lonely nuising. In iu)lU)w uunimus died away. Hut. O, how alter'il was its spriglitlier tone ! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of liealthiost hue, Her bi»w across her shoulder ttuug. Her buskins gcnuuM with morning dew. lUcw an inspiring air. that dale and thicket rung, Tlic hunter's call, to Faun and Hryad known. Tlu> oak-crowu'd sisters and their c'haste-eyed Queen. Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Pi'cping from forth their alleys green ; Blown Exercise rejoiccil to hear. And Spt)rt IcapM up, and sci/.ed his bcccheu spear. l.asl came Joy's ecstatic trial : 11c, with viny crown ailvancing. First to tlic lively pi|>c liis hautl address'd ; Hut soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol. Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have tliouglit. wlio heard the strain. They saw in Temju^'s vale her native m.-iids. Amidst the festal-souuiling shades. To some unwearied minstrel dancing; Willie, as his flying tingers kiss'd the strings. Love framed with ^Firth a iiav fantastic round; 58 CHOICE READINGS. Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he, amidst his frolic plaj^ — As if he would the charming air repay, — Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. AN OEDEE rOE A PIOTUEE. Alice Gary. O GOOD painter, tell me true, Has your hand the cunning to draw Shapes of things that 3'ou never saw? Ay? Well, here is an order for you. Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — The picture must not be over-bright, Yet all in the golden and gracious light Of a cloud, when the summer Sun is down. Alway and alwa^', night and morn. Woods upon woods, with fields of corn Lying between them, not quite sere. And not in the full, thick, leaf}^ bloom. When the wind can hardly find breathing-room Under their tassels, — cattle near, Biting shorter the shoi't green grass. And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, With bluebirds twittering all around, — (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) These, and the house where I was born, Low and little, and black and old, With children, many as it can hold, All at the windows, open wide, — Heads and shoulders clear outside, And fair young faces all ablush : Perhaps 3'ou ma}' have seen, some day, Roses crowding the self-same way. Out of a wilding, wayside bush. AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 59 Listen closer : When you have done With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, A lady, the lovliest ever the Sun Look'd down upon, you must paint for me ; O, if I only could make you see The clear blue eyes, the tender smile. The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, The woman's soul, and the angel's face, That are beaming on me all the while, I need not speak these foolish words : Yet one word tells you all I would say, — She is m^- mother : you will agree That all the rest may be thrown away. Two little urchins at her knee You must paint, sir ; one like me. The other with a clearer brow, And the light of his adventurous eyes Flashing with boldest enterprise : At ten 3ears old he went to sea, — God knoweth if he be living now ; He sail'd in the good ship Commodore ; Nobody ever cross'd her track To bring us news, and she never came back. Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more Since that old ship went out of the bay With my great-hearted brother on her deck •• I watch'd him till he shrank to a speck, And his face was toward me all the way. Bright his hair was, a golden brown. The time we stood at our mother's knee : That beauteous head, if it did go down, Carried sunshine into the sea ! Out in the fields one summer night We were together, half afraid Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — 60 CHOICE READINGS. Loitering till after the low little light Of the candle shone through the open door ; And over the haystack's pointed top, All of a tremble, and read}- to drop, The first half -hour, the great yellow star, That we, with staring, ignorant eyes. Had often and often watch'd to see, Propp'd and held in its place in the skies By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree. Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew, — Dead at the top, — just one branch full Of leaves, notch'd round, and lined with wool, From which it tenderh' shook the dew Over our heads, when we came to play In its handbreadth of shadow, day after day. Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore A nest full of speckled and thin-shell'd eggs ; The other, a bird, held fast by the legs. Not so big as a straw of wheat : The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, But cried and cried, till we held her bill, So slim and shining, to keep her still. At last we stood at our mother's knee. Do you think, sir, if you try, You can paint the look of a lie ? If 3-0U can, pray have the grace To put it solely in the face Of the urchin that is likest me : I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : But that's no matter, — paint it so ; The eyes of our mother, (take good heed,) Looking not on the nestful of eggs, Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, But straight through our faces down to our lies. And, O, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as though A sharp blade struck through it. THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 61 You, sir, know That 3011 on the canvas are to repeat Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, — The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her knee: But, O, that look of reproachful woe ! High as the heavens 30ur name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. THE PAINTER OP SEVILLE. Susan Wilson. Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found paint- ing, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 1630. 'TwAS morning in Seville ; and brightly beam'd The early sunlight in one chamber there ; Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleam'd, Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where Murillo, the famed painter, came to share With young aspirants his long-cherish'd art. To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. The pupils came ; and, glancing round, Mendez upon his canvas found, Not his own work of yesterday, But, glowing in the morning ray, A sketch so rich, so pure, so bright. It almost seem'd that there were given, To glow before his dazzled sight. Tints and expression warm from Heaven. If # * * * * 62 CHOICE READINGS. 'Twas but a sketch, — the Virgin's bead; Yet was unearthly beauty shed Upon the mildly beaming face : The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, Had separate, yet blended grace, — A poet's brightest dream was there ! Murillo enter'd, and, amazed, On the mysterious painting gazed : " Whose work is this? — speak, tell me ! — he Who to his aid such power can call," Exclaira'd the teacher eagerly, " Will yet be master of us all : Would I had done it ! — Ferdinand ! Isturitz ! Mendez ! — say, whose hand Among ye all ? " — with half-breathed sigh, Each pupil answer'd, " 'Twas not I ! " *'How came it, then?" impatiently Murillo cried : " but we shall see, Ere loug, into this mystery. — Sebastian ! " At the summons came A bright-eyed slave. Who trembled at the stern rebuke His master gave. For, order'd in that room to sleep, And faithful guard o'er all to keep, Murillo bade him now declare What rash intruder had been there ; And threaten'd — if he did not tell The truth at once — the dungeon-cell. " Thou answer'st not," Murillo said ; (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) " Speak on ! " — At last he raised his head And murmur'd, " No one has been here." " 'Tis false I " Sebastian bent his knee, And clasp'd his hands imploringly, And said, " I swear \U none but me I" THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 63 " List ! " said his master : " I would know Who enters here ; there have been found, Before, rough sketches strewn around, By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show : See that to-night strict watch you keep, Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. If on to-morrow morn you fail To answer what I ask, The lash shall force you ; do you hear? Hence ! to your daily task." 'Twas midnight in Seville ; and faintly shone. From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray Within Murillo's study ; all were gone Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, Pass'd cheerfully the morning hours away. 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save That, to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey. One bright-eyed boy was there, — Murillo's little slave Almost a child, that boy had seen Not thrice five Summers yet. But genius mark'd the lofty brow. O'er which his locks of jet Profusely curl'd ; his cheek's dark hue Proclaim'd the warm blood flowing through Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide. To Africa and Spain allied. *' Alas ! what fate is mine ! " he said. " The lash, if I refuse to tell Who sketch' d those figures ; if I do, Perhaps e'en more, — the dungeon-cell ! " He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid ; It came, — for, soon in slumber laid, He slept, until the dawning day Shed on his humble couch its ray. CHOICE ftEAblKGS. " I'll sleep no more ! " he cried ; " and now Three hours of freedom I may gain, Before my master comes ; for then I shall be but a slave again. Three blessed hours of freedom ! how Shall I employ them? — ah ! e'en now The figure on that canvas traced Must be — yes, it must be effaced." He seized a brush ; the morning light Gave to the head a soften'd glow : Gazing enraptured on the sight, He cried, " Shall I efface it? — No ! That breathing lip ! that beaming eye ! Efface them ? — I would rather die ! " The terror of the humble slave Gave place to the o'erpowering flow Of the high feelings Nature gave, — Which only gifted spirits know. He touch'd the brow — the lip ; it seem'd His pencil had some magic power : The eye with deeper feeling beam'd ; Sebastian then forgot the hour ! Forgot his master, and the threat Of punishment still hanging o'er him ; For, with each touch, new beauties met And mingled in the face before him. At length 'twas finish'd : rapturously He gazed, — could aught more beauteous be? Awhile absorb'd, entranced he stood. Then started ; horror chill'd his blood ! His master and the pupils all Were there e'en at his side ! The terror-stricken slave was mute, — Mercy would be denied, THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 66 E'en could he ask it ; so he deem'd, And the poor boy half lifeless seem'd. Speechless, bewilder'd, for a space They gazed upon that perfect face, Each with an artist's jo^^ ; At length Murillo silence broke, And with affected sternness spoke, — " Who is your master, boy? " "You, Senior," said the trembling slave. " Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, Before that Virgin's head you drew ? " Again he answer'd, " Only 3'ou." " I gave 3"ou none," Murillo cried ! " But I have heard," the boy replied, " What you to others said." " And more than heard," (in kinder tone, The painter said;) " 'tis plainly shown That you have profited." " What " (to his pupils) " is his meed? Reward or punishment ? " " Reward, reward ! " they warmly cried. (Sebastian's ear was bent To catch the sounds he scarce believed, But with imploring look received.) " What shall it be? " They spoke of gold And of a splendid dress ; But still unmoved Sebastian stood, Silent and motionless. " Speak ! " said Murillo, kindly ; " choose Your own reward : what shall it be? Name what you wish, I'll not refuse ; Then speak at once and fearlessly." " O, if I dared ! " — Sebastian knelt. And feeUngs he could not control, (But fear'd to utter even then,) With strong emotion shook his soul. 66 CHOICE READINGSo " Courage ! " his master said, and each Essaj'd, in kind, half-whisper'd speech, To soothe his overpowering dread. He scarce!}' heard, till some one said, " Sebastian, — ask, — you have 3'our choice, Ask for your freedom ! " — At the word, The suppliant strove to raise his voice : At first but stifled sobs were heard. And then his prayer, breathed fervently, " O master, make my father free ! " " Him and thyself, my noble boy ! " "Warmly the painter cried : Raising Sebastian from his feet. He press'd him to his side. " Thy talents rare, and filial love, E'en more have fairl}' won ; Still be thou mine by other bonds, — My pupil and m^' son." Murillo knew, e'en when the words Of generous feeling pass'd his lips, Sebastian's talents soon must lead To fame, that would his own eclipse ; And, constant to his purpose still. He joy'd to see his pupil gain. Beneath his care, such matchless skill As made his name the pride of Spain. POTENCY OP ENGLISH WOKDS. John S. McIntosh. Seek out "acceptable words"; and as ye seek them turn to our English stores. Seeking to be rich in speech, you will find that in the broad ocean of oui English literature there are pearls of great price, oui POTENCY OF ENGLISH WORDS. 67 potent English words; words that are wizards more mighty than the old Scotch magician ; words that are pictures bright and moving with all the colouring and circumstances of life ; words that go down the century like battle cries ; words that sob like litanies, sing like larks, sigh like zephyrs, shout like seas. Seek amid our exhaustless stores and you will find words that flash like the stars of the frosty sky, or are melting and ten- der like Love's tear-filled eyes; words that are fresh and crisp like the mountain breeze in Autumn, or are mellow and rich as an old painting ; words that are sharp, unbending, and precise like Alpine needle-points, or are heavy and rugged like great nuggets of gold ; words that are glittering and gay like imperial gems, or are chaste and refined like the face of a Muse. Search and ye shall find words that crush like the battle-axe of Richard, or cut like the scimetar of Saladin ; words that sting like a serpent's fangs, or soothe like a mother's kiss ; words that can unveil the nether depths of Hell, or paint out the heavenly heights of purity and peace ; words that can recall a Judas; words that reveal the Christ. Here, then, you have to stir, enrich, control, and culti- vate your plastic minds, a literature that embodies, in the most perfect forms of Elizabethan words, the peer- less gentleness of a Sidney, the unquailing bravery of a Glanville, the quiet majesty of a Cecil, the dashing hardihood of a Raleigh, and the sublime dignity of a Howard. What a rich field of supply is here ! Here is a literature that is marked by terseness and clearness, by soberness and majesty, by sweetness and fullness of expression never surpassed, rarely equalled. Here you have for your guidance and enrichment as speakers a field of literature marked in one department by the 68 CHOICE READINGS. piireness, thoroughness, and cahnness of the sage who loves rich, deep, but strongly ruled speech, and shuns with holy scorn all strain after the startling or striking; a literature marked in another department by the white glow of fiery zeal, the rapid rush of the dauntless will, and by the passionate, piercing cry of the deeply stirred but despairing seer ; a literature marked in another de- partment by short, sharp sentences, by pointed anti- theses, striking outbursts, flashing images. This is the literature that presents to you the gathered wealth of the English tongue ; and yet this vast and noble library into which I would introduce you, far from exhausting, only half reveals the marvellous riches of that language whose inexhaustible stores and manifold resources scarcely one amid a thousand speakers ever more than touches. Before us stands a grand instrument of count- less strings, of myriad notes and keys, and we are con- tent with some few hundreds, and these not the purest, richest, deepest, sweetest. If you would be strong of speech, master more of these notes ; let your vocabulary be rich, varied, pure, and proportionate will be your power and attractiveness as speakers. I would have you deeply impressed by the force, fullness, and flexi- bility of our noble tongue, where, if anywhere, the gigantic strength of thought and truth is wedded to the seraphic beauty of perfect utterance. I would have you fling yourselves unhesitatingly out into this great fresh sea, like bold swimmers into the rolling waves of ocean. It will make you healthy, vigorous, supple, and equal to a hundred calls of duty. I would have you cherish sacredly this goodly heritage, won by centuries of Eng- lish thought and countless lives of English toil. I would have you jealous, like the apostle over the Church, over these pure wells of English undefiled : de- THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOT. 69 grade not our sacred tongue by slang ; defile not its crystal streams with the foul waters of careless speech ; honour its stern old parentage, obey its simple yet se- vere grammar, watch its perfect rhythm, and never mix its blue blood, the gift of noblest sires, with the base puddle of any mongrel race ; never speak half the lan- guage of Ashdod and half of Canaan, but be ye of a pure English lip. THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. William Wordsworth. PART I. A HIGHLAND boj ! — why call him so ? Because, my children, ye must know That, under hills which rise like towers, Far higher than these hills of ours, He from his birth had lived. He ne'er had seen one earthly sight, — The Sun, the day, the stars, the night; Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, Or fish in stream, or bird in bower. Or woman, man, or child. And yet he neither droop'd nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind ; For God took pity on the boy. And was his friend, and gave him joy Of which we nothing know. His mother, too, no doubt, above Her other children hini did love : For, was she here, or was she there. She thought of him with constant care, And more than mother's love. 70 CHOICE READINGS. And proud she was of heart, when, clad In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, And bonnet with a feather gay, To kirk he on the Sabbath day Went hand in hand with her. A dog, too, had he ; not for need, But one to pla}' with and to feed ; Which would have led him, if bereft Of company or friends, and left Without a better guide. And then the bagpipes he could blow, And thus from house to house would go ; And all were pleased to hear and see, For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind boy. Yet he had many a restless dream ; Both when he heard the eagles scream, And when he heard the torrents roar, And heard the water beat the shore Near which their cottage stood. Beside a lake this cottage stood. Not small like ours, a peaceful flood ; But one of mighty size, and strange ; That, rough or smooth, is full of change, And stirring in its bed. For to this lake, by night and day. The great sea-water finds its way Through long, long windings of the hills And drinks up all the pretty rills, And rivers large and strong : Then hurries back the way it came, — Returns, on errand still the same : This did it when the Earth was new ; And this for evermore will do As long as Earth shall last. THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. And, with the comuig of the tide, Come boats and ships that safely ride Between the woods and lofty rocks ; And to the shepherds with their flocks Bring tales of other lands. And of those tales, whate'er they were, The blind boy always had his share ; Whether of mighty towers, or vales With warmer suns and softer gales, Or wonders of the Deep. Yet more it pleased him, more it stirr'd, When from the water-side he heard The shouting, and the jolly cheers ; The bustle of the mariners In stillness or in storm. But what do his desires avail? For he must never handle sail ; Nor mount the mast, nor row, nor float In sailor's ship, or fisher's boat. Upon the rocking waves. Thus lived he by Lock-Leven's side Still sounding with the sounding tide. And heard the billows leap and dance, Without a shadow of mischance, Till he was ten years old. PART n.— THE BLIND BOy's SAIL ON THE LAKE And then, one day, (now mark me well, Ye soon shall know how this befell,) He, in a vessel of his own, On'tne swift flood is hurrying down, Down to the mighty Sea. 71 72 CHOICE READINGS. But, say, what beai's him? — Ye have seen The Indian's bow, his arrows keen, Rare beasts, and birds with phimage bright; Gifts which, for wonder or delight, Are brought in ships from far. Such gifts had those seafaring men Spread round that haven in the glen ; Each hut, perchance, might have its own ; And to the boy they all were known, — He knew and prized them all. The rarest was a turtle-shell Which he, poor child, had studied well. He'd heard how, in a shell like this, An English boy, O thought of bliss ! Had stoutly launch'd from shore. Our Highland boy oft visited The house that held this prize ; and, led By choice or chance, did thither come One day when no one yvas at home. And found the door unbarr'd. While there he sate, alone and blind, That story flash'd upon his mind : A bold thought roused him ; and he took The shell from out its secret nook. And bore it on his head. He launch'd his vessel ; and in pride Of spirit, from Lock-Leven's side, Stepp'd into it ; his thoughts all free As the light breezes that with glee Sang through th' adventurer's hair. Awhile he stood upon his feet ; He felt the motion, — took his seat ; THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOT. Still better pleased, as more and more The tide retreated from the shore, And suck'd, and suck'd him in. And there he is in face of Heaven. How rapidly the child is driven ! The fourth part of a mile, I ween, He thus had gone, ere he was seen By any human eye. But, when he first was seen, O me, What shrieking and what misery ! For many saw : among the rest His mother, she who loved him best, She saw her poor blind boy. But, for the child, the sightless boy, It is the triumph of his joy ! The bravest traveller in balloon. Mounting as if to reach the Moon, Was never half so blest. And let him, let him go his way, Alone, and innocent and gay ! For, if good Angels love to wait On the forlorn unfortunate, This child will take no harm. But quickly with a silent crew A boat is ready to pursue ; And from the shore their course they take. And swiftly down the running lake They follow the blind boy. With sound, the least that can be made, They follow, more and more afraid, More cautious as they draw more near; But in his darkness he can hear, And guesses their intent. 73 74 CHOICE READINGS. " Lei-gha^ lei-gha!" he theii cried out, '■'• Lei-gha, lei-gha!'' with eager shout: Thus did he cry, and thus did pray. And what he meant was, " Keep away, And leave rae to myself ! " Alas ! and when he felt their hands, — You've often heard of magic wands, That with a motion overthrow A palace of the proudest show, Or melt it into air : So all his dreams, — that inward light With which his soul had shone so bright, All vanish'd : 'twas a heartfelt cross To him, a heavy, bitter loss, As ever he had known. But, hark ! a gratulating voice, With which the very hills rejoice : 'Tis from the crowd, who tremblingly Have watch'd th' event, and now can see That he is safe at last. And in the general joy of heart The blind boy's little dog took part : He leapt about, and oft did kiss His master's hands in sign of bliss. With sound like lamentation. But, most of all, his mother dear. She who had fainted with her fear, Rejoiced when, waking, she espies The child ; when she can trust her eyes, And touches the blind boy, She led him home, and wept amain When he was in' the house again : Tears flow'd in torrents from her eyes ; She kiss'd him, — how could she chastise ? She was too happy far. SIR WALTER SCOTT AND HIS DOGS. 7.Q SIE WALTEK SOOTT AND HIS DO&S. Washington Irving. As we sallied forth, every dog in the establishment turned out to attend us. There was the old staghound, Maida, a noble animal ; and Hamlet, the black grey- hound, a wild, thoughtless youngster, not yet arrived at the years of discretion ; and Finette, a beautiful setter, with soft, silken hair, long pendent ears, and a mild eye, the parlour favourite. When in front of the house, we were joined by a superannuated grey- hound, who came from the kitchen wagging his tail, and was cheered by Scott as an old friend and comrade. In our walks, he would frequently pause in conversa- tion, to notice his dogs, and speak to them as if rational companions : and, indeed, there appears to be a vast deal of rationality in these faithful attendants on man, derived from their close intimacy with him. Maida deported himself with a gravity becoming his age and size, and seemed to consider himself called upon to preserve a great degree of dignity and decorum in our society. As he jogged along a little distance ahead of us, the young dogs would gambol about him, leap on his neck, worry at his ears, and endeavour to tease him into a gambol. The old dog would keep on for a long time with imperturbable solemnity, now and then seeming to rebuke the wantonness of his young companions. At length lie would make a sud- den turn, seize one of them, and tumble him in the dust ; then, giving a glance at us, as much as to say, " You see, gentlemen, I can't help giving way to this nonsense," he would resume his gravity, and jog on as before. 76 CHOICE READINGS. Scott amused himself with these peculiarities. " I make no doubt," said he, " when Maida is alone with these young dogs he throws gravity aside, and plays the boy as much as any of them ; but he is ashamed to do so in our company, and seems to say, ' Have done with your nonsense, youngsters : what will the laird and that other gentleman think of me if I give way to such foolery?' " Scott amused himself with the peculiarities of another of his dogs, a little shamefaced terrier, with large glassy eyes, one of the most sensitive little bodies to insult and indignity in the world. If ever he whi23t him, he said, the little fellow would sneak off and hide himself from the light of day in a lumber-garret, from whence there was no drawing him forth but by the sound of the chopping-knife, as if chopping up his victuals, when he would steal forth with humiliated and downcast look, but would skulk away again if any one regarded him. While we were discussing the humours and pecu- liarities of our canine companions, some object provoked their spleen, and produced a sharp and petulant barking from the smaller fry ; but it was some time before Maida was sufficiently roused to ramp forward two or three bounds, and join the chorus with a deep-mouthed botv ivow. It was but a transient outbreak, and he re- turned instantly, wagging his tail, and looking up dubiously in his master's face, uncertain whether he would receive censure or applause. " Ay, ay, old boy ! '' cried Scott, " you have done wonders ; you have shaken Eildon hills with your roaring: you may now lay by your artillery for the rest of the day." — ■ " Maida," con- tinued lie, " is like the great gun at Coiistantinojjle : it takes so long to get it ready, that the smaller guns can fire off a dozen times first; but when it does go off it plays the very devil." MORNING. 77 These simple anecdotes may serve to show the de- lightful play of Scott's humours and feelings in private life. His domestic animals were his friends. Every- thing about him seemed to rejoice in the light of his countenance. MOKNING. Daniel Webster. Richmond, April 29, 5 a.m., 1847. Whether it be a favour or an annoyance, you owe this letter to my habit of early rising. From the hour marked at the top of the page, you will naturally con- clude that my companions are not now engaging my attention, as we have not calculated on being early travellers to-day. This city has " a pleasant seat." It is high ; the James river runs below it ; and when I went out an hour ago nothing was lieard but the roar of the falls. The air is tranquil, and its temperature mild. It is morning ; and a morning sweet and fresh and delightful. Everybody knows the morning in its meta- phorical sense, applied to so many objects, and on so many occasions. The health, strength, and beauty of early years lead us to call that period " the morning of life." Of a lovely young woman we say, she is "bright as the morning " ; and no one doubts why Lucifer is called " son of the morning." But the morning itself, few people, inhabitants of cities, know anything abcmt. Among all our good peo- ple of Boston, not one in a thousand sees the Sun rise once a-year. They know nothing of the morning. Their idea of it is, that it is that part of the day which comes along after a cup of coffee and a beefsteak, or a 78 CHOICE READINGS. piece of toast. With tliem, morning is not a new issuing of light; a new bursting-forth of the Sun; a new waking-up of all that has life, from a sort of temporary death, to behold again the works of God, the heavens and the earth : it is only a part of the domestic day, be- longing to breakfast, to reading the newspapers, answer- ing notes, sending the children to p.chool, and giving orders for dinner. The first faint streaks of light pur- pling the East, which the lark springs up to greet, and the deeper and deeper colouring into orange and red, till at length "the glorious Sun is seen, regent of the day," — this they never enjoy, for this they never see. Beautiful descriptions of the morning abound in all languages ; but they are the strongest perhaps in those of the East, where the Sun is so often an object of wor- ship. King David speaks of taking to himself "the wdngs of the morning." This is highly poetical and beautiful. The " wings of the morning " are the beams of the rising Sun. Rays of light are wings. It is thus said that the Sun of Righteousness shall arise "with heal- ing in his wings " ; — a rising Sun, which shall scatter light and health and joy throughout the Universe. Milton has fine descriptions of morning, but not so many as Shakespeare, from whose writings pages of the most beautiful images, all founded on the glory of the morning, might be gathered. I never thought that Adam had much advantage of us, from having seen the world while it was new. The manifestations of the power of God, like His mercies, are " new every morning," and " fresh every evening." We see as fine risings of the Sun as ever Adam saw; and its risings are as much a miracle now as they were in his day, and, I thiid<, a good deal more, because it is now a part of the mu-acle that for thousands and thousands of FRIDAY S FROLIC WITH A BEAK. 79 years he has come at liis appointed time, without the variation of a miUionth part of a second. Adam could not tell how this might be ! I know the morning; I am acquainted with it, and I love it, fresh and sweet as it is, a daily new creation, breaking forth, and calling all that have life and breath and bemg to new adoration, new enjoyments, and new gratitude. FEIDAY'S PEOLIO WITH A BEAE. Daniel Defoe. As the bear is a heavy, clumsy creature, and does not gallop as the wolf does, who is swift and light, so he has two particular qualities, Avhich generally are the rule of his actions : first, as to men, who are not his proper prey, if you do not meddle with him, he will not meddle with you : but then you must take care to be very civil to him and give liim the road, for he is a very nice gen- tleman; he will not go a step out of his way for a prince ; nay, if you are really afraid, your best way is to look another way, and keep going on ; for sometimes, if you stop and stand still, and look steadfastly at him, he takes it for an affront ; but, if you throw or toss any- thing at him, and it hits him, though it were but a bit of stick as big as your finger, he thinks himself abused, and sets all other business aside to pursue his revenge, and will have satisfaction in point of honour. This is his first quality : the next is, if he be once affronted, he will never leave you night uor day, till he has his re- venge, but follows, at a good round rate, till he over- takes you. My man Friday had delivered our guide, and, when 80 CHOICE KEADINGS. we came up to him, on a sudden, we espied the bear come out of the wood, and a vast, monstrous one it was, the biggest by far that ever I saw. We were all a little surprised when we saw him ; but, when Friday saw him, it was easy to see joy and courage in the fellow's coun- tenance : 0,0,0! says Friday, three times, pointing to him ; O master ! you give me te leave, me shakee te hand with him ; me makee you good laugh. I was surprised to see the fellow so well pleased: You fool, says I, he will eat you up. — Eatee me up ! eatee me up ! says Friday, twice over again ; me eatee him up ; me makee you good laugh : you all stay here, me show you good laugh. So down he sits, and gets off his boots in a moment, and puts on a pair of pumps, gives my other servant liis horse, and with his gun away he flew, swift like the wind. The bear was walking slowly on, and offered to med- dle Avith nobody, till Friday coming pretty near, calls to him, as if the bear could understand him, Hark ye, hark ye, says Friday, me speakee with you. We followed at a distance ; for now we were entered a great forest, where the country was plain and pretty open, though it had many trees in it scattered here and there. Friday, who had, as we say, the heels of the bear, came up with him (juickly, and takes up a great stone and throws it at him, and hit him just on the head, but did him no more harm than if he had thrown it against a wall; but it answered Friday's end, for the rogue was so void of fear that he did it purely to make the bear follow him, and show us some laugh as he called it. As soon as the bear felt the blow, and saw him, he turns about, and comes after him, taking long strides, and shuffling on at a strange rate, such as would have put a horse to a middling gallop; away runs Friday, Friday's frolic with a bkar. 81 and takes his course as if he run towards us for help ; so we all resolved to fire at once upon the bear, and de- liver my man ; though I was angry at him heartily for bringing the bear back upon us, when he was going about his own business another way ; and especially I was angry that he had turned the bear upon us, and then run away ; and I called out, You dog, is tliis your making us laugh? Come away, and take your horse, that we may shoot the creature. ■ He heard me, and cried out. No shoot, no shoot; stand still, and you get much laugh ; and as the nimble creature ran two feet for the bear's one, he turned on a sudden, on one side of us, and, seeing a great oak tree fit for his purpose, he beckoned to us to follow; and doubling his pace, he gets nimbly up the tree, laying his gun down upon the ground, at about five or six yards from the bottom of the tree. The bear soon came to the tree, and we followed at a distance : the first thing he did, he stopped at the gun, smelt to it, but let it lie, and up he scrambles into the tree, climbing like a cat, though so monstrous heavy. I was amazed at the folly, as I thought it, of my man, and could not for my life see any thing to laugh at yet, till, seeing the bear get up the tree, we all rode near to him. When we came to the tree, there was Friday got out to the small end of a large branch, and the bear got about half way to him. As soon as the bear got out to that part where the limb of the tree was weaker, — Ha ! says he to us, now you see me teachee the bear dance : so he falls a-jumping and shaking the bough, at which the bear began to totter, but stood still, and began to look Ijehind him, to see how he should get back; then, indeed, we did laugh heartily. But Friday liad not done with him by a great deal ; when, seeing him 82 CHOICE READINGS. stand still, he calls out to liim again, as if he had sup- posed the bear could speak English, What, 3^ou come no further ? pray you come further : so he left jumping and shaking the tree ; and the bear, just as if he understood what he said, did come a little further ; then he fell a- jumping again, and the bear stopped again. We thought now was a good time to knock him on the head, and called to Friday to stand still, and we would shoot the bear-: but he cried out earnestly, O pray ! O pray ! no shoot, me shoot by-and-then ; he would have said by-and-by. However, Friday daaiced so much, and the bear stood so ticklish, that we had laughing enough, but still could not imagine what the fellow would do : for first we thought he depended upon shaking the bear off; and we found the bear was too cunning for that too ; for he would not go out far enough to be thrown down, but clings fast with liis great broad claws and feet, so that we could not im- agine what would be the end of it, and what the jest would be at last. But Friday puts us out of doubt quickly : for, seeing the bear cling fast to the bough, and that he would not come any further. Well, well, says Friday, you no come further, me go ; you no come to me, me come to you : and, upon this, he goes out to the smaller end of the bough, where it would bend with his weight, and gently lets himself down by it, till he came near enough to jump down on his feet, and away he runs to his gun, takes it up, and stands still. Well, said I to him, Fri- day, what will you do now ? Why don't you shoot him ? — No shoot, says Friday, no yet ; me no shoot now, me no kill ; me stay, give you one more laugh ; and, indeed, so he did : for when the bear saw his enemy gone, he comes back from the l^ough where he stood, Ijut did it Crusoe's fight with wolves. 83 mighty cautiously, looking behind him every step, and coming backward till he got into the body of the tree ; then, with the same hinder-end foremost, he came down the tree, grasping it with his claws, and moving one foot at a time, very leisurely. At this juncture, and just be- fore he could set his hind-foot on the ground, Friday stepped up close to him, clapped the muzzle of his piece into his ear, and shot him dead. Then the rogue turned about, to see if we did not laugh ; and when he saw we were pleased, by our looks, he falls a laughing himself very loud. So we kill bear in my country, says Friday. So you kill them? says I: why, you have no guns. — No, says he, no gun, but shoot great much long arrow. OKUSOE'S TIGHT WITH WOLVES. Daniel Defoe. The ground was still covered with snow, though not so deep and dangerous as on the mountains ; and the ravenous creatures were come down into the forest and plain country to seek for food, and had done a great deal of mischief in the villages, where they killed a great many sheep and horses, and some people too. We had one dangerous place to pass, of which our guide told us, if there were more wolves in the country we should find them there ; and this was a small plain, sur- rounded with woods on every side, and a long narroAV defile, or lane, which we were to pass to get through the wood, and then we should come to the village where we were to lodge. It was within half an hour of sunset when we entered the first wood, and a little after sunset when we came into the plain. We met with nothing in the first wood, except that, 84 CHOICE READINGS. in a little plain within the wood, which was not above two furlongs over, we saw five great wolves cross the road, full speed one after another, as if they had been in chase of some prey, and had it in view ; they took no notice of us, and were gone out of sight in a few mo- ments. Upon this our guide, who, by the way, was but a faint-hearted fellow, bid us keep in a ready posture, for he believed there were more wolves a-coming. We kept our arms ready, and our eyes about us ; but we saw no more wolves till we came through that wood, which was near half a league, and entered the plain. As soon as we came into the plain, we had occasion enough to look about us : the first object we met with was a dead horse, that is to say, a poor horse which the wolves had killed, and at least a dozen of them at work, we could not say eating of him, but picking of his bones rather; for they had eaten up all the flesh before. We did not think fit to disturb them at their feast ; neither did they take much notice of us. Friday would have let fly at them, but I would not suffer him by any means; for I found we were like to have more business upon our hands than we were aware of. We were not gone half over the plain, when we be- gan to hear the wolves howl in the wood on our left in a friglitful manner, and presently after we saw about a hundred coming on directly towards us, all in a body, and most of them in a line, as regularl}^ as an army draAvn up by an experienced officer. I scarce knew in what manner to receive them, but found to draw our- selves in a close line Avas the only way : so we formed in a moment: but, that we might not have too much interval, I ordered that only every other man should fire, and that the others who had not fired should stand ready to give them a second volley immediately, if they Crusoe's fight with avolves. 85 continued to advance upon us ; and then that those who had fired at first should not pretend to load their fusees again, but stand ready every one with a pistol, for we were all armed with a fusee and a pair of pistols each man : so we were, by this method, able to fire six volleys, half of us at a time. However, at present we had no necessity : for, upon the first volley, the enemy made a full stop, being terri- fied as well with the noise as with the fire ; four of them, being shot in the head, dropped ; several others were wounded, and went bleeding off, as we coidd see by the snow. I found they stopped, but did n>««o SEEN, LOVED, WEDDED. William Wordsworth. She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament: MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLEMENTINA. 99 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; A dancing Shape, an Image gay. To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of A'irgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The verj^ pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light. OOj^JOO — ME. GEAHAM AM) LADY CLEMENTINA. George MacDonald. Him only in all London must slie see to bid good-bye. As usual now, she was shown into liis room, — his only one. As usual also, she found him poring over his Greek Testament. The gracious, graceful woman 100 CHOICE READINGS. looked lovelily strange in that mean chamber, like an opal in a brass ring. There was no such contrast be- tween the room and its occupant. His bodily jDresence was too weak to "stick fiery off" from its surround- ings ; and, to the eye that saw through the bodily pres- ence to the inherent grandeur, that grandeur suggested no discrepancy, being of the kind that lifts everything to its own level, casts the mantle of its own radiance over its surroundings. Still, to the eye of love and rev- erence, it was not pleasant to see him in such entourage, and, now that Clementina was going to leave him, the ministering spirit that dwelt in the woman was troubled. "Ah ! " he said, and rose as she entered, " this is then the angel of my deliverance ! " But with such a smile he did not look as if he had much to be delivered from. " You see," he went on, " old man as I am, and peace- ful, the Summer will lay hold upon me. She stretches out a long arm into this desert of houses and stones, II nd sets me longing after the green fields and the living air — it seems dead here — and the face of God, as much as one may behold of the Infinite through the revealing veil of earth and sky and sea. I was even getting a little tired of that glorious God-and-man lover, Saul of Tarsus : no, not of him, never of Am, only of his shadow in his words. Yet perhaps — yes, I think so — it is God alone of whom a man can never get tired. Well, no matter : tired I was, when, lo ! here comes my pupil, with more of God in her face than all the worlds and their skies He ever made." " I would my heart were as full of Him too, then, sir," answered Clementina. " But, if I am anything of a comfort to you, I am more than glad ; therefore the more sorry to tell you that I am going to leave you, though for a little while only, I trust." MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLEMENTINA. 101 " You do not take me by surprise, my lady. I have of course been looking forward for some time to my loss and your gain. The world is full of little deaths, — deaths of all sorts and sizes, rather let me say. For this one I was prepared. The good summer-land calls you to its bosom, and you must go." " Come with me,"' cried Clementina, her eyes eager with the light of a sudden thought, while her heart re- proached her grievously that only now first had it come to her. " A man must not leave the most irksome work for the most peaceful pleasure," answered the schoolmaster. " I am able to live — 3^es, and do my work — without you, my lady," he added with a smile, " though I shall miss you sorely." " But you do not know where I want you to come," she said. " What difference can that make, my lady, except in- deed m the amount of pleasure to be refused, seeing this is not a matter of choice ? I must be with the chil- dren whom I have engaged to teach, and whose parents pay me for my labour ; not with those who, besides, can do well without me." " I cannot, sir, — not for long at least." " What ! not with Malcolm to supply my place ? " Clementina blushed, but only like a white rose. She did not turn her head aside : she did not lower their lids to veil the light she felt mount into her eyes : she looked him gently in the face as before, and her aspect of entreaty did not change. " Ah ! do not be unkind, master," she said. " Unkind ! " he repeated. " You know I am noL I have more kindness in my heart than my lips can tell. You do not know, you could not yet imagine, the half of what I hope of and for and from you." 102 CHOICE READINGS. "I am going to see Malcolm," she said with a little sigh. " That is, I am going to visit Lady Lossie at her place in Scotland, — your own old home, where so many must love you. Cant you come ? I shall be travelling alone, quite alone, except my servants." A shadow came over the schoolmaster's face : " You do not thmk^ my lady, or you would not press me. It pains me that you do not see at once it would be dis- honest to go without timely notice to my pupils, and to the public too. But, beyond that, I go not where I wish, but where I seem to be called or sent. I never even wish much, except when I pray to Him in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. After what He wants to give me I am wishing all day long. I used to build many castles, not without a beauty of their own, — that was when I had less under- standing, — now I leave them to God to build for me : He does it better, and they last longer. See now, this very hour, when I needed help, could I have contrived a more lovely annihilation of the monotony that threat- ened to invade my weary spirit than this inroad of light in the person of my Lady Clementina? Nor will He allow me to get overwearied with vain efforts. I do not think He will keep me here long, for I cannot do much for these children. They are but some of His many j^agans, — not yet quite ready to receive Chris- tianity, I think, — not like children with some of the old seeds of the truth buried in them, that want to be turned uj) nearer to the light. True, I might be hap- pier where I could hear the larks ; but I do not know that anywhere I have been more peaceful than in this little room, in which I see you so often cast round your eyes curiously, j)erhaps j)itifully, my lady." " It is not at all a fit place for ?/om," said Clementina, with a touch of indignation. MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLKMKNTINA. 103 " Softly, my lady, lest, without knowing it, your love should make you sin. Who set thee, I pray, for a guardian angel over my welfare ? I could scarce have a lovlier, true ; but where is thy brevet ? No, my lady : it is a greater than thou that sets me the bounds of my habitation. Perhaps He may give me a palace one day. If I might choose, it would be things that belong to a cottage, — the whiteness and the greenness and the sweet odours of cleanliness. But the Father has decreed for His children that they shall know the thing that is neither their ideal nor His. But perhaps, my lady, you would not pity my present condition so much, if you had seen the cottage in which I was born, and where my father and mother loved each other, and died hap- pier than on their wedding-day. When do you go ? " " To-morrow morning, as I purpose." " Then God be with thee ! He is with thee, only my prayer is that thou mayst know it." " Tell me one thing before I go," said Clementina : " are we not commanded to bear each other's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ ? I read it to-day." " Then why ask me ? " " For another question : does not that involve the command to those who have burdens, that they should allow others to bear them?" " Surely, my lady. But /have no burden to let you bear." "Why should I have everything and you nothing? Answer me that." " My lady, I have millions more than you, for I have been gathering the crumbs under my Master's table for thirty years." " You are a king," answered Clementina. " But a king needs a handmaiden somewhere in his house : that 104 CHOICE READINGS. let me be in yours. No, I will be proud, and assert my rights: I am your daughter. If not, why am I here? You cannot cast me off if you would. Why should you be poor when I am rich ? You are poor ; you cannot deny it," she concluded with a serious playfulness. "I will not deny my privileges," said the school- master, with a smile such as might have acknowledged the j)ossession of some exquisite and envied rarity. " I believe," insisted Clementina, " you are just as poor as the apostle Paul when he sat down to make a tent, or as our Lord himself after He gave up carpen- tering." "You are wrong there, my lady. I am not so poor as they must often have been." " But I don't know how long I may be away, and you may fall ill, or — or — see some — some book you want very much, or — " " I never do," said the schoolmaster. " What ! never see a book you want to have ? " "No, not now. I have my Greek Testament, my Plato, and my Shakespeare, and one or two little books besides whose wisdom I have not yet quite exhausted." " I can't bear it ! " cried Clementina, almost on the point of weeping. ''Let me be your servant." As she spoke she rose, and, walking softly to him where he sat, kneeled at Ids knees and held out suppliantly a little bag of white silk tied Avith crimson. " Take it, — father," she said, hesitating; "take your daughter's offering, — ^a poor thing to show her love, but some- thing to ease her heart." He took it, and weighed it up and down in his hand with an amused smile, bent his eyes full on her tears. It was heavy. He emptied it on the seat of a chair. " I never saw so much gold in my life, if it were all taken MR. GRAHAM AND LADY CLKMENTINA. 105 together," he said. " But I don't want it, my dear. It would trouble me." As he spoke he began to put it in the bag again. " You will want it for your journey," he said. "I have plenty in my reticule," she answered. " That is a mere nothing to what I could have for writing a cheque. Tell me true : how much money have you ? " She said tliis with such an earnest look of simple love, that tlie schoolmaster made haste to rise, that he miglit conceal his growing emotion. " Rise, my dear lady," he said as he rose liimself, " and I will show you." He gave her his hand, and she obeyed, but troubled and disappointed, and so stood looking after him while he went to a drawer. Thence, searching in a corner of it, he brought a half-sovereign, a few shillings, and some coppers, and held them out to her on his hand with the smile of one who has proved his point. " There ! " he said, " do you think Saint Paul would have stopped preaching to make a tent so long as he had as much as that in his pocket ? " Clementina had been struggling with herself: now she burst into tears. " Why, what a misspending of precious sorrow ! " ex- claimed the schoolmaster. "Do you think because a man has not a gold-mine he must die of hunger?" As he spoke he took her handkerchief from her hand, and dried her tears with it. But he had enough to do to keep back his own. " Because I won't take a bag full of gold from you when I don't want it," he went on, " do you think I should let myself starve mthout com- ing to you ? I promise you I will let you know — come to you if I can — the moment I get too hungry to do my work well, and have no money left. Should I tliink it a disgrace to take money from you? That would 106 CHOICE READINGS. show a poverty of spirit such as I hope never to fall into. My sole reason for refusing now is that I do not need it." But for all his loving words and assurances Clemen- tina could not stay her tears. " See, then, for your tears are hard to bear, my daugh- ter," he said, " I will take one of these golden ministers ; and, if it has flown from me ere you come, I will ask you for another. It may be God's will that you should feed me for a time." A moment of silence followed, broken only by Clem- entina's failures in quieting herself. "To me," he resumed, "the sweetest fountain of money is the hand of love, but a man has no right to take it from that fountain excejjt he is in want of it. I am not." He opened again the bag, and slowly, reverentially indeed, drew from it one of the new sovereigns, put it in his pocket, and laid the bag on the table. " But your clothes are shabby, sir," said Clementina, looking at him with a sad little shake of the head. "Are they?" he returned, and looked down at his lower garments, reddening and anxious. "If you tell me, my lady, if you honestly tell me, that my garments " — and he looked at the sleeve of his coat — "are un- sightly, I will take of your money to buy me a new suit." Over his coat-sleeve he regarded her, ques- tioning. " Everything about you is beautiful," she burst out. " You want nothing but a body that lets the light through." She took the hand still raised in his survey of his sleeve, pressed it to her lips, and walked slowly from the room. He took the bag of gold from the table, and followed THE BRIDGE. 107 her down the stair. Her chariot was waiting for her at the door. He handed her in, and laid tlie bag on tlie little seat in front. THE BEIDGE. H. W. Longfellow. I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour. And the Moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church- tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And, far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleam'd redder than the Moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay. And the current that came from the ocean Seem'd to lift and bear them away ; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide. And, streaming into the moonlight, The sea-weed floated wide. And, like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That fill'd my eyes with tears. 108 CHOICE READINGS. How often, O, how often, In the da^'s that had gone b}', I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky ! How often, O, how often, I had wish'd that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide ! For my heart was hot and restless. And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seem'd greater than I could beai But now it has fallen fi'om me. It is buried in the sea ; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet, whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers. Like the odour of brine from the oceaa Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumber'd men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have cross'd the bridge since then, I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The 3'oung heart hot and restless, . And the old subdued and slow ! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows. As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes : THE CHILDREK. 109 The Moon and its broken reflection And its sliadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in Heaven, And its wavering image here. oJOio THE OHILDEEN. Charles Dickens. When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And the school for the day is dismiss'd. And the little ones gather around me, To bid me " good night" and be kiss'd ; O, the little white arms that encircle My neck in a tender embrace ; O, the smiles that are halos of Heaven, Shedding sunshine of love on my face. And when they are gone I sit dreaming Of my childhood too lovely to last ; Of love that my heart will remember, While it wakes to the pulse of the past, - Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of son-ow and sin ; When the glory of God was about me, And the glory of gladness within. O, my heart gi-ows 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 ; O, there's nothing on Earth half so holy As the innocent heart of a child. They are idols of hearts and of households •, They are angels of God in disguise ; no CHOICE READINGS. His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses ; His glory still gleams in their ejes. O, those truants from home and from Heaven, They have made me more maul}' and mild, And I know now how Jesus could liken The Kingdom of God to a child. I ask not a life for the dear ones All radiant, as others have done ; But that life ma}' have just enough shadow To temper the glare of the Sun ; I would pray God to guard them from evil, But my prayer would bound back to myself ; O, a seraph may pray for a sinner, But a sinner must pray for himself. The twig is so easily bended, I have banish' d the rule and the rod ; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge. They have taught me the wisdom of God. M}' heart is a dungeou of darkness, Where I shut them from breaking a rule ; M}' frown is sufficient correction ; My love is the law of the school. I shall leave the old house in the Autumn, To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones That muster'd 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. IMMORTALITY OF LOVE. Ill When the lessons and tasks are all ended, And Death says, " the school is dismiss'd ! " May the little ones gather around me. To bid me "good night " and be kiss'd. [It is stated that the above Poem was found in the desk of Charles Dickens after his death.] IMMOETALITY OF LOVE. Robert Southey. Three happy beings are there here, The Sire, the Maid, the Gleudoveer: A fourth approaches ; — Who is this That enters in the Bower of Bliss ? No form so fair might painter find Among the daughters of mankind ; For death her beauties hath refined. And unto her a form hath given Framed of the elements of Heaven, — ■ Pure dwelling-place for perfect miud. She stood and gazed on Sire and Child ; Her tongue not yet had power to speak. The tears were streaming down her cheek And when those tears her sight beguiled, And still her faltering accents fail'd, The Spirit, mute and motionless, Spread out her arms for the caress, Made still and silent with excess Of love and painful happiness. The Maid that lovely foi-m survey'd; Wistful she gazed, and knew her not, But Nature to her heart convey'd A sudden thrill, a startling thought, A feeling many a year forgot, Now like a dream anew recurring, 112 CIIOICK UKADINGS. As if again in every vein Her motlier's milk were stirring. With straining neck and earnest eye Slie stretcli'd her liands imploring!}-, As if she fain would have her nigh, Yet fear'd to meet the wish'd embrace. At once with love and awe opprest. Not so Ladurlad : he could trace, Though brighten'd with angelic grace, His own Yedillian's earthly face : He ran and held her to his breast. O jo}' above all joys of Heaven, B}' death alone to others given. This moment hath to him restored The early-lost, the long-deplored ! The}- sin who tell us Love can die : With life all other passions fly, All others are but vanit}- : In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell, Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell ; Earthly these passions of the Earth, They perish where they have their birth ; But LoA^e is indestructible. Its hoh' flame forever burneth. From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth Too oft on Earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times opprest, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest : It soweth here with toil and care, But th* harvest time of Love is there. THE ASTROLOGICAL TOWER. 113 THE ASTROLOGICAL TOWER. Schiller: Translated 6y Coleridge. It was a strange Sensation that came o'er me, when at first From the broad sunshine I stepp'd in ; and now The narrowing line of da3'light, that ran after The closing door, was gone ; and all about me 'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows Fantastically cast. Here six or seven Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me In a half-circle. Each one in his hand A sceptre bore, and on his head a star ; And in the tower no other light was there But from these stars : all seem'd to come from them '' Tliese are the planets," said that low old man ; " They govern worldly fates, and for that cause Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from 3'ou, Spiteful and cold, an old man melancholy, With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn. He opposite, the king with the red Hglit, An arm'd man for the battle, that is Mars ; And both these bring but little luck to man." But at his side a lovely lady stood ; The star upon her head was soft and bright. And that was Venus, the bright star of joy. On the left hand, lo ! Mercury, with wings : Quite in the middle glitter'd silver bright A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien ; And this was Jupiter, my father's star : And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon. O, never rudely will I blame his faith In the might of stars and angels ! 'Tis not merely The human being's Pride that peoples space With life and mystical predominance ; Since likewise for tlie stricken heart of Love 114 CHOICE READINGS. This visible Nature, and this common world, Is all too narrow ; yea, a deeper import Lurks in the legend told my infant years Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place ; Delightedly dwells he 'raong fays and talismans And spirits ; and delightedl}' believes Divinities, being himself divine. Th' intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain, Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. Or chasms and watery depths, — all these have vanish'd ; They live no longer in the faith of reason ! But still the heart doth need a language, still Doth the old instinct bring back the old names ; And to 3on starry world they now are gone, Spirits or gods, that used to share this Earth With man as with their friend ; and to the lover Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky Shoot influence down : and even at this day 'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great, And Venus who brings everything that's fair. A LOST OHOED. Adelaide Anne Proctor. Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wander'd idly Over the noisy keys. I do not know what I was pla3'ing, Or what I was dreaming then. But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen. MEMORY. 115 It flooded the crimson twilight, Like the close of an angel's psalm, And it lay on my fever' d spirit, With a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming sti'if e ; It seem'd the harmonious echo From our discordant life. It link'd all perplex'd meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence, As if it were loth to cease. I have sought, but I seek it vainly. That one lost chord divine. That came from the soul of the organ, And enter'd into mine. It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again ; It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen. MEMOKY. James A. Ga-^field. 'Tis beauteous night ; the stars look brightly down Upon the Earth, deck'd in her robe of snow. No light gleams at the windows, save my own. Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me. And now, with noiseless step, sweet memory comes And leads me gently through her twilight realms. What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung, Or delicatest pencil e'er portray'd Th' enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells? 116 CHOICE READINGS. It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear, Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress-tree ; And yet its sunlit mountain-tops are bathed In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy cliffs, Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, Are cluster'd joys serene of other days. Upon its gently sloping hillsides bend The weeping willows o'er the sacred dust Of dear departed ones ; yet in that land, Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore, They that were sleeping rise from out the dust Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand As erst they did before the prison-tomb Received their clay within its voiceless halls. The heavens that bend above that land are hung With clouds of various hues. Some dark and chill. Surcharged with sorrow, cast their somber shade Upon the sunny, joyous land below. Others are floating through the dreamy air. White as the falling snow, their margins tinged With gold and crimson'd hues ; their shadows fall Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes. Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing. When the rough battle of the day is done. And evening's peace falls gently on the heart, I bound away, across the noisy years. Unto the utmost verge of memory's land, Where earth and sky in dream}- distance meet. And memory dim with dark oblivion joins ; Where woke the first remcunber'd sounds that fell Upon the ear in childliood's earl}' morn ; And, wandering thence along the rolling years, I see the shadow of m}' former self Gliding from childhood up to man's estate. The path of youth winds down through many a vale, And on the brink of majiy a dread abyss. From out whose darkness comes no ray of light. OVKK THK jaVKR. 117 Save tliiit a phantom dances o'er the gulf And beckons toward the verge. Again th(^ path Leads o'er tht; suinniit wliere the sunbeams fall ; And thus in light and shade, sunshin(! and gloom, iSorrow and joy, tiiis lile-path leads along. TEAES, IDLE TEARS. Ai.i](BD Tennyson. Tkars, idle U^ars, I know not what they mean Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the ha[)i)y autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail. That brings our friends up from the under-world ; Sad as the last whi('h reddens over one That sinks with all we lovi; below tiie verge, — So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that arc no more. Dear as rememl)er'd kisses aftei' death. And sweet as those by hopeless fancy fcign'd On lips that are f(n- others ; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, — Death in Life, the days that are no more! OVER THE RIVER. Nancy A. W. Priust. OvKK the riv(!r they beckon to me, Loved ones who cross'd to tlic other side 118 CHOICE READINGS. The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunnj' gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He cross'd in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. We saw not the angels who met him there, — The gates of the city we could not see ; Over the river, over the river. My brother stands, waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another, the household pet ; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, — Darling Minnie ! I see her yet ! She closed on her bosom her dimpled hands. And fearlessly enter'd the phantom bark ; We felt it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side, Whei'e all the ransom'd and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores. Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars, And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; And, lo ! they have pass'd from our yearning hearts. The}' cross the stream and are gone for aye. We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day ; We only know that their barks no more Sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. PICTURES OF MEMORY. 119 And I sit and think when the sunset's gold Is flushing river, hill, and shore, I shaU one day stand by the water cold And list for the sound of the boatman's oar. I sliall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail ; I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand ; I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale To the better shore of the spirit-land. I shall know the loved who have gone before, And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, "When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shall carry me. PIOTUKES OF MEMORY. Alice Gary. Among the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall, Is one of a dim old forest. That seemetli best of all. Not for its gnarl'd oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below ; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all da}' with tlie sunbeams. And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the upland Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip. It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother With eyes that were dark and deep ; In the lap of that dim old forest. He lieth in peace asleep. 120 CHOICE READIJ^GS. Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there, the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago ; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetl}- his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace. As the light of immortal beauty Silently cover'd his face ; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beaut^', Asleep bv the gates of light. Therefore, of all tlie pictures That hang on IMemory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. SANDALPHON. H. W. Longfellow. Have 3'ou read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air. Have you read it, — the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer? How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the Cit}' Celestial he waits. With his feet on the ladder of light. That, crowded with angels unnumber'd. By Jacob was seen, as he slumber'd Alone in the desert at nisfht? SANDALPHON. 121 The Angels of Wind und of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress ; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express. But, serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song. With eyes unimpassion'd and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening, breathless. To sounds that ascend from below ; — From the spirits on Earth that adore. From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervour and passion of prayer ; From the hearts tliat are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear. And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red ; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed. It is but a legend, I know, — A fable, a phantom, a show. Of the ancient Kabbinical lore : Yet the old medieval tradition. The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more. When I look from ray window at night, And the welkin above is all wjiite, AH throbbing and panting with stars. Among tliem majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel, expandmg His pinions in nebulous bars. 122 CHOICE READINGS. And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain. 3^<«o ODE TO TKANQUILLITY. S. T. Coleridge. Tranquillity ! thou better name Than all the family of Fame ! Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age To low intrigue or factious rage ; For, O dear child of thoughtful Truth ! To thee I gave my early ^outh. And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore. Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, On him but seldom, Power divine. Thy spirit rests ! Satiety And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope And dire remembrance interlope. To vex tlie feverish slumbers of the mind : The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. But me thy gentle hand will lead At morning through th' accustom'd mead ; And in the sultry Summer's heat Will build me up a mossy seat ; And, when tbe gusty Autumn crowds And breaks the busy moonlit clouds. Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding Moon. MEMORY. 123 The feeling heart, the searching soul, To thee I dedicate the whole ! And, while within myself I trace The greatness of some future race, Aloof with hermit-e^'e I scan The present works of present man, — A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile. Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! MEMOEY. William Wordsworth. A PEN — to register ; a key — That winds through secret wards ; Are well assign'd to Memory By allegoric Bards. As aptly, also, might be given A Pencil to her hand ; That, softening objects, sometimes even Outstrips the heart's demand ; That smoothes foregone distress, the lines Of lingering care subdues, Long-vanish'd happiness refines, And clothes in brighter hues ; Yet, like a tool of Fancy, works Those Spectres to dilate That startle Conscience, as she lurks Within her lonely seat. O, that our lives, which flee so fast, In purit}' were such, That not an Image of the past Should fear that pencil's touch ! 12-1: CHOICE RKADINGS. Retirernent then might hourly look Upon a soothing scene, Age steal to his allotted nook Contented and serene ; With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, In frosty moonlight glistening ; Or mountain rivers, where they creep Along a channel smooth and deep, To their own far-off murmurs listeuinff. Tranquillity ! the sovereign aim wert thou In heathen schools of philosophic lore ; Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow ; And what of hope Elysium could allow Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore Peace to the mourner. But, when He who wore The crown of thorns around His bleeding brow Warm'd our sad being with celestial light. Then Arts which still had drawn a softening grace From shadowy fountains of the Infinite Communed with that Idea face to face ; And move around it now, as planets run Each in its orbit round the central Sun. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 125 III. GRAVE, SOLEMN, SERIOUS, PATHETIC. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. John G. Whittier. Speak and tell us, our Xiuiena, looking northward far awaj', O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are tlie}' far or come they near? Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. ' ' Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their souls ! " Who is losing? who is winning? " Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain." Holy Mother, keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once more : '■' Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before. Bearing on, in strange confusion, frit'ud and foeman, foot and horse. Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course." Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has roU'd awa}' ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. 126 CHOICE KEADINQS. Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Miiion wheels ; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now ad- vance ! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance ! Down they go, the brave J^oung riders ; horse and foot together fall ; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and fright- ful on. Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost and who has won? " Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall ; O'er the dying rush the living : pra}-, my sisters, for them all ! " " Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, save my brain ! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain ; Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive to rise : Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! "O my heart's love! O m}' dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee ; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O m}^ husband, brave and gentle ! O my Bei-nal, look once more On the blessfed cross before thee ! Mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er." THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 127 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximeiia; lay thy dear cue down to rest ; Let his hands be meekly folded, la}- the cross upon his breast ; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said ' To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turn'd away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling look'd she l>ack upon her dead ; But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain. And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whisper'd low the dying soldier, press'd her hand, and faintly smiled : Was that pit3'ing face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup plied ; With her kiss upon his forehead, '' Mother! " laurmur'd he. and died. " A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North ! " Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, A-nd turn'd to soothe the living still, and bind the wounds which bled. 1^8 CHOICE READINGS. Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountaius, leaving blood and death behind; Ah ! they plead in vain for nierc^' ; in the dust the wounded strive ; Hide 3'onr faces, holy angels ! O, thou Christ of God, for- give ! " Sink, O Night, among thj- mountains ! let the cool, gra}- shadows fall ; D^'ing brothers, fighting demons, — drop thy curtain over all ! Tlu'ough the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle roll'd, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food ; Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman bless 'd them in a strange and North- ern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Fatlier ! is this evil world of ours ; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle Love and Pity send theii prayer, And still Thy white-wing'd angels hover dimly in our air. ^IRf> fiVRON. Thkkk Im a |)l('asiii(! in Mio pnilih-KM vvoodn, TJicn; \H a i'a|)tiii('. on Mic, lonely kIioic, 'I'hcrc, \h society, where none ind ikIck, P»y tii«! (lebiin^ ^rr»an, Witli(>Mt )i. j(Iin*d, nnd (Miknowri The (irmainents, which thunderstrike the walls ()f rof^k-bnilt cities, biddini; tuitions r|iiakc, And monarchs tremble in tluTir (rapitnis ; Th(! (;ak leviathans, wli(»s(! hnjjje ribs mako Tlirm Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. Calm or convulsed, — in bree/e, or gale, or storm. Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark hi>aving ; — boundless. eniUess, and sublime,— The image of Kternity, — the throne C)f the lnvisil)le ; even from out thy sliuie The monsters of the deep are made ; each 7.«M\e Obeys tliee : thou go'st forth, dread, fatliomless. alone. And I liave loved thee, Oceai\ ! antl my Jt>y Of youthful siHU-ts was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onwanl : from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakiMs. — they to me Were a delight; and, if the freslu>ning sea Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; For I was. as it were, a child of tlu'c, And trusted to thy billows f;ir and near, Aud laid mv hand \\[>ou thy mane. as I do lieiw 210 CHOICK READINGS. HYMN TO THE NIGHT. H. W. Longfellow. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls ! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes. That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before ! Thou lay'st thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! Descend with broad-winged flight. The welcome, the thrice-pray'd for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night ! A VISION OF MIST-SPLENDOURS. William Wordsworth. A SINGLE step, that freed me from the skirts Of the blind vapour, open'd to my view A VISION OF MIST-SPLENDOURS. 211 Glory beyond all glory ever seen By waking sense or b}- the dreaming soul ! Th' appearance, instantaneously disclosed, "Was of a mighty citj", — boldly say A wilderness of building, sinking far And self-withdrawn into a boundless depth. Far sinking into splendour, — without end ! Fabric it seem'd of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes, and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted ; here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed ; there, towers begirt "With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars, — illumination of all gems ! By earthly nature had th' effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified ; on them, and on the coves And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded, taking there Their station under a cerulean sky. O, 'twas an unimaginable sight! Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks and emerald turf, Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sk}-. Confused, commingled, mutualh- inflamed, Molten together, and composing thus, Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, In fleecy folds voluminous, enwrapp'd. Eight in the midst, where interspace appeared Of open court, an object like a thi'one Under a shining canopy of state Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use. But vast in size, in substance glorified ; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision, — forms uncouth of mightiest power 212 CHOICE READINGS. For admiration and mysterious awe. This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible, — I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the reveal'd abode Of Spirits in beatitude. HYMN TO MONT BLANC. S. T. Coleridge. Hast thou a charm to sta^- the morning-star In his steep course ? — so long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! The Arv^ and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, Risest from forth th}- silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou jjiercest it. As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternit}^ dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee. Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 1 worshipp'd the Invisible alone. Yet. like some sweet beguiling melody. So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; Till the dilating Soul — enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty Vision passing — there. As in her natural form, swell'd vast to Heaven ! Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears, HYMN TO MONT BLANC. 213 Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hynni ! Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale ! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when the}- sink ; Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald ; wake, 0, wake, and utter praise ! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! Who call'd you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. For ever shattei-'d and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life. Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded, (and the silence came,) Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice, And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge ! Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full Moon ? Who bade the Sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 214 CHOICE READINGS. Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living flowers that skirt th' eternal frost ; Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ; Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ; Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ; Ye signs and wonders of the element, — Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Thou too, hoar Mount, with thy skj^-pointing peaks. Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast, — Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That, as I raise my head, awhile bow'd low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapour3- cloud, To rise before me, — rise, O, ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent Sky, ' And tell the stars, and tell yon rising Sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. MARCO BOZZAEIS. FiTZ Gkeene Halleck. At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power ; In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror ; MARCO BOZZARIS. 215 In dreams, his song of triuuiph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet rino- ; Then press'd that monarch's throne — a king ; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Platsea's day ; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquer'd there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far, as they. An hour pass'd on : the Turk awoke : That bright dream was his last. He woke to hear his sentries shriek, " To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek !' He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud. And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band : " Strike ! — till the last arm'd foe expires ; Strike ! — for your altars and your fires ; Strike ! — for the green graves of your sires ; God, and your native land ! " They fought like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain : They conquer'd ; — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at ever^- vein. 216 CHOICE READINGS. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang tlieir loud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly as to a night's repose, — Like flowers at set of Sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; Come when the heart beats high and warm With banquet song and dance and wine ; And thou art terrible : — the tear. The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear, Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come when his task of fame is wrought ; Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought ; Come in her crowning hour, — and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light, To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prison'd men ; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land ; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh MARCO BOZZARIS. 21' To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land-wind, from woods of palm.. And orange-groves, and fields of balm. Blew o'er the Haytien seas. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time. Rest thee : there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee. Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree. In sorrow's pomp and pageantry. The heartless luxury of the tomb ; But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone ; Fortiiee her poet's lyre is wreathed. Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; For thee she rings the birthday bells ; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said, At palace couch and cottage bed : Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; His plighted maiden, when slie fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thv fate, and checks her tears: And she, the mother of tliy boys. Though in her eye aud faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak. The memory of her buried joys, — And even she who gave thee birth Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, th' immortal names That were not born to die. 218 CHOICE READINGS. THE LAUNCHING OP THE SHIP. H. W. Longfellow. "Build me straight, O worth}- Master! Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel. That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle I " The merchant's word, Delighted, the Master heard ; For his heart was in his work, and the heart Giveth grace unto every art : And, with a voice that was full of glee, He auswer'd, "• Ere long we will launch A vessel as goodly and strong and staunch As ever weather'd a wintry sea ! " All is finish'd ! and at length Has come the bridal day Of beauty and of strength : To-day the vessel shall be launch'd ! With fleecy clouds the sky is blanch'd; And o'er the bay. Slowly, in all his splendours dight. The great Sun rises to behold the sight. The ocean old. Centuries old, Strong as youth, as uncontroll'd. Paces restless to and fro. Up and down the sands of gold. His beating heart is not at rest ; And far and wide, With ceaseless flow, His beard of snow Heaves with the heaving of his breast : He waits impatient for his bride. THE LAUNCHING OF THE SHIP. 219 There she stands, With her foot upon the sands, Deck'd with flags and streamers gay, In honour of her marriage-day. Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, Round her like a veil descending, Ready to be The bride of the gray old sea. Then the Master, With a gesture of command, Waved his hand ; And at the word Loud and sudden there was heard. All around them and below, The sound of hammers, blow on blow, Knocking away the shores and spurs : And see ! she stirs ! She starts, —she moves, — she seems to feel The thrill of life along her keel. And, spurning with her feet the ground, With one exulting, joyous bound, She leaps into the ocean's arms ! And, lo ! from the assembled crowd There rose a shout, prolong'd and loud. That to the ocean seem'd to say, " Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray ; Take her to thy protecting arms, With all her youth and all her charms ! " How beautiful she is ! how fair She lies within those arms that press Her form with many a soft caress Of tenderness and watchful care ! Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! Through wind and wave, right onward steer ! 220 CHOICE HEADINGS. The moisten VI eye, the trembling lip, Are not the signs of doubt or fear. Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! Humanity, witli all its fears. With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breatliless on thy fate ! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steely Who made each mast and sail and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge, and what a heat. Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock ; 'Tis but the flapping of the sail. And not a rent made b}' the gale ! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee ; Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! o>«Ko ODE TO APOLLO. John Keats. In th}' western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate. With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires ODE TO APOLLO 221 Here Homer with bis nervous arms Strikes the twanging harp of war ; And even the western splendour warms, While the trumpets sound afar : But, what creates the most intense surprise, His soul looks out through renovated eyes. Then, through thy temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tones of Maro's lyre : The soul delighted on each accent dwells, — Enraptured dwells, — not daring to respire. The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre. 'Tis awful silence tlien again ; Expectant stand the spheres ; Breathless the laurell'd peers, Nor move, till ends tiie lofty strain, — Nor move, till Milton's tuneful thunders cease. And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace. Thou biddest Shakespeare wave his hand. And quickly forward spring The Passions, — a terrific band, — And each vibrates the string That with its t3-raut temper best accords. While from their Master's lips pour forth th' inspiring words A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. 'Tis still ! AVild warblings from th' ^Eoliau lyre Enchantmeut softly breathe, and tremblingly expire. Next Tasso's ardent numbers Float along the pleased air, Calling youth from idle slumbers, Rousing thein from Pleasure's lair: 222 CHOICE READINGS. Tlien o'er the strings bis fingers gentl}^ move, And melt the heart to pity and to love. But, when T/iOH joinest with the Nine, And all the powers of song combine, We listen here on Eartb : The dying tones that fill the air, And charm the ear of evening fair, From thee, great God of Bards, receive their heavenly birth ST. PETER'S CHURCH AT ROME. Lord Bvron. But lo ! tlie dome, —the vast and wondrous dome. To which Diana's marvel was a cell, — Chi'ist's mighty shrine above His martyr's tomb ! I have beheld tli' Ephesian miracle, — Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell Th' hyaena and the jackal in their shade : I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd Its sanctuary the while th' usurping Moslem pra^'d : But thou, of ten)ples old, or altars new, Staudest alone, — with nothing like to thee, — Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. Since Zion's desolation, when that He Forsook His former city, what could be. Of earthly structures in His honour piled, Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. Enter : its grandeur overwhehns thee not ; And why? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mind, Expanded l\y the genius of the spot. Has grown colossal, and can only find ST. Peter's church at rome. 223 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined. See th}- God face to face, as thou dost now His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by His brow. Thou movest, but increasing with th' advance. Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise, Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize, All musical in its immensities ; Rich marbles, richer paintings, shrines where flame The lamps of gold, the haughty dome which vies In air with Earth's chief structures, thougii their frame Sits on the firm-set ground, and this the cloud must claim. Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break. To separate contemplation, the great whole ; And as the ocean many bays Avill make. That ask the e3'e, so here condense thy soul To more immediate objects, and control Thy thoughts, until thy mind hath got by heart Its eloquent proportions, and unroll In mighty graduations, part by part, The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, — Not by its fault, but thine. Our outward sense Is but of gradual grasp ; and as it is That what we have of feeling most intense Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this Outshining and o'erwhelmiug edifice Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, Defies at first our nature's littleness, Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 224 CHOICE READINGS. GOD IN NATUEE. William Wordsworth. And what are things eternal ? — Powers depart, Possessions vanish, and opinions change, And passions hold a fluctuating seat : But, by the storms of circumstance unshaken, And subject neither to eclipse nor wane, Duty exists; — immutably survive, For our support, the measures and the forms Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; Whose kingdom is where time and space are not. Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart Do, with united urgency, require, What more that may not perish? — Thou, dread source, Prime, self-existing cause and end of all That in the scale of being fill their place, Above our human region, or below. Set and sustain'd ; Thou, who didst wrap the cloud Of infancy around us, that Thyself, Therein, with our simplicity awhile Mightst hold, on Earth, communion undisturb'd ; Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep. Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, And touch as gentle as the morning light, Restorest us, daily, to the powers of sense And reason's steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone Art everlasting, and the blessed Spirits Which Thou includest, as the sea her waves : For adoration Thou endurest ; endui-e For consciousness the motions of Thy will ; For apprehension those transcendent truths Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws (Submission constituting strength and power) Even to Thy Being's infinite majesty ! This Universe shall pass away, — a work GOD IN NATURE. 225 Glorious, because the shadow of Thv might, A step, or link, for intercourse with Thee. Ah ! if the time must come in which my feet No more shall stray where meditation leads, By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild. Loved haunts like these ; the unimprison'd Mind May yet have scope to range among her own, Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. If the dear faculty of sight should fail, Still it may be allow'd me to remember What visionaiy powers of eye and soul In 3^outh were mine ; when, station'd on the top Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld The Sun rise up, from distant climes return'd Darkness to chase, and sleep ; and bring the day His bounteous gift ! or saw him toward the deep Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds Attended : then my spirit was entranced With joy exalted to beatitude ; The measure of my soul was fill'd with bliss, And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, With ix)mp, with glor}-, with magnificence ! 226 CHOICE READINGS. VI. PATRIOTIC, SENATORIAL, ORATORICAL. THE SEVEN GEE AT OEATOES OF THE WORLD.* Fortune of ^schines. Demosthenes. Foe, my part, I regard any one, who reproaches his fellow-man with fortune, as devoid of sense. He that is best satisfied with his condition, he that deems his fortune excellent, cannot be sure that it will remain so until the evening : how then can it be right to bring it forward, or upbraid another man with it? As ^s- chines, however, has on this subject (besides many others) expressed himself with insolence, look, men of *We here give a representative selection from eacli of these orators. The following extract from the Rev. Henry N. Hudson's Discourse delivered in Boston on the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Daniel Webster will explain why we do so: "Sage and venerable Harvard, on mature consideration no doubt, has spoken Webster for one of the seven great orators of the world. At the theatre end of her Memorial Hall, which has the form of a semicircular polygon, in as many gablets or niches rising above the cornice, the seven heads, of gigantic size, stand forth to pxiblic view. First, of course, is Demosthenes the Greek; second, also of course, Cicero the Roman; third. Saint John Chrysostom, an Asiatic Greek, born about the middle of the fourth century; fourth, Jaques Benigne Bos- suet, the great French divine and author, contemporary with Louis the Fourteenth; fifth, William Pitt the elder, Earl of Chatham, an English- man; sixth, Edmund Burke, an Irishman, probably the greatest genius of them all, though not the greatest orator ; seventh, Daniel Webster. How authentic the likenesses may be, I cannot say, except in the case of Webster : here the likeness is true; and, to my sense, Webster's head is the finest of the seven, unless that of Bossuet may be set down as its peer." THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. DEMOSTHENES. 227 Athens, and observe how much more truth and human- ity there shall be in ni}^ discourse upon fortune than in his. If you are determined, ^Eschines, to scrutinize my fortune, compare it with your own ; and, if you find mine better than yours, cease to revile it. Look, then, from the very beginning. And I pray and entreat that I may not be condemned for bad taste. I don't think any person wise who insults poverty, or who prides him- self on having been bred in affluence : but by the slan- der and malice of this cruel man I am forced into such a discussion ; which I will conduct with all the modera- tion that circumstances allow. I had the advantage, iEschines, in my boyhood of going to proper schools, and having such allowance as a boy should have who is to do nothing mean from indigence. Arrived at man's estate, I lived suitably to my breeding ; was choir-master, ship-commander, rate- payer; backward in no acts of liberality, public or pri- vate, but making myself useful to the commonwealth and to my friends. When I entered upon State affairs, I chose such a line of politics, that both by my country and many people of Greece I have been crowned many times, and not even you my enemies venture to say that the line I chose was not honourable. Such, then, has been the fortune of my life : I could enlarge upon it, but I forbear, lest what I pride myself in should give offence. But you, the man of dignity, who spit upon others, look what sort of fortune is yours compared with mine. As a boy you were reared in abject poverty, waiting with your father on the school, grinding tlie ink, spong- ing the benches, sweeping the room, doing the duty of a menial rather than a freeman's son. After you were 228 CHOICE READINGS. grown lip, you attended your mother's initiations, read- ing her books and helping in all the ceremonies : at night wrapping the noviciates in fawn-skin, swilling, pu- rifying, and scouring them with clay and bran, raising them after the lustration, and bidding them say, "• Bad I have scaped, and better I have found " ; priding your- self that no one ever howled so lustily, — and I believe him ! for don't suppose that he who speaks so loud is not a splendid howler ! In the daytime you led your noble orgiasts, crowned with fennel and poplar, through the highways, squeezing the big-cheeked serpents, and lifting them over 3'^our head, and shouting and capering, saluted by the beldames as Leader, Conductor, Chest- bearer, Fan-bearer, and the like ; getting as your reward tarts and biscuits and rolls ; for which any man might well bless himself and his fortune ! When you were enrolled among your fellow-towns men, — by what means I stop not to inquire, — you immediately selected the most honourable of employ- ments, that of clerk and assistant to our petty magis- trates. From this you were removed after a while, having done yourself all that you charge others with ; and then, sure enough, you disgraced not your antece- dents by your subsequent life, but, hiring yourself to those ranting players, as they w^ere called, Simyliis and Socrates, you acted third parts, collecting figs and grapes and olives like a fruiterer, and getting more from them than from the playing, in Avhich the lives of your whole company were at stake : for there was an impla- cable and incessant war between them and the audience, from whom you received so many wounds, that no won- der you taunt as cowards people inexperienced in such encounters. But, passing over what may be imputed to poverty, THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. DEMOSTHENES, 229 I will come to the direct charges against your character. You espoused such a line of politics, (when at last jou tJiought of taking to them,) that, if your country pros- pered, you lived the life of a liare, fearing and tremb- ling, and ever expecting to be scourged for the crimes of which your conscience accused you : though all have seen how bold you were during the misfortunes of the rest. A man who took courage at the death of a thou- sand citizens, — what does he deserve at the hands of the living? A great deal more that I could say about him 1 shall omit: for it is not all I can tell of his turpitude and infamy which I ought to let slip from my tongue, but only what is not disgraceful to myself to mention. Contrast now the circumstances of your life and mine, gently and with temper, jEschines , and then ask these people whose fortune they would each of them prefer. You taught reading, I went to school ; you performed initiations, I received them ; you danced in the chorus, I furnished it; you were assembly-clerk, I was a speaker : you acted third parts, I heard you ; you broke down, and I hissed ; you have worked as a states- man for the enemy, I for my country. I pass by the rest ; but this very day I am on my probation for a crown, and am acknowledged to be innocent of all offence ; whilst you are already judged to be a petti- fogger, and the question is, whether you shall continue that trade or at once be silenced by not getting a fifth part of the votes. A happy fortune, do you see, you have enjoyed, that you should denounce mine as miser- able ! 230 choice readings. Panegyric on Julius C^sar. Marcus Tullius Cicero. This day, Conscript Fathers, has brought with it an end to the long silence in which I have of late indulged; not out of any fear, but partly from sorrow, partly from modesty ; and at the same time it has revived in me my ancient habit of saying what my wishes and opin- ions are. For I cannot by any means pass over in silence such great humanity, such unprecedented and unheard-of clemency, such moderation in the exercise of supreme and universal power, such incredible and almost godlike wisdom. For, now that Marcus Mar- cellus, Conscript Fathers, has been restored to you and the Republic, I think that not only his voice and authority are preserved and restored to you and to the Republic, but my own alsu. For I was concerned, Conscript Fathers, and most exceedingly grieved, when I saw such a man as he is, who had espoused the same cause which I had, not enjojdng the same good fortune as myself; nor could I persuade myself to think it right or fair that 1 should be going on in my usual routine, while that rival and imitator of my zeal and labours, who had been a com- panion and comrade of mine throughout, was separated from me. You, therefore, Caius Csesar, have reopened to me ray former habits of life, which were closed up, and have raised, as it were, a standard to all these men, as a sort of token to lead them to entertain hopes of the general welfare of the Republic. For it was seen by me before in many instances, and especially in my own, and now it is clearly understood by everybody, since you have granted Marcus Marcellus to the Senate and people of Rome, in spite of your recollection of all THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. CICERO. 2.'U the injuries you have received at his hands, that you prefer the authority of this order and the dignity of the Republic to the indulgence of your own resentment or suspicions. No one is blest with such a stream of genius, no one is endowed with such vigour and richness of eloquence, either as a speaker or a writer, as to be able, I will not say to extol, but even plainly to relate, O Csesar, all your achievements. Nevertheless I assert, and with your leave I maintain, that in all of them you never gained greater and truer glory than you have acquired this day. I am accustomed often to keep this idea before my eyes, and to affirm it in conversation, that all the exploits of our own generals, all those of foreign nations and of the most powerful States, all the mighty deeds of the most illustrious monarchs, can be compared with yours neither in the magnitude of your wars, nor in the variety of countries which you have conquered, nor in the rapidity of your conquests, nor in the great difference of character with which your wars have been marked ; and that those countries the most remote from each other could not be travelled over more rapidly by any one in a journey than they have been visited by your, I will not say journeys, but victories. And if I were not to admit that those actions are so great that scarcely any man's mind or comprehension is capable of doing justice to them, I should be very senseless. But there are other actions greater than those. For some people are in the habit of disparaging military glory, and of denying the whole of it to the generals, and of giving the nuiltitnde a share of it also, so that it may not be the peculiar jjroperty of the con? manders. And no doubt, in the affairs of war, the valour of the troops, the advantages of situation, tiie 232 CHOICE READINGS. assistance of allies, fleets, and supplies, have great influ ence ; and a most important share in all such trans actions Fortune claims for herself, as of her right ; and whatever has been done successfully she considers almost entirely as her own work. But in this glory, Caius Csesar, which you have just earned you have no partners. The whole of this, how- ever great it may be, — and surely it is as great as pos- sible, — the whole of it, I say, is your own. The centu- rion can claim for himself no share of that praise, neither can the prefect, nor the battallion, nor the squadron. Nay, even that very mistress of all human affairs. For- tune herself, cannot thrust herself into any participation in that glory : she yields to you : she confesses that it is all your own, your peculiar private desert. For rash- ness is never united with wisdom, nor is chance ever admitted to regulate affairs conducted with prudence. You have subdued nations savage in their barbarism, countless in their numbers, boundless, if we regard the extent of country peopled by them, and rich in every kind of resource ; but still you were only conquering things the nature and condition of which were such that they could be overcome by force. For there is no strength so great that it cannot be weakened and broken by arms and violence. But, to subdue one's inclinations, to master one's angry feelings, to be mod- erate in the hour of victory, not merely to raise from the ground a prostrate adversary, eminent for noble birth, for genius and for virtue, but even to increase his previous dignity, — these are actions of such a nature that I do not compare the author of them to the most illustrious man, but consider him equal to a god. Therefore, O Csesar, those military glories of yours will be celebrated not only in our own literature and Ian- THE SEVEN GREAT ORATOUS. CHRYSOSTOM. 233 guage, but in those of almost all nations ; nor will any age ever be silent about your praises. But still, deeds of that sort, somehow or other, even when they are read, appear to be overwhelmed with the cries of the soldiers and the sound of the trumpets. But, when we hear or read of anything that has been done with clem- ency, with humanity, with justice, with moderation, and with wisdom, especially in a time of anger, which is very adverse to prudence, and in the hour of victory, which is naturally insolent and haughty; Avith what ardour are we then inflamed, (even if the actions have not really been performed, but are only fabulous,) so as often to love those whom we have never seen ! But as for you, whom we behold present among us, whose mind and heart and countenance we at this moment see to be such, that you wish to preserve everything which the fortune of war has left to the Republic, O, with what praises must we extol you I with wluit zeal nuist we follow you ! with what affection nuist we devote ourselves to you ! The very walls, I declare, the very walls of this Senate-house seem to me eager to return you thanks; because, in a short time, you will have restored their ancient authority to this venerable abode of themselves and of their ancestors. Divine Providence in Nature. Saint John Chrysostom. Dost thou not perceive how this body wastes away, withers, and perishes on the flight of the soul, and each of the elements thereof returns to its own proper abode ? This very same thing, indeed, would also happen to the world, if the Power which always governs it had left it devoid of its own providence. For, if a ship does not 284 CHOICE READINGS. hold on its way without a pilot, but soon founders, how could the world have subsisted so long a time with no one to govern its course ? And, that I may not enlarge, suppose the world to be a ship ; the earth to be placed below as the keel ; the shy to be the sail ; men to be the passengers ; the subjacent abyss, the sea. How is it, then, that, during so long a time, no shipwreck has taken place? Now, let a ship go one day Avithout a pilot and seamen, and thou wilt see it straightway over- whelmed ! But the world, though subsisting now five thousand years, and many more, hath suffered nothing of the kind. But why do I talk of a ship? Suppose one hath pitched a small hut in the vineyards ; and, when the fruit is gathered, leaves it vacant : it stands, however, scarce two or three days, but goes to pieces, and quickly falls down destroyed I Could not a hut, forsooth, stand without superintendence ? How, then, could the work- manship of the world, so fair and marvellous ? the laws of the night and day ? the interchanging dances of the seasons ? the course of Nature chequered and varied as it is in every way throughout the earth, the sea, the sky? in plants, and in animals that fly, swim, walk, creep? and in the race of men, far more dignified than any of these ; — how could all continue, yet unbroken, during so long a period, without some kind of prov- idence ? But, in addition to what has been said, follow me whilst I enumerate the meadows, the gardens, the flowery tribes ; all sorts of herbs, and their uses ; their odours, forms, disposition, yea, but their very names ; the trees which are fruitful, and the barren ; the nature of metals, — that of animals, — in the sea, or on the land ; of those that swim, and those that traverse the THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. — ClIRYSOSTOM. 235 air ; the mountains, the forests, tlie groves ; the meadow below, and the meadow above, — for there is a meadow on the earth, and a meadow too in the sky ; the various llowers of the stars ; the rose below, and the rainbow above ! Would you have me point out also the meadow of the birds ? Consider the variegated body of the pea- cock, surpassing every dye, and the fowls of purple l)lumage. Contemplate with me the l)eauty of the sky : how it lias been preserved so long without being dimmed ; and remains as bright and clear as if it had been fabricated to-da}^ ; moreover, the power of the Earth, liow it has not become effete by bringing forth during so long a time! Contemplate with me the fountains: how they burst forth and fail not, since the time they were begotten, to flow forth continually throughout the day and night ! Contemplate with me the sea, receiving so many rivers, yet never exceeding its measure ! But how long might we continue to pursue things incomprehen- sible ! It is fit, indeed, that, over every one of these wliich have been spoken of, we should say, "O Lord, liow hast Thou magnified Thy works! in wisdom hast Thou made them all." But what is the sapient answer of the unbelievers, when we go over all these particulars with them, — the magnitude, the beautv of creation, the richness, the munificence everywhere displayed? This very thing, say they, is the worst fault, that God hath made the world so beautiful and so vast. For, if he had not made it beautiful and vast, we should not have made a god of it ; but now, being struck with its grandeur, and marvelling at its beauty, we have thought it to be a deity But such an argument is good for nothing. For, that neither the magnitude nor beauty of the S36 CHOICE READINGS. world is the cause of this impiety, but their own absurdity, is wliat we are prepared to show, proved by tlie case of ourselves, who have never been so affected. Why, then, have we not made a deit}^ of it? Do we not see it with the same eyes as themselves ? Do we not enjoy the same advantage from the creation with themselves ? Do we not possess the same soul ? Have we not the same body ? Do we not tread the same earth ? How comes it that this beauty and magnitude have not persuaded us to think the same as they do? But this will be evident not from this proof only, but from another besides. For, as a proof that it is not for its beauty they have made a deity of it, but by reason of their own folly, why do they adore the ape, the croco- dile, the dog, and the vilest of animals? Truly, "they became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing themselves to be wise, they became fools." EuLOGiuM UPON St. Paul. Jaques Benigne Bossuet. Christians, do not expect that the apostle will flat- ter your ears b}' harmonious cadences, or charm them by gratifiying your vain curiosity ; listen to what he says of himself. We preach hidden wisdom, — we preach a crucified God. Do not let us seek to add vain orna- ments to that God who rejects the things of this world. Tf our lowliness is displeasing to the great, let them know that we covet their disdain, for Jesus Christ despises their ostentatious indolence, and desires only to be known to the humble. The discourses of St. Paul, far from flowing with that agreeable sweetness, that calm equality which we admire in other orators, THE SEVEN GUEAT ORATORS. BOSSUET. 2ol appear unequal and unfinished to tliose who do not study tliem deeply ; and the delicate ones of this Earth whose ears, as they say, are so refined, are often offended Ijy his irregular style. But do not let us blush for this. The words of the apostle are simple, but his thoughts are divine. If lie is ignorant of rhetoric and despises philosophy, Jesus Christ takes the place of all, and His name, which is ever in his mouth, and His mysteries, which he describes in such a tone of inspiration, render liis simplicity all- powerful. This man, unacquainted with fine language, whose elocution was rude, and who spoke like a stranger, goes into polished Greece, the mother of philosophy and oratory; and notwithstanding the opposition of the people he there established more churches than Plato had acquired disciples, by an eloquence which was thought divine. He pushed his conquests still further : he brought the majesty of the Roman fasces to the feet of Jesus, in the person of a proconsul, and caused the judges, before whom he was cited, to tremble on their judgment-seats. Rome even listened to his voice ; and the day will yet arrive when this ancient mistress of the world will deem herself more honoured by an epistle of Paul, addressed to her citizens, than all the far- famed harrangues delivered in the forum by Cicero. And from whence. Christians, is this ? It is tliat St. Paul had resources of persuasion that Greece could not teach, and Rome had not yet acquired, — an inspired power which delights in extolling what the great despise, and which is spread over and mingled with the august simplicity of his words. It is this which causes us to admire, in his epistles, a sentiment of superhuman virtue which prevails above 238 CHOICE READINGS. ordinary rules, or rather does not persuade so much as it captivates the understanding, — which does not flat- ter the ear, but goes direct to the heart ; just as we see a great river retain, when flowing through the plain, that violent and impetuous force which it had acquired in the mountains from whence it derived its source. Thus the holy virtue which is contained in the writings of St. Paul, even in the simplicity of his style, preserves all the vigour it brings from the Heavens whence it has descended. Against the Stamp Act. William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. Gentlemen, Sir, have been charged with giving birth to sedition in America. Several have spoken their senti- ments with freedom against this unhappy Act, and that freedom has become their crime. Sorry I am to hear the liberty of speech in this House imputed as a crime. But this imputation shall not discourage me. It is a liberty I mean to exercise. No gentleman ought to be afraid to exercise it. It is a liberty by which the gentleman who calumniates it might have profited. He ought to have profited. He ought to have desisted from his project. The gentleman tells us America is obstinate ; America is almost in open rebellion. I rejoice that America has resisted. Three millions of people so dead to all the feelings of liberty, as voluntarily to let themselves be made slaves, would have been fit instruments to make slaves of all the rest. I come not here armed at all points with law cases and Acts of Parliament, with the statute-book doubled down in dogs' ears, to defend the cause of liberty. I would not debate a point of law with THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. CHATHAM. 239 the gentleman : I know his abilities. I have been obliged to his diligent researches. But, for the defence of liberty, upon a general principle, upon a constitutional principle, it is aground on wliicli I stand firm ; on which I dare meet any man. Since the accession of King William, many Ministers, some of great, others of modeiate abilities, have taken the lead of Government. None of these thought or even dreamed of robbing the colonies of their constitu- tional rights. That was reserved to mark the era of the late administration : not that tliere were wanting some, when I had the honour to serve his Majesty, to propose to me to burn my fingers with an American Stamp Act. With the enemy at their back, with our bayonets at their breasts, in the depth of their distress perhaps the Americans would have submitted to the imposition ; but it would have been taking an ungenerous and un- just advantage. The gentleman boasts of his bounties to America! Are not those bounties intended finally for the benefit of this kingdom ? If they are not, he has misapplied the national treasures. I am no courtier for America, — I stand up for this kingdom. I maintain that the Parlia- ment has a right to bind, to restrain America. Our legislative power over the colonies is sovereign and supreme. When two countries are connected, like Eng- land and her colonies, without being incorporated, the one must necessarily govern ; the greater must rule the less ; but so rule it as not to contradict the fundamental principles that are common to both. The gentleman asks " When were the colonies eman- cipated?" I desire to know when they were made slaves. But I will not dwell upon words. When I had the honour of serving his Majesty, I availed myself 240 CHOICE READINGS. of the means of information which I derived from my office : I speak, therefore, from knowledge. My materials were good ; I was at pains to collect, to digest, to con- sider them ; and I will be bold to affirm that the profits of Great Britain from the trade of the colonies, through all its branches, are two millions a-year. This is the fund that carried you triumphantly through the last war. The estates that were rented at two thousand pounds a-year, threescore years ago, are at three thou- sand pounds at present. These estates sold then for from fifteen to eighteen years' purchase ; the same may now be sold for thirty. You owe this to America. This is the price America pays for her protection. And shall a miserable financier come with a boast, that he can fetch a pe^jpercorn into the Exchequer by the loss of millions to the nation ? I dare not say how much higher these profits may be aug- mented. Omitting the immense increase of people by natural population in the northern colonies, and the emi- gration from every part of Europe, I am convinced that the whole commercial system of America may be altered to advantage. You have prohibited where you ought to have encouraged ; and you have encouraged where you ought to have prohibited. Improjjer restraints have been laid on the continent in favour of the islands. You have but two nations to trade with in America. Would you had twenty ! A great deal has been said without doors of the power, of the strength, of America. It is a topic that ought to be cautiously meddled with. In a good cause, on a sound bottom, the force of this country can crush America to atoms. I know the valour of your troojjs; I know the skill of your officers. There is not a com- pany of foot that has served in America, out of which THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. — CHATHAM. 241 you may not pick a man of sufficient knowledge and experience to make a governor of a colony there. But, on this ground, — on the Stamp Act, — when so many here will think it a crying injustice, I am one who will lift up my hands against it. In such a cause even your success would be hazardous. America, if she fell, would fall like a strong man. She would embrace the pillars of the State, and puil doAvn the Constitution along with her. Is this j'our boasted peace ? — 'to sheathe the sword, not in its scab- bard, but in the bowels of your countrymen ? Will you quarrel with yourselves now that the whole House of Bourbon is united against you ? — while France disturbs your fisheries in Newfoundland, and withholds from vour subjects in Canada their property stipulated by treaty ? while the ransom for the Manillas is denied ])y Spain, and its gallant conqueror basely traduced into a mean plunderer, — a gentleman whose noble and gen- erous spirit would do honour to the proudest grandee of the country? The Americans have not acted in all things with prudence and temper. The Americans have been wronged. They have been driven to madness by injus- tice. Will you punish them for the madness which yt)u have occasioned? Rather let prudence and temjiei come first from this side. I will undertake for America that she will follow the example. — Upon the whole, 1 will beg leave to tell the House what is really my opinion. It is, that the Stamp Act be repealed^ absolutely totally, and immediately. 242 choice readings. Impeachment of Hastings Finished. Edmund Burke. My Lords, I have clone ; the part of the Commons is concluded. With a trembling solicitude we consign this product of our long, long labours to your charge. Take it ! — take it ! It is a sacred trust. Never before was a cause of such magnitude submitted to any human tribunal. My Lords, at this awful close, in the name of the Commons, and surrounded by them, I attest the retiring, 1 attest the advancing generations, between which, as a link in the great chain of eternal order, we stand. We call this nation, we call the world to witness, that the Commons have shrunk from no labour, that we have been guilty of no prevarication, that we have made no compromise with crime, that we have not feared any odium whatsoever, in the long warfare which we have carried on with the crimes, with the vices, with the exorbitant wealth, with the enormous and overpowering influence of Eastern corruption. This war we have waged for twenty-two years, and the conflict has been fought at your Lordships' bar for the last seven years. My Lords, twent3'-two years is a great space in the scale of the life of man ; it is no inconsiderable space in the history of a great nation. A business which has so long occupied the councils and the tribunals of Great Britain cannot possibly be huddled over in the course of vulgar, trite, and transi- tory events. Nothing but some of those great revolu- tions that break the traditionary chain of human mem ory, and alter the very face of Nature itself, can pos- sibly obscure it. My Lords, we are all elevated to a THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. BURKE. 243 degree of importance by it ; the meanest of us will, by means of it, more or less become the concern of pos- terity, — if we are yet to hope for such a thing, in the present state of the world, as a recording, retrospective, civilized posterity : but this is in the hands of the great Disposer of events ; it is not ours to settle how it shall be. My Lords, j-our House yet stands, — it stands as a great edifice ; but let me say that it stands in the midst of ruins, — in the midst of the ruins that have been made by the greatest moral earthquake that ever con- vulsed and shattered this globe of ours. My Lords, it has pleased Providence to place us in such a state, that we appear every moment to be upon the verge of some great mutations. There is one thing, and one thing only, Avhich defies all mutation, — that which existed before the world, and will survive the fabric of the world itself : I mean justice, — that justice which, emanating from the Divinity, has a place in the breast of every one of us, given us for our guide with regard to ourselves and with regard to others, and which will stand, after this globe is burned to ashes, our advocate or accuser before the great Judge. My Lords, the Commons will share in every fate with your Lordsliips ; there is nothing sinister which can happen to you, in which we shall not be involved. And if it should so happen that we shall be subjected to some of those frightful changes which we have seen ; if it should happen that your Lordships, stripped of all the decorous distinctions of human society, should, by hands at once base and cruel, be led to those scaffolds and machines of murder upon which great kings and glorious queens have shed their blood, amidst the pre- lates, amidst the nobles, amidst the magistrates who 244 CHOICE HEADINGS. supported their thrones, may you, in those moments, feel that consolation which I am persuaded they felt in the critical moments of their dreadful agony ! My Lords, there is a consolation, — and a great con- solation it is ! — which often happens to oppressed vir- tue and fallen dignity. It often happens that the very oppressors and j)erscutors themselves are forced to bear testimony in its favour. I do not like to go for in- stances a great way back into antiquity. I know very well that length of time operates so as to give an air of the fabulous to remote events, which lessens the interest and weakens the application of examples. I wish to come nearer the present time. Your Lordships know and have heard (for which of us has not known and heard?) of the Parliament of Paris. The Parliament of Paris had an origin very, very similar to that of the great Court before which I stand ; the Parliament of Paris continued to have a great resemblance to it in its constitution, even to its fall. The Parliament of Paris, my Lords, was ; it is gone ! It has passed away ; it has vanished like a dream ! It fell, pierced by the sword of the Comte de Mirabeau. And yet I will say that that man, at the time of his inflicting the death-wound of that Parliament, produced at once the shortest and the grandest funeral oration that ever was or could be made upon the departure of a great court of magistracy. Though he had himself smarted under its lash, as every one knows who knows Ids history, (and he was elevated to dread- ful notoriety in history,) yet, when he pronounced the death-sentence upon that Parliament, and inflicted the mortal wound, he declared that his motives for doing it were merely political, and that their hands were as pure as those of justice itself, which they administered. THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS. WEBSTER. 245 A great and glorious exit, my Lords, of a great and glorious body ! And never was an eulogy pronounced upon a body more deserved. They were persons, in nobility of rank, in amplitude of fortune, in weight of authority, in depth of learning, inferior to few of those that hear me. My Lords, it was but the other day that they submitted their necks to the axe ; but their honour was unwounded. Their enemies, the persons who sen- tenced them to death, were lawyers full of subtlety, they were enemies full of malice ; yet, lawyers full of subtlety, and enemies full of malice, as they were, they did not dare to reproach them with having supported the wealthy, the great, and powerful, and of having ojipressed the weak and feeble, in any of their judg- ments, or of having perverted justice, in any one instance whatever, through favour, through interest, or cabal. My Lords, if you must fall, may you so fall ! But, if you stand, — and stand I trust you will, together with the fortune of this ancient monarchy, together with the ancient laws and liberties of this great and illustrious kingdom, — may you stand as unimpeached in honour as in power ! May you stand, not as a substitute for virtue, but as an ornament of virtue, as a security for virtue ! May you stand long, and long stand the terror of tyrants ! May you stand the refuge of afflicted nations ! May you stand a sacred temple, for the per- petual residence of an inviolable justice ! Supposed Speech of John Adams. Daniel Webster. Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote. It is true indeed that in the beginning we aimed not at independence. But 246 CHOICE READINGS. there's a Divinity which shapes our ends. The injus tice of England has driven us to arms ; and, blinded to her own interest for our good, she has obstinately per- sisted, till independence is now within our grasp. We have but to reach forth to it, and it is ours. Why then should we defer the declaration ? Is any man so weak as now to hope for a reconciliation with England, which shall leave either safety to the country and its liberties, or safety to his life and his own honour ? Are not you. Sir, who sit in that chair, is not he, our venerable colleague near you, are you not both already the pro- scribed and predestined objects of punishment and of vengeance ? Cut off from all hope of royal clemency, what are you, what can you be, while the power of England remains, but outlaws ? If we postpone independence, do we mean to carry on, or to give up, the war? Do we mean to submit to the measures of Parliament, Boston-Port Bill and all? Do we mean to submit, and consent that we ourselves shall be ground to powder, and our country and its rights trodden down in the dust ? I know we do not mean to submit. We never shall submit. Do we mean to violate that most solemn obligation ever en- tered into by men, that plighting, before God, of our sacred honour to Washington, when, putting him forth to incur the dangers of war, as well as the jDolitical hazards of the times, we promised to adhere to him, in every extremity, with our fortunes and our lives ? I know there is not a man here, who would not rather see a general conflagration sweep over the land, or an earthquake sink it, than one jot or tittle of that plighted faith fall to the ground. For myself, having, twelve months ago, in this place, moved you, that George Washington be appointed commander of the forces THE SEVEN GKEAT ORATOR3. WEBSTER. 247 raised, or to be raised, for defence of American liberty, may my right hand forget her cunning, and my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if I hesitate or waver in the support I give him. The war, then, must go on. We must fight it through. And if the war must go on, why put off lon- ger the Declaration of Independence? That measure will strengthen us. It will give us character abroad. The nations will then treat with us, which they never can do while we acknowledge ourselves subjects in arms against our sovereign. Nay, I maintain that Eng- land hersQlf will sooner treat for peace with us on the footing of independence than consent, by repealing her Acts, to acknowledge that her whole conduct toward us has been a course of injustice and oppression. Her pride will be less wounded by submitting to that course of things which now predestinates our independence than by yielding the points in controversy to her rebel- lious subjects. The former she would regard as the result of fortune ; the latter she would feel as her own deep disgrace. Why then, why then. Sir, do we not as soon as possible change this from a civil to a national war? And, since we must fight it through, why not put ourselves in a state to enjoy all the benefits of vic- tory, if we gain the victory ? If we fail, it can be no worse for us. But we shall not fail. The cause will raise up armies ; the cause will create navies. The people, the people, if we are true to them, will carry us, and will cany themselves, gloriously through the struggle. I care not how fickle other people have been found. I know the people of these Colonies, and I know that resistance to British aggression is deep and settled in their hearts, and can- not be eradicated. Every Colony, indeed, has expressed its willingness to follow, if we but take the lead. 248 CHOICE READINGS. Sir, the Declaration will inspire the people with increased courage. Instead, of a long and bloody war for restoration of privileges, for redress of grievances, for chartered immunities, held under a British King, set before them the glorious object of entire independ- ence, and it will breathe into them anew the breath of life. Read this Declaration at the head of the army ; every sword will be drawn from its scabbard, and the solemn vow uttered, to maintain it, or to perish on the bed of honour. Publish it from the pulpit ; religion will approve it, and the love of religious liberty will cling round it, resolved to stand with it, or foil with it. Send it to the public halls ; proclaim it there ; let them hear it who heard the first roar of the enemy's cannon ; let them see it who saw their brothers and their sons fall on the field of Bunker Hill, and in the streets of Lexington and Concord, and the very walls will cry out in its support. Sir, I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly, through this day's business. You and I indeed may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colonists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, igno- miniously and on the scaffold. Be it so ; be it so ! If it be the pleasure of Heaven that ray country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let me have a country, or at least the hope of a country, and that a free coun- try. But, whatever may be our fate, be assured, be assured, that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood ; but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for bothc Through the thick COMPOSED AT CORA LINN. 249 gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future, as the Sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honour it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires, and illumi- nations. On its annual return they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude, and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that 1 am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it : and I leave off, as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, Independence now^ and INDEPENDENCE FOR EVER. COMPOSED AT OOEA LIO,* In Sight of Wallace's Tower. Lord of the vale ! astounding Flood; The dullest leaf in this thick wood Quakes, conscious of thy power ; The caves reply with lioUow moan ; And vibrates, to its central stone, Yon time-cemented Tower ! And yet how fair the rural scene ! For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been Beneficent as strong ; Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Thy shelving rocks among. * Linn is Scottish for waterfall or ca&cade. 250 CHOICE READINGS. Hence all who love their country, love To look on thee, — delight to rove Where they thy voice can hear ; And, to the patriot-warrior's Shade, Lord of tlie vale ! to Heroes laid In dust, that voice is dear ! Along thy banks, at dead of night, Sweeps visibly the Wallace Wight ; Or stands, in warlike vest, Aloft, beneath the Moon's pale beam^ A Champion wortliy of the stream, Yon gray tower's living crest ! But clouds and envious darkness hide A Form not doubtfully descried : Their transient mission o'er, O, say to what blind region flee These Shapes of awful phantasy ? To what untrodden shore ? Less than divine command the}' spurn : But this we from the mountains learn, And this the valleys show, — That never will they deign to hold Communion where the heart is cold To human weal and woe. The man of abject soul in vain Shall walk the Marathonian plain ; Or thrid the shadowy gloom, That still invests the guardian Pass Where stood, sublime, Leonidas Devoted to the tomb. Nor deem that it can aught avail For such to glide with oar or sail Beneath the piny wood. PATKIOTISM. 251 Where Tell once drew, by Uri's lake, His vengeful shafts, — prepared to slake Their thirst in tyrant's blood. PATKIOTISM. Sir Walter Scott. Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said. This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath tnrn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well : For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown. And, "doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. O Caledonia ! stern and wild. Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires ! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band. That knits me to thy rugged strand ! Still, as I view each well-known scene, Think what is now, and what hath been, Seems as, to me, of all bereft. Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ; And thus I love them better still. Even in extremity of ill. 252 CHOICE READINGS. By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide m}- feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill m^' wither'd cheek ; Still lay my head b}' Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten and alone, The Bard may draw his parting groan. PAUL EEVEEE'S EIDE. H. W. Longfellow. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five: Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, — "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch Of the North-Church tower, as a signal-light, — One if by land, and two if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country-folk to be up and to arm." Then he said good-night, and with muffled oar Silentl}' row'd to the Charlestown shore, Just as the Moon rose over the ba}'. Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war : A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the Moon, like a prison-bar. And a huge, black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. PAUL revere's ride. 253 Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street Wanders and watches with eager ears, Till in the silence around liim he hears The muster of men at tlie barrack-door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climb'd to the tower of the church, Up the wooden stairs, with stealth}' tread. To the belfiy-chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade ; Up the light ladder, slender and tall, To the highest window in the wall. Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the quiet town, And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the church-jard. lay the dead In their night-encampment on the hill, Wrapp'd in silence so deep and still. That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, The watchful night-wind as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, " All is well ! " A moment onlj* he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay, — A line of black, that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurr'd, with a heavy stride, 254 CHOICE READINGS. On the opposite shore walk'd Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse's side, Now gazed on the landscape far and near, Then impetuous stamp'd the earth, And turu'd and tighten'd his saddle-girth ; But mostly he watch'd with eager search The belfty-tower of the old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonel}', and spectral, and sombre, and still. And, lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light ! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns ! A hurry of hoofs in a village-street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet : That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of u nation was riding that night ; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. Kindled the land into flame with its heat. It was twelve by the village-clock. When he cross'd the bridge into Medford town, He heard the crowing of the cock. And the barking of the farmer's dog. And felt the damp of the river-fog, That rises when the Sun goes down. It was one by the village-clock, When he rode into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he pass'd. And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare. Gaze at him with a spectral glare. PAUL REVERE 'S RICE. 255 As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two b}' the village clock, Wheu he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning-breeze Blowing over the meadows brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would l)e first to fall, Who that da}' would be lying dead. Pierced by a British mnsket-ball. You know the I'est. In the books you have read How the British regulars fired and fled ; How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard-wall, Chasing the red-coats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to cmei'ge again Under the trees at the turn of the road. And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere ; And so through the night went his cr}' of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm, — A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore ! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need. The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed. And the midnight-message of Paul Revere. 256 CHOICE READINGS. HORATIUS AT THE BKIDGE. Lord Macaulay. Now the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low, And darkly look'd he at the wall, And darkly at the foe : " Their van will l)e upon us Before the bridge goes down ; And, if they once may win the bridge What hope to save the town ? " Then outspake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate : " To ever}' man upon this Earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods ? Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may ; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in pla}', — In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopp'd by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me ? " Then outspake Spurius Lartius, — A Ramnian proud was he : " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And outspake strong Herminius, — Of Titian blood was he : *' I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee," HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. 2o7 ^'Horatius," quoth the Consul, " As thou say'st, so let it be." And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. Now, while the Three were tightening Their harness on their l>acks, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe ; And Fathers mix'd with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold. Came flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee. As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Roll'd slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. But now no sound of laughter Was heard amongst the foes. A wild and wrathful clamour From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that mighty mass, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow pass. But, hark ! the cry is Astur : And, lo ! the ranks divide ; And the great lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. 258 CHOICE READINGS. Quoth he, " Tlie she- wolf s litter Stand savagely at bay ; But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way ? " Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rush'd against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turn'd the blow ; The blow, though turn'd, came yet too nigh ; It miss'd his helm, but gash'd his thigh. The Tuscans raised a joj'ful cry To see the red blood flow. He reel'd, and on Herminius He lean'd one breathing-space, Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth and skull and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a handbreadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfull}' been plied. And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. " Come back, come back, Horatius I " Loud cried the Fathers all ; " Back, Lartius ! back, Herminius ! Back, ere the ruin fall ! " Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herminius darted back ; And, as they pass'd, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack ; HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE. But, when they tuni'd their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have cross' d once more. But, with a crash like thunder, Fell every loosen'd beam. And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream ; And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splash'd the yellow foam. 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, With a smile on his pale face ; " Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " Now yield thee to our grace 1 " Round turn'd he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he ; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome : " O 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. 259 260 CHOICE HEADINGS. And, with his harness on his back, Pkinged headlong in the tide. No sonnd of jo}' or sorrow Was heard from either bank, Bnt friends and foes in dnmb surprise. With parted lips and straining e3es, Stood gazing where he sank ; 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. But fiercely ran the current, • Swoll'n high by months of rain, And fast his blood was flowing ; And he was sore in pain. And heavy with his armour, And spent with changing blows ; And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. And now he feels the bottom ; — Now on dry earth he stands : Now 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. »o>»ioo WALPOLE'S ATTACK ON PITT. I WAS unwilling to interrupt the course of tliis debate while it was carried on, with calmness and decenc3% by men who do not suffer the ardour of opposition to cloud WALPOLe's attack on PITT. 261 their reason or transport tliera to such expressions as the dignity of this assembly does not admit. I have hith- erto deferred answering the gentleman who declaimed against the bill with such fluency of rhetoric and such vehemence of gesture ; who charged the advocates for the expedients now proposed with having no regard to any interests but their own, and with making laws only to consume paper, and threatened them Avith the defec- tion of their adherents, and the loss of their influence, upon this new discovery of their folly and ignorance. Nor do I now answer him for any other purpose than to remind him how little the clamours of rage and the petulancy of invective contribute to the end for which this assembly is called together ; how little the dis- covery of truth is promoted, and the security of the nation established by pompous diction and theatrical emotion. Formidable sounds and furious declama- tion, confident assertions and lofty periods, may affect the young and inexperienced; and perhaps the gentle- man may have contracted his habits of oratory by con- versing more with those of his own age than with such as have more opportunities of acquiring knowledge, and more successful methods of communicating their senti- ments. If the heat of his temper would permit him to attend to those whose age and long acquaintance with business give thera an indisputable right to deference and superiority, he would learn, in time, to reason rather than declaim, and to prefer justness of argument, and an accurate knowledge of facts, to sounding epi- thets and splendid sui)erlatives, which may disturb the imagination for a moment, but leave no lasting impres- sion on the mind. He will learn that to accuse and prove are very different ; and that reproaches, unsup- ported by evidence, affect only the character of him that 262 CHOICE READINGS. utters them. Excursions of fancy and flights of oratory are, indeed, pardonable in young men, but in no other ; and it would surely contribute more, even to the pur- pose for which some gentlemen appear to speak, (that of depreciating the conduct of the administration,) to prove the inconveniences and injustice of this bill, than barely to assert them, with whatever magnificence of language or appearance of zeal, honesty, or compas- sion. PITT'S EEPLY TO WALPOLE. Sir, — The atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but content myself with wishing that I may be one of those whose follies may cease with their youth, and not of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience. Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not, sir, assume the province of determining; but surely age may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings have passed away without improvement, and vice ap- pears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch who, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt, and deserves not that his gray hairs should secure him from insult. Much more, Sir, is he to be abhorred who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked with less temptation ; who prosti- tutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his coun- try. Pitt's reply to walpole. 263 But youth, Sir, is not my only crime ; I liave been accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dis- simulation of my real sentiments, and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man. In the first sense. Sir, the charge is too trilling to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned, that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language ; and, though perhaj^s I may have some ambition to please this gentleman, I shall not lay myself under any restraint, nor very solicit- ously copy his diction or his mien, however matured by age or modelled by experience. But if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour imply that I utter any sentiments but ni}'- own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain ; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity intrench themselves; nor shall anything but age restrain my resentment, — age, which always brings one privilege, that of being insolent and super- cilious, without punishment. But with regard, Sir, to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion that, if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure ; the heat that offended them is the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public rol)bery. I will exert my endeav- ours, at whatever hazard, to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice, whoever may protect him in his villainy, and whoever may partake of his plunder. 264 CHOICE READINGS. OUR DUTIES TO THE EEPUBLIO. Judge Story. The Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed books, the beginning and end of all its own marvellous struggles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece, " the land of scholars and the nurse of arms," where sister republics, in fair procession, chanted the praises of liberty and the gods, — where and what is she ? For two thousand years the oppressor has ground her to the earth. Her arts are no more. The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery. The fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruins. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopylte and Marathon ; and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, banishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting Sun, — Avhere and what is she? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in lier decline, venerable in the majesty of re- ligion, and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has but travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Caesar crossed the Rubicon ; and Bru- tus did not restore her health by the deep probings of the Senate-chamber. The Goths and Vandals and Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome, OUR DUTIES TO THE KEPUBLIC. 2G5 The legions were bought and sold ; but the people offered the tribute money. We stand the latest, — and, if we fail, probably the last, — experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigour of youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been en- feebled by the vices or luxuries of the old world. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning, — simple, hardy, intelligent, accustomed to self-government and to self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products and many means of independence. The government is mild. The Press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches or may reach every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary than for the people to preserve what they have them- selves created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the life-blood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France and the k)W lands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North ; and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that slie is to be added to the cata- logue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is: "They were, but they are not"? Forbid it, my countrymen ! Forbid it. Heaven ! 266 CHOICE READINGS. LIBEETY AND UNION. Daniel Webster. I PROFESS, Sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the prosperity and honour of the whole country, and the preservation of our Federal Union. It is to that Union we owe our safety at home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the discipline of our virtues in the severe school of adversity. It had its origin in the necessities of dis- ordered finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these great interests imme- diately awoke, as from the dead, and sprang forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed with fresh proofs of its utility and its blessings ; and, although our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our population spread further and further, they have not outrun its protection or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed myself. Sir, to look beyond the Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances of pre- serving liberty when the bonds that unite us together shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed my- self to liang over the precipice of disunion, to see wliether, with my short sight, I can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard him as a Safe counsellor in the affairs of this government, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union may be best preserved, bul how tolera- ble might be the condition of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. INDEPENDENCE BELL. 2G7 While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, grati- fying prospects spread out before us, for us and our children. Beyond that I seek not to penetrate the veil. God grant that, in my day at least, that curtain may not rise ! God grant that on my vision never may be opened what lies behind ! When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the last time, the Sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishon- oured fragments of a once glorious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance ratlier behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honoured throughout the Earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a strips erased or polluted, nor a single star ob- scured ; bearing for its motto, no such miserable inter- rogatory as, " What is all this worth ? " nor those other words of delusion and folly, " Liberty first, and Union afterwards " ; but everywhere, spread all over in char- acters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, — Liberty and Union, now and for ever, one and inseparable ! INDEPENDENCE BELL. — JULY 4, 1770. [When the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Congress, the event was announced by ringing the old State-House bell, which bore the inscription " Proclaim liberty throughout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof! " The old bellman stationed his little grandson at the door of the hall, to await the instructions of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the young patriot rushed out, and clapping his hands, shouted: — " Pdny ! Ring ! RING ! "] 268 CHOICE HEADINGS. There was a tumult in the city, In the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people Pacing restless up and down, — People gathering at the corners, Where they whisper'd each to each, And the sweat stood on their temples With the earnestness of speech. As the bleak Atlantic currents I/ash the wild Newfoundland shore. So they beat against the State-House, So they surged against the door ; And the mingling of their voices Made a harmony profound, Till the quiet street of Chestnut Was all turbulent with sound. " Will they do it? " " Dare they do it? " " Who is speaking? " " Wh»t's the news? ' ' What of Adams ? " " What of Sherman ? " " O, God grant they won't refuse ! " " Make some wa}" there ! " " Let me nearer ! " I am stifling ! " " Stifle, then ! When a nation's life's at hazard. We've no time to think of men ! " So they surged against the State-House- While all solemnly inside ►Sat tlu! Continental Congress, Truth and reason for their guide. O'er a simple scroll debating, Which, though simple it might be, Yet should shake the cliffs of England With the thunders of the free. Far aloft in that high steeple Sat the bellman, old and gray; INDEPENDENCE BELL. 269 He was weary of the tyrant And his iron-scepter'd sway, So he sat, with one hand ready On the clapper of the bell, When his eye conld catch the signal. The long-expected news, to tell. See, see ! the dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthen'd line, As the boy beside the portal Hastens forth to give the sign ! With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair, Hark ! with deep, clear intonation, Breaks his young voice on the air : Hush'd the people's swelling murmur, Whilst the boy cries joyously ; " Ring ! " he shouts, " Ring ! grandpapa, Ring ! O, ring for Liberty ! " Quickly, at the given signal. The old bellman lifts his hand. Forth he sends tlie good news, making Iron music through the laud. How they shouted ! AVhat rejoicing ! How the old bell shook the air, Till the clang of freedom ruffled The calmly-gliding Delaware ! How the bonfires and the torches Lighted up the night's repose. And from the flames, like fabled Phcenix, Our glorious liberty arose ! That old State-House bell is silent, Hush'd is now its clamorous tongue ; But the spirit it awaken'd Still is living, — ever young ; 270 CHOICK HEADINGS. And, when we greet the smiling sunlight On the fourth of each July, We will ne'er forget the bellman Who, betwixt the earth and sky, Rung out, loudly, " Independence" ; Which, please God, shall never die ! THE AMEEIOAN FLAG. Joseph Rodman Drake. When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurl'd her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies. And striped its pure celestial white With streakings of the morning light ; Then, from his mansion in the Sun, She call'd her eagle bearer down. And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land ! Majestic monarch of the cloud ! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form. To hear the tempest-trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm. And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — Child of the Sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke. To ward away the battle-stroke. And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! THE AMERICAN FLAG. 271 Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high ! When speaks the sigual-truiniiet tone, And the long line conies gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. Has dimni'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn. And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory satires rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor glances glow. And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. And frighten'd waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel-hands to valour given. Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet. Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! 272 CHOICE READINGS. THE EISING OF 1776. Thomas Buchanan Read. Out of the North the wild news came, Far flashing on its wings of flame, Swift as the boreal light which flies At midnight through the startled skies. And there was tumult in the air, The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat And through the wide land everywhere The answering tread of hurrying feet ; While the first oath of Freedom's gun Came on the blast from Lexington ; And Concord roused, no longer tame, Forgot her old baptismal name, Made bare her patriot arm of power, And swell' d the discord of the hour. Within its shade of elm and oak The church of Berkley Manor stood ; There Sunday found the rural folk, And some esteem'd of gentle blood. In vain their feet with loitering tread Pass'd 'mid the graves where rank is nought ; All could not read the lesson taught In that republic of the dead. How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk, The vale with peace and sunshine full. Where all the happy people walk, Deck'd in their homespun flax and wool ; Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom And every maid, with simple art, Wears on her breast, like her own heart, A l)ud whose depths are all perfume ; While every garment's gentle stir Is breathing rose and lavender. THE RISING OF 1776. The pastor came : bis snowy locks Hallow'd his brow of thought and care ; And cahnly, as shepherds lead their flocks, He led into the house of prayer. Then soon he rose ; the prayer was strong ; The Psalm was warrior David's song ; The text, a few short words of might — " The Lord of hosts shall arm the right ! '* He spoke of wrongs too long endured, Of sacred rights to be secured ; Then from his patriot tongue of flame The startling words for Freedom came. The stirring sentences he spake Compell'd the heart to glow or quake, And, rising on his theme's broad wing, And grasping in his nervous hand Th' imaginary battle-brand, In face of death he dared to fling Defiance to a tyrant king. Even as he spoke, his frame, renew'd In eloquence of attitude. Rose, as it seem'd, a shoulder higher ; Then swept his kindling glance of fire From startled pew to breathless choir ; When suddenly his mantle wide His hands impatient flung aside, And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes Complete in all a warrior's guise. A moment there was awful pause, When Berkley cried, -Cease, traitoH cease. God's temple is the house of peace ! " The other shouted, " Nay, not so, When God is with our righteous cause ; His holiest places then are ours, His temples are our forts and towers 273 274 CHOICE readings. That frown upon the tyrant foe ; In this, the dawn of Freedom's day. There is a time to fight and pra}' ! " And now before the open door — The warrior priest had order' d so — ■ Th' enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er. Its long reverberating blow, So loud and clear, it seem'd the ear Of dusty death must wake and hear. And there the startling drum and fife Fired the living with fiercer life ; While overhead, with wild increase, Forgetting its ancient toll of peace. The great bell swung as ne'er before : It seem'd as it would never cease ; And eveiy word its ardour flung From oflT its jubilant iron tongue Was, "War! War! WAR!" " Who dares " — this was the patriot's cry, As striding from the desk he came — " Come out with me, in Freedom's name, For her to live, for her to die ? " A hundred hands flung up reply, A hundred voices auswer'd, " I ! " EEPLY TO ME. OOEET. H. Grattan. Has the gentleman done ? Has he completely done? He was unparliamentary from the beginning to the end of his speech. There was scarce a word he uttered that was not a violation of the privilegee of the House. But REPLY TO MR. CORBY. 275 I did not call him to order, — why ? because the limited talents of some men render it impossible for them to be severe without being unparliamentary. But before I sit down I shall show him how to be severe and parliamentary at the same time. On any other occasion, I should think myself justifi- able in treating with silent contempt anything which might fall from that honourable member ; but there are times when the insignificance of the accuser is lost in the magnitude of the accusation. I know the difficulty the honourable gentleman laboured under when he attacked me, conscious that, on a comparative view of our characters, public and private, there is nothing he could say which would injure me. The public would not believe the charge. I despise the falsehood. If such a charge were made by an honest man, I would answer it in the manner I shall do before I sit down. But I shall first reply to it when not made by an honest man. The right-honourable gentleman has called me " an unimpeached traitor." I ask why not "traitor," un- qualified by any epithet ? I will tell him : it was because he durst not. It was the act of a coward, who raises his arm to strike, but has not courage to give the blow. I will not call him villain, because it would be unparliamentary, and he is a Privy Counsellor. I will not call him fool, because he happens to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. But I say, he is one who has abused the privilege of parliament and the freedom of debate, b}' uttering language wlticli, if spoken out of the House, I should answer only with a bk)W. I care not how liigli his situation, how low his character, how contenq)tible his speech ; whether a Privy Counsellor or a parasite, my answer would be a blow. 276 CHOICE READINGS. He has charged me with being connected with the rebels. The charge is utterly, totally, and meanly false. Does the honourable gentleman rely on the report of the House of Lords for the foundation of his assertion ? If he does, I can prove to the committee there was a physical impossibility of that report being true. But I scorn to answer any man for my conduct, whether he be a political coxcomb, or whether he brought himself into power by a false glare of courage or not. I have returned, — not, as the right-honourable mem- ber has said, to raise another storm, — I have returned to discharge an honourable debt of gratitude to my country, that conferred a great reward for past services, which, I am proud to sa}^, was not greater than my desert. I have returned to protect that Constitution of which I was the parent and founder, from the assassi- nation of such men as the right-honourable gentleman and his unworthy associates. They are corrupt, they are seditious, and they, at this very moment, are in a conspiracy against their country. I have returned to refute a libel, as false as it is malicious, given to the public under the appellation of a report of the committee of the Lords. Here I stand, ready for impeachment or trial. I dare accusation. I defy the honourable gen- tleman ; I defy the Government ; I defy their wdiole l)halanx: let them come forth! I tell the Ministers, I will neither give quarter nor take it. I am here to lay the shattered remains of my constitution on the floor of this house, in defence of the liberties of my country. WISDOM DEAKLY PUKCHASED. 277 WISDOM DEAELT PUECHASED. Edmund Burke. The British Parliament, in a former session, fright- ened into a limited concession by the menaces of Ireland, frightened out of it by the menaces of England, was now frightened back again, and made an universal surrender of all that had been thought the peculiar, reserved, un- communicable rights of England. No reserve, no excep- tion ; no debate, no discussion. A sudden light broke in upon us all. It broke in, not through well-contrived and well-disposed windows, but through flaws and breaches, — through the yawning chasms of our ruin. We were taught wisdom by humiliation. No town in England presumed to have a prejudice, or dared to mutter a petition. What was worse, the whole Parlia- ment of England, which retained authority for nothing but surrenders, was despoiled of every shadow of its superintendence. It was, without any qualification, denied in theory, as it had been trampled upon in prac- tice. What, Gentlemen ! was I not to foresee, or, foresee- ing, was I not to endeavour to save you from all these multiplied mischiefs and disgraces ? Would the little, silly, canvass prattle of obeying instructions, and having no opinions but yours, and such idle, senseless tales, which amuse the vacant ears of unthinking men, have saved you from " the })elting of that pitiless storm " to which the loose improvidence, the cowardly rashness, of those who dare not look danger in the face so as to provide against it in time, and therefore throw them- selves headlong into the midst of it, have exposed this degraded nation, beat down and prostrate on the earth, unsheltered, unarmed, unresisting ? Was I an Irishman 278 CHOICE READINGS. on that day that I boklly withstood our pride? or on the day that I hung down my head, and wept in shame and silence over the humiliation of Great Britain ? I became unpopular in England for the one, and in Ire- land for the other. What then ? What obligation lay on me to be popular ? I was bound to serve both king doms. To be pleased with my service was their affair, not mine. I was an Irishman in the Irish business, just as much as I was an American, when, on the same principles, I wished you to concede to America at a time when she jn-ayed concession at our feet. Just as much was I an American, when I wished Parliament to offer terms in victory, and not to wait the ill-chosen hour of defeat, for making good by Aveakness and by supplication a claim of prerogative, preeminence, and authority. Instead of requiring it from me, as a })oint of duty, to kindle with your passions, had you all been as cool as I was, you would have been saved disgraces and distresses that are unutterable. Do you remember our commis- sion ? We sent out a solemn embassy across the Atlan- tic Ocean, to lay the crown, the peerage, the commons of Great Britain at tlie feet of the American Congress. That our disgrace might want no sort of brightening and burnishing, observe who they were that composed this famous embassy. My Lord Carlisle is among the first ranks of our nobility. He is the identical man who, but two years before, had been put forward, at the opening of a session, in the House of Lords, as the mover of an haughty and rigorous address against America. He was put in the front of tlie embassy of submission. Mr. Eden Avas taken from the office of Lord Suffolk, to whom he was then Under-Secretary of State, — from the office of that Lord Suffolk who but a WISDOM DEARLY PURCHASED. 279 few weeks before, in his place in Parliament, did not deign to inquire where a congress of vagrants was to be found. They enter the capital of America only to abandon it ; and these assertors and representatives of the dig- nity of England, at the tail of a flying army, let fly their Parthian shafts of memorials and remonstrances at random behind them. Their promises and their offers, their flatteries and their menaces, were all despised ; and we were saved the disgrace of their for- mal reception only because the Congress scorned to receive them ; whilst the State-house of independent Philadelphia opened her doors to the public entry of the ambassador of France. From war and blood we went to submission, and from submission plunged back again to war and blood, to desolate and be desolated, without measure, hope, or end. I am a Royalist : I blushed for this degradation of the Crown. I am a Whig : I blushed for the dishonour of Parliament. I am a true Englishman : I felt to the quick for the dis- grace of England. I am a man : I felt for the melan- choly reverse of human affairs in the fall of the first power in the world. To read what was approaching in Ireland, in the black and bloody characters of the American war, was a painful, but it was a necessary part of my public duty. For, Gentlemen, it is not your fond desires or mine that can alter the nature of things ; by contending against which, what have we got, or ever shall get, but defeat and shame? T did not obey your instructions. No. I conformed to the instructions of truth and Na- ture, and maintained your interest, against your opin- ions, with a constancy that became me. A representa- tive worthy of you ought to be a person of stability. 280 CHOICE READINGS. I am to look, indeed, to your opinions, — but to such opinions as you and I must have five years hence. I was not to look to the flash of the day. I knew that you chose me, in my place, along with others, to be a pillar of the State, and not a weathercock on the top of the edifice, exalted for my levity and versatility, and of no use but to indicate the shiftings of every fash- ionable gale. Would to God the value of my senti- ments on Ireland and on America had been at this day a subject of doubt and discussion ! No matter what my sufferings had been, so that this kingdom had kept the authority I wished it to maintain, by a grave foresight, and by an equitable temperance in the use of its power. "MATCHES AND OVERMATCHES." Daniel Webster. But the gentleman inquires why he was made the object of such a reply. Wliy was he singled out ? If an attack has been made on the East, he, he assures us,- did not begin it : it was made by the gentleman from Missouri. Sir, I answered the gentleman's speech because I happened to hear it ; and because, also, I chose to give an answer to that speech which, if un- answered, I thought most likely to produce injurious impressions. I did not stop to inquire who was the original drawer of the bill. I found a responsible in- dorser before me, and it was my purpose to hold him liable, and to bring liim to his just responsibility with- out delay. But, Sir, this interrogatory of the honoura- ble member was only introductory tSnt of Rome, Hang hissing at the nobler man below. [T'o the Senate. Come, consecrated Lictors, from youv thrones ; Fling down 30ur sceptres ; take the rod and axe, And make the murder as you make the law. Catiline's defiance. 309 Banish'd from Rome ! What's banish'd but set free From daily contact of the things I loathe ? " Tried and convicted traitor ! " "Who says this? Who'll prove 'it, at his peril, on my head? Banish'd ! I thank you for't : it breaks my chain ! I held some slack allegiance till this hour ; But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my Lords ! I scorn to count what feelings, wither'd hopes, Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, I have within my heart's hot cells shut up, To leave j^ou in your lazy dignities. But here 1 stand and scoff you ! here I fling Hatred and full defiance in your face ! Your Consul's merciful ; — for this all thanks. He dares not touch a hair of Catiline ! " Traitor ! " I go ; but, I return ! This — trial ! Here I devote your Senate ! I've had wrongs To stir a fever in the blood of age, Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. This day's the birth of sorrow ; this hour's work Will breed proscriptions ! Look to 3'our healths, m}' Lords ! For there, henceforth, shall sit, for household gods. Shapes hot from Tartarus ; all shames and crimes ; Wan Treacher}', with his thirsty dagger drawn ; Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; Till Anarchy comes down on you like night. And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave. I go ; but not to leap the gulf alone. I go ; but when I come, 'twill l)e the burst Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back In swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well ! You build my funeral pile ; but your best blood Shall quench its flame ! Back, slaves ! [To the Lictors. I will return. 310 CHOICE READINGS. SPAETAOUS TO THE GLADIATOES AT OAPUA. Ye call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who for twelve long years has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him stand forth and say it. If there be three in all your company dare face me on the bloody sands, let them come on. And yet I was not always thus, — a hired butcher, a savage chief of still more savage men. My ancestors came from old Sparta, and settled among the vine-clad rocks and citron groves of Syrasella. My early life ran quiet as the brooks by which I sported ; and when, at noon, I gathered the sheep beneath the shade, and played upon the shepherd's flute, there was a friend, the son of a neighbour, to join me in the pastime. We led our flocks to the same pasture, and partook together our rustic meal. One evening, after the sheep were folded, and we were all seated beneath the myrtle which shaded our cottage, my grandsire, an old man, was telling of Mara- thon and Leuctra; and how, in ancient times, a little band of Spartans, in a defile of the mountains, had with- stood a whole army. I did not then know what war was; but my cheeks burned, I know not why, and I clasped the knees of that venerable man, until my mother, parting the hair from off my forehead, kissed my throbbing temples, and bade me go to rest, 'and think no more of those old tales and savage wars. That very night the Romans landed on our coast. I saw the breast that had nourished me trampled by the hoof of the war-horse, — the bleeding body of my father SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT CAPUA. 311 flung amidst the blazing rafters of our dwelling ! To- day I killed a man in the arena ; and, when I broke his helmet-clasps, behold ! he was my friend. He knew me, smiled faintly, gasped, and died ; — the same sweet smile upon his lips that I had marked, when, in adven- turous boyhood, we scaled the lofty cliff to pluck the first ripe grapes, and bear them home in childish triumph! I told the praetor that the dead man had been my friend, generous and brave ; and I begged that I might bear away the body, to burn it on a funeral pile, and mourn over its ashes. Ay ! upon my knees, amid the dust and blood of the arena, I begged that poor boon, while all the assembled maids and matrons, and the holy virgins they call Vestals, and the rabble, shouted in derision, deeming it rare sport, forsooth, to see Rome's fiercest gladiator turn pale and tremble at sight of that piece of bleeding clay ! And the prictor drew back as if I were pollution, and sternly said, " Let the carrion rot ; there are no noble men but Romans." And so, fellow-gladiators, must you, and so must I, die like dogs. O, Rome ! Rome I thou hast been a tender nurse to me. Ay! thou hast given to that poor, gentle, timid shepherd lad, who never knew a harsher tone than a flute-note, muscles of iron and a heart of flint; taught him to drive the sword through plaited mail and links of rugged brass, and warm it in the mar- row of his foe ; — to gaze into the glaring eyeballs of the fierce Numidian lion, even as a boy upon a laughing girl! And he shall pay thee back, until the yellow Tiber is red as frothing wine, and in its deepest ooze thy life-blood lies curdled ! Ye stand here now like giants, as ye are ! The strength of brass is in your tougliened sinews, but to- morrow some Roman Adonis, breathing sweet perfume 312 CHOICE READINGS. from his curly locks, shall Avith his lily fingers pat your red brawn, and bet his sesterces upon your blood. Hark ! hear ye yon lion roaring in his den ? 'Tis three days since he has tasted flesh ; but to-morrow he shall break his fast upon yours, — and a dainty meal for him ye will be ! If ye are beasts, then stand here like fat oxen, wait- ing for the butcher's knife ! If ye are men, follow me ! Strike down yon guard, gain the mountain passes, and then do bloody work, as did your sires at old Ther- mopylae ! Is Sparta dead ? Is the old Grecian spirit frozen in your veins, that you do crouch and cower like a belaboured hound beneath his master's lash? O, comrades ! warriors I Thracians ! if we must fight, let us fight for ourselves ! If we must slaughter, let us slaughter our oppressors ! If we must die, let it be under the clear sky, by the bright waters, in noble, honourable battle ! MAEMION AND DOUGLAS. Sir Walter Scott. The train from out the castle drew, But Mannion stopp'd to bid adieu : " Though something I might plain," he said, " Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by ^our king's behest. "While in Tantallon's towers I stay'd, Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Fohhd his arms, and thus he spoke : " My manors, halls, and bowers shall still Be open, at my sovereign's will, To each one whom he lists, howe'er MAKMION AND DOUGLAS. iil3 Unmeet to be the owner's peer. My castles are my king's alone From turret to foundation-stone ; The hand of Douglas is his own, And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp." Buru'd Marmion' s swarthy cheek like fire, And shook his ver}' frame for ire, And, " This to me ! " he said \^ "An 'twere not for thy hoai'y heard, Such hand as Marmion's liad not spared To cleave the Douglas' head ! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He who does England's message here. Although the meanest in her State, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : And, Douglas, more 1 tell thee here, Even in thy pitch of pride. Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord. And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! And, if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here. Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age ; Fierce he broke forth, "And darcst thou then To beard the lion in his den. The Douglas in his hall? And hopest thou hence unscathed to go? No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! Up drawbridge, grooms, — what, Warder, ho ! Let the portcullis fall." 314 CHOICE READINGS. Lord Marmion tarn'd, — well was his need I And dash'd the rowels in his steed, Like arrow through the archway sprung ; The ponderous gate behind him rung : To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise ; Not lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim ; And, when Lord Marmion reach'd his band, He halts, and turns with clenched hand, And shout of loud defiance pours, And shook his gauntlet at the towers. <>>»<€ THE SEMINOLE'S EEPLY George W. Patten. Blaze, with 3'our serried columns ! I will not bend the knee ! The shackles ne'er again shall bind The arm which now is free. I've mail'd it with the thunder, When the tempest mutter'd low ; And, where it falls, ye well may dread The lightning of its blow ! I've scared ye in the city, I've scalp'd ye on the plain ; Go, count your chosen, where they fell Beneath my leaden rain ! I scorn your proffer'd treaty ! The pale-face I defy ! Revenge is stamp'd upon my spear, And blood's my battle cry I HORRORS OF SAVACK WARl ARE. ^1^ Some strike for hope of booty, Some to defend their all ; I battle for the joy I have To see the white man fall : I love, among the wounded, To hear his dying moan, And catch, while chanting at his side, The music of his groan. Ye've trail'd me through the forest, Ye've track'd me o'er the stream ; And, struggling through the everglade. Your bristling bayonets gleam ; But I stand as should the warrior, With his rifle and his spear ; The scalp of vengeance still is red, And warns ye, — Come not here I I loathe ye in my bosom, I scorn ye with mine eye, And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath. And fight ye till I die ! I ne'er will ask ye quarter, And I ne'er will be your slave ; But I'll swim the sea of slaughter, Till I sink beneath its wave I HOBEOES or SAVAGE WAEFAEE. William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. I AJ. astonished, shocked, to hear such prin«pl;^ "^^ fessed, to hear them avowed in tins House, o even m Sr country! principles eciually unconst.tutu.nal, m- biiTTinn and unchristian I Sy LoU I did not intend to trespass agam upon your attention, but I cannot repress n>y n^dignaUou, - 316 CHOICE READINGS. I feel myself impelled by every duty. We are called upon as members of this House, as men, as Christian men, to protest against such notions, standing near the throne, polluting the ear of Majesty. " That God and Nature put into our hands ! " * I know not what ideas that Lord may entertain of God and Nature ; but I know that such abominable principles are equally ab- liorrent to religion and humanity. What ! attribute the sacred sanction of God and Nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping-knife, — to the cannibal savage, torturing, murdering, roast- ing, and eating, — literally, my Lords, eating the man- gled victims of his barbarous battles ! Such horrible notions shock every precept of religion revealed or natural, and every generous feeling of humanity ; and, my Lords, they shock every sentiment of honour , they shock me as a lover of honourable war, and a detester of murderous barbarity. These abominable principles, and this more abomi- nable avowal of them, demand the most decisive indig- nation. I call upon the Right-Reverend Bench, those holy ministers of the Gospel, and pious pastors of our Church, — I conjure them to join in the holy work, and to vindicate the religion of their God. I appeal to the wisdom and the law of this Learned Bench to defend and support the justice of their country. I call upon the Bishops to interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn, upon the learned Judges to interpose the purity of their ermine, to save us from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your Lordships to reverence the * Lord Suffolk, one of the Secretaries of State, defending the employ- ment of Indians in the American war, had declared, in the House of Lords, that " it was perfectly justifiable to use all the means that God and Nature put into our hands." HORRORS OF SAVAGE WARFARE. 317 dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity of my country to vindicate the national character. I invoke the genius of the Constitution. From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the immor- tal ancestor of this noble Lord frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his country ! In vain he led your vic- torious fleets against the boasted Armada of Spain ; in vain he defended and established the honour, the lib- erties, the religion, the Protestant religion of his coun- try, against the arbitrary cruelties of Popery and the Inquisition, if these worse than popish and inquisitorial practices are let loose amongst us, to turn forth into our settlements, among our ancient friends and relations, the merciless cannibal, thirsting for the blood of man, woman, and child. To send forth the infidel savage, — against whom? Against your Protestant brethren ! to lay waste their country, to desolate their dwellings, and extirpate their race and name, with these horrible hell-hounds of savage war! — hell-hounds, I say, of savage war! Spain armed herself with blood-hounds to extirpate the wretched natives of America ; and we improve on the inhuman example of even Spanish cruelty : we turn loose these savage hell-hounds against our brethren and country- men in America, of the same language, laws, liberties, and religion ; endeared to us by every tie that should sanctify humanity. My Lords, this awful subject, so important to our honour, our Constitution, and our religion, demands the most solemn and effectual incpiiry. And I again call upon your Lordships, and tlie united powers of the State, to examine it thoroughly and decisively, and to stamp upon it an indelible stigma of the public abhor- 318 CHOICE READINGS. rence. And I again implore those holy prelates of our religion to do away these iniquities from among us. Let them perform a lustration ; let them purify this House and this country from this sin. My Lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to say more ; but my feelings and my indignation were too strong to have said less. I could not have slept this night in my bed, or have reposed my head on my pillow, without giving this vent to my eternal abhorrence of such preposterous and enormous principles. AEEAIGNMENT OP MINISTERS. Edmund Burke. I CONFESS I feel a degree of disgust, almost leading to despair, at the manner in which we are acting in the great exigencies of our country. There is now a bill in this House, appointing a rigid inquisition into the minutest detail of our offices at home. The collection of sixteen millions annually, — a collection on which the public greatness, safety, and credit have their reli- ance ; the whole order of criminal jurisjorudence, whicli holds together society itself, — has at no time obliged us to call forth such powers ; no, nor any thing like them. There is not a principle of the law and Constitution of this country that is not subverted to favour tlie execu- tion of that project. And for what is all this apparatus of bustle and terror? Is it because any thing substantial is expected from it? No. The stir and bustle itself is the end proposed. The eye-servants of a short-sighted master will employ themselves, not on what is most essential to his affairs, but on what is nearest to his ken. Great ARRAIGNMENT OF MINISTERS. 319 difficulties have given a just value to economy ; and our Minister of the day must be an economist, whatever it may cost us. But where is he to exert his talents ? At home, to be sure ; for where else can he obtain a profit- able credit for their exertion ? It is nothing to him, whether the object on wliich he works under our eye be promising or not. If he does not obtain any public benefit, he may make regulations without end. Those are sure to pay in present expectation, whilst the effect is at a distance, and may be the concern of other times and other men. On these principles he chooses to suppose (for he does not pretend more than to suppose) a naked possibility, that he shall draw some resource out of crumbs dropped from the trenchers of penury; that something shall be laid in store from the short allowance of revenue offi- cers, overladen with duty, and famished for want of bread. From the marrowless bones of these skeleton establishments, by the use of every sort of cutting and every sort of fretting tool, he flatters himself that he may chip and rasp an empirical alimentary powder, to diet into some similitude of health and substance the lang-uishinff chimeras of fraudulent reformation. Whilst he is thus employed according to his policy and to his taste, he has not leisure to inquire into those abuses in India that are drawing off money by millions from the treasures of this country, and are exhausting the vital juices from members of the State, where the public inanition is far more sorely felt than in the local exchequer of England. Not content with winking at these abuses, whilst he attempts t(j squeeze the labo- rious, ill-paid drudges of English revenue, he lavishes in one act of corrupt prodigality, u[)()n those who never served the public in any honest occupation at all, an 320 CHOICE READINGS. annual income equal to two-thirds of the whole collec tion of the revenues of this kingdom. Actuated by the same principle of choice, he has now on the anvil another scheme, full of difliculty and des- perate hazard, which totally alters the commercial rela- tion of two kingdoms ; and, what end soever it shall have, may bequeath a legacy of heart-burning and dis- content to one of the countries, perhaps to both, to be perpetuated to the latest posterity. This project is also undertaken on the hope of profit. It is provided that, out of some (I know not what) remains of the Irish hereditary revenue, a fund at some time, and of some sort, should be applied to the protection of the Irish trade. Here we are commanded again to task our faith, and to persuade ourselves that, out of the surjDlus of defi- ciency, out of the savings of habitual and systematic })rodigality, the Minister of wonders will provide sup- port for this nation, sinking under the mountainous load of two hundred and thirty millions of debt. But whilst we look with pain at his desperate and laborious trifling, whilst we are apprehensive that he will break his back in stooping to pick up chaff and straws, he recovers himself at an elastic bound, and, with a broad- cast swing of his arm, he squanders over his Indian field a sum far greater than the clear produce of the whole hereditary revenue of the kingdom of Ireland. Strange as this scheme of conduct in Ministry is, and inconsistent with all just policy, it is still true to itself, and faithful to its own perverted order. Tliose who are bountiful to crimes will be rigid to merit, and penurious to service. Their penury is even held out as a blind and cover to their prodigality. The economy of injus- tice is, to furnish resources for the fund of corruption. REVOLUTIONAUY DESPKUADOES. 321 Then they pay off their protection to great crimes and great criminals, by being inexorable to the paltry frail- ties of little men ; and these modern flagellants are sure, with a rigid fidelity, to whip their own enormities on the vicarious back of every small offender. EEVOLUTIONAEY DESPERADOES. Sir James Mackintosh. The French Revolution began with great and fatal errors. These errors produced atrocious crimes. A mild and feeble monarch}^ was succeeded by a bloody anarchy, which very shortly gave birth to military des- potism. France, in a few years, described the whole circle of human society. All this was in the order of Nature. When every principle Avhich enables some men to command, and disposes others to obey, was ex- tirpated from the mind by atrocious theories, and still more atrocious examples ; when ever}'- old institution was trampled down with contumely, and every new institution was covered in its cradle with blood ; there remained only one principle strong enough to hold society together, — a principle utterly incompatible, in- deed, with liberty, and unfriendly to civilization itself, — a tyrannical and barbarous principle, but, in that miserable condition of human affairs, a refuge from still more intolerable evils; — I mean the principle of mili- tary power, wliich gains strength from that confusion and bloodshed in which all other elements of society are dissolved, and which, in these terrible extremities, is the cement that preserves it from total destruction. Under such circumstances, Buojiaparte usurped the supreme power in France ; — I say usurped, because an 322 CHOICE HEADINGS. illegal assumption of power is an usurpation. Rut usur- pation^ in its strongest moral sense, is scarcely applica- ble to a period of lawless and savage anarchy. But, though the government of Buonaparte has silenced the Revolutionary factions, it has not extinguished thenio No human power could re-impress upon the minds of men all those sentiments and opinions which the soph- istry and anarchy of fourteen years had obliterated. As for the wretched populace who were made the blind and senseless instrument of so many crimes, — whose frenzy can now be reviewed by a good mind, with scarcely any moral sentiment but that of compas- sion, — that miserable multitude of beings, scarcely hu- man, have already fallen into a brutish forgetfulness of the very atrocities which they themselves perpetrated. They have passed from senseless rage to stupid quiet : their delirium is followed by lethargy. In a word. Gentlemen, the great body of the people of France have been severely trained in those convul- sions and proscriptions which are the school of slavery. They are capable of no mutinous, and even of no bold and manly political sentiments. But it is otherwise with those who have been the actors and leaders in the scene of blood : it is otherwise with the numerous agents of the most indefatigable, searching, multiform, and om- nipresent tyranny that ever existed, which pervaded every class of society, — which had ministers and vic- tims in every village in France. Some of them, indeed, — the basest of the race, — the Sopliists, the Rhetors, the Poet-laureates of mur- der, who were cruel only from cowardice and calculat- ing selfishness, are perfectly willing to transfer their venal pens to any government that does not disdain their infamous support. These men, republicans from REVOLUTIONARY DESPERADOES. 323 servility, who published rhetorical panegyrics on mas- sacre, and who reduced plunder to a system of ethics, are as ready to preach slavery as anarchy. But the more daring — I had almost said the more respectable — ruffians cannot so easily bend their heads under the yoke. These fierce spirits leave the luxuries of servitude to the mean and dastardly hypocrites, — to the Belials and Mammons of the infernal faction. They pursue their old end of tyranny under their old pretext of liberty. The recollections of their un- bounded power renders every inferior condition irksome and vapid ; and their former atrocities form, if I may so speak, a sort of moral destiny which irresistibly impels them to the perpetration of new crimes. They have no place left for penitence on Earth : they labour under the most awful proscription of opinion that ever was pronounced against human beings : they have cut down every bridge by which they could retreat into the so- ciety of men. Awakened from their dream of democracy, — the noise subsided that deafened their ears to the voice of humanity, — the film fallen from their eyes which hid from them the blackness of their own deeds, — haunted by the memory of their inexpiable guilt, — condemned daily to look on the faces of those whom their hand has made widows and orphans, — they are goaded and scourged by these real furies, and hurried into the tumult of new crimes, to drown the cries of remorse, or, if they be too depraved for remorse, to silence the curses of mankind. Tyrannical power is their only ref- uge from the just vengeance of their fellow-creatures : murder is their only means of usurping power. They have no taste, no occupation, no pursuit, but power and blood. If their hands are tied, they must at least have 324 CHOICE READINGS. the luxury of murderous projects. They have drunk too deeply of human blood ever to relmquish their can- nibal appetite. Such a faction exists in France : it is numerous ; it is powerful; and it has a principle of fidelity stronger than any that ever held together a society. They are banded together by despair of forgiveness, — by the unanimous detestation of mankind. They are now re- strained by a severe and stern government : but they still meditate the renewal of insurrection and massacre ; and they are prepared to renew the worst and most atro- cious of their crimes, — that crime against posterity and against human nature itself, — the crime of degrading and prostituting the sacred name of liberty. I must own that, however paradoxical it may appear, I should almost think, not worse, but more meanly of them, if it were otherwise. I must then think them destitute of that, — I will not call it courage, because that is the name of a virtue, — but of that ferocious energy which alone rescues ruffians from contempt. If they were destitute of that which is the heroism of murderers, they would be the lowest as well as the most abomina- ble of mankind. It is impossible to conceive any thing more despicable than the wretches who, after playing the tyrannicides to women and children, become the supple and fawning slaves of the first government that knows how to wield the scourge with a firm hand. FRAUDULENT PARTY OUTCRIES. Daniel Webster. Mr. President : On the great questions which oc- cupy us, we all look for some decisive movement of FRAUDULENT PAKTY OUTCRIES. 325 public opinion. As I wish that movement to be free, intelligent, and unbiased, the true manifestation of the public will, I desire to prepare the country for another appeal, which I perceive is about to be made to popular prejudice, another attempt to obscure all distinct views of the public good, by loud cries against false danger, and by exciting the passions of one class against another. I am not mistaken in the omen ; I see the magazine whence the weapons of this warfare are to be drawn. I already hear the din of the hammering of arms pre- paratory to the combat. They may be such arms, per- haps, as reason and justice and honest patriotism cannot resist. Every effort at resistance, it is possible, may be feeble and powerless; but, for one, I shall make an effort, — an effort to be begun now, and to be carried on and continued, with untiling zeal, till the end of the contest comes. Sir, I see, in those vehicles which carry to the people sentiments from high places, plain declarations that the present controversy is but a strife between one part of the community and another. I hear it boasted as the unfailing security, the solid ground, never to be shaken, on which recent measures rest, tJiat the poor naturally hate the rich. I know that, under the cover of the roofs of the Capitol, within the last twenty-four hours, among men sent here to devise means for the public safety and the public good, it has been vaunted forth, as matter of boast and triumph, that one cause existed powerful enough to support every thing, and to defend every thing ; and that was, the natural hatred of the poor to the rich. Sir, I pronounce the author of such sentiments to be guilty of attempting a detestable fraud on the commu- nity ; a double fraud ; a fraud which is to cheat men out 326 CHOICE READINGS. of their property and out of the earnings of their labour, by first cheating them out of their understandings. " The natural hatred of the poor to the rich ! " Sir, it shall not be till the last moment of my existence, — it shall be only when I am drawn to the verge of obli- vion, when I shall cease to have respect or affection for any thing on Earth, — that I will believe the people of the United States capable of being effectually deluded, cajoled, and driven about in herds, by such abominable frauds as this. If they shall sink to that point ; if they so far cease to be men, thinking men, intelligent men, as to yield to such pretences and such clamour, — they will be slaves already ; slaves to their own passions, slaves to the fraud and knavery of pretended friends. They will deserve to be blotted out of all the records of freedom j they ought not to dishonour the cause of self-government, by attempting any longer to exercise it ; they ought to keep their unworthy hands entirely off from the cause of republican liberty, if the}' are capable of being the victims of artifices so shallow, of tricks so stale, so threadbare, so often practised, so much worn out, on serfs and slaves. " The natural hatred of the poor against the rich ! " " The danger of a moneyed aristocracy ! " "A power as great and dangerous as that resisted by the Revolu- tion ! " "A call to a new Declaration of Independence ! " Sir, I admonish the people against the objects of out- cries like these. I admonish every industrious labourer iu the country to be on his guard against such delusion. I tell him the attempt is to play off his passions against his interests, and to prevail on him, in the name of lib- erty, to destroy all the fruits of liberty; in the name of patriotism, to injure and afflict his country ; and, in the name of his own independence, to destroy that very INDIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIARD. 327 independence, and make him a beggar and a slave. Has he a doUar ? He is advised to do that which will destroy half its value. Plas he hands to labour? Let him rather fold them, and sit still, than be pushed on, by f]-aud and artifice, to support measures which will render his labour useless and hopeless. DTOIGNATION OF A HIGH-MINDED SPANIAED. Wordsworth. We can endure that he should waste our lands, Despoil our temples, and by sword and flame Return us to the dust from wliich we came ; Such food a Tyrant's appetite demands : And we can brook the thought that by his hands Spain may be overpower'd, and he possess, For his delight, a solemn wilderness Where all the brave lie dead. But, when of bands Which he will break for us he dares to speak. Of benefits, and of a future day When our enlighten'd minds shall bless his sway ; Then, the strain'd heart of fortitude proves weak ; Our groans, our blushes, our pale cheeks declare That he has power to inflict what we lack strength to bear 328 CHOICE READINGS. VIII. LIVELY, JOYOUS, GAY. L 'ALLEGRO. John Milton. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and 3'outhfal Jol]it3\ Quips, and ci'anks, and wanton wiles, Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty: And, if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew. To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprov^d pleasures free ; To hear the lark begin his flight. And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise. Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine ; l' ALLEGRO. 329 While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door. Stoutly struts his dames before : Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerily rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill. Through the liigh wood echoing slirill ; Sometimes walking not unseen By hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Robed in flames and anilKT liglit. The clouds in thousand liveries dight ; While the plouglnnan near at hand Whistles o'er the furrow 'd land. And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shei)herd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasm-es While the landscape round it measures ; Russet lawns and fallows gray Where the nibbling flocks do stra}' ; Mountains on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim with daisies pied ; Shallow brooks, and rivers wide : Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees. Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Sometimes, witli secure delight, The upland hamlets will invite. When the merry bells ring I'ound, And the jocund rebecks sound 330 CHOICE READINGS. To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the checker'd shade ; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday. Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs Iiold, With store of ladies, whose briglit e3-es Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear, In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp and feast and revelry, With masque and antique pageantry ; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. THE DAFFODILS. Wordsworth. I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils ; Beside the lake, beneath the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. YOUNG LOCIIINVAR. 331 Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of the bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company : I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought : For oft, when on mj' couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward e^'e Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with i)k'asure fills, And dances with the datiodils. 3j«<0 YOTJNG LOOHINVAR. Sir Walter Scott. O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West ! Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none ; He rode all unarin'd and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war. There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, — the gallant came late; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loeiiinvar. 332 CHOICE READINGS. So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brotl ers, and alls Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — *' O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? " " I long woo'd your daughter ; — my suit you denied r Love swells like tlie Solwa^', but ebbs like its tide ; And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, — drink one cup of wine. There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took it up ; He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup ; She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, With a smile on her lip and a tear in lier eye ; He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar ; — *' Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whisper'd, " 'twere better, by far, To have match'd our fair cousin -with young Lochinvai'." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door, where the charger stood near ; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ; — " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow ! " quoth young Lochin- var, There was mounting *mong Graemes of the Netherbv clan ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and tbey ran : A MORNING RIDE. 33^ There was racing and chasing on Cannohie lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war ; Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? A MOKNINQ RIDE From "The Wheelman." Up with the lark in the first flush of morning, Ere the world wakes to its work or its play ; Off for a spin to tlie wide-stretching country, Far from the close, stifling city away. A spring to the saddle, a spurt with the pedal. The roadway is flying from under my wheel : With motions so sprightly, with heart beating lightly, How glorious to master this creature of steel ! Now mounting the hill-slope with slow, steady toiling, Each turn of the wheel brings us nearer the goal ; And so on life's journey 'tis patient endeavour That opens the path to the conquering soul. The summit surmounted, we're now wildly dashing Through woodland and meadow, past farm-house and dell • Inhaling the breath of the field and the forest. Keeping time as we glide to the tinkling cow-bell. Lo ! at length in the east, 'mid the radiant glory, Great Phoebus Apollo looks forth, bright and fair. 334 CHOICE READINGS. Attended by cloudlets all roseate and golden ; O, jo}' to be out on a morning so rare ! Now slowly ; whoa, Reindeer ! here conies a fair milkmaid : Pure milk through a straw is refreshing, I ween ; And so are the blushes of pure, happy girlhood ; Then here's to your health and your sweetness, my queen Once more in the saddle, we're bounding on homeward, Our frame all aglow with this excellent sport ; Now coasting, now climbing, then racing and beating Some young rustic jockey in metre so short. That in furious rage he whips and he lashes : But, 'tis useless, you see, my line f(!llow, say we, As we dash along onward still faster and faster, Hoping next time that he not so foolish will be. As we mount the last hill, to the smoke-clouded city. Just beginning to boil with its great human tide, It calls us to toil, and to enter the conflict ; So endeth this morning our twenty-mile ride. I'M WITH YOU ONCE AGAIN. G. P. Morris. I'm with you once again, my friends; No more luy footsteps roam ; Where it began my journey ends, Amid the scenes of home. THE I-AST I>EAF. 3,^5 No other olimc has skies so blue, Or stietinis so l)roud and clear ; And where are hearts so warm and true As those that meet me here? Since last, with spirits wild and free, I press'd my native strand, I've wander' d man}- miles at sea. And many miles on land : I've seen fair regions of the Earth With rude commotion torn, Wliich tnuglit mc how to prize the; worth Of that where I was born. In other countries, when I heard The language of my own, How fondly each familiar word Awoke an answering tone ! But, when our woodland songs were sung Upon a f()i-('ign mart, The vows that falter'd on the tongue With rai)ture lill'd my heart. My iiaiive land, I turn to you With bk^ssing and with prayer, Where man is brave and woman true, And free as mountain air. Long may our flag in triumi)h wave Against the world combined. And friends a welcome, foes a grave, Within our borders find ! THE LAST LEAP. Oliver Wendell Holmes. I SAW him once before, As he passM by tbe >lo()r ; Ami ajrain The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. 33G CHOICE READINGS. They say that in his prime, Ere tlie pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Tlirough the town. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn ; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has press'd In their bloom ; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said, — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago, — That he had a Roman nose. And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staif ; • And a crook is in his back. And a melancholy crack In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here ; But the old three-corner'd hat And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer ! And, if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the Spring, Let them smile as I do now. At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. SONG OF THE BKOOK. Alfred Tennyson. I COME from haunts of coot and hern : I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurr^- down, Or slip between the ridges, By twent}' thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. SONG OK TUK BKOOK. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, cliatter, as I How To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out. With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout. And here and there a grayling ; And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel ; And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers : I slip, I slide, T gloom, T glance. Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows : 338 CHOICE READINGS. I murmur under Moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by ni}' shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river ; For men ma}' come and men ma}' go, But I go on forever. Ot«>:i0 A PSALM OF LIFE. H. W. Longfellow. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem." Life is real ! life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow, Find us further than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating. Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle. In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! THE BOYS. 339 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, — act ill tlie liviug Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ; Footprints that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. THE BOYS. O. W. Holmes. Has there any old fellow got mix'd with the boys? If he has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite ! Old Time is a liar ! we're twenty to-night ! We're twenty ! We're twenty ! Who says we are more? He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him the door ! " Gray temples at twenty? " — Yes ! white if we please ; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze ! Was it snowing I spoke of ? Excuse the mistake ! Look close, — you will not see a sign of a flake ! We want some new garlands for tliose we have shed. And these are white roses in place of the red. 340 CHOICE READINGS. We've a trick, we young fellows, 3-011 may have been told, Of talking, in public, as if we were old ; That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call " Judge" ; It's a neat little fiction, — of course its all fudge. That fellow's the " Speaker," the one on the right ; " Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are 30U to-night? That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend," — what's his name? — don't make me laugh. That bo}' with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the Royal Society' thought it was true ! So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too ! There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain. That could harness a team with a logical chain ; When he spoke of our manhood in syllabled fire. We call'd him " The Justice," but now he's the " Squire." And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith ; Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — Just read on his medal, " My country-," " of thee ! " You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun ; But the angels laugh too at the good he has done ; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call. And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all ! Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen ■• And I sometimes have ask'd, Shall we ever be men ? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling awa}'^ ? Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May ! And, when we have done with our life-lasting toys. Dear Father, take care of Thy children, The Boys ! EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. EXPOSTULATION AND EEPLT. Wordsworth. " Why, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Wliy, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away ? Where are your books ? that light bequeath'd To Beings else forlorn and blind ! Up ! up ! and drink the spirit breatlied From dead men to their kind. You look round on your Mother Earth, As if she for no purpose bore you ; As if you were her first-born l)irth, And none had lived before you ! " One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus T made reply : " The eye — it cannot choose but see ; We cannot bid the ear be still ; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against or with our will. Nor less I deem that there arc Powers Which of themselves our minds impress ; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness. Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking. That nothing of itself will come. But we must still be seeking? 341 J42 CHOICE READINGS. Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing a's I ma}', I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away." THE TABLES TURNED. Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double : Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; Why all this toil and trouble ? The Sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread. His first sweet evening yellow. Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : Come, hear the woodland linnet. How sweet his music ! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark, how blithe the throstle sings ! He, too, is no mean i)reacher : Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless, — Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man. Of moral evil and of good. Than all the sages can. THE PLEASURE-BOAT. 343 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art ; Close up those barren leaves ; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. o^acjc THE PLEASUEE-BOAT. R. H. Dana. Come, hoist the sail, the fast let go ! Thej-'re seated side by side ; Wave chases wave in pleasant flow ; The bay is fair and wide. The ripples lightlj' tap the boat. Loose ! Give her to the wind ! She shoots ahead ; they're all afloat ; The strand is far behind. No danger reach so fair a crew ! Thou goddess of the foam, I'll ever pay thee worship due, If thou wilt bring them home. Fair ladies, fairer than the spray The prow is dashing wide, Soft breezes take you on your way, Soft flow the blessed tide ! O, might 1 like those breezes be, And touch that arching brow, I'd dwell for ever on the sea Where ye are floating now. 344 CHOICE READINGS. The boat goes tilting ou the waves ; The waves go tilting by : There dips the duck, — her back she laves O'erhead the sea-gulls fl}'. Now, like the gulls that dart for prey, The little vessel stoops ; Now, rising, shoots along her way. Like them, in easy swoops. The sunlight falling on her sheet, It glitters like the drift, Sparkling, in scorn of Summer's heat, High up some mountain rift. The winds are fresh ; she's driving fast Upon the bending tide ; The crinkling sail and crinkling mast Go with her side by side. Why dies the breeze awa^- so soon? Whj' hangs the pennant down ? The sea is glass ; the Sun at noon. — Nay, lady, do not frown ; For, see, the winged fisher's plume Is painted on the sea : Below, a cheek of lovely bloom. Whose eyes look up at thee? She smiles ; thou needs must smile on her : And, see, beside her face A rich white cloud that doth not stir : What beauty, and what grace ! And pictured beach of yellow sand, And peaked rock, and hill Change the smooth sea to fairy land : How lovely and how still ! THE NEW YEAR. 345 From that far isle the thresher's flail Strikes close upon the ear ; The leaping fish, the swinging sail Of yonder sloop, sound near. The parting Sun sends out a glow Across the placid bay, Touching with glory all the show. — A breeze ! Up helm ! Away ! Careering to the wind, they reach, With laugh and call, the shore. They've left their footprints on the beach, But then 1 hear no more. THE NEW" YEAE. Alfreu Tennyson. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light ; The year is dying in the night ; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new ; Ring, luipp}- bells, across the snow ; The year is going ; let him go ; Ring out the false ; ring in the true. Ring out the grief, that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more ; Ring out the feud of rich and poor ; Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of i^arty strife ; Ring in the noV)ler modes of life, A\^ith sweeter manners, purer laws. 346 CHOICE READINGS. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times ; Ring out, ring out ray mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; Ring in the love of truth and right ; Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease ; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land ; Rius; in the Christ that is to be. ai^c PISH-WOMEN AT CALAIS. 'Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen ; But, if the Nereid Sisters and their Queen, Above whose heads the tide so long hath roll'd, The Dames resemble whom we here behold. How fearful were it down through opening waves To sink and meet them in their fretted caves, Wither'd, grotesque, immeasurably old. And shrill and fierce in accent ! — ■ Fear it not : For they Earth's fairest daughters do excel ; Pure undecaying beauty is their lot ; Their voices into liquid music swell. Thrilling each pearly cleft and sparr}^ grot. The undisturb'd abodes where Sea-nymphs dwell ! AUNT TABITHA. 347 HUMOROUS, COMIC. AUNT TABITHA. O. W. Holmes. Whatever I do and whatever I sa}-, Aunt Tabitha tells me that isn't the way ; When she was a girl, (forty Summers ago,) Aunt Tabitiia tells me they never did so. Dear aunt ! if I only would take her advice, — But I like my own wa}', and I find it so nice ! And besides I forget half the things I am told ; But they will come back to me, — wlien I am old. If a youth passes by. it may liappen, no doubt, He may chance to look in as I chance to look out : She would never endure an Impertinent stare ; It is horrid, she says, and I mustn't sit there. A Avalk in the moonlight has pleasure, I own. But it isn't quite safe to be walking alone ; So I take a lad's arm, — just for safety, you know ; But Aunt Tabitha tells me, they didn't do so. How wicked we are, and how good tliey were then ! They kept at arm's length tliose detestable men : What an era of virtue she lived in ! — but stay, — Were the men such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day? 348 CHOICE READINGS. If the men were so wicked, — I'll ask m}* papa How he dared to propose to my darling mamma? Was he like the rest of them? goodness ! who knows? And wliat shall I sa}', if a wretch should propose? I am thinking if aunt knew so little of sin, What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been ! And her grand-aunt^ — \t scares me, — how shockingly sad That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad ! A martyr will save us, and nothing else can ; Let us perish to rescue some wretched young man ! Though, when to the altar a victim I go. Aunt Tabitha'U tell me — she never did so. AWFULLY LOVELY PHILOSOPHY. A FEW days ago a Boston girl, who had been attend- ing the School of Philosophy at Concord, arrived in Brooklyn, on a visit to a seminary chum. After can- vassing thoroughly the fun and gum-drops that made up their education in the seat of learning at wliich their early scholastic efforts were made, the Brooklyn girl began to inquire the nature of the Concord entertain- ment. " And so you are taking lessons in philosophy ! How do you like it?" " O, it's perfectly lovely I It's about science, you know, and we all just dote on science." " It must be nice. What is it about ? " " It's about molecules as much as any thing else, and molecules are just too awfully nice for any thing. If there's any thing I really enjoy it's molecules.'" "■ Tell me about them, my dear. What are mole- cules?" AWFULLY LOVELY PHILOSOPHY. 349 "O, molecules! They are little wee things, and it takes ever so many of them. They are splendid things. Do you know, there ain't anything but what's got mole- cules in it. And Mr. Cook is just as sweet as he can be, and Mr. Emerson too. They explain everything so beautifully." " How I'd like to go there ! " said the Brooklyn girl, enviously. " You'd enjoy it ever so much. They teach proto- plasm, too ; and if there is one thing perfectly heavenly it's protoplasm. I really don't know which I like best, protoplasm or molecules." " Tell me about protoplasm. I know I should adore it." " 'Deed you would. It's just too sweet to live. You know it's about how things get started, or something of that kind. You ought to hear Mr. Emerson tell about it. It would stir your very soul. The first time he explained about protoplasm there wasn't a dry eye in the house. We named our hats after him. This is an Emerson hat. You see the ribbon is drawn over the crown and caught with a buckle and a bunch of flowers. Then you turn up the side with a spray of forget-me- nots. Ain't it just too sweet? All the girls in the school have them." " How exquisitely lovely ! Tell me some more sci- ence." " O, I almost forgot about differentiation. I am really and truly positively in love with differentiation. It's different from molecules and protoplasm, but it's every bit as nice. And Mr. Cook ! You should hear him go on about it. I really believe he's perfectly bound up in it. This scarf is the Cook scarf. All the girls wear them, and we named them after him, just on account of the interest he takes in difl:erentiation." 350 CHOICE READINGS. " What is it, anyway ? " " This is mull, trimmed with Languedoc lace — - " " I don't mean that, — that other." " O, differentiation ! Ain't it sweet? It's got some- thing to do with species. It's the way you tell one hat from another, so you'll know which is becoming. And we learn all about ascidians too. They are the divinest things ! I'm absolutely enraptured with ascidians. If I only had an ascidian of my own I wouldn't ask any- thing else in the world." " What do they look like, dear ? Did you ever see one?" asked the Brooklyn girl, deeply interested. " O, no ; nobody ever saw one except Mr. Cook and Mr. Emerson ; but they are something like an oyster with a reticule hung on its belt. I think they are just heavenly." "Do you learn any thing else besides?" " O, yes. We learn about common j)hilosophy and logic, and those common things like metaphysics ; but the girls don't care anything about those. We are just in ecstasies over differentiations and molecules, and Mr. Cook and protoplasms, and ascidians and Mr. Emerson, and I really don't see why they put in those vulgar branches. If anybody besides Mr. Cook and Mr. Emer- son had done it, we should have told him to his face that he was too terribly, awfully mean." And the Brooklyn girl went to bed that night in the dumps, because fortune had nut vouchsafed her the advantages enjoyed by her friend. THE BALD-HEADED MAN. The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The THE BALD-HEADED MAN. 351 woman had a care-worn expression hanging over her face like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid ques- tions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious sighs. " Ma," said the boy, " that man's like a baby, ain't he ? " pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in front of them. " Hush ! " " Why must I hush ? " After a few moments' silence, '' Ma, what's the mat- ter with that man's head ? " " Hush, I tell you. He's bald." "What's bald?" " His head hasn't got any hair on it." " Did it come off? " " I guess so." '■'Will mine come off? " "Some time, maybe." " Then I'll be bald, won't I ? " "Yes." " Will you care ? " " Don't ask so many questions." After another silence, the boy exclaimed, " Ma, look at that fly on that man's head." "If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home." "Look! There's another lly. Look at 'em light, look at 'em ! " " Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around, "what's the matter with that young hyena?" The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair. " One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy inno- 352 CHOICE READINGS. Gently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a newsboy. " Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put you off the train." The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keej^ him from crying. " Ma, have I got red marks on my head ? " " I'll whip you again if you don't hush." " Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, " does it hurt to be bald-headed ? " " Youngster," said the man, " if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter." The boy promised, and the money was paid over. The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading. " This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "When I get bald-headed, I'm goin* to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?" The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed, "• Madam, hereafter, when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here." " The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy ; and, as the woman leaned back, a tired sigh escaped from her lips. THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH. 353 THE BEAKEMAN AT OHUEOH. R. J. BuRDETTE. On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away in the distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the window pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the tall, thin passenger reading " Gen. Grant's Tour Around the World," and wondering why " Green's August Flower" should be printed above the doors of "A Buddhist Temple at Benares." To me comes the brake- man, and, seating himself on the arm of the seat, says, "I went to church yesterda3^" "Yes?" I said, with that interested inflection that asks for more. " And what church did you attend ? " " Which do you guess ? " he asked. "Some union mission church," I hazarded. " No," he said, " I don't like to run on these branch roads very much. I don't often go to church, and, when I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular, and you go on schedule time, and don't have to wait on connections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it.' " Episcopal ? " I guessed. " Limited express," he said, " all palace cars and $2 extra for seat, fast time, and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern silver plated, and no train boys allowed. Then the passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor, and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a re- ceiver being appointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too." " Universalist ? " I suggested. 354 CHOICE READINGS. " Broad gauge," said the brakeman, " does too much complimentary business. Everybody travels on a pass. Conductor doesn't get a fare once in fifty miles. Stops at flag stations, and won't run into anything but a union depot. No smoking-car on the train. Train orders are rather vague though, and the train men don't get along well with the passengers. No, I don't go to the Uni- versalist, but I know some good men who run on that road." "Presbyterian?" I asked. "Narrow gauge, eh?" said the brakeman, "pretty track, straight as a rule ; tunnel right through a moun- tain rather than go around it ; spirit-level grade ; pas- sengers have to show their tickets before they get on the train. Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow ; have to sit one in a seat, and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there is no stop-over tickets al- lowed ; got to go straight through to the station you're ticketed for, or you can't get on at all. When the car is full, no extra coaches ; cars built at the shop to hold just so many, and nobody else allowed on. But you don't often hear of an accident on that road. It's run right up to the rules.'' "Maybe you joined the Free-Thinkers?" I said. " Scrub road," said the brakeman, " dirt road-bed and 110 ballast ; no time-card and no train-dispatcher. All trains run wild, and every engineer makes his own time, just as he pleases. Smoke if you want to ; kind of go- as-you-please road. Too many side tracks, and every switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep and the target lamp dead out. Get on as you please, and get off when you want to. Don't have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn't expected to do anything but amuse the passengers. No, sir. I was THE BRAKEMAK AT CHURCH. 365 offered a pass, but I don't like the line. I don't like to travel on a road that has no terminus. Do you know, sir, I asked a division-superintendent where that road run to, and he said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked him if the general superintendent could tell me, and he said he didn't believe they had a general superintendent, and if they had he didn't know any thing more about the road than the passengers. I asked him who he re- ported to, and he said ' nobody.' I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn't take orders from any living man or dead ghost. And, when I asked the engineer who he got his orders from, he said he'd like to see anybody give him orders, he'd run the train to suit himself, or he'd run it into the ditch. Now you see, sir, I'm a railroad man, and I don't care to run on a road that has no time, makes no connec- tions, runs nowhere, and has no superintendent. It. may be all right, but I've railroaded too long to under- stand it." "• Maybe you went to the Congregational Church ? " "Popular road," said the brakeman ; "an old road, too, — one of the very oldest in the country. Good road-bed and comfortable cars. Well-managed road, too ; directors don't interfere with division-superintend- ents and train-orders. Road's mighty popular, but its pretty independent, too. Yes, didn't one of the divi- sion superintendents down east discontinue one of the oldest stations on this line two or three years ago? But it's a mighty pleasant road to travel on, — always has such a pleasant class of passengers." "Did you try the Methodist?" I said. " Now you're shouting ! " he said with some enthusiasm. "Nice road, eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. Engines carry a power of steam, and don't you forget 356 CHOICE READINGS. it ; steam-gauge sliows a Imndred, and enough all the time. Lively road ; when the conductor shouts ' all aboard,' you can hear him at the next station. Every train-light shines like a head-light. Stop-over checks are given on all through-tickets ; passenger can drop off the train as often as he likes, do the station two or three days, and hop on the next revival train that comes thundering along. Good, wholesouled, companionable conductors ; ain't a road in the country where the pas- sengers feel more at home. No passes ; every passenger pays full traffic rates for his ticket. Wesleyanhouse air-brakes on all trains, too ; pretty safe road, but I didn't ride over it yesterday." "Perhaps you tried the Baptist?" I guessed once more. "Ah, ha ! " said the brakeman, " she's a daisy, isn't she ? River road ; beautiful curves ; sweep around any thing to keep close to the river, but it's all steel rail and rock ballast, single track all the way, and not a side track from the round house to the terminus. Takes a heap of water to run it, though ; double tanks at every station, and there isn't an engine in the shops that can pull a pound or run a mile with less than two gauges. But it runs through a lovely country : those river roads always do ; river on one side and hills on the other, and it's a steady climb up the grade all the way till the run ends where the fountain-head of the river begins. Yes, sir ; I'll take the river road every time for a lovely trip, sure connections and a good time, and no prairie dust blowing in at the windows. And yesterday, when the conductor came around for the tickets with a little basket punch, I didn't ask him to pass me, but I paid my fare like a little man, — twenty-five cents for an hour's run, and a little concert by the passengers thrown THE CHAMPION SNORER. 357 in. I tell you, pilgrim, you take the river road when you want — " But just here the long whistle from the engine an- nounced a station, and the brakeman hurried to the door, shouting: " Zionsville ! The train makes no stops between here and Indianapolis ! " THE CHAMPION SNOEER. Front the " Burlington Hawkeye." It was the Cedar Rapids sleeper. Outside, it was as dark as the inside of an ink-bottle. In the sleeping-car people slept. Or tried it. Some of them slept like Christian men and women, peacefully, sweetly, and quietly. Others slept like demons, malignantly, hideously, fiendishly, as though it was their mission to keep every- body else awake. Of these the man in lower number three was the worst. We never heard any thing snore like him. It was the most systematic snoring that was ever done, even on one of these tournaments of snoring, a sleeping-car. He didn't begin as soon as the lamps were turned down and everybody was in bed. O, no ! There Avas more cold-blooded diabolism in his system than that. He waited until everybody had had a taste of sleep, just to see how nice and pleasant it was ; and then he broke in on their slumbers like a winged, breathing demon, and they never knew what peace was again that night. He started out with a terrific " Gu-r-r-rt ! " that opened every eye in the car. We all hoped it was 358 CHOICE READINGS. ail accident, however; and, trusting that he wouldn't do it again, we all forgave him. Then he blasted our hopes and curdled the sweet serenity of our forgiveness by a long-drawn " Gw-a-h-h-hah ! " that sounded too much like business to be accidental. Then every head in that sleepless sleeper was held off the pillow for a minute, waiting in breathless suspense to hear the worst ; and the sleeper in " lower three " went on in long-drawn, regular cadences that indicated good staying qualities, " Gwa-a-a-h ! Gwa-a-a-a-h ! Gahwayway ! Gahway- wah ! Gahwa-a-ah ! " Evidently it was going to last all night ; and the weary heads dropped back on the sleepless pillows, and the swearing began. It mumbled along in low, mutter- ing tones, like the distant echoes of a profane thunder- storm. Pretty soon " lower three " gave us a little variation. He shot off a spiteful " Gwook ! " which sounded as though his nose had got mad at him and was going to strike. Then there was a pause, and we began to hope he had either awakened from sleep or strangled to death, — nobody cared very particularly which. But he disappointed everybody with a gut- tural " Gurroch ! " Then he paused again for breath ; and when he had accumulated enough for his purpose he resumed busi- ness with a stentorious " Kowpff ! " that nearly shot the roof off the car. Then he went on playing such fantastic tricks with his nose, and breath- ing things that would make the immortal gods weep, if COURTSHIP UNDKK DIFFICULTIES. 359 they did but hear him. It seemed an utter, preposter- ous impossibility that any human being coukl make the monstrous, hideous noises with its broatliing machine that the fellow in " lower three " was making with his. He then ran through all the ranges of the nasal gamut ; he went up and down a very chromatic scale of snores ; he ran through intricate and fearful variations until it seemed that his nose must be out of joint in a thousand places. All the night and all the day through he told his story ; " Gawoh ! gurrah ! gu-r-r-r ! Kowpff ! Gawaw-wah ! gawah-hah ! gwock ! gwart ! gwah-h-h-h woof ! " Just as the other passengers had consulted together how they might slay him, morning dawned, and "■ lower number three " awoke. Everybody watched the cur- tain to see what manner of man it was that made the sleei^ing-car a pandemonium. Presently the toilet was completed, the curtains parted, and '" lower number three " stood revealed. Great Heavens ! It was a fair young girl, with golden hair, and timid, pleading eyes, like a hunted fawn. o>*;o COURTSHIP UNDER DIFFICULTIES. Snohbleton. Yes, tliere is tliat ft-llow Jones, again. I declare, the man is ubiquitous. Wherever I go with my cousin Prudence we stumble across him, or he follows her like her shadow. Do we take a boating ? So does Jones. Do we wander on the beach ? So does Jones. Go where we will, that fellow follows or moves before. Now, that was a cruel practical joke which Jones once played upon me at college. I have never forgiven him. But I would gladly make a pretence of doing so, if T could have my revenge. Let me see. Can't I manage it? He is head over ears in love with Pru- dence, but too bashful to speak. I half believe she is not indiffer- ent to him, though altogether unacquainted. It may prove a 360 CHOICE READINGS. match, if I cannot spoil it. I^et me think. Ha ! I have it. A bril- liant idea ! Jones, beware ! But here he comes. Enter Jones. Jones. (^Not seeing Snobbleton, and delightedly contemplating a flower, which he holds in his hand.) O, rapture ! what a prize ! It was in her hair, — I saw it fall from her queenly head. (Kisses it every noio and then.) How warm are its tender leaves from having touched her neck ! How doubly sweet is its perfume, — fresh from the fragrance of her glorious locks ! How beautiful ! how — Bless me ! here is Snobbleton, and we are enemies ! Snoh. Good-morning, Jones, — that is, if you will shake hands. Jones. What ! you — you forgive ! You really — Snob. Yes, yes, old fellow ! All is forgotten. You played me a rough trick ; but let bygones be bygones. Will you not bury the hatchet? Jones. With all my heart, my dear fellow ! Snob. What is the matter with you, Jones ? You look quite grumpy, — not by any means the same cheerful, dashing, rollicking fellow you were. Jones. Grumpy, — what is that ? How do I look, Snobbleton ? Snob. O, not much out of the way. Only a little shaky in the shanks, — blue lips, red nose, cadaverous jaws, blood-shot eyes, yellow — Jones. Bless me, you don't say so ! {Aside.) Confound the man. Here have I been endeavouring to appear romantic for the last month ; and now to be called grumpy, — shaky-shanked, cadaverous, — it is unbearable ! Snob. But never mind. Cheer up, old fellow I I see it all. Egad ! I know what it is to be in — Jones. Ah ! you can then sympathize with me I You know what it is to be in — Snob. Of course I do ! Heaven preserve me from the toils ! What days of bitterness ! Jones. What nights of bliss ! Snob. {Shuddering.) And then the letters, — the interminable letters ! Jones. O yes, the letters ! the billet doux ! Snob. And the bills, — the endless bills ! Jones. {In surprise.) The bills ! Snob. Yes; and the bailiffs, the lawyers, the judge, and tho jury. COURTSHIP UNDER DIKFICl'LTIES, 361 Jones. ^Vhy, man, what are you talking about? I thought you said you knew what it was to be in — Snob. In debt. To he sure, I did. Jones. Bless me ! I'm not in debt, — never borrowed a dollar in my life. Ah, me! (Sighs.) it's worse than ut I pick'd up that agreement and stuff'd it in the fire; And I told her we'd bury the hatchet alongside of the cow ; And we struck an agreement never to have another row. And I told her in the future I would'nt speak cross or rash. If half the crockery in the hoiLse was broken all to smash ; And she said in regard to Heaven, we'd try and learn its worth By startin' a branch establishment and runnui' it here on Earth. And so we sat Ortalkin' three-quarters of the night. And open'd our hearts to each other until they both grew light; And the days when I was winnin' her away from so many men Was nothin' to that evenin' T courted her over again. Xext mornin' an ancient iiirgin took pains to call on us, Her lamp all trimm'd and a-burnin' to kindle another fuss; But, when she went to prj'in' and openin' of old sores, My Betsy rose politely, and showed her out-of-doors. Since then I don't deny but there's been a word or two ; But we've got our eyes wide open, and know just what to do: AYhen one speaks cross the other just meets it with a laugh. And the first one's ready to give up considerable more than half. Maybe you'll tliink me soft. Sir, a-talkin' in this style, But somehow it does me lots of good to tell it once in a while; And I do it for a compliment, — 'tis so that you can see That that there written agreement of yours was just the makin' of me. So make out your bill, ]\Ir. Lawyer ; don't stop short of an X. ; Make it more if you want to, for I have got the checks : I'm richer than a National Bank, with all its treasures told, For I've got a wife at home now that's worth her weight in gold. 414 CHOICE READINGS. X. DIALECTIC. COCKNEY. LOED DUNDEEARY PEOPOSING. F. J. Skill. Any fellah feelth nervouth when he kuowth he'th goiug to make an ath of himthelf . That's vewy twue, — I — I've ofteu thed tho before. But the fact is, evew}' fellah dothu't make an ath of himthelf, at least not quite such an ath as I've done in my time. I — don't mind telling you, but 'pon my word now, — I — I've made an awful ath of mythelf on thome occathions. You don't believe it now, — do you ? I — thought 30U wouldn't ; but I have now — tveally. Particularly with wegard to women. To tell the twuth, that is my weakueth, — I s'pose I'm what they call a ladies' man. The pwetty cweachaws like me, — I know they do, — though they pweteud not to do so. It — it's the way with some fellahs. Let me see, — where was I? O, I rekomember, — or weckolect, — which is it? Never mind ; I was saying that I was a ladies' man. I wanted to tell you of one successful advenchaw I had, — at least, when I say successful, I mean it would have been as far as /was concerned, — but, of course, when two people are engaged, — or wather, when one of 'em wants to be en- gaged, one fellah by himthelf can't engage that he'll engage affections that are otherwise engaged. By the wa}', what a lot of 'gages that was in one thentence, and yet — it seems quite fruitless. Come, that's pwetty smart, that is — for me. LORD DUNDREARY PROPOSING. 415 Well, as I was sayiug, — I mean, as I meant to have said, — when I was stopping down at Woekingham, with the Wid- leys, last Autumn, there was a mons'ous jolly girl sta^-ing tliere too. I don't mean two girls, you know, — only — only one girl — But stop a minute, — is that right? How could one girl be stopping there tiuo? What doosid queer expres- sions there are in the English language ! Stopping there too! It's vewy odd. I — I'll swear there was onl}- one girl, — at least, the one that / mean was onW one, — if she'd been two, of course, I should have known it, — let me see now, one is singular, and two is plural, — well, you know, she ivas a singular girl, — and she — she was one too many for me. Ah, I see now, — that accounts for it, — one tico many — of course — I kneiu there was a two somewhere. She had a vewy queer name. Miss — miss — Missmiss, no not Miss Missmiss — I always miss the wrong — I mean the right name, — Miss Chaffingham, — that's it, — Charlotte Chafliugliam. At the top of the long walk at Woekingham there is a summer-house, — a jolly sort of place, with a lot of ferns and things about, and behind there are a lot of shrubs and bushes and pwickl^- plants, which give a sort of rural or ivurwal — which is it? blest if I know — look to the place, and as it was \ev;\ warm, I tliought if I'm ever to make an ath of mythelf b}^ pwoposing to this girl, — I won't do it out in the eye of the Sun, — it's so pwecious hot. So I pwoposed we should walk in and sit down, and so we did, and then I began : " Miss Chaffingham, now, don't 3'ou think it doosid cool? " " CooU Lord D., " she said ; " wh\', I thought you were complaining of the heat." " I beg your pardon," I said, ''I — I — can't speak vewy fast," (the fact is, that a beathly wasp was buthhing about me at the moment,) " and I hadn't quite finished my then- tenee. I was going to sa}', don't you think it doosid cool of Wagsby to go on laughing — at — at a fellah as he does ? " "•Well, my Lord," she said, " I think so too; and I won- 416 CHOICE READINGS. der you stand it. You — you have your remedy, you know." "What remedy?" I said. "You — you don't mean to say I ought to thvvash him, Miss Charlotte?" Here slie — slie somehow began to hiugh, but in such a peculiar way that I — I couldn't think what she meant. "A vewy good idea," I said. " I've a vewy good mind to twy it. I had on the gloves once with a laj- figure in a paint- er's studio, — and gave it an awful licking. It's twue, it — it didn't hit back, you know; I — I did all — all the hitting then. And pwaps — pwaps Wagsby would hit back. But, if — if he did any thing so ungentlemanlike as that, I could always — alwa3-s — " " Always what, my Lord? " said Lotty, who was going on laughing in a most hysterical manner. "Wh}', I could always sa}' it was a mithtake, and — and it shouldn't happen again, you know." " Admirable policy, upon ni}^ word," she thaid, and began tittering again. But what the dooth amused her so / never could make out. Just then we heard a sort of rustling in the leaves behind, and I confess I felt wather nervonth. " It's only a bird," Lotty said ; and then we began talking of that little wobbin-wedbreast, and what a wonderful thing Nature is, — and how doosid pwett}' it was to see her laws obeyed. And I said, "O Miss Chaffingham ! " I said, "If I was a wobbin — " "Yes, Dundreary," she anthered, — vewy soft and sweet. And I thought to mythelf, — Now's the time to ask her, — now's the time to — I — I was beginning to wuminate again, but she bwought me to my thenses by saying, — " Yes?" interwoggatively. " If I was a wobbin, Lotty, — and — and you were a wob- bin — " I exclaimed, — with a full voice of emothun. "Well, my Lord?" "Wouldn't it be — jolly to have thpeckled eggs evewy morning for bweakfast?" That wasn't quite what I was going to say ; but just then THE SWELL. 417 there was another rustling behind the summer-house, and in wushed that bwute, "NVagshy. •'What's the wow, Dundreary?" said he, grinning in a dweadfulh- idiotic sort of way. '' Come, old fellah," (I — I hate a man who calls me old fellah, — it's so beathly famil- iar) . And then he said he had come on purpose to fetch us back, (confound him !) as they had just awanged to start on one of those cold-meat excursions, — no, that's not the word, I know, — but it has something to do with cold meat, — pic — pickles, is it? — no, pickwick? pic — 1 have it, — the}" wanted us to go picklicking, — I mean picknicking witli them. Here w^as a dithappointmeut. Just as I thought to ha^-e a nice little flirtathun with Lott}' — to l)e interwupted in this manner ! Was ever an}- thing so pwovoking? And all for a picnic, — a thort of earh' dinner without chairs or tables, nnd a lot of flies in the muthtard ! I was in such a wage ! Of course I didn't get another chance to say all I wanted. I had lost my opportunity, and, I fear, made an ath of my- thelf. THE SWELL. George W. Kvle. I SAY ! I wonder why fellahs ever wide in horse-cars ? I've been twying all daj- to think why fellahs ever do it, weally ! I know some fellahs that are in business, down town, you know, — C. B. Jones, cotton-dealer; Smith Brothers, woollen goods ; Bwown & Company, stock-bwokers and that sort of thing, you know, — who say they do it every day. If I was to do it every day, my funeral would come off in about a week. Ton my soul, it would. I wode in a horse-car one day. Did it for a lark. Made a bet I would wide in a horse-car, 'pon my soul, I did. So I went out on the pavement before the club-house and called one. I said. "Horse-ear! horse-car!" but not one of 'em stop[>c'(l, weally ! Then I saw that fellahs wun after them, — pla3'ed 418 CHOICE READINGS. tag with them, you know, as the clweadful little girls do when school is coming out. And sometimes the}' caught the cars, — ah — and sometimes they did not. So I wun after one, I did weally, and I caught it. I was out of breath, 3'ou know, and a fellah on the platform— a conductor fellah — poked me in the back and said, " Come ! move up ! make room for this lady ! " Ah — by Jove he did, you know ! I looked for the lad}' so, but I could see no lad}', and I said so. There was a female person behind me, with large mar- ket basket, cwowded with, ah, — vegetables and such dwead- ful stuff, and another person with a bundle, and another with a baby, you know. The person with the basket prodded me in the back with it, and I said to the conductor fellah, said I, "Where shall I sit down? I — ah — I don't see any seat, you know." "The seats seem to be occupied by per- sons, conductor," said I. " Where shall I sit?" He was wude, very wude, indeed, and he said, "You can sit on your thumb if you have a mind to." And when I wemonstrated with him upon the impwopwiet}' of telling a gentleman to sit on his thumb, he told me to go to thunder. " Go to thunder ! " he did, indeed. After a while one of the persons got out, and I sat down ; it was vewy disagweeable ! Opposite me, there were several persons belonging to the labowing classes, with what I pwesume to be lime on their boots ; and tin kettles which they carried for some myste- rious purpose in their hands. There was a person with a large basket, and a coloured person. Next to me there sat a fellah that had been eating onions ! 'Twas vewy offensive ! I couldn't stand it ! No fellah could, you know. I had heard that if any one in a car was annoyed b}' a fellah-pas- senger he should weport it to the conductor. So I said, "Conductor ! put this person out of the oar! he annoys me vewy much. He has been eating onions." But the con- ductor fellali only laugiied. He did, indeed ! And the fel- lah that had bc^en eating onions said, " Hang yer inii)iden(!e, what do ye mean by tliat?" " It's extwemely disagweeable, you know, to sit near one who has been eating onions," said THE SWELL. 419 I. "I think you ought to resign, get out, you know." And then, though I'm sure I spoke in the most wespectful manner, he put liis fist under my nose and wemarked, "You'll eat that, hang you, in a minute!" he did, indeed. And a fellah opposite said, " Put a head on him, Jim ! " 1 suppose from his tone that it was some colloquial expwession of the lower orders, referring to a personal attack. It was vewy disagweeable, indeed. I don't see why any fellah ever wides in the horse-cars. But I didn't want a wow, you know. A fellah is apt to get a black eye, and a black eye spoils one's appeawance, don't you think? So I said, " Beg pardon, I'm sure." The fellah said, " O, hang you!" he did, indeed. He was a vewy ill-brod person. And all this time the car kept stopping, and more persons of the lower orders kept getting on. A vewy dweadful woman with a vewy dweadful baby stood right before me, intercepting m}' view of the street ; and the baby had an orange in one hand and some candy in the other. And 1 was wondering why persons of the lower classes were allowed to have such dirty babies, and why Bergh or some one didn't hiterfere, you know, when, before I knew what she was doing, that dwead- ful woman sat that dweadful baby wight down on my lap ! She did, indeed. And it took hold of my shirt bosom with one of its sticky hands, and took m}- eye-glass away with the other, and, upon my honour, I'm quite lost without my eye- glass. "You'll have to kape him till I find me money," said the woman. "Weally!" said I, "I'm not a nursery- maid, ma'am." Then the people about me laughed, they did, indeed. I could not endure it. I jumped up and dvvopped the baby in the straw. " Stop the car, conductor," said I, " stop the car." What do suppose he said? "Hurry up now, be lively, be lively, don't keep me waiting all day ! " And I was about to wemonstrate witli liim upon the impwo- pwiety of speaking so to a gentleman, when he pushed me off the car. That was the only time I ever wode in a horse- car. I wonder why fellahs ever do wide in horse-cars ? I should think they would pwefer cabs, jou know. 420 CHOICE READINGS. FRENCH. THE FRENCHMAN AND THE FLEA-POWDEE. A Frenchman once — so runs a certain ditty — Had cross'd tlie Straits to famous London city, To get a living by the arts of France, And teach his neighbour, rough John Bull, to dance. But, lacking pupils, vain was all his skill ; His fortunes sank from low to lower still ; Until, at last, — pathetic to relate, — Poor Monsieur landed at starvation's gate. Standing, one day, beside a cook-shop door, And, gazing in, with aggravation sore. He mused within himself what he should do To fill his empty maw, and pocket too. By nature shrewd, he soon contrived a plan, And thus to execute it straight began : A piece of common brick he quickly found, And with a harder stone to powder ground. Then wrapp'd the dust in many a daint}' piece Of paper, labell'd '•'■ Poison for de Fleas," And sallied forth, his roguish trick to ti'y, To show his treasures, and to see who'd buy. From street to street he cried, with lusty yell, " Here's grand and ^o\Qve\g\\ flea poudare to sell ! " And fickle Fortune seem'd to smile at last. For soon a woman hailed him as he pass'd, Struck a quick bargain with him for the lot. And made him five crowns richer on the spot. Our wight, encouraged by this ready sale, "Went into business on a larger scale ; And soon, throughout all London, scatter'd he The " only genuine poudare for de flea." Engaged, one morning, in his new vocation Of mingled boasting and dissimulation, He thought he heard himself in anger call'd j A FRENCHMAN ON MACBETH. 421 And, sure enough, the self-same womau bawl'd, — In not a mild or very tender mood, — From the same window where before she stood. '' Hey, there," said she, " You Monsher Powder-man ! Escape my clutches now, sir, if you can ; I'll let you dirty, thieving Frenchmen know That decent people won't be cheated so." Then spoke Monsieur, and heaved a saintl}- sigh, With humble attitude and tearful eye ; — " Ah, Madame ! s'il vous plait, attendez vous, — I vill dis leetle ting explain to you : My poudare gi'an ! magnifique ! why abuse him ? Aha ! I show you how to use him : First, 3'ou must wait until 30U catch de flea; Den, tickle he on de petite rib, 30U see ; And, when he laugh, — aha ! he ope his troat ; Den poke de poudare down ! — Begar ! he choke. A FEENOHMAN ON MACBETH. An enthusiastic French student of Shakespeare thus com- ments on the traged}' of Macbeth : "Ah! your Mossieu' Shak-es-pier ! He is gi'-aa-nd — m3'sterieuse — so-blime ! You 'ave reads ze Macabess? — ze scene of ze Mossieu' Macabess vis ze Vitch, — eh? Su- perb sooblimitee ! Wen he say to ze Vitch, ' Ar-r-roynt ze, Yitch ! ' she go awa}' : but what she say when she go away ? She say she will do s'omesing dat aves got no naiime ! ' Ah, ha ! ' she say, ' I go, like ze r-r-aii-t vizout ze tail, but I'll do ! I'll do ! I'lf DO ! ' mi't she do? Ah, ha ! — voila le graand mjsterieuse Mossieu' Shak-es-pier ! She not say what she do ! " This ivas " grand," to be sure : but the prowess of Mac- beth, in his " bout" with Macduff, awakens all the mercurial Frenchman's martial ardour ; " Mossieu' Macabess, he see him come, clos' by ; he say 422 CHOICE READINGS. (proud empressement) ^ ' Come o-o-n, Mossieu' MacdufFs, and d — d be he who first say Enoffs!' Zeu zey fi-i-ght — moche. Ah, ha ! — voila ! Mossieu' Macabess, vis his br-r-ight r-r-apier ' pink ' him, vat you call, in his body. He 'ave gots mal d'estomac : he say, vis grand simplicite, ' EnoffsF What for he say ' Enoffs?' 'Cause he got enoffs — plaJiinty ; and he expire., r-r-ight away, 'raediatel}-, pretty quick ! Ah, mes amis, Mossieu' Shak-es-pier is rising man in La Belle France ! " MONSIEUR TONSON. There lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore, At least some fifty years ago or more, A pleasant wight in town, yclept Tom King, — A fellow that was clever at a joke. Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke ; In short, for strokes of humour quite the thing. To many a jovial club this King was known, AVith whom his active wit unrivall'd shone : Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood, Would crowd, his stories and hon-mots to hear ; And none a disappointment e'er could fear. His humour flow'd in such a copious flood. To him a frolic was a high delight ; A frolic he would hunt for, day and night. Careless how prudence on the sport might frown : If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view, At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew, Nor left the game till he had run it down. One night, our hero, raml)ling with a friend, Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend, Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight. 'Twas silence all around, and clear tlie coast. MONSIEUR TONSON. 423 The watch, as usual, dozing on his post, And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light. Around this place there lived the numerous clans Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans, Known at that time by name of refugees. The rod of persecution from their home Compell'd the inoffensive i-ace to roam. And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees. Well ! our two friends were sauntering through the street, In hopes some food for humour soon to meet, When, in a window near, a light they view ; And, though a dim and melancholy ray, It seem'd the prologue to some merry play. So towards the gloomy dome our hero drew. Straight at the door he gave a thundering knock, (The time we may suppose near two o'clock.) "I'll ask," says King, '* if Thompson lodges here." " Thompson, " cries t'other, " who the devil's he?" " I know not," King replies, " but want to see What kind of animal will now appear." After some time a little Frenchman came ; One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame, The other held a thing they call'd culotte ; An old striped woollen nightcap graced his head, A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread ; Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note. Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled, And soon address'd our wag in accents mild, Bending his head politely to his knee, — " Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late? I beg your pardon, sare, to make ^-ou vait ; Pra}' tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me?" 424 CHOICE READINGS. " Sir," replied King, " I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go, (But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fear.) I say, I thought that you perhaps could tell. Among the folks who in this quarter dwell, If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?" The shivering Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind, Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest was broke, Then, with unalter'd courtesy, he spoke ; " No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here." Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed. But King resolved not thus to drop the jest ; So, the next night, with more of whim than grace. Again he made a visit to the place. To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest He knock' d, — but waited longer than before ; No footstep seem'd approaching to the door ; Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound. King with the knocker thunder'd then again. Firm on his post determined to remain ; And oft, indeed, he made the door resound. At last King hears him o'er the passage creep. Wondering what fiend again disturb'd his sleep : The wag salutes him with a civil leer ; Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise, While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes, " Is there — a Mr. Thompson — lodges here ? " The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright, — '• Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night, MONSIEUR TONSON. 425 (Aud here he labour'd, with a sigh sincere,) No Monsieur Tonson in the vtirld I know, No Monsieur Tonson here, — I told you so ; Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here ! " Some more excuses tender'd, off Kuig goes, Aud the old P'reuchman sought once more repose. The rogue next night pursued his old career. 'Twas long indeed before the man came nigh. And then he utter'd in a piteous cry, " Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here ! '' Our sportive wight his usual visit paid, And the next night came forth a prattling maid. Whose tongue, indeed, than an}- Jack went faster Anxious, she strove his errand to inquire, He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire, He should not stir till he had seen her master. The damsel then began, in doleful state, The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate, And begg'd he'd call at proper time of da}'. King told her she must fetch her master down, A chaise was ready, he was leaving town. But first had much of deep concern to say. Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call, And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl. Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay. At last he wakes ; he rises ; and he swears : But scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs, "When King attack'd him in his usual wa}'. The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain To his tormentor mildly to complain. And straight in rage began his crest to rear ; '■'• Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so? 426 CHOICE READINGS. Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago, Got tam — I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here ! " True as the night, King went, and heard a strife Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife. Which would descend to chase the fiend away. At length, to join their forces they agree. And straight impetuously they turn the key, Prepai'ed with mutual fury for the fray. Our hero, with the firmness of a rock. Collected to receive the might}' shock. Uttering the old inquiry, calmly stood. The name of Thompson raised the storm so high, He deem'd it then the safest plan to fl}'. With " Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood.' In short, our hero, with the same intent, Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went. So fond of mischief was the wicked wit : They throw out water ; for the wvatch they call ; But King, expecting, still escapes from all. Monsieur at last was forced his house to quit. It happen'd that our wag, about this time. On some fair prospect sought the Eastern clime; Six lingering years were there his tedious lot. At length, content, amid his ripening store. He treads again on Britain's happy shore, And his long absence is at once forgot. To London, with impatient hope, he flies, And the same night, as former freaks arise. He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. " Ah ! here's the scene of frequent mirth," he said ; " My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead. ■ Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds the place." LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. 427 With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar, And while he eager eyes the opening door, Lo ! who obe3's the knocker's rattling peal ? Why, e'en our little Frenchman, sti-ange to say I He took his old abode that very day, — Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel ! Without one thought of the relentless foe, Who, fiend-like, haunted him so long ago. Just in his former trim he now appears : The waistcoat and the nightcap seem'd the same ; With rushlight, as before, he creeping came, And King's detested voice astonish'd hears. As if some hideous spectre struck his sight, His senses seem'd bewilder'd with affright. His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore ; Then, starting, he exclaim'd, in rueful strain, " Begar ! here's Monsieur Tonson come again ! " Aw a}' he ran, and ne'er was heard of more. GERMAN. LEEDLE YAWOOB STKAUSS. Charles F. Adams. I HAF von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee, — Der queerest schap, der createst rogue As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps, und schmashes dings In all barts off der house. But vot off dot? He vas mine son. Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. He get der measles und dor murabs, Und everydmg dot's oudt ; 428 CHOICE READINGS. He sbills mine glass off lager bier, Poots schuuff indo mine kraut; He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese, — Dot vas der roughest chouse ; I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit, — Mine cracious, dot vas drue ! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, He kicks oup sooch a touse ; But nefer miud, der po3-s vas few Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. He asks me questions sooch as dese : "Who baints mine nose so red ? Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt From der hair ubou mine hed ? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp Vene'er der glim I douse ? How gan I all dese dings eggsblain To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest Und beaceful dimes enshoy : But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So quiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, " Dake an^diugs, But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." "SOCKEKV" SETTING A IIEN. 429 "SOOKEKY" SETTING A HEN. Meester Verris : 1 see dot mosd efterpoty wrides some- thing for de shicken pabers nowtays, and I tought praps meppe I can do dot, too ; so I wride all apout vot dook blace mit me lasht Summer : you know — oder, uf you dond know, den I dells you — dot Katrina (dot is mine vrow) und me, ve keep some shickeus for a long dime ago, und von tay she sait to me, " Sockery," (dot is mein name,) '' vy dond you put some uf de aigs under dot olt plue hen shickens. I dinks she vants to sate." " Veil," I sait, " meppe, I guess I vill." So I bicked oud some ou de best aigs, und dook um oud do de parn fere de olt hen make her neshtin de side of de haymow, poud fife six veet up. Now you see I nefer was ferr}' pig up and down, but I vas poot}- pig all de va}' around in de mittle, so I koodn't reach up till I vent und got a parrel do stant on. Veil, I klimet me on de parrel, und ven my hed rise up py de nesht, de olt hen she gif me such a bick dot mj' nose runs all over m^' face mit plood, und ven I todge pack dot plasted olt parrel het preak, und I vent town kershlam. Py cholly, I didn't tink I kood go insite a parrel pefore, but dere I vas, und I fit so dite dot I koodn't git me oud efferway, — my fest vas bushed vay up unter my arm-holes. Ven I fount I vos dite shtuck, I holler, " Katrina ! Katrina ! " Und ven she koom and see me shtuck in de parrel up to my arm-holes, mit my face all plood und aigs, by choll}', she chust lait town on de ha}- und laft, und laft till I got so mat I sait, " Vot you lay dere und laf like a olt vool, eh? Vy dond you koom bull me oud ? " Und she set up und sait, " O, vipe off your chin, und bull Aour fest down" ; den she lait back und laft like she vood shplit herself more as ever. Mat as I vas, I tought to myself, Katrina, she sbeak Eng- lish pooty good ; but I only sait, mit m^' greatest dignitude, " Katrina, vill you bull me oud dis parrel?" Und she see dot I look pooty red, so she sait, '' Of course I vill, Sockery." Den she lait me und de parrel town ou our site, und I dook 430 CHOICE READINGS. holt de door sill, and Katrina she bull on de parrel, but de first bull she mate I yellet, " Douner uud blitzen, shtop dat, p}^ golly ; dere is uails in de parrel!" You see de nails bent town ven I vent in, but ven I koom oud dej schticks in me all de vay rount. Veil, to make a short shtory long, I told Katrina to go und dell naypor Hansman to pring a saw und saw me dis parrel off. Veil, he koom und he like to sphlit himself mit laf, too, but he roll me ofer und saw de parrel all de vaj- around off, und I git up mit half a parrel around my vaist. Den Katrina she say, " Sockery, vait a leetle till I get a battern of dot new oferskirt you haf on." But I didn't sait a vort ; I shust got a uife oud, und vittle de hoops olT, und shling dot confounted olt parrel in de voot pile. Pimeb}', ven I koom in de house, Katrina she said, so soft like, " Sockery, dond you go in to put some aigs under dot olt plue hen?" den I sait, in my deepest voice, "Katrina, uff ,you eflfer say dot to me again I'll git a pill from 30U, so help me chimin}- cracious ! " Und I dell you she didn't say dot any more. Veil, ven I step on a parrel now, I dond step on it, I git a pox. IRISH. OONNOE. "To the memory of Patrick Connor : this simple stone was erected by his fellow-workmen." Those words you may read any day upon a white slab in a cemeter}' not many miles from New York ; but you might read them a lumdred times without guessing at the little tragedy the}' indicate, without knowing the humble romance which ended with the placing of that stone above the dust of one poor, humble man. In his shabby frieze jacket and mud-laden brogans, he was scarcely an attractive object as he walked into Mr. Bawne's CONNOR. 431 great tin and hardware shop one day, and presented himself at the counter with an " I've been tould ye advertized for hands, yer Honour." ''J'ully supplied, my man," said Mr. Bawne, not lifting his head from his account-book. " I'd work faithfully, sir, and take low wages, till I could do better, and I'd learn, — I would that." It was an Irish brogue, and jNIr. Bawne always declared that he never would employ an incompetent hand. Yet the tone attracted him. He tiu-ned briskly, and, with his pen behind his ear, addressed the man, who was only one of fifty who had answered his advertisement for four workmen that morning. ' ' What makes 3'ou expect to learn faster than other folks? are 30U any smarter?" "I'll not sa}- that," said the man; "•but I'd be wishing to ; and that would make it aisier." "■ Are you used to the work?" "I've done a bit of it." "Much?" " No, yer Honour, I'll tell no lie ; Tim O'Toole hadn't the like of this place ; but 1 know a bit about tins." " You are too old for an apprentice, and ^'ou'd be in the wa}', I calculate," said Mr. Bawne, looking at the brawny arms and bright e3'es that i)romised strength and intelligence. "[Besides, I know your country-men, — laz}', good-for-nothing fellows who never do their best. No, I've been taken in by Irish hands before, and I won't have another." " The Virgin will have to be after bringing them over to me in her two arms, thin," said the man, despairingly, " for I've tramped all the day for the last fortnight, and uiver a job can I get, and tluxt's the last penny I have, yer Honour, and it's but a half one." As he spoke, he spread his palm open, with an English iialf-penny in it. " Bring whom over?" asked Mr. Bawne, arrested b}' the odd speech, as he turned upon his heel and turned back again. 432 CHOICE readings. " Jist Nora and Jamesy." "Who are they?" "The wan's me wife, the other me child," said the man. " O masther, just thry me. How'll I hring 'em over to me, if no one will give me a job ? I want to be aiming, and the whole big cit}' seems against it, and me with arms like them." He bared his arms to the shoulder, as he spoke, and Mr. Bawne looked at them, and then at his face. "I'll hire 3'ou for a week," he said; "and now, as it's noon, go down to the kitchen, and toll the girl to get you some dinner, — a hungry man can't work." With an Irish blessing, the new hand obeyed, while Mr. Bawne, unt3'ing his apron, went up stairs to his own meal. Suspicious as he was of the new hand's integrity and ability, he was agreeably disappointed. Connor worked hard, and actually learned fast. At the end of the week he was en- gaged permanently, and soon was the best workman in the shop. He was a great talker, but not fond of drink or wasting money. As his wages grew, he hoarded evei-y penny, and wore the same shabby clothes in which he had made his first appearance. " Beer costs money," he said one day, " and ivery cent I spind puts off the bringing Nora and Jamesy over ; and as for clothes, them I have must do me. Better no coat to m\' back than no wife and boy b}' my fireside ; and, anyliow, it's slow work saving." He kept his way, a martyr to his one great wish, living on little, working at night on any extra job that he could earn a few shillings ])y. running errands in his noon-tide hours of rest, and talking to any one wlio would listen to him of his one great hope, and of Nora and of little Jamesy. At first the men who prided themselves on being all Amer- icans, and on turning out the best work in the cit}', made a sort of butt of Connor, whose "wild Irish" ways and ver- dancy were indeed often laughable. But he won their hearts CONNOR. 433 at last, and when one day, mounting a work-beucli, he shook his little bundle, wrapped in a red kerchief, before their e3'es, and shouted, "Look, boys; I've got the whole at last! I'm going to bring Nora and James}- over at last ! Whorooo ! ! I've got it ! ! ! " all felt sympathy in his joy, and eacli grasped his great hand in cordial congratulations, and one proposed to treat all round, and drink a good voyage to Nora. They parted in a merry mood, most of the men going to comfortable homes. But poor Connor's resting-place was a poor lodging-house, where he shared a crazy garret with four other men ; and in the joy of his heart the poor fellow exhil)ited his handkerchief, with his hard-earned savings tied up in a wad in the middle, before he put it under his pillow and fell asleep. AVhen he awakened in the morning, he found his treasure gone ; some villain, more contemptible than most bad men, had robbed him. At fust Connor could not even believe it lost. He searched every corner of the room, shook the quilt and blankets, and begged those about him " to quit joking, and give it back." But at last he realized the truth : "Is any man that bad that it's thaved from me?" he asked, in a breathless way. "• Boys, is an}' man that bad? " And some one answered, "No doubt of it, Connor; it's sthole." Then Connor put his head down on his hands and lifted up his voice and wept. It was one of those sights which men never forget. It seemed more than he could bear, to have Nora and his child " put," as he expressed it, " months away from him again." But when he went to work that da}' it seemed to all who saw him that he had picked up a new determination. His hands were never idle. His face seemed to say, "I'll have Nora with me yet." At noon he scratclied out a letter, blotted and very strangel}- scrawled, telling Nora what had happened ; and 434 CHOICE READINGS. those who observed him noticed that he had no meat with his dinner. Indeed, from that moment he lived on bread, potatoes, and cold water, and worked as few men ever worked before. — It grew to be the talk of the shop ; and, now that sympathy was excited, every one wanted to help Connor. Jobs were thrown in his way, kind words and friendly wishes helped him mightily ; but no power could make him share the food or drink of any other workman. It seemed a sort of charity to him. Still he was helped along. A present from Mr. Bawne, at pay-day, set Nora, as he said, "a week nearer," and this and that and the other added to the little hoard. It grew faster than the first, and Connor's burden was not so heav}". At last, before he hoped it, he was once more able to say, "I'm going to bring tliem over," and to show his handker- chief, in which, as before, he tied up his earnings ; this time, however, only to his friends. Cautious among strangers, he hid the treasure, and kept his vest buttoned over it night and day until the tickets were bought and sent. Then every man, woman, and child, capable of hearing or understand- mg, knew that Nora and her baby were coming. The days flew by and brought at last a letter from his wife. She would start as he desired, and she was well and so was the boy ; and might the Lord bring them safely to each other's arms and bless them who had been so kind to him ! That was the substance of the epistle which Connor proudl}' assured his fellow-workmen Nora wrote herself. She had lived at service as a girl, with a certain good old lady, who had given her the items of an education, which Connor told upon his fingers. " The radin', that's one, and the writin', that's three, and, moreover, she knows all that a woman can." Then he looked up with tears in his eyes, and asked, "Do you wondher the time seems long between me an' her, boys ? " So it was. Nora at the dawn of day, Nora at noon, Nora at night, until the news came that the Stormy Petrel had CONNOR. 435 come to port, aud Connor, breathless and pale with excite- ment, flnng his cap in the air and shouted. It happened on a hoUday afternoon, and half-a-dozen men were ready to go with Connor, to the steamer, and give his wife a greeting. Her little home was ready ; Mr. Bawue's own servant had put it in order, and Connor took one peep at it before he started. " She hadn't the like of that in the old counthry," he said, " but she'll know how to keep them tidy." Then he led the way towards the dock where the steamer lay, and at a pace that made it hard for the rest to follow him. The spot was reached at last ; a crowd of vehicles blockaded the street ; a troop of emigrants came thronging up ; fine cabin passengers were stepping into cabs, and drivers, porters, and all manner of emplo3'ees were yelling and shouting in the usual manner. Nora would wait on board for her husband, he knew that. The little group made their way into the vessel at last, and there, amid those who sat watching for coming friends, Con- nor searched for the two so dear to him ; patiently at first, eager!}' but patiently, but by-and-by growing anxious and excited. " She would never go alone," he said, " she'd be lost entirel}' ; I bade her wait, but I don't see her, boys ; I think she's not in it." '^ Why don't you see the captain ? " asked one, and Connor jumped at the suggestion. In a few minutes he stood before a portl}', rubicund man, who nodded to him kindly. "I am looking for my wife, 3er Honour," said Connor, " and I can't find her." " Perhaps she's gone ashore," said the captain. " I bade her wait," said Connor. " Women don't always do as they are bid, you know," said the captain. " Nora would," said Connor; "but maybe she was left behind. Maybe she didn't come. I somehow think she didn't." 436 CHOICE READINGS. At the name of Nora the captain started. In a moment he asked : " What is your name ? " "Pat Connor," said the man. "And your wife's name was Nora?" " That's her name, and the boy with her is James}', yer Honour," said Connor. The captain looked at Connor's friends ; they looked at the captain. Then he said huskily, "Sit down, my man ! I've got something to tell you." " She's left behind," said Connor. " She sailed with us," said the captain. " Where is she? " asked Connor. The captain made no answer. " My man," he said, " we all have our trials; God sends them. Yes, Nora started with us." Connor said nothing. He was looking at the captain now, white to his lips. " It's been a sickly season," said the captain ; " we have had illness on board. — the cholera. You know that." "I didn't. I can't read; they kept it from me," said Connor. "We didn't want to frighten him," said one in a half whisper. " You know how long we lay at quarantine? " "The ship I came in did that," said Connor. " Did ye say Nora went ashore? Ought I to be looking for her, captain? " "Many died, many children," went on the captain. " When we were halfway here your boy was taken sick." " Jamesy," gasped Connor. "His mother watched him night and dav," said the cap- tain, " and we did all we could, but at last he died; only one of man}'. There were five buried that day. But it broke my heart to see the mother looking out upon the water. ' It's his father I think of,' said she ; ' he's longing to see poor Jamesy.' " MISS MALONY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION. 437 Connor groaned. "Keep np, if j-ou can, my man," said the captain. "I wish any one else had it to tell rather than I. That night Nora was taken ill also; very suddenh', she grew worse fast. In the morning she called me to her. ' Tell Connor I died thinking of him,' she said, 'and tell him to meet me.' And my man, God help you, she never said any thing more, — and in an hour she was gone." Connor had risen. He stood up, trying to stead}' himself, looking at the captain with his eyes as drj' as two stones. Then he turned to his friends : " I've got my death, boys," he said, and then dropped to the deck like a log. They raised him and bore him away. In an hour he was at home on the little bed which had been made ready for Nora, weary with her long voyage. There, at last, he opened his eyes. Old Mr. Bawne bent over him : he had been sum- moned by the news, and the room was full of Connor's fellow- workmen. " Better, Connor? " asked the old man. "• A dale," said Connor. " It's aisy now ; I'll be with her soon. And look ye, masther, I've learnt one thing, — God is good ; He wouldn't let me bring Nora over to me, but He's takin' me over to her and Jamesy over the river : don't you see it, and her standin' on tlie other side to welcome me?" And with these words Connor stretched out his arms. Perhaps he did see Nora, — Heaven only knows, — and so died. »Oj«- — MISS MALONY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION. Mrs. Maky iMai'ES Dodge. OcH ! don't l»e talkui'. i.s it hotvkl on ye say? An' didn't I howld on till the heart of me was clane broke entirely, an' me wastin' that thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands ? To think o' me toilin' like a nager, for the six year I've been in Ameriky, — bad luck to the day I iver left the owld conn- 438 CHOICE READINGS. thry ! to be bate by the likes o' them ! (faix an' I'll sit down when I'm ready, so I will, Ann Rj'an, an' ye'd better be Kst- nin' than drawin' j^our remarks,) an' is it meself, with five good characters from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the haythens? The saints forgive me, but I'd be buried alive sooner' n put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I was the granehorn not to be lavin' at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver about the new waiter-man which was brought out from Calif oru}-. " He'll be here the night," sajs she, " an' Kitty, it's meself looks to a'Ou to be kind and patient wid him for he's a furriner," says she, a kind o' lookin' off. " Sure an' it's little I'll hinder nor inter- fare wid him nor any other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me hoAv these French waiters, wid their paper collars an' brass rings on their fingers, isn't compau}' for no gurril brought up dacint an' honest. Och ! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me kitchen smilin', an' sa3-s, kind o' sheared, "Here's Fing Wing, Kitty, an' you'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange." Wid that she shoots the doore, an' I, misthrusting if I was tidied up sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up an' — howly fathers ! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rale haythen Chineser a-griunin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If you'll belaA'e me, the crayture was that yallar it 'ud sicken you to see him ; an' sorra a stitch was on him, but a black night-gown over his trowsers, an' the front of his head shaved claner nor a cop- per biler, an' a black tail a-hangin' down from behind, wid his two feet stook into the ha^thenestest shoes 3'ou ever set eyes on. Och ! but I was up stairs before j^ou could turn about, a-givin' the missus warnin', an' onl}- stopt wid her by her raisin' me Avages two dollars, an' playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid haythins, an' taich 'em all in our power, — the saints save us! Well, the ways an' trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I couldn't be tcllin'. Not a blissed thing cud I do, but he'd be lookin' on MISS MALONY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION. 439 wid eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout a speck or smitch o' whishkers on him, an' his finger nails full a yard long. But it's d3in' you'd be to see the missus a-larnin' him, an' he grinniu' an' waggin' his pig-tail, (which was pieced out long wid some black stoof , the hay- then chate !) an' gettin' into her ways wonderful quick, I don't den}', imitatin' that sharp, you'd be shurprised, an' ketchin' an' copyin' things the best of us will do a-hurried wid work, yet don't wan't comin' to the knowledge of the family, — bad luck to him ! Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen, an' he a-atin wid drum sticks, ^ — yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to me, I warrant you, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till the thought made me that sick I could die. An' didn't the crayture proffer to help me a wake ago come Toosda^', an' me a foldin' down me clane clothes for ironin', an' fill his hay thin mouth wid water, an', afore I could hinder, squirrit it through his teeth stret over the best linen table-cloth, au' fold it up tight, as innercent now as a bab}', the dirrity baste ! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd be doiu' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yerself knows the tinder feet that's on me since iver I've bin in this counthry. Well, owin' to that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I'd be settin' down to pale the praties or the likes o' that, an', do ye mind? that haythen would do the same thing after me, whinivir the missus set him to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints in Heaven couldn't have made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be paylin' any thing. Did I lave fur that? Faix, an' I didn't. Didn't he get me into throuble with me missus, the haj'then? You're aware yersel' how the boondles comin' in from tlie grocery- often contains more'n'll go into any thing dacentl}'. So, for that matter, I'd now an' then take out a sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper, an' put it in me bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit, the how it cuddent be bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed 440 CHOICE READINGS. Sathurda}' morn, the missus was a spakin' pleasaut an' re- spec'ful wid me in me kitchen, when the grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing, (which I never would call him by that name nor any other but just ha3thin,) she motions to him, she does, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar, an' what not, where they belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o' tay, an' a bit o' chase right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o' paper, an' I spache- less wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid the ironin' blankit an' pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to put them in. Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, an' the missus sayin', "O Kitty !" in a way that 'ud crnddle your blood. "• He's a haythin nager," sa3s I. "I've found you out," says she. '"I'll arrist him," says I. '•'• It's ?/o?i ought to be arristed," says she. "You won't," savs I. "I will," says she ; an' so it went till she give me such sass as I cuddent take from no lady, an' I give her warnin' an' left that instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore. JIMMY BUTLEE AND THE OWL. 'TwAS in the Summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, fresh as a new pratie just dug from the " oiild sod," an' wid a light heart an' a heavy bundle I sot off for the township of Buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I trudged on an' on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid the thought that some day I might have a place of my own, wid a world of chickens an' ducks an' pigs an' childer about the door ; an' along in the afternoon of the sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles from there, an' I wanted to make his place that night, so I inquired the wa}' at the tavern, an' was lucky to find a man who was goiu' pai't of the way, an' would show me the way JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 441 to find Dennis. Sure he was very kind indade, an', when 1 got out of his wagon, he pointed me tlirougli the wood, an' tonld me to go straiglit south a mile an' a half, an' the first house would be Dennis's. '•An' 3'ou've no time to lose now," said he, " for the Sun is low, an' mind 30U don't get lost in the woods." "• Is it lost now," said I, " that I'd l)e gittin', an' me uncle as great a navigator as iver steered a ship across the thrack- less say? Not a bit of it, though I'm obleeged to 3'e for your kind advice, an' thank yiz for the ride." An' wid that he drove off an' left me alone. I shouldered Hie bundle bravely, an', whistlin' a bit of time for company like, I pushed into the bush. Well, I went a long wa}' over bogs, an' turniu' round among the bush an' trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to Dennis's. But, bad cess to it ! all of a sudden I came out of the woods at the very iden- tical spot where I started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that seemed to be standin' on its head an' kick- in' up its heels to make divarsion of me. By this time it was growin' dark, an', as there was no time to lose, I started in a second time, determined to keep straight south this time, an' no mistake. I got on bravely for a while, but och hone ! och hone ! it got so dark I couldn't see the trees, an' I bumped me nose an' barked mc shins, while the miskatios bit me hands an' face to a blister; an', after tumblin' an' stumblin' aroiuid till I was fairly bamfoozled, I sat down on a log, all of a triinble, to think that I was lost intirely, an' that maybe a lion or some other wild craythur would devour me before morning. Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, "Whip poor Will!" " Bedad," sez I, "I'm glad it isn't Jamie that's got to take it, though it seems it's more in sorrow than in anger the}' are doin' it, or why should they say, ' poor Will'? an' sure they can't be Injin, haythin, or na3'gur, for it's plain English they're afther spakin'. Maybe they might help me out o' this," so I shouted at the top of my voice, 442 CHOICE IIKADINGS. •'■A lost man!" Thin I listened. Prisently an answer came. "Who! Whoo! Whooo ! " "Jamie Butler, the waiver!" sez I, as loud as I could roar, an', snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, I started in the direction of the voice. Whin I thought I had got near the place, I stopped an' shouted again, " A lost man ! " "Who! Whoo! AVhooo ! " said a voice right over my head. " Sure," thinks I, " it's a miglity quare place for a man to be at this time of night ; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sugar off a sugar-bush for the children's breakfast in tlie mornin'. But where's Will and the rest of them?" All this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I answered his inquiry. "Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I; "an', if it wouldn't inconvanience yer Honour, would yez be kind enough to step down an' show me the way to the house of Dennis O'Dowd?" " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he. " Dennis O'Dowd," sez I, civil enough, " an' a dacent man he is, and fii'st cousin to me own mother." " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " says he again. " Me mother ! " sez I, " an' as fine a woman as iver peeled a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, an' her maiden name was Molly McFiggin." "Who! Whoo! Whooo!" "Paddy McFiggin! l)ad luck to 3'er deaf ould head, Paddy McFiggin, I say, — do ye hear that? An' he was the tallest man in all the county Tipperary, excipt Jim Doyle, the blacksmith." '^ Who ! Whoo ! Wliooo ! " " Jim Doyle the blacksmith," sez I, "ye good for nothin' blaggard naygur, an', if yiz don't come down an' sliow me the way this min't, I'll climb up there an' break every bone in your skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name is Jimmy Butler ! " JIMMY 14UTLER AND THE OWL. 443 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he, as impideiit as iver. I said nivev a word, but laviu' down me buudle, aii' takiii' nie stick iu me teeth, I began to climb the tree. Whin I got among the branches I looked quietly around till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me. " Whist," sez I, " an' I'll let liim have a taste of an Irish stick," an' wid that I let drive, an' lost rae balance an' came tumblin' to the ground, nearly breakin' me neck wid the fall. When I came to me sinsis I had a very sore head, wid a lump on it like a goose egg, an' half of me Sunday coat-tail torn oir intirely. I spoke to the chap iu the tree, but could git niver an answer at all, at all. " Sure," thinks I, "he must have gone home to rowl up his head, for by the powers I didn't throw me stick for nothin'." AVell, by this time the Moon was up, an' I could see a little, an' I detarmined to make one more effort to reach Dennis's. I wint on cautiously for a while, an' thin I heard a bell. " Sure," sez I, " I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I hear tlie church bell." I kept on toward the sound till I came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to run, but I was too quick for her, an' got her b}' the tail an' hung on, think- in' that maybe she would take me out of the woods. On we wint, like an ould countr}- steeple-chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a cleariu', an' a house in sight wid a light in it. So, leavin' the ould cow puffin' an' blowin' in a shed, I went to the house, an', as luck would have it, whose should it be but Dennis's ? He gave me a raal Irish welcome, an' introduced me to his two daughters, — as purt}' a pair of girls as iver 3'e clapped an eye on. But, whin I tould him me adventure ill the woods, an' about the fellow who made fun of me, they all laughed an' roared, an' Dennis said it was an owl. " An ould what? " sez I. " Why, an owl, a bird," sez he 444 CHOICE READINGS. " Do ye tell me now? " sez I. " Sure it's a quare country and a quare bird." Au' thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed my- self that hearty like, an' dropped right into a chair between tlie two party girls, an' the ould chap winked at me and roared again. Dennis is me father-in-law now, an' he often yet delights to tell our children about their daddy's adventure wid the owl. ITALIAN. A SENATOR ENTANGLED. James De Mille. The Countess di Nottinero was not exactly a Recamier, but she was a remarkably brilliant woman, and the acknowl' edged leader of the liberal part of Florentine society. The good Senator had never before encountered a thoi'ongh woman of the world, and was as ignorant as a child of the innumerable little harmless arts by which the power of such a one is extended and secured. At last the Senator came to this conclusion, — La Cica was desperately in love with him. She appeared to be a widow. At least she had no hus- l):ind that he had ever seen. Now, if the poor Oka was iiopelessly in love, it must be stopped at once. But let it be done delicately, not abrui)tly. One evening they walked on the balcony of La Cica'i^ noble residence. She was sentimental, devoted, charming. The conversation of a fascinating woman does not sound so well when it is reported as it is when uttered. Her power is in her tone, her glance, her manner. Who can catch the evanescent beauty of her expression or the deep tenderness of her well modulated voice? — wlio indeed? '• Does ze scene please you, m^' Senator?" " Vei'v tiiiicli iii(l('('(l." A SENATOR KNTANGLED. 44 i) "Youar countryman Imf tol me zey would like to stay here allowil3^" '' It is a beautiful place." "Did 3'ou aiver see an}- thin moaire loafoh?" And the Countess looked full in his face. '"Never," said the Senator, earnestly. The next instant he blushed. He had been betra^'cd into a compliment. The Countess sighed. '' Helas ! ray Senator, that it is not pairmitted to mortals to sociate as zey would laike." "• ' Your Senator,' " thought the gentleman thus addressed ; "■ how foud, how tender, — poor thing ! poor thing ! " " I wish that Italy was nearer to the States," said he. " How I adamiar youar st3'le of mind, so different from ze Italiana ! You are so strong, — so nobile. Yet would I laike to see moar of ze poetic in you." "I always loved poetr}', marm," said the Senator, des- perately. "Ah — good — nais — eccelente. I am plees at zat," cried the Countess, with much animation. "You would loafe it moar eef you knew Italiano. Your langua ees not suHicient nuxsicale for poatry." " It is not so soft a language as the /talian." " Ah — no — not so soft. Very well. And what theenka you of ze Italiano ? " "The sweetest language I ever heard in all my born days." "Ah now — 30U hev not heard much of ze Italiano, my Senator." "I have heard you speak often," said the Senator, naively. " Ah, you compliment! I sot you was aboove flattera." And the Countess playfully tapped his arm with her little fan. " What Ingelis poet do you loafe best? " "Poet? English poet?" said the Senator, with some sur- 446 CHOICE READINGS. prise. " O — wh}', marm, I think "Watts is about the best of the lot." " Watt? "Was he a poet? I did not know zat. He who invented ze stlm-injaine ? And yet if he was a poet it is nat - urale zat you loafe him best." " Steam-engine? O no I This one was a minister." "A meeneestaire ? Ah! an abbe? I know liim not. Yet I have read mos of all youar poets." " He made up hymns, marm, and psalms, — for instance, ' Watts's Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs.' " "Songs? Spirituelle? Ah, I mus at once procuaire ze works of Watt, which was favorit poet of my Senator." ' ' A lady of such intelligence as you would like the poet "Watts," said the Senator, firmly. "He is the best known by far of all our poets." ""What! better zan Sakespeare, Milton, Bairon? You much surprass me." "Better known and better loved than the whole lot. "Why, his poetry is known by heart through all England and America." ' ' Merciful Heaven ! what you tell me ! ees eet possble ! An yet he is not known here efen by name. It would please me mooch, my Senator, to haire }'ou make one quotatione. Know you "Watt? Tell to me some words of his which I may remembaire." " I have a shocking bad memory." " Bad memora ! O, but 3'ou remember somethin, zis mos beautiful charm uait, — you haf a nobile soul, — you mus be affecta by beauty, — by ze ideal. Make for a me one quota- tione." And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and looked up imploringly in his face. The Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so. Here was a beautiful woman, by act and look showing a tender interest in him. Perplexing, — but very flattering, after all. So he replied, — " You will not let me refuse any thing." A SENATOR ENTANGLED. 447 " Aha ! you are vera willin' to refuse. It is difficulty for me to excitaire youar regards. You are fill with the grands ideas. But come, — will 3'ou spik for me some from your favorit Watt?" " AVell, if you wish it so much," said the Senator, kindly; and he hesitated. " Ah, — I do wis it so much ! " "Ehem!" " Begin," said the Countess. "Behold me. I listen. I hear ever}' sin, and will remembaire it forava." The only thing that the Senator could think of was a verse which had been running in his head for the last few days, its measured rhythm keeping time with every occupation : " ' My willing soul would stay — ' " "Stop one moment," said the Countess. "I weesh to learn it from you" ; and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly dropped her eyes. " ' Ma willina sol wooda sta — ' " " ' In such a frame as this,' " prompted the Senator. "'Ecu socha framas zees.' Wait — 'Ma willina sol wooda sta in socha framas zees.' Ah, appropriat ! but could I hope zat you were true to zose lines, my Senator? Well?" " ' And sit and sing herself away,' " said the Senator, in a faltering voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for fear of committing himself b}' such uncommonly strong lan- guage. " ' Ansit ansin hassaf awai,'" repeated the Countess, her face lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression. The Senator paused. "Well?" "I — ehem! I forget." "Forget? Impossble ! " " I do really." "Ah now! Forget! I see by youar face — you desave Say on." 448 CHOICE READINGS. The Countess again gently touched his arm with both of her little hands, and held it as though she would clasp it. " Have you fear? Ah, cruel ! " The Senator turned pale, but, finding refusal impossible, boldly finished : " 'To everlasting bliss ' — there ! " " ' To affarlastin blees thar.' Stop. I repeat it all : ' Ma willina sol wooda sta in socha framas zees, ansit ansin has- saf awai to affarlastin blees thar.' Am I right?" "Yes," said the Senator meekly. " I knew you war a poetic sola," said the Couutess, con- fidingly. "You are honesto — true — you cannot desave. When you spik I can beliv you. Ah, my Senator ! an you can spik zis poetry ! — at soch a taiiue ! I nefare knew befoare zat you wos so impassione ! — an you air so artaful ! You breeng ze confersazione to beauty — to poatry — to ze poet Watt, — so you may spik verses mos impassione ! Ah ! what do you mean? Santissima madra ! how I wish you spik Italian©. " The Countess drew nearer to him, but her approach onl}' deepened his perplexit}'. " How that poor thing does love me ! " .siglied tlie Senator. "Law bless it! she can't help it, — can't help it nohow. She is a goner ; and what can I do? I'll have to leave Flor- ence." The Countess was standing close beside him in a tender mood, waiting for him to break the siU'uee. How could he? He had been uttering words which sounded to her like love ; and she — "a widow ! a widow ! a widow ! wretched man that I am ! " There was a pause. The longer it lasted the more awk- ward the Senator felt. What upon earth was he to do or say? What business had he to go and quote poetry to widows? What an old fool he nuist be! But the Countess was very far from feeling awkward. Assuming an elegant attitude, she looked up, iier face expressing the tenderest solicitude. CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. 449 " What ails my Senator?" " Win-, the fact is, iiiariii, — I feel sad — at leaving Flor- ence. I must go shortly. My wife has written summoning me home. The children are down with the measles." O base fabrication ! O false Senator ! There wasn't a word of truth in that remark. You spoke so because you wished La Cica to know that you had a wife and family. Yet it was veiy badly done. La Cica changed neither her attitude nor her expression. Evidently the existence of his wife and the melanchol}' situ- ation of his unfortunate children awakened no sympathy. "But, my Senator, — did you not saj' you wooda seeng yoursellef away to affarlastin blees ? " " O marm, it was a quotation, — only a quotation." But at this critical juncture the conversation was broken up by the arrival of a number of ladies and gentlemen. NEGRO. OHEISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. Irwin Russell. Abridged and arranged for public recitation. When merry Christmas-day is done. And Christmas-night is just begun ; While clouds in slow procession drift To wish the moon-man "Christmas gift," Yet linger overhead, to know What causes all the stir below ; At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball The darkies hold high carnival. From all the country-side they throng, With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song, Their whole deportment plainl}- showing That to ' ' the frolic " they are going. 450 CHOICE READINGS. Some take the path with shoes in hand, To traverse miidd}' bottom-land ; Aristocrats their steeds bestride, — > Four on a mule, behold them ride ! And ten great oxen draw apace The wagon from " de oder place," With forty guests, whose conversation Betokens glad anticipation. In this our age of printer's ink, 'Tis books that show us how to think, — The rule reversed, and set at nought. That held that books were born of thought: We form our minds by pedants' rules ; And all we know, is from the schools ; And when we work, or when we play, We do it in an ordered way. Untrammel'd thus, the simple race is. That ' ' works the craps " on cotton-places ! Original in act and thought, Because unlearned and untaught, Observe them at their Christmas party. How unrestrain'd their mirth, how hearty ! How many things they say and do That never would occur to you ! See " Brudder Brown" — whose saving grace- Would sanctify a quarter-race — Out on the crowded floor advance, To " beg a blessin' on dis dance." () Mahsr ! let dis gath'rin' fin' a blessin' in yo' sight ! ■Don't jedge us liard for what we does, — you knows its Chrismus night ; An' all de balance ob de yeah, we does as right's we kin : Ef dancin's wrong, O Mahsr I let de time excuse de sin I We labours in de vineya'd, workin' hard, an' workin' true ; Now, shorely you won't notus, ef we eats a grape or two. CHRISTMAS-NIGUT IN THE QUARTERS. 451 An' takes a leetle holiday, — a leetle restin'-spell, — Bekase, nex' week, we'll start in fresh, an' labour twicet as well. Remember, Mahsr, — min' dis now, — de sinfulness ob sin Ts pendin' 'pon de sperret what we goes an' does it in : An' in a righchis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing; A-feelin' like King David, when he cut de pigeon-wing. It seems to me, — indeed it do, — [ mebbe mout be wrong, — That people raly ought to dance, when Chrismus comes along : Des dance bekase dey's happy, like de birds hops in de trees; De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de blowin* ob de breeze. We has no ark to dance afore, like Isrul's prophet king; We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing ; But cordin' to de gif's we has we does de bes' we knows. An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flow'r bekase it ain't de rose. You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night ; Kase den we'll need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right ; An' let de blessin' stay wid us untell we comes to die, An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky ! Yes, tell dem preshis anjuls we's a gwine to jine 'em soon : Our voices we's a-trainin' for to sing de glory tune ; We's ready when you wants us, an* it aui't no matter when ; O jNIahsr I call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home ! Amen. The reverend man is scarcely through, When all the noise begins anew, And with such force assaults the ears, That through the din one hardly hears Old Fiddling Josey " sound his A," — Correct the pitch, — begin to pla}', — Stop, satisfied," — -then, with the bow, Rap out the signal dancers know : Git yo* parchiers, fast limdtilion t Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high ; Tune is, " O, dat water-million ! Gwine to git to home bime-bye." 452 CHOICE READINGS. . S'lute yo' pardners ! — scrape perlitely, — Don't be bumpin' gin de res', — Balance all! — now, step out rightly; AUuz dance yo' lebbel bes'. Fo'wa'dfoah! — whoop up, niggers! Back ag'in ! — don't be so slow, — Swing yo' cornahs ! — min' de figgers : When I hollers, den yo' go. Ladies change ! — shet up dat talkin* : Do 3'o' talkin' arter while, — Right an' lef ! — don't want no walkin',- Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style I Hands around! — hoi' up yo' faces, Don't be lookin' at 30' feet ! Swing yo' pardners to yo' places ! Dat's de way, — dat's hard to beat. And so the " set'* proceeds, its length Determined by the dancers' strength ; And all agreed to yield the palm, For gi'ace and skill, to " Geoi^y Sam," Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high, " Des watch him ! " is the wondering cry, — " De nigger mus' be, for a fac', Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack ! " On, on, the restless fiddle sounds, — Still chorus'd by the curs and hounds, — Dance after dance succeeding fast. Till " supper" is announced at last. That scene, — but why attempt to show it? The most inventive modern poet. In fine new words whose hope and trust is, Could form no phrase to do it justice ! When supper ends, — that is not soon, — The fiddler strikes the same old tune ; THR FIRST BANJO. 453 The dancers pound the floor again, With all they have of might and main ; The night is spent ; and, as the day Throws up the first faint flash of gray, The guests pursue their homeward way ; And through the field beyond the gin, Just as the stars are going in, See Santa Clans departing, — grieving, — His own dear Land of Cotton leaving. His work is done, — he fain would rest, Where people know and love him best ; He pauses, — listens, — looks about, — But go he must : his pass is out ; So, coughing down the rising tears, He climbs the fence and disappears. And thus observes a coloured youth, (The common sentiment, in sooth,) " O, what a blessin' 'tw'u'd ha' been, Ef Santy had been born a twin ! We'd hab two Chrismuses a 3'eah, Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah ! " THE PIEST BANJO. Irwin Russell. Go'wAY, fiddle ! — folks is tired o' heariii' you a-squawkin': Keep silence fur yo' betters, — don't yo' heah de banjo talkin'? About de 'possum's tail she's goin to lecter, — ladies, listen ! — About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin'. " Dar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Xoah, lookin* solemn, — Fur Noah took de Herald, an' he read de ribber column, — An' so he sot his hands to work a-clarin' timber-patches, An' low'd he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez or Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-chippin', an' a-sawin'; Aji' all de wicked neighbours kep' a-laughin, an' a-pshawin' ; 454 CHOICE READINGS. But Noah didn't min' 'em, — knowin' what wuz gwine to happen : An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-droppin'. Now, Noah had done catch'd a lot ob eb'ry sort o' beas'es, Ob all de shows a-trabbelin, it beat 'em all to pieces ! He had a Morgan colt, an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle, — An' drew 'em board de ark as soon's he heer'd de thunder rattle. Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! — it come so awful hebby, De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee ; De people all wuz drownded out, 'cep' Noah an' de critters. An' men he'd hired to work de boat, — an' one to mix de bitters. De ark she kep' a-sailin', an' a-sailin', an^ a-sailin'; De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin', — De sarpints hiss'd, — de painters yell'd. — tell, what wid all de fussin', You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' rouu' an' cussin'. Now, Ham, de only nigger what was runnin' on de packet, Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket ; An' so, for to amuse he-se'f, he steam'd some wood an' bent it. An' soon he had a banjo made, — de fust dat wuz invented. He wet de ledder, stretch'd it on ; made bridge, an' screws, an' apron ; An* fitted in a proper neck, — 'twas berry long an' tap'rin' ; He tuk some tin, and twisted him a thimble for to ring it ; An' den de mighty question riz. How wuz he gwine to string it? De possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a singin' ; De ha'rs so long, an' thick an' strong, — des fit for banjo-stringin' ; Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces ; An' sorted ob 'em by de size, frum little E's to basses. He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig, — 'twuz " Nebber min' de wedder '* ; She soun* like forty-lebben bands a-playing' all togedder ; Some went to pattin' ; some to dancin'; Noah call'd de figgers; An Ham he sot an* knock'd de tune, de happiest ob niggers ! Now, sence dat time, — it's mighty strange, — dere's not de slightes showin' Ob any ha'r at all upon de possum's tail a-growin' ; An' curis, too, — dat nigger's ways ! his people nebber los' 'em, — For whar you finds de nigger, — dar's de banjo an' de 'possum. UNCLE dan'l's apparition. 455 UNCLE DAN'L'S APPARITION. Clemens and Warner. Whatever the lagging, dragging journey from Tennessee to Missouri may have been to the rest of the emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to the children, a world of enchant- ment ; and they believed it to be peopled with the mysterious dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured in the tales the negro slaves were iu the habit of telling them nightly by the shuddering light of the kitchen fire. Afthe end of nearly a week of travel, the party went into camp near a shabby village which was caving, house by house, into the hungry Mississippi. The river astonished the children beyond measure. Its mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to them, in the shadowy twilight, and the vague riband of trees on the further shore, the verge of a continent which surely none but them had ever seen before. "Uncle Dan'l," (coloured,) aged 40; his wife, "Aunt Jinny," aged 30 ; " Young Miss" Emily Hawkins, " Young Mars" Washington Hawkins, and "Young Mars" Clay, the new member of the family, ranged themselves on a log, after supper, and contemplated the marvellous river and discussed it. The Moon rose and sailed aloft through a maze of shredded cloud-wreaths ; the sombre river just perceptibly brightened under the veiled light ; a deep silence pervaded the air, and was emphasized, at intervals, rather than broken, by the hooting of an owl, the baj-ing of a dog, or the muffled crash of a caving bank in the distance. The little company assembled on the log were all children, (at least in simplicitj' and broad and comprehensive igno- rance,) and the remarks they made about the river were iu keeping with their character ; and so awed were they b}' the grandeur and the solemnity of the scene before them, and by their belief that the air was filled with invisible spirits, and that the faint zephyrs were caused by their passing wings. that all their talk took to itself a tinge of the supernatural, 456 CHOICE READINGSo and their voices were subdued to a low and reverent tone Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed : " Chil'en, dah's sumfin a-corain' ! " All crowded close together, and every heart beat faster. Uncle Dau'l pouited down the river with his bony finger. A deep coughing sound troubled the stillness, away toward a wooded cape that jutted into the stream a mile distant. All in an instant a fierce eye of fire shot out from behind the cape, and sent a long, brilliant pathway quivering athwart the dusky water. The coughing grew louder and louder, the glar- ing eye grew larger and still larger, glared wilder and still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out of the gloom', and from its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of smoke, starred and spangled with sparks, poured out and went tumbling away into the further darkness. Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its long sides began to glow with spots of light which mirrored themselves in the river, and attended the monster like a torchlight procession. " What is it? O ! what is it, Uncle Dan'l?" With deep solemnity the answer came : " It's de Almighty ! Git down on yo' knees ! " It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneel- ing in a moment. And then, while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and stronger, and the threatening glare reached further and wider, the negro's voice lifted up its supplica- tions : " O Lord, we's been mighty wicked, an' we knows dat we 'zerve to go to de bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we ain't ready yit, we ain't ready, — let dese po' chil'en hab one mo' chance, jes' one mo' chance. Take de ole niggah if you's got to hab somebody. Good Lord, good deah Lord, we don't know whah you's a-gwine to, we don't know who you's got 3'o' eye on, but we knows by de way you's a-comin', we knows by de way you's a-tiltin' along in 3-0' charyot o' fiah, dat some po' sinner's a-gwine to ketch it. But, good Lord, dese chil'en don't 'blong heah, dey's fm Obedstown, whah dey don't know nufSn, an' you knows yo' own sef, dat dey ain't 'sponsible. UNCLE dan'l's apparition. 457 All*, deab Lord, good Lord, it ain't like 3'o' mercy, it ain't like yo' pity, it ain't like 30' loug-sufferiu' loviu' kindness, for to take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sicli little chil'en as dese is, when dey's so many grown folks chuck full o' cussedness dat wants roastin' down dah. O Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away f'ra dey frens, jes' let 'em off, jes' dis once, and take it out'n de ole niggah. Heah I is., Lord, heah I is ! De ole niggah's read}'. Lord, de ole — " The flaming and churning steamer was right abreast the party, and not twent}' steps away. The awful thunder of a raud-vaive suddenly burst forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly Uncle Dan'l snatched a child under each arm and scoured into the woods with the rest of the pack at his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he halted in the deep darkness and shouted, (but rather feebl}',) '• Heah I is. Lord, heah I is !" There was a moment of throbbing suspense, and then, to the surprise and comfort of the part}', it was plain that the august presence had gone by, for its dreadful noises were receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a cautious reconnoissance in the direction of the log. Sure enough " The Lord " was just turning a point a short distance up the river ; and, while they looked, the lights winked out, and the coughing diminished by degrees, and presently ceased altogether. •' H'wsh ! "Well, now dey's some folks saj's dey ain't no 'ficiency in prah. Dis chile would like to know whah we'd a ben now if it warn't fo' dat prah? Dat's it. Dat's it !" " Uncle Dan'l, do 3'ou reckon it was the prayer that saved us ? " said Clay. " Does I reckon? Don't I know it ! Whah was yo' eyes? Warn't de Lord jes' a-comin' chow ! chow ! chow ! an' a-goin' on turrible ; an' do de Lord carry on dat way 'dout de^-'s sumfin don't suit him? An' warn't he a-lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't he jes' a-reachin' for 'em? An' d' you spec' he gwine to let'em off 'dout somebody ast him to do it? No indeedy ! " "Do 3'ou reckon ho saw us. Uncle Dan'l?'* 458 CHOICE READINGS. " De law sakes, chile, didn't I see him a-lookin' at us?'* " Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l?" " No sah ! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he ain't 'fraid o' nuffin, — dey can't nuffln tech him." '' Well, what did you run for? " "Well, I — I — Mars Clay, when a man is under de in- fluence ob de sperit, he dunno what he's 'bout, — no sah ; dat man dunno what he's 'bout. You mout take an' tah de head off n dat man, an' he wouldn't scasely fine it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah ; dey was burnt considable, — ob course dey was; but dey didn't know nuffin 'bout it, — heal right up agin : if dey'd ben gals dey'd missed dey long haah, maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn." " I don't know but what they were girls. I think they were." " Now, Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a-sayin' what you means or whedder you's a-sayin' what you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way." " But how should / know whether they were boys or girls?" "Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say? 'Sides, don't it call 'em de ^e-brew chil'en? If dey was gals wouldn't dey be de she-brew chil'en ? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey do read." "Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that — My! here comes another one up the river ! There can't be two ! " " We gone dis time, — we done gone dis time, sho' ! Dey ain't two, Mars Clay, — dat's de same one. De Lord kir^ 'pear eberywhah in a second. Goodness, how de fiah an' de smoke do belch up ! Dat mean business, honey. He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en ; time you's gwine to roos'. Go 'long wid 3'ou, — ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah, — de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you agin." He did go to the woods and pray ; but he went so far that he doubted, himself, if tlie " Lord" heard him when he went by CHARLIE MACHREE. 459 SCOTCH. OHAELIE MAOHEEE. William J. Hoppin. Come over, come over the river to me, If ye are ray laddie, bold Charlie Machree ! Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn, "Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare not plunge in. But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea, I know cannot scare you, nor keep you from me ; For stout is your back and strong is your arm, And the heart in your bosom is faithful and warm. Come over, come over the river to me, If 3'e are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree. I see him, I see him : he's plunged in the tide. His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside. O, the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea. But blithe is the glance of his bonny blue e'e ; His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough : Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie, now? Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye. go, But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below ! Come over, come over the river to me. My true-hearted laddie, my Charlie Machree ! He's sinking, he's sinking, — O, what shall I do ! Strike out, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're thro'. He's sinking, O Heaven ! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear ; I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here ! He rises, I see him, — five strokes, Charlie, mair, — He's shaking the wet from his bonny brown hair ; He conquers the current, he gains on the sea, — Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree ! 460 CHOICE READINGS. Come over the river, but once come to me, And I'll love ye forever, dear Charlie Machree. He's sinking, he's gone, — O God, it is I, It is I, who have kill'd him, — help, help ! — he must die Help, help ! — ah, he rises, — strike out and ye're free. Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more now, for me ! Now cling to the rock, now give me 30ur hand, — Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the land ! Come rest on my bosom, if there 3'e can sleep ; I canna speak to ye ; I only can weep. Ye've cross'd the wild river, ye've risk'd all for me, And I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree ! CUDDLE DOON. Alexander Anderson. The bairn ies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' muckle faucht an' din. " O, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues; Your father's comin' in." The}' never heed a word I speak : I try to gie a froon ; But aye I hap them up, an' cry, " O, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " Wee Jamie wi' the curley heid — He aye sleeps next the wa' — Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece "- The rascal starts them a'. I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, — Thej' stop a wee the soun', — Then draw the blankets up, and cry, " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon ! " But, ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot, frae 'neatli the elaes. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 461 '* Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance ; He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The miscliief s in that Tam for tricks : He'd bother half the toon ; But aye I hap them up, and cry, "• O, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " At length they hear tlieir father's fit ; An', as he steeks the door. They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. " Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, As he pits aflf his shoon. " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon." An', just afore we bed ooi'sels. We look at oor wee lambs : Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, An' Rab his airm roun' Tarn's. I lift wee Jamie up the bed, An', as I straik each croon, I whisper, till my heart fills up, " O, bairnies, cuddle doon ! " The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; But soon the big warl's cark an care Will quaten doon their glee : Yet, come what will to ilka ane, Ma}- He who sits aboon Aye "whisper, though tlieir pows be bauld " O bairnies, cuddle doon ! " JOHN ANDEKSON, MY JO. Robert Burns. John Anderson, my jo, John. When we were first acquent, 462 CHOICE READINGS. Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now 3'our brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo. John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day. John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go ; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. JEANIE MOEEISON. William Mother\veii_ I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way ; But nevei', never can forget The luve o' life's 3'oung day ! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path. And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. JEANIE MORRISON. 463 'Twas theu we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time — sad time ! twa bairns at seiile, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 'Twas then we sat on ae Uiigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchiu' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent down ower ae braid page, Wi' ae bulk on our knee, Th}' lips were on thy lessons, but My lesson was in thee. O, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame. Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said. We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturda3's, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran off to speel the braes, — The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea. As ane b}' ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time, and o' thee. O mornin' life ! mornin' luve ! O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang ! O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left Tlie deavin', dinsome touu, 4G4 CHOICE READINGS. To wander b}' the green burnside, And hear Its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads. The flowers burst round our feet, And in tlie gloamiu' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet : The throssil whusslit in the wood. The burn sang to the trees, And we, with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith AVi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled down 3-our cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, 3et nana Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, — unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closel}' twined wi' earliest throchts As ye hae been to me : O, tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine ! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langs^ne ? I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a wearj' lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot : MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. 465 The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's 3'oung day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young I've never seen your face nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness. And happy could I dee, Did I but ken 3'our heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me ! SPANISH. J. F. Waller. MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. Near the city of Sevilla, Years and years ago, Dwelt a lady in a villa Years and years ago ; And her hair was black as night, And her eyes were starry bright ; Olives on her brow were blooming, Roses red her lips perfuming, And her step was light and airy As the tripping of a fairy : When she spoke, you thought, each minute, 'Twas the trilling of a linnet ; When she sang, you heard a gush Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush; And she struck from the guitar Ringing music, sweeter far Than the morning breezes make Through the lime trees when they shake, — Than the ocean murmuring o'er 466 CHOICE READINGS. Pebbles on the foamy shore. Orphan'd both of sire and mother, Dwelt she in that lonely villa ; Absent now her guardian brother On a mission from Sevilla. Skills it little now the telling How 1 woo'd that maiden fair, Track'd her to her lonely dwelUng, And obtain'd an entrance there. Ah ! that lady of the villa, — And I loved her so, Near the city of Sevilla, Years and 3'ears ago. Ay de mi ! — Like echoes falling Sweet and sad and low. Voices come at night, recalling Years and years ago. 'Twas an autumn eve ; the splendour Of the day was gone, And the twilight, soft and tender, Stole so gently on That the eye could scarce discover How the shadows, spreading over, Like a vale of silver gray, Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted. Till they paled, and paled, and fainted From the face of heaven away : And a dim light, rising slowly. O'er the welkin spread, Till the blue sky, calm and holy, Gleam'd above our head ; And the thin Moon, newly nascent. Shone in glory meek and sweet, As Murillo paints lier crescent Underneath Madonna's feet. And we sat outside the villa MAGPALENA, OR THK SPANISH DUEL. Where the waters flow Down to the city of Sevilla, — Years and years ago. Seated half within a bower, Where the languid evening breeze Shook out odours in a shower From oranges and citron-trees, Sang she from a romancero, How a Moorish chieftain bold Fought a Spanish caballero By Seviila's walls of old ; How they battled for a lady, Fairest of the maids of Spain, — - How the Christian's lance, so steady. Pierced the Moslem through the bram. Then she ceased: her black eyes, moving, Flash'd, as ask'd she with a smile, — " Say, are maids as fair and loving, — Men as faithful, in your isle?" - British maids," I said, " are ever Counted fairest of the fair ; Like the swans on yonder river Moving with a stately air : Woo'd not quickly, won not lightly, But, when won, forever true ; Trial draws the bond more tightly, ^^ Time can ne'er the knot undo." '' And the men? " - " Ah ! dearest lady, Ave — quien sabe ? who can say ? To make love they're ever ready, When they can and where they may 467 468 CIIOIOK UKADINGS. Fix'd as waves, as breezes steady Tn a changeful April day, — Como hrisas como rios, No se fiabe, sahe Dios." " Are they faithful ? " — " Ah ! quien sabe ? Who can answer that they are ? "While we may we should be happy." Then I took up her guitar, And I sang, in sportive strain, This song to an old air of Spain : Qui EN Sake. " The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air. That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair, Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its i)ei'finne, That you know not the region from which it is come ? Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes, Hither and thither and whither — who knows? Who knows? Hither and thither, — but whither — wlio knows? The river forever glides singing along, The rose on the bank bends down to its song ; And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips. Till the rising xvavG glistens and kisses its lips : But why the wave rises and kisses the rose. And why the rose stoops for those kisses — who knows? Who knows? And away flows the river, — but whitlier — who knows? Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along. The river that ever rejoices in song ; lie thou to my fancy the orange in bloom. The rose by the river that gives its perfume. Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose, If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them? Who knpw^? MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL, 469 Who knows? If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them ? Who knows? " As I sang, the lad^' listen'd, Silent save one gentle sigh ; When I ceased, a tear-drop glisten'd On the dark fringe of her eye. Up I sprang. What words were utter'd Bootless now to think or tell, — Tongues speak wild when hearts are flutter'd By the mighty master-spell. " Magdalena, dearest, hear me," Sigh'd I, as I seized her hand ; — " Hola ! Seiior," very near me, Cries a voice of stern command. And a stalwart caballero Comes upon me with a stride, On his head a slouch'd sombrero, A toledo by his side. *' Will your Worship have the goodness To release that lady's hand ? " — " Seiior," I replied, " this rudeness I am not prepared to stand." Then the Spanish caballero Bow'd with haughty courtesy, Solemn as a tragic hero, And announced himself to me : " Senor, I am Don Camillo Guzman Miguel Pedrillo De Xymenos y Ribera y Santallos y Herrera Y de Rivas y Mendoza Y Qnintana y de Rosa Y Zorilla y " — ''No more, sir ; 470 CHOICE READINGSo 'Tis as good as twenty score, sir," Said I to him, with a frown : " Mucha bulla para nada, No palabras, draw your 'spada ; If you're up for a duello You will find I'm just your fellow, — Senior, I am Peter Brown ! " By the river's bank that night, Foot to foot in strife, Fought we in the dubious light A fight of death or life. Don Camillo slash'd my shoulder ; With the pain I grew the bolder. Close and closer still I press'd : Fortune favour'd rae at last ; I broke his guard, my weapon pass'd 5 Through the caballero's breast ; The man of many names went down, Pierced by the sword of Peter Brown ! Kneeling down, I raised his head : The caballero faintlj* said, " Sefior Ingles, fly from Spain With all speed, for you have slain A Spanish noble, Don Camillo Guzman Miguel Pedrillo De Xymenes y Ribera Y Santallos y Herrera Y de Rivas y Mendoza Y Quintana y de Rosa Y Zorilla y " — He swoon'd With the bleeding from his wound. If he be living still, or dead, I never knew, I ne'er shall know. That night from Spain in haste I fled, Years and years ago. THE BELLS. 471 XI. ONOMATOPOETIC. THE BELLS. Edgar A. Poe. Hear the sledges with the bells, — silver l)ells ; What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme. To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding-bells, — golden bells ! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! From the molten-golden notes. And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! O, from out the sounding cells. What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! how it dwells 472 CHOICE READINGS. On the Future ! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! Hear the loud alarum bells, — brazen bells ! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek. Out of tune. In a clamourous appealing to the mercy of the fire. In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher. With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavour, Now — now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced Moon. O, the bells, bells, bells ! What a tale their terror tells Of despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear, it fully knows. By the twanging and the clanging. How the danger ebbs and flows ; Yet the ear distinctly- tells, In the jangling and the wrangling. How the danger sinks and swells. By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — In the clamour and the clangour of the bells ! Hear the tolling of the bells, — iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! BUGLE SONG. 473 In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melanchol}^ menace of their tone ! For ever}' sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people, — ah, the people, — They that dwell up in the steeple. All alone. And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone ! The}' are neither man nor woman, — They are neither brute nor human, — They are Ghouls : And their king it is who tolls ; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls, A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the psean of the bells ! And he dances and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time. In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tolling of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. a^^Jc BUGLE SONG. Alfred Tennyson. The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying : Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 474 CHOICR READINGS. O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going ; O sweet and far, from cliff and scar. The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens reph'ing : Blow, bugle ; answer echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, The}' faint on hill or field or river ; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set tlie wild echoes flying. And answer echoes, answer, dying, d3'ing, dying. THE OHAKOOAL MAN. J. T. Trowbridge. Though rudel}' blows the wintry blast, And sifting snows fall white and fast, Mark Hale}' drives along the street, Perch'd high upon his wagon seat : His sombre face the storm defies. And thus from morn till eve he cries, — "Charco' ! charco' ! " While echo faint and far replies, — "Hark, O! hark, O!" " Charco' !" — " Hark, O ! " — Such cheery sounds Attend him on his daily rounds. The dust begrimes his ancient hat ; His coat is darker far than that : 'Tis odd to see his sooty form All speckled with the feathery storm ; Yet in his honest bosom lies Nor spot nor speck, — though still he cries, — " Charco' ! charco' ! " THE CHARCOAL MAN. 475 And many a, roguish lad replies, — "Ark, ho! ark, ho ! " " Charco' ! " — " Ark, ho ! " — Such various sounds Announce Mark Haley's morning rounds. Thus all the cold and wintry day He labours much for little pa}- ; Yet feels no less of happiness Than many a richer man, I guess, When through the shades of eve he spies The light of his own home, and cries, — "Charco'! charco'!" And Martha from the door replies, — "Mark, ho! Mark, ho! " " Charco' ! " — " Mark, ho ! — Such joy abounds When he has closed his daily rounds. The hearth is warm, the fire is bright ; And, while his hand, wash'd clean and white, Holds Martha's tender hand once more, His glowing face bends fondly o'er The crib wherein his darling lies ; And in a coaxing tone he cries, " Charco' ! charco' ! " And baby with a laugh replies, — "Ah, go! ah, go! " "Charco' ! " — " Ah, go ! " — while at the sounds The mother's heart with gladness bounds. Then honour'd be the charcoal man ! Though dusky as an African, 'Tis not for you, that chance to be A little better clad than he. His honest manhood to despise. Although from morn till eve he cries, — "Charco'! charco' 1 " 476 CHOICE READINGS. While mocking echo still replies, — "Hark, O! hark, O!" " Charco' ! " — " Hark, ! " — Long may the sounds Proclaim Mark Haley's daily rounds ! OEEEDS OP THE BELLS. George W. Bungay. How sweet the chime of Sabbath bells I Each one its creed in music tells, In tones that float upon the air, As soft as song, and pure as prayer ; And I will put in simple rh3'me The language of the golden chime : My happy heart with rapture swells Responsive to the bells — sweet bells. " In deeds of love excel — excel," Chimed out from ivied towers a bell ; " This is the Church not built on sands, Emblem of one not built with hands : Its forms and sacred rites revere ; Come worship here — come worship here ; Its rituals and faith excel — excel," Chimed out th' Episcopalian bell. " O, heed the ancient landmarks well," In solemn tones exclaim'd a bell ; " No progress made by mortal man Can change the just, eternal plan : With God there can be nothing new ; Ignore the false, embrace the true While all is well — is well — is well," Peal'd out the good old Dutch Church bell '^ O swell, ye purifying waters, swell," In mellow tones rang out a bell ; CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 477 " Though faith aloue in Christ can save, Man must be plunged beneath the wave, To show the world unfaltering faith In what the sacred Scripture saith : O swell, ye rising waters, swell," Peal'd out the clear-toned Baptist bell. " Not faith alone, but works as well. Must test tlie soul," said a soft bell ; " Come here, and cast aside your load, And work your way along the road. With faith in God, and faith in man, And hope in Christ, where hope began : Do well — do well — do well — do well," Peal'd foi'th the Unitarian bell. "Farewell! farewell! base world, farewell," In gloomy tones exclaim'd a bell ; " Life is a boon to mortals given, To fit the soul for bliss in Heaven : Do not invoke the avenging rod ; Come here, and learn the way to God : Say to the world farewell — farewell ! " Peal'd out the Presbyterian bell. " In after life there is no Hell ! " In raptures rang a cheerful bell ; " Look up to Heaven this holy da}'. Where angels wait to lead the way ; There are no fires, no fiends, to blight The future life ; be just, do right : No Hell ! no Hell ! no Hell ! no Hell ! " Rang out the Universalist bell. " To all the truth we tell — we tell," Shouted in ecstasies a bell ; " Come all ye weai'y wanderers, see ! Our Lord has made salvation free : 478 CHOICE READINGS. Repent ! believe ! have faith ! and then Be saved, and praise the Lord. Amen. Salvation's free we tell — we tell," Shouted the Methodistic bell. EVENING AT THE FAEM. J. T. Trowbridge. Over the hill the f arm-boj- goes : His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in giant hand ; In the poplar-tree above the spring The katydid begins to sing ; The earl}' dews are falling : Into the stone-heap darts the mink, The swallows skim the river's brink. And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheeril}' calling, — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' !" Further, further over the hill. Faintly calling, calling still, — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' !" Into the yard the farmer goes. With grateful heart, at the close of da}' : Harness and chain are hung awaj- ; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough ; The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow ; The cooling dews are falling : The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet. The whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes. His cattle calling, — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! " EVENING AT THE FARM. 479 While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray, — "Co', boss ! co', boss ! eo' ! co' ! " Now to her task the milkmaid goes ; The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great ; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling : The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye ; And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling, — " So, boss ! so, boss ! so ! so ! so ! " The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, " So, so, boss ! so ! so ! " To supper at last the farmer goes : The apples are pared, the paper read. The stories are told, then all to bed : Without, the cricket's ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long ; The heavy dews are falling : The housewife's hand has turn'd the lock ; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock ; The household sinks to deep repose ; But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling — " Co', boss ! co', boss ! co' ! co' ! co' ! " And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams. Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring, " So, boss ! so ! " 480 CHOICE READINGS. THE LAST HYMN. Mrs. M. Farmingham. The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea, The utter'd benediction touch'd the people tenderly ; And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted west, And then hasten'd to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest. But they look'd across the waters, and a storm was raging there ; A fierce spirit moved about them, — the wild spirit of the air ; And it lash'd, and shook, and tore them, till they thunder'd, groan'd, and boom'd : And, alas ! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entomb'd. Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales, Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales. When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon the shore Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore. With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strain'd her eyes, As she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. O ! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be, For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a sea. Then the pitying people hurried from their homes, and throng'd the beach. O, for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to reacli ! Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew cold with dread, And the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped. She has parted in the middle ! O, the half of her goes down ! God have mercy ! Is His Heaven far to seek, for those who drown ? Lo ! when next the white, shock'd faces look'd with terror on the sea, Only one last clinging figure on a spar was seen to be. Nearer to the trembling watchers came tlie wreck toss'd by the wave. And the man still clung and floated, though no power on Earth could save. " Could we send him a short message ? Here's a trumpet, shout away 1 " 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wonder'd what to say: THE LITTLE TELLTALE. 481 Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no ! There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe. So he shouted through the trumpet, " Look to Jesus ! Can you hear ? " And " Ay, ay, sir 1 " rang the answer o'er the waters, faint and clear. Then they listen 'd : " He is singing, ' Jesus, lover of my soul,' " And the winds bi'ought back the echo, " While the nearer waters roll." Strange indeed it was to hear him, " Till the storm of life is past," Singing bravely o'er the waters, " O, receive my soul at last." He could have no other refuge, " Hangs my helpless soul on Thee." " Leave, O I leave me not," — the singer dropp'd at last into the sea. And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes by tears made dim, Said, " He pass'd to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn." o>&