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diff --git a/19926.txt b/19926.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c6dd83b --- /dev/null +++ b/19926.txt @@ -0,0 +1,20588 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Standard Selections, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Standard Selections + A Collection and Adaptation of Superior Productions From + Best Authors For Use in Class Room and on the Platform + +Author: Various + +Editor: Robert I. Fulton, Thomas C. Trueblood and Edwin P. Trueblood + +Release Date: November 27, 2006 [EBook #19926] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STANDARD SELECTIONS *** + + + + +Produced by Kevin Handy, John Hagerson, Martin Pettit and +the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + STANDARD SELECTIONS + + + A COLLECTION AND ADAPTATION OF SUPERIOR + PRODUCTIONS FROM BEST AUTHORS + FOR USE IN CLASS ROOM AND + ON THE PLATFORM + + + + ARRANGED AND EDITED BY + + + ROBERT I. FULTON + +DEAN OF THE SCHOOL OF ORATORY AND PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION + AND ORATORY IN THE OHIO WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY + + + THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD + + PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN THE + UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN + + AND + + EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD + + PROFESSOR OF ELOCUTION AND ORATORY IN EARLHAM COLLEGE + + + + GINN AND COMPANY + BOSTON . NEW YORK . CHICAGO . LONDON + ATLANTA . DALLAS . COLUMBUS . SAN FRANCISCO + + + COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY + R. I. FULTON, T. C. TRUEBLOOD, AND E. P. TRUEBLOOD + + + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + The Athenaeum Press + + GINN AND COMPANY . PROPRIETORS + BOSTON . U.S.A. + + + + +PREFACE + + +The purpose of the compilers of this volume is:-- + +_First_, to provide some new material in poetry and eloquence that has +never before appeared in books of this character, in addition to many +standard selections familiar to the general public; + +_Second_, to furnish selections that will stand the test of literary +criticism and at the same time prove to be popular and successful for +public entertainment; + +_Third_, to offer for the use of classes in public speaking such +carefully selected literature of varied scope as will be helpful and +stimulating in the practice of reading aloud and profitable in acquiring +power of vocal interpretation; + +_Fourth_, to stimulate interest in the works of the authors from whom we +have chosen and in the speeches or books from which extracts have been +taken; + +_Fifth_, to present as models for students in public speaking notable +specimens of eloquence, among which are masterpieces of the seven great +orators of the world and from the six great triumphs in the history of +American oratory; + +_Sixth_, to provide carefully chosen scenes from a few standard, modern +dramas for class-room and platform use. In these scenes the attempt has +been made to preserve the spirit and unity of the plays, to shorten them +to practical length, and to adapt them to the demands of the public +audience. + +To avoid reprinting material which is already universally accessible, we +have inserted no scenes from Shakespeare; but the reader is referred to +Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings" (published by Ginn and +Company), which contains copious Indexes to choice scenes from +Shakespeare, the Bible, and hymn-books. The two volumes include a wide +field of literature best suited for public speaking. + +The selections throughout the book are arranged under six different +classes and cover a wide range of thought and emotion. While many shades +of feeling may be found in the same selection, it has been our aim to +place each one under the division with which, as a whole, it is most +closely allied. + +We are grateful to the many authors and publishers who have courteously +permitted us to use their publications. Instead of naming them in the +preface we have chosen to make due acknowledgment in a footnote wherever +their selections appear in the volume. + + F. AND T. + + + + +CONTENTS + +I + +NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC + + PAGE +Arena Scene from "Quo Vadis?" The _Sienkiewicz._ 1 + +Arrow and the Song, The _Longfellow._ 8 + +Aux Italiens _Lytton._ 8 + +Bobby Shafto _Henry._ 12 + +Carcassonne _Nadaud._ 13 + +Child-wife, The _Dickens._ 15 + +Count Gismond _Browning._ 21 + +Death of Arbaces, The _Lytton._ 25 + +Dora _Tennyson._ 32 + +Easter with Parepa, An _Delano._ 37 + +Evening Bells, Those _Moore._ 41 + +Ginevra _Coolidge._ 42 + +High Tide at Lincolnshire, The _Ingelow._ 47 + +How Did You Die? _Cooke._ 52 + +Indigo Bird, The _Burroughs._ 53 + +Jackdaw of Rheims, The _Barham._ 54 + +Jaffar _Hunt._ 57 + +Jim Bludsoe _Hay._ 59 + +King Robert of Sicily _Longfellow._ 61 + +Lady of Shalott, The _Tennyson._ 67 + +Legend of Service, A _Van Dyke._ 72 + +Little Boy Blue _Field._ 76 + +Mary's Night Ride _Cable._ 77 + +Nydia, the Blind Girl _Lytton._ 80 + +O Captain, My Captain! _Whitman._ 88 + +On the Other Train _Anon._ 89 + +Pansy, The _Anon._ 92 + +"Revenge," The _Tennyson._ 94 + +Rider of the Black Horse, The _Lippard._ 98 + +Sailing beyond Seas _Ingelow._ 101 + +Sands of Dee, The _Kingsley._ 102 + +School of Squeers, The _Dickens._ 103 + +Secret of Death, The _Arnold._ 110 + +Shamus O'Brien _Le Fanu._ 113 + +Ships, My _Wilcox._ 117 + +Soldier's Reprieve, The _Robbins._ 118 + +Song, The _Scott._ 123 + +Stirrup Cup, The _Hay._ 124 + +Swan-song, The _Brooks._ 125 + +Sweet Afton _Burns._ 129 + +Violet's Blue _Henry._ 130 + +Waterfowl, To a _Bryant._ 132 + +Wedding Gown, The _Pierce._ 133 + +When the Snow Sifts Through _Gillilan._ 137 + +Wild Flower, To a _Thompson._ 138 + +Zoroaster, The Fate of _Crawford._ 139 + + +II + +SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME + + +Centennial Hymn _Whittier._ 144 + +Chambered Nautilus, The _Holmes._ 145 + +Crossing the Bar _Tennyson._ 146 + +Destruction of Sennacherib, The _Byron._ 147 + +Each and All _Emerson._ 148 + +Laus Deo! _Whittier._ 149 + +Pilgrim Fathers, The _Hemans._ 151 + +Present Crisis, The _Lowell._ 152 + +Recessional, The _Kipling._ 155 + +Sacredness of Work, The _Carlyle._ 156 + +What's Hallowed Ground? _Campbell._ 157 + + +III + +PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL + + +The Seven Great Orators of the World 159 + +I. Demosthenes + + Encroachments of Philip, The 159 + + II. Cicero + + Oration against Antony 162 + +III. Chrysostom + + Undue Lamentations over the Dead 165 + On Applauding Preachers 167 + + IV. Bossuet + + On the Death of the Prince of Conde 169 + + V. Chatham + + I. War with America 171 + II. Attempt to Subjugate America 173 + + VI. Burke + + I. Impeachment of Hastings 175 + II. Conciliation with America 178 + III. English Privileges in America 182 + +VII. Webster + + I. Bunker Hill Monument 185 + II. Revolutionary Patriots 188 + III. Character of Washington 191 + +Six Great Triumphs in the History of American Oratory 193 + + I. Henry + + Call to Arms, The 193 + + II. Hamilton + + Coercion of Delinquent States 196 + + III. Webster + + Reply to Hayne, The 199 + + IV. Phillips + + Murder of Lovejoy, The 202 + + V. Lincoln + + Slavery Issue, The 206 + + VI. Beecher + + Moral Aspect of the American War 208 + +Abolition of War _Sumner._ 212 + +American Flag, The _Beecher._ 215 + +American People, The _Beveridge._ 217 + +American Question, The _Bright._ 218 + +America's Relation to Missions _Angell._ 220 + +American Slavery _Bright._ 222 + +Armenian Massacres, The _Gladstone._ 222 + +Battle Hymn of the Republic _Howe._ 225 + +Blue and the Gray, The _Lodge._ 226 + +Corruption of Prelates _Savonarola._ 228 + +Cross of Gold, The _Bryan._ 231 + +Death of Congressman Burnes _Ingalls._ 235 + +Death of Garfield, The _Blaine._ 237 + +Death of Grady, The _Graves._ 246 + +Death of Toussaint L'Ouverture _Phillips._ 239 + +Dedication of Gettysburg Cemetery, The _Lincoln._ 241 + +Fallen Heroes of Japan, The _Togo._ 242 + +Glory of Peace, The _Sumner._ 248 + +Hope of the Republic, The _Grady._ 249 + +Hungarian Heroism _Kossuth._ 250 + +International Relations _McKinley._ 251 + +Irish Home Rule _Gladstone._ 255 + +Lincoln _Castelar._ 258 + +Lincoln _Garfield._ 260 + +Louisiana Purchase Exposition _Hay._ 261 + +Man with the Muck-rake, The _Roosevelt._ 264 + +Message to the Squadron _Togo._ 271 + +Minute Man, The _Curtis._ 273 + +More Perfect Union, A _Curtis._ 275 + +Napoleon _Corwin._ 278 + +Napoleon _Ingersoll._ 279 + +National Control of Corporations _Roosevelt._ 280 + +Negro, The _Grady._ 283 + +New England _Quincy._ 284 + +New South, The _Grady._ 284 + +O'Connell _Phillips._ 290 + +Open Door, The _Henry._ 292 + +Organization of the World _Mead._ 294 + +Permanency of Empire, The _Phillips._ 296 + +Pilgrims, The _Phillips._ 297 + +Principles of the Founders _Mead._ 299 + +Responsibility of War, The _Channing._ 302 + +Scotland _Flagg._ 304 + +Secession _Stephens._ 243 + +Second Inaugural Address _Lincoln._ 305 + +Slavery and the Union _Lincoln._ 307 + +Subjugation of the Filipino _Hoar._ 309 + +Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrims _Everett._ 312 + +To Arms _Kossuth._ 313 + +True American Patriotism _Cockran_. 314 + +Vision of War _Ingersoll_. 315 + +War in the Twentieth Century _Mead_. 318 + +Washington _Phillips_. 321 + + +IV + +GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC + + +A Boy's Mother _Riley_. 323 + +Almost beyond Endurance _Riley_. 324 + +Bird in the Hand, A _Weatherly_. 328 + +Breaking the Charm _Dunbar_. 325 + +Candle Lightin' Time _Dunbar_. 327 + +"Day of Judgment, The" _Phelps_. 330 + +De Appile Tree _Harris_. 335 + +Dooley on La Grippe Microbes _Dunne_. 337 + +Doctrinal Discussion, A _Edwards_. 340 + +Finnigin to Flannigan _Gillilan_. 343 + +Gavroche and the Elephant _Hugo_. 345 + +Hazing of Valiant, The _Anon_. 349 + +Hindoo's Paradise, The _Anon_. 353 + +If I Knew _Anon_. 354 + +Imaginary Invalid, The _Jerome_. 354 + +Jane Jones _King_. 357 + +Knee-deep in June _Riley_. 359 + +Little Breeches _Hay_. 362 + +Low-Backed Car, The _Lover_. 364 + +Mammy's Pickanin' _Jenkins_. 366 + +Mandalay _Kipling_. 368 + +Mr. Coon and Mr. Rabbit _Harris_. 370 + +Money Musk _Taylor_. 373 + +One-legged Goose, The _Smith_. 375 + +Pessimist, The _King_. 379 + +Schneider Sees Leah _Anon_. 380 + +Superfluous Man, The _Saxe_. 384 + +Usual Way, The _Anon_. 386 + +Wedding Fee, The _Streeter_. 387 + +When Malindy Sings _Dunbar_. 389 + +When the Cows Come Home _Mitchell_. 391 + + +V + +DRAMATIC, NOT IN THE DRAMA + + +Confessional, The _Anon._ 395 + +Jean Valjean and the Good Bishop _Hugo_. 400 + +Lasca _Anon._ 404 + +Michael Strogoff _Verne_. 408 + +Mrs. Tree _Richards_. 414 + +Portrait, The _Lytton_. 423 + +Tell-tale Heart, The _Poe_. 426 + +Uncle, The _Bell_. 431 + + +VI + +SCENES FROM THE DRAMA + + +Beau Brummell, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene 3 _Jerrold_. 468 + +Bells, The, Act III, Scene I _Williams_. 437 + +Lady of Lyons, The, Act II, Scene I; Act III, + Scene 2 _Lytton_. 441 + +Pygmalion and Galatea, Act I, Scene I; Act II, + Scene I _Gilbert_. 493 + +Rip Van Winkle, Act I, Scene I; Act II, Scene I _Irving_. 449 + +Rivals, The, Act I, Scene 2; Act II, Scene I; + Act III, Scene I; Act IV, Scene 2 _Sheridan_. 454 + +Set of Turquoise, The, Act I, Scene I; Act I, + Scene 2 _Aldrich_. 478 + +She Stoops to Conquer, Act II, Scene I _Goldsmith_. 486 + +INDEX OF AUTHORS 509 + + + + +STANDARD SELECTIONS + + + + +I + +NARRATIVE, DESCRIPTIVE, PATHETIC + + + + +THE ARENA SCENE FROM "QUO VADIS"[1] + +HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ + + +The Roman Empire in the first century presents the most revolting +picture of mankind to be found in the pages of history. Society founded +on superior force, on the most barbarous cruelty, on crime and mad +profligacy, was corrupt beyond the power of words to describe. Rome +ruled the world, but was also its ulcer, and the horrible monster, Nero, +guilty of all hideous and revolting crimes, seems a fit monarch for such +a people. + +A few years ago appeared "Quo Vadis?" the story from which this +selection is made. The book attained so great a popularity, that it was +translated into almost every tongue. In spite of its many faults, it +invited the attention, and, although it shocked the sensibilities, when +its great purpose was understood it melted the heart. + +The author drew a startlingly vivid and horrible picture of humanity at +this lowest stage, and in conflict with it he showed us the Christ +spirit. + +The extract is the story of how the young Vinicius, a patrician, a +soldier, a courtier of Nero, through the labyrinth of foul sin, of +self-worship and self-indulgence, with love for his guide, found his +way home to the feet of Him who commanded, "Be ye pure even as I am +pure." + +It is the love story of Vinicius and the Princess Lygia, a convert to +Christ. The girl's happy and innocent life was rudely disturbed by a +summons to the court of the profligate emperor. Arrived there, she found +that Nero had given her to Vinicius, who had fallen passionately in love +with her; but on the way to Vinicius' house she was rescued by the giant +Ursus, one of her devoted attendants and a member of her own faith. They +escaped in safety to the Christians, who were living in hiding in the +city. + +The imperious nature of the youthful soldier for the first time in his +life met resistance. He was so transported with rage and disappointment +that he ordered the slaves from whom Lygia had escaped to be flogged to +death, while he set out to find the girl who had dared to thwart his +desire. His egotism was so great that he would have seen the city and +the whole world sunk in ruins rather than fail of his purpose. For days +and days his search was unceasing, and at last he found Lygia, but in +making a second attempt to carry her off was severely wounded by the +giant Ursus. Finding himself helpless in the Christians' hands, he +expected nothing but death; but instead he was carefully and tenderly +nursed back to health. Waking from his delirium, he found at his bedside +Lygia--Lygia, whom he had most injured, watching alone, while the others +had gone to rest. Gradually in his pagan head the idea began to hatch +with difficulty that at the side of naked beauty, confident and proud of +Greek and Roman symmetry, there is another in the world, new, immensely +pure, in which a soul resides. As the days went by, Vinicius was +thrilled to the very depths of his soul by the consciousness that Lygia +was learning to love him. With that revelation came the certain +conviction that his religion would forever make an inseparable barrier +between them. Then he hated Christianity with all the powers of his +soul, yet he could not but acknowledge that it had adorned Lygia with +that exceptional, unexplained beauty, which was producing in his heart +besides love, respect; besides desire, homage. Yet, when he thought of +accepting the religion of the Nazarene, all the Roman in him rose up in +revolt against the idea. He knew that if he were to accept that teaching +he would have to throw, as on a burning pile, all his thoughts, ideas, +ambitions, habits of life, his very nature up to that moment, burn them +into ashes and fill himself with an entirely new life, and from his soul +he cried that it was impossible; it was impossible! + +Before Vinicius had entirely recovered Nero commanded his presence at +Antium, whither the court was going for the hot summer months. Nero was +ambitious to write an immortal epic poem which should rival the +"Odyssey," and in order that he might describe realistically a burning +city, gave a secret command while he was in Antium that Rome should be +set on fire. + + +One evening, when the court was assembled to hear Nero recite some of +his poetry, a slave appeared. + +"Pardon, Divine Imperator, Rome is burning! The whole city is a sea of +flames!" A moment of horrified silence followed, broken by the cry of +Vinicius. He rushed forth, and, springing on his horse, dashed into the +deep night. A horseman, rushing also like a whirlwind, but in the +opposite direction, toward Antium, shouted as he raced past: "Rome is +perishing!" To the ears of Vinicius came only one more expression: +"Gods!" The rest was drowned by the thunder of hoofs. But the expression +sobered him. "Gods!" He raised his head suddenly, and, stretching his +arms toward the sky filled with stars, began to pray. + +"Not to you, whose temples are burning, do I call, but to Thee. Thou +Thyself hast suffered. Thou alone hast understood people's pain. If Thou +art what Peter and Paul declare, save Lygia. Seek her in the burning; +save her and I will give Thee my blood!" + +Before he had reached the top of the mountain he felt the wind on his +face, and with it the odor of smoke came to his nostrils. He touched the +summit at last, and then a terrible sight struck his eyes. The whole +lower region was covered with smoke, but beyond this gray, ghastly plain +the city was burning on the hills. The conflagration had not the form of +a pillar, but of a long belt, shaped like the dawn. + +Vinicius' horse, choking with the smoke, became unmanageable. He sprang +to the earth and rushed forward on foot. The tunic began to smolder on +him in places; breath failed his lungs; strength failed his bones; he +fell! Two men, with gourds full of water, ran to him and bore him away. +When he regained consciousness he found himself in a spacious cave, +lighted with torches and tapers. He saw a throng of people kneeling, and +over him bent the tender, beautiful face of his soul's beloved. + +Lygia was indeed safe from the burning, but before the first thrill of +relief was over an infinitely more horrible danger threatened her. The +people were in wrath and threatened violence to Nero and his court, for +it was popularly believed that the city had been set on fire at the +emperor's instigation. The coward, Nero, was startled and thoroughly +alarmed, and welcomed gladly the suggestion that the calamity should be +blamed on the Christians, who were viewed with great suspicion by the +common people, and obliged even then to live in hiding. In order to +clear himself and to divert the people's minds, he instituted at once +against the Christians the most horrible persecutions that have ever +stained man's history. For days and days the people came in countless +numbers to witness the tortures of the innocent victims; but at last +they grew weary of blood-spilling. Then it was given out that Nero had +arranged a climax for the last of the Christians who were to die at an +evening spectacle in a brilliantly lighted amphitheater. Chief interest +both of the Augustinians and the people centered in Lygia and Vinicius, +for the story of their love was now generally known, and everybody felt +that Nero was intending to make a tragedy for himself out of the +suffering of Vinicius. + +At last the evening arrived. The sight was in truth magnificent. All +that was powerful, brilliant and wealthy in Rome was there. The lower +seats were crowded with togas as white as snow. In a gilded padium sat +Nero, wearing a diamond collar and a golden crown upon his head. Every +eye was turned with strained gaze to the place where the unfortunate +lover was sitting. He was exceedingly pale, and his forehead was covered +with drops of sweat. To his tortured mind came the thought that faith of +itself would spare Lygia. Peter had said that faith would move the earth +to its foundations. He crushed doubt in himself, compressed his whole +being into the sentence, "I believe," and he looked for a miracle. + +The prefect of the city waved a red handkerchief, and out of the dark +gully into the brilliantly lighted arena came Ursus. In Rome there was +no lack of gladiators, larger by far than the common measure of man; but +Roman eyes had never seen the like of Ursus. The people gazed with the +delight of experts at his mighty limbs, as large as tree trunks; at his +breast, as large as two shields joined together, and his arms of a +Hercules. He was unarmed, and had determined to die as became a follower +of the Lamb, peacefully and patiently. Meanwhile he wished to pray once +more to the Saviour. So he knelt on the arena, joined his hands and +raised his eyes towards the stars. This act displeased the crowd. They +had had enough of those Christians, who died like sheep. They understood +that if the giant would not defend himself, the spectacle would be a +failure. Here and there hisses were heard. Some began to cry for +scourgers, whose office it was to lash combatants unwilling to fight. +But soon all had grown silent, for no one knew what was waiting for the +giant, nor whether he would not defend himself when he met death eye to +eye. + +In fact, they had not long to wait. Suddenly the shrill sound of brazen +trumpets was heard, and at that signal into the arena rushed, amid the +shouts of the beast-keepers, an enormous German aurochs, bearing on his +head the naked body of a woman. + +Vinicius sprang to his feet. + +"Lygia! Oh, ... I believe! I believe! Oh, Christ, a miracle! a miracle!" +And he did not even know that Petronius had covered his head at that +moment with a toga. He did not look; he did not see. The feeling of some +awful emptiness possessed him. In his head there remained not a thought. +His lips merely repeated as if in madness, "I believe! I believe! I +believe!" + +This time the amphitheater was silent, for in the arena something +uncommon had happened. That giant, obedient and ready to die, when he +saw his queen on the horns of the wild beast, sprang up, as if touched +by living fire, and, bending forward, he ran at the raging animal. + +From all breasts a sudden cry of amazement was heard, as the giant fell +on the raging bull and seized him by the horns. And then came deep +silence. All breasts ceased to breathe. In the amphitheater a fly might +be heard on the wing. People could not believe their own eyes. Since +Rome was Rome no one had ever seen such a spectacle. The man's feet sank +in the sand to his ankle; his back was bent like a bow; his head was +hidden between his shoulders; on his arms the muscles came out so that +the skin almost burst from their pressure; but he had stopped the bull +in his tracks. The man and the bull remained so still that the +spectators thought themselves looking at a group hewn in stone. But in +that apparent repose there was a tremendous exertion of two struggling +forces. The bull's feet, as well as the man's, sank in the sand, and the +dark, shaggy body was curved so that it seemed a gigantic ball. Which +of the two would fail first? Which would fall first? + +Meanwhile a dull roar resembling a groan was heard from the arena, after +which a brief shout was wrested from every breast, and again there was +silence. Duller and duller, hoarser and hoarser, more and more painful +grew the groan of the bull as it mingled with the whistling breath from +the breast of the giant. The head of the beast began to turn in the iron +hands of the barbarian, and from his jaws crept forth a long, foaming +tongue. A moment more and to the ears of the spectators sitting nearer +came, as it were, the crack of breaking bones; then the beast rolled on +the earth, dead. + +The giant removed in a twinkling the ropes that bound the maiden to the +horns of the bull. His face was very pale; he stood as if only half +conscious; then he raised his eyes and looked at the spectators. + +The amphitheater had gone wild. The walls of the building were trembling +from the roar of tens of thousands of people. + +Everywhere were heard cries for mercy, passionate and persistent, which +soon turned into one unbroken thunder. + +The giant understood that they were asking for his life and liberty, but +his thoughts were not for himself. He raised the unconscious maiden in +his arms, and, going to Nero's padium, held her up and looked up +imploringly. + +Vinicius sprang over the barrier, which separated the lower seats from +the arena, and, running to Lygia, covered her with his toga. + +Then he tore apart the tunic on his breast, laid bare the scars left by +wounds received in the Armenian war, and stretched out his hands to the +multitude. + +At this the enthusiasm passed everything ever seen in a circus before. +Voices choking with tears began to demand mercy. Yet Nero halted and +hesitated. He would have preferred to see the giant and the maiden rent +by the horns of the bull. + +Nero was alarmed. He understood that to oppose longer was simply +dangerous. A disturbance begun in the circus might seize the whole city. +He looked once more, and, seeing everywhere frowning brows, excited +faces and eyes fixed on him, he slowly raised his hand and gave the sign +for mercy. + +Then a thunder of applause broke from the highest seats to the lowest. +But Vinicius heard it not. He dropped on his knees in the arena, +stretched his hands toward heaven and cried: "I believe! Oh, Christ! I +believe! I believe!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[1] Copyright, 1896, by Jeremiah Curtin. + + + + +THE ARROW AND THE SONG[2] + +H. W. LONGFELLOW + + + I shot an arrow into the air. + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For, so swiftly it flew, the sight + Could not follow in its flight. + + I breathed a song into the air. + It fell to earth, I knew not where; + For who has sight so keen and strong + That it can follow the flight of song. + + Long, long afterward, in an oak, + I found the arrow still unbroke; + And the song, from beginning to end, + I found again in the heart of a friend. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[2] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of his +works. + + + + +AUX ITALIENS + +R. BULWER LYTTON + + + At Paris it was, at the opera there; + And she looked like a queen that night, + With a wreath of pearl in her raven hair, + And the brooch in her breast so bright. + + Of all the operas that Verdi wrote, + The best, to my taste, is the "Trovatore": + And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note, + The souls in purgatory. + + The moon on the tower slept soft as snow; + And who was not thrilled in the strangest way, + As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low, + "_Non ti scordar di me?_" + + The Emperor there in his box of state, + Looked grave; as if he had just then seen + The red flag wave from the city gate, + Where the eagles in bronze had been. + + The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye; + You'd have thought that her fancy had gone back again, + For one moment, under the old blue sky, + To that old glad life in Spain. + + Well! there in our front row box we sat + Together, my bride betrothed and I; + My gaze was fixed on my opera hat, + And hers on the stage hard by. + + And both were silent and both were sad; + Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm, + With that regal indolent air she had; + So confident of her charm! + + I have not a doubt she was thinking then + Of her former lord, good soul that he was, + Who died the richest and roundest of men, + The Marquis of Carabas. + + I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven, + Through a needle's eye he had not to pass; + I wish him well for the jointure given + To my lady of Carabas. + + Meanwhile I was thinking of my first love + As I had not been thinking of aught for years; + Till over my eyes there began to move + Something that felt like tears. + + I thought of the dress that she wore last time, + When we stood neath the cypress-trees together, + In that lost land, in that soft clime, + In the crimson evening weather; + + Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot); + And her warm white neck in its golden chain; + And her full soft hair just tied in a knot, + And falling loose again. + + And the Jasmine flower in her fair young breast; + (O the faint sweet smell of that Jasmine flower!) + And the one bird singing alone to its nest; + And the one star over the tower. + + I thought of our little quarrels and strife, + And the letter that brought me back my ring; + And it all seemed there in the waste of life, + Such a very little thing. + + For I thought of her grave below the hill, + Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over; + And I thought, "Were she only living still, + How I could forgive her and love her!" + + And I swear as I thought of her thus in that hour, + And of how, after all, old things are best, + That I smelt the smell of that Jasmine flower + Which she used to wear in her breast. + + And I turned and looked; she was sitting there, + In a dim box over the stage; and drest + In that muslin dress, with that full soft hair, + And that Jasmine in her breast! + + I was here, and she was there; + And the glittering horse-shoe curved between;-- + From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair + And her sumptuous scornful mien, + + To my early love with her eyes downcast, + And over her primrose face the shade, + (In short from the future back to the past) + There was but a step to be made. + + To my early love from my future bride + One moment I looked, then I stole to the door, + I traversed the passage; and down at her side + I was sitting a moment more. + + My thinking of her or the music's strain, + Or something which never will be expressed, + Had brought her back from the grave again, + With the Jasmine in her breast. + + She is not dead, and she is not wed! + But she loves me now and she loved me then! + And the very first words that her sweet lips said, + My heart grew youthful again. + + The Marchioness there, of Carabas, + She is wealthy and young and handsome still, + And but for her ... well, we'll let that pass; + She may marry whomever she will. + + But I will marry my own first love, + With her primrose face, for old things are best; + And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above + The brooch in my lady's breast. + + The world is filled with folly and sin, + And love must cling where it can, I say, + For beauty is easy enough to win, + But one isn't loved every day. + + And I think in the lives of most women and men, + There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, + If only the dead could find out when + To come back and be forgiven. + + But O! the smell of that Jasmine flower! + And O that music! and O the way + That voice rang out from the donjon tower, + _Non ti scordar di me, + Non ti scordar di me!_ + + + + +BOBBY SHAFTO[3] + +DANIEL HENRY, JR. + +_Theme._ + + "Bobby Shafto's gone to sea:-- + Silver buckles on his knee-- + He'll come back and marry me, + Pretty Bobby Shafto!" + "Mother Goose Melodies." + + "With his treasures won at sea, + Spanish gold and Portugee, + And his heart, still fast to me, + Pretty Bobby Shafto! + + "In a captain's pomp and pride, + With a gold sword at his side, + He'll come back to claim his bride, + Pretty Bobby Shafto!" + + So she sang, the winter long, + Till the sun came, golden-strong, + And the blue birds caught her song: + All of Bobby Shafto. + + Days went by, and autumn came, + Eyes grew dim, and feet went lame, + But the song, it was the same, + All of Bobby Shafto. + + Never came across the sea, + Silver buckles on his knee, + Bobby to his bride-to-be, + Fickle Bobby Shafto! + + For where midnight never dies, + In the Storm-King's caves of ice, + Stiff and stark, poor Bobby lies-- + Heigho! Bobby Shafto. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[3] From "Under a Fool's Cap." + + + + +CARCASSONNE + +GUSTAV NADAUD, translated by M. E. W. SHERWOOD + + + "How old I am! I'm eighty years! + I've worked both hard and long; + Yet patient as my life has been, + One dearest sight I have not seen,-- + It almost seems a wrong. + A dream I had when life was new; + Alas, our dreams! they come not true; + I thought to see fair Carcassonne,-- + That lovely city,--Carcassonne! + + "One sees it dimly from the height + Beyond the mountains blue, + Fain would I walk five weary leagues,-- + I do not mind the road's fatigues,-- + Through morn and evening's dew; + But bitter frost would fall at night; + And on the grapes,--that yellow blight! + I could not go to Carcassonne, + I never went to Carcassonne. + + "They say it is as gay all times + As holidays at home! + The gentles ride in gay attire, + And in the sun each gilded spire + Shoots up like those of Rome! + The bishop the procession leads, + The generals curb their prancing steeds. + Alas! I know not Carcassonne-- + Alas! I saw not Carcassonne! + + "Our Vicar's right! he preaches loud, + And bids us to beware; + He says, 'O guard the weakest-part, + And most that traitor in the heart + Against ambition's snare.' + Perhaps in autumn I can find + Two sunny days with gentle wind; + I then could go to Carcassonne, + I still could go to Carcassonne. + + "My God, my Father! pardon me + If this my wish offends; + One sees some hope more high than his, + In age, as in his infancy, + To which his heart ascends! + My wife, my son have seen Narbonne, + My grandson went to Perpignan, + But I have not seen Carcassonne, + But I have not seen Carcassonne." + + Thus sighed a peasant bent with age, + Half-dreaming in his chair; + I said, "My friend, come go with me + To-morrow, then thine eyes shall see + Those streets that seem so fair." + That night there came for passing soul + The church-bell's low and solemn toll. + He never saw gay Carcassonne. + Who has not known a Carcassonne? + + + + +THE CHILD-WIFE + +CHARLES DICKENS + +All this time I had gone on loving Dora harder than ever. If I may so +express it, I was steeped in Dora. I was not merely over head and ears +in love with her, I was saturated through and through. I took night +walks to Norwood where she lived, and perambulated round and round the +house and garden for hours together, looking through crevices in the +palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on +the top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows, and romantically +calling on the night to shield my Dora,--I don't exactly know from +what,--I suppose from fire, perhaps from mice, to which she had a great +objection. + +Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of +the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora +called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills! + +One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming +the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would +be happy to see you." + +I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for +the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a +declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be. +Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do. + +I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Dora's +little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora was +painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had +given her! + +Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at +home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was +conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up +and left the room. + +I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow. + +"I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home at night from +that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. + +"It was a long way for him." + +I began to think I would do it to-day. + +"It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on the +journey." + +"Wasn't he fed, poor thing?" + +I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow. + +"Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable +happiness that I had in being so near to you." + +I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot. + +"I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you should +call it a happiness. But of course you don't mean what you say. Jip, you +naughty boy, come here!" + +I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a moment. I intercepted Jip. +I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a +word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I +told her that I idolized and worshiped her. Jip barked madly all the +time. My eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for +her, she had but to say the word, and I was ready. I had loved her to +distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon +her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love +her, every minute, to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers +would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would, or +should ever love, as I loved Dora. The more I raved, the more Jip +barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad every moment. + +Well, well! Dora and I were sitting on the sofa by and by quiet enough, +and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully at me. It was off my +mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged. + +Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my darling to +expatiate on that unfortunate drawback. I soon carried desolation into +the bosom of our joys--not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full +of the subject--by asking Dora without the smallest preparation, if she +could love a beggar. + +"How can you ask me anything so foolish? Love a beggar!" + +"Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!" + +"How can you be such a silly thing," replied Dora, slapping my hand, "as +to sit there telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite you, if you are so +ridiculous." + +But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did nothing but +exclaim, "O dear! O dear!" And oh, she was so frightened! And where was +Julia Mills? And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until +I was almost beside myself. + +I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face; I went down +on my knees; I plucked at my hair; I implored her forgiveness; I +besought her to look up; I ravaged Miss Mills's work-box for a +smelling-bottle, and in my agony of mind, applied an ivory needle-case +instead, and dropped all the needles over Dora. + +At last I got Dora to look at me, with a horrified expression which I +gradually soothed until it was only loving, and her soft, pretty cheek +was lying against mine. + +"Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?" + +"O yes! O yes! it's all yours, oh, don't be dreadful." + +"My dearest love, the crust well earned--" + +"O yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts. And after we are +married, Jip must have a mutton chop every day at twelve, or he'll die." + +I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly explained to +her that Jip should have his mutton chop with his accustomed regularity. + +When we had been engaged some half-year or so, Dora delighted me by +asking me to give her that cookery-book I had once spoken of, and to +show her how to keep accounts, as I had once promised I would. I brought +the volume with me on my next visit (I got it prettily bound, first, to +make it look less dry and more inviting), and showed her an old +housekeeping book of my aunt's, and gave her a set of tablets, and a +pretty little pencil-case, and a box of leads, to practice housekeeping +with. + +But the cookery-book made Dora's head ache, and the figures made her +cry. They wouldn't add up, she said. So she rubbed them out, and drew +little nosegays, and likenesses of me and Jip, all over the tablets. + +Time went on, and at last, here in this hand of mine, I held the wedding +license. There were the two names in the sweet old visionary +connection,--David Copperfield and Dora Spenlow; and there in the corner +was that parental institution, the Stamp Office, looking down upon our +union; and there, in the printed form of words, was the Archbishop of +Canterbury, invoking a blessing on us and doing it as cheap as could +possibly be expected. + +I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about keeping +house than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant, of course. She +kept house for us. We had an awful time of it with Mary Anne. She was +the cause of our first little quarrel. + +"My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, "do you think Mary Anne has +any idea of time?" + +"Why, Doady?" + +"My love, because it's five, and we were to have dined at four." + +My little wife came and sat upon my knee, to coax me to be quiet, and +drew a line with her pencil down the middle of my nose; but I couldn't +dine off that, though it was very agreeable. + +"Don't you think, my dear, it would be better for you to remonstrate +with Mary Anne?" + +"O no, please! I couldn't, Doady!" + +"Why not, my love?" + +"O, because I am such a little goose, and she knows I am!" + +I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any +system of check on Mary Anne, that I frowned a little. + +"My precious wife, we must be serious some times. Come! sit down on this +chair, close beside me! Give me the pencil! There! Now let us talk +sensibly. You know, dear," what a little hand it was to hold, and what a +tiny wedding ring it was to see,--"you know, my love, it is not exactly +comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now, is it?" + +"N-n-no!" + +"My love, how you tremble!" + +"Because, I know you're going to scold me." + +"My sweet, I am only going to reason." + +"O, but reasoning is worse than scolding! I didn't marry to be reasoned +with. If you meant to reason with such a poor little thing as I am, you +ought to have told me so, you cruel boy!" + +"Dora, my darling!" + +"No, I am not your darling. Because you must be sorry that you married +me, or else you wouldn't reason with me!" + +I felt so injured by the inconsequential nature of this charge, that it +gave me courage to be grave. + +"Now, my own Dora, you are childish, and are talking nonsense. You must +remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday when dinner +was half over; and that, the day before, I was made quite unwell by +being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day, I don't dine at +all, and I am afraid to say how long we waited for breakfast, and then +the water didn't boil. I don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but this, +is not comfortable." + +"Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!" + +"Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that!" + +"You said I wasn't comfortable!" + +"I said the housekeeping was not comfortable!" + +"It's exactly the same thing! and I wonder, I do, at your making such +ungrateful speeches. When you know that the other day, when you said you +would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and +ordered it to surprise you." + +"And it was very kind of you, my own darling; and I felt it so much that +I wouldn't on any account have mentioned that you bought a salmon, which +was too much for two; or that it cost one pound six, which was more than +we can afford." + +"You enjoyed it very much. And you said I was a Mouse." + +"And I'll say so again, my love, a thousand times!" + +I said it a thousand times, and more, and went on saying it until Mary +Anne's cousin deserted into our coal-hole and was brought out, to our +great amazement, by a picket of his companions in arms, who took him +away handcuffed in a procession that covered our front garden with +disgrace. + +"I am very sorry for all this, Doady. Will you call me a name I want you +to call me?" + +"What is it, my dear?" + +"It's a stupid name,--Child-wife. When you are going to be angry with +me, say to yourself, 'It's only my Child-wife.' When I am very +disappointing, say, 'I knew a long time ago, that she would make but a +Child-wife.' When you miss what you would like me to be, and what I +think I never can be, say, 'Still my foolish Child-wife loves me.' For +indeed I do." + +I invoke the innocent figure that I dearly loved to come out of the +mists and shadows of the past, and to turn its gentle head toward me +once again, and to bear witness that it was made happy by what I +answered. + + + + +COUNT GISMOND + +ROBERT BROWNING + + + Christ God, who savest man, save most + Of men Count Gismond who saved me! + Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, + Chose time and place and company + To suit it; when he struck at length + My honor, 'twas with all his strength. + + And doubtlessly ere he could draw + All points to one, he must have schemed! + That miserable morning saw + Few half so happy as I seemed, + While being dressed in queen's array + To give our tourney prize away. + + I thought they loved me, did me grace + To please themselves; 'twas all their deed; + God makes, or fair or foul, our face; + If showing mine so caused to bleed + My cousins' hearts, they should have dropped + A word, and straight the play had stopped. + + They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen + By virtue of her brow and breast; + Not needing to be crowned, I mean, + As I do. E'en when I was dressed, + Had either of them spoke, instead + Of glancing sideways with still head! + + But no: they let me laugh and sing + My birthday song quite through, adjust + The last rose in my garland, fling + A last look on the mirror, trust + My arms to each an arm of theirs, + And so descend the castle-stairs-- + + And come out on the morning-troop + Of merry friends who kissed my cheek, + And called me queen, and made me stoop + Under the canopy--(a streak + That pierced it, of the outside sun, + Powdered with gold its gloom's soft dun)-- + + And they could let me take my state + And foolish throne amid applause + Of all come there to celebrate + My queen's-day--Oh I think the cause + Of much was, they forgot no crowd + Makes up for parents in their shroud! + + Howe'er that be, all eyes were bent + Upon me, when my cousins cast + Theirs down; 'twas time I should present + The victor's crown, but ... there, 'twill last + No long time ... the old mist again + Blinds me as it did then. How vain! + + See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk + With his two boys: I can proceed. + Well, at that moment, who should stalk + Forth boldly--to my face, indeed-- + But Gauthier, and he thundered, "Stay!" + And all stayed. "Bring no crowns, I say! + + "Bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet + About her! Let her cleave to right, + Or lay herself before our feet! + Shall she who sinned so bold at night + Unblushing, queen it in the day? + For honor's sake, no crowns, I say!" + + I? What I answered? As I live, + I never fancied such a thing + As answer possible to give. + What says the body when they spring + Some monstrous torture-engine's whole + Strength on it? No more says the soul. + + Till out strode Gismond; then I knew + That I was saved. I never met + His face before, but, at first view, + I felt quite sure that God had set + Himself to Satan; who would spend + A minute's mistrust on the end? + + He strode to Gauthier, in his throat + Gave him the lie, then struck his mouth + With one back-handed blow that wrote + In blood men's verdict there. North, South, + East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, + And damned, and truth stood up instead. + + This glads me most, that I enjoyed + The heart of the joy, with my content + In watching Gismond unalloyed + By any doubt of the event: + God took that on him--I was bid + Watch Gismond for my part: I did. + + Did I not watch him while he let + His armorer just brace his greaves, + Rivet his hauberk, on the fret + The while! His foot ... my memory leaves + No least stamp out, nor how anon + He pulled his ringing gauntlets on. + + And e'en before the trumpet's sound + Was finished, prone lay the false knight, + Prone as his lie, upon the ground: + Gismond flew at him, used no sleight + O' the sword, but open-breasted drove, + Cleaving till out the truth he clove. + + Which done, he dragged him to my feet + And said, "Here die, but end thy breath + In full confession, lest thou fleet + From my first, to God's second death! + Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied + To God and her," he said, and died. + + Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked + --What safe my heart holds, though no word + Could I repeat now, if I tasked + My powers forever, to a third + Dear even as you are. Pass the rest + Until I sank upon his breast. + + Over my head his arm he flung + Against the world; and scarce I felt + His sword (that dripped by me and swung) + A little shifted in its belt; + For he began to say the while + How South our home lay many a mile. + + So 'mid the shouting multitude + We two walked forth to never more + Return. My cousins have pursued + Their life, untroubled as before + I vexed them. Gauthier's dwelling-place + God lighten! May his soul find grace! + + Our elder boy has got the clear + Great brow; though when his brother's black + Full eye shows scorn, it ... Gismond here? + And have you brought your tercel back? + I just was telling Adela + How many birds it struck since May. + + + + +THE DEATH OF ARBACES[4] + +EDWARD BULWER LYTTON + + +In the eventful year of the eruption of Vesuvius, there lived in Pompeii +a young Greek by the name of Glaucus. Heaven had given him every +blessing but one; it had denied him the heritage of freedom. He was +born in Athens, the subject of Rome. Succeeding early to an ample +inheritance, he had indulged that inclination for travel, so natural to +the young, and consequently knew much of the gorgeous luxuries of the +imperial court. His ideals in life were high. At last he discovered the +long-sought idol of his dreams in the person of Ione, a beautiful, young +Neapolitan, also of Greek parentage, who had lately come to Pompeii. She +was one of those brilliant characters which seldom flash across our +career. She united in the highest perfection the rarest of earthly +gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No wonder that the friendship of these two +ripened into a higher love than that which served a theme for the idle +gossip of the Roman baths, or the epicurean board of a Sallust or a +Diomede. + +Arbaces, the legal guardian of Ione, was a subtle, crafty, cunning +Egyptian, whose conscience was solely of the intellect awed by no moral +laws. His great wealth and learning, and his reputation as a magician +gave him great power and influence over not only the superstitious +worshipers, but also the priesthood of Isis. Shrouding the deceit and +vices of a heathen metaphysical philosophy in a brilliant and imposing +ceremonial, Arbaces was the better able to gratify his own desires and +work out his diabolical scheme. + +As Ione just ripened into beautiful womanhood, Arbaces determined to +claim her life and her love for himself alone; but his first overture +not only met with rebuff, but revealed the fact that she already loved +Glaucus. Angered by a fate which not even his dark sorcery could remove, +and which the prophecy of the stars had foretold, he is further enraged +by the violent opposition of Apaecides, the brother of Ione, who on his +own account threatens and has prepared to expose the lewd deceits and +hypocrisy of the worship of Isis. Arbaces murders Apaecides, imprisons +the priest Calenus, the only witness of the deed, and with great cunning +weaves a convicting net of circumstantial evidence around Glaucus, his +hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted and doomed to be thrown to the +lion. + +The day of the sports of the amphitheater had come. The gladiatorial +fights and other games were completed. "Bring forth the lion and Glaucus +the Athenian," said the editor. Glaucus had been placed in that gloomy +and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last +and fearful struggle. The door swung gratingly back--the gleam of spears +shot along the walls. + +"Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come," said a loud and clear voice. +"The lion awaits thee." + +"I am ready," said the Athenian. "Worthy officer, I attend you." + +When he came into the air its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and +arid, smote witheringly upon him. They anointed his body, placed the +stylus in his hand, and led him into the arena. + +And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and tens of thousands +upon him, he no longer felt that he was mortal. All evidence of +fear--all fear itself--was gone. A red and haughty flush spread over the +paleness of his features--he towered aloft to the fullness of his +glorious stature. In the elastic beauty of his limbs and form, in his +intent but unfrowning brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable +soul, which breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, +his lip, his eye, he assumed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, +of the valor of his land--of the divinity of its worship--at once a hero +and a god. + +The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had greeted his +entrance, died into the stillness of involuntary admiration and +half-compassionate respect; and with a quick and convulsive sigh, that +seemed to move the whole mass of life as if it were one body, the gaze +of the spectators turned from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in +the center of the arena. It was the grated den of the lion. Kept +without food for twenty-four hours, the animal had, during the whole +morning, testified a singular and restless uneasiness, which the keeper +had attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing seemed rather +that of fear than of rage; its roar was painful and distressed; it hung +its head--snuffed the air through the bars--then lay down--started +again--and again uttered its wild and far-reaching cries. + +The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked anxiously +around--hesitated--delayed; the crowd became impatient. Slowly he gave +the sign; the keeper, who was behind the den, cautiously removed the +grating, and the lion leaped forth with a mighty and glad roar of +release. The keeper retreated hastily through the grated passage leading +from the arena, and left the lord of the forest--and his prey. + +Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest posture at +the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining weapon raised +high, in the faint hope that one well directed thrust might penetrate +through the eye to the brain of his grim foe. + +At the first moment of its release the lion halted in the arena, raised +itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impatient sighs; then +suddenly sprang forward, but not on the Athenian. At half speed it +circled around and around the arena; once or twice it endeavored to leap +up the parapet that separated it from the audience. At length, as if +tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, and +once more laid itself down to rest. + +The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion soon grew +into resentment at its cowardice; and the populace already merged their +pity for the fate of Glaucus into angry compassion for their own +disappointment. The editor called the keeper. + +"How is this? Take the goad, prick him forth, and then close the door of +the den." + +As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was preparing to +obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; there +was a confusion--a bustle--voices of remonstrance suddenly breaking +forth, and suddenly silenced at the reply. All eyes turned in wonder at +the interruption, toward the quarter of disturbance; the crowd gave way, +and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair +disheveled,--breathless--half exhausted. He cast his eyes hastily round +the ring. "Remove the Athenian," he cried. "Haste,--he is innocent. +Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apaecides." + +"Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the praetor, rising from his seat. "What +means this raving?" + +"Remove the Athenian. Quick! or his blood be on your head. Praetor, delay +and you answer with your own life to the Emperor. I bring with me the +eye-witness to the death of Apaecides. Room there--stand back--give way. +People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he sits. Room there +for the priest Calenus." + +"The priest Calenus,--Calenus," cried the mob. "Is it he?" + +"It is the priest Calenus," said the praetor. "What hast thou to say?" + +"Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the priest of Isis; these +eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon into which he plunged +me--it is from the darkness and horror of a death by famine--that the +gods have raised me to proclaim his crime. Release the Athenian--he is +innocent." + +"A miracle--a miracle," shouted the people. "Remove the Athenian. +Arbaces to the lion!" + +"Officers, remove the accused Glaucus--remove, but guard him yet," said +the praetor. + +"Calenus, priest of Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of +Apaecides?" + +"I do." + +"Thou didst behold the deed?" + +"Praetor--with these eyes--" + +"Enough at present--the details must be reserved for more suiting time +and place. Ho! guards--remove Arbaces--guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold +you responsible for your accusation. Let the sports be resumed." + +"To the lion with the Egyptian!" cried the people. + +With that cry up sprang--on moved--thousands upon thousands! They rushed +from the heights--they poured down in the direction of the Egyptian. In +vain did the aedile command--in vain did the praetor lift his voice and +proclaim the law. The people had been already rendered savage. + +Arbaces stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal +features there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and command. +"Behold!" he shouted with a voice which stilled the roar of the crowd; +"behold the gods protect the guiltless! The fires of the avenging Orcus +burst forth against the false witness of my accusers!" + +The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian, and beheld, +with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting from the summit of +Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine tree; the trunk, +blackness,--the branches, fire,--a fire that shifted and wavered in its +hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying +red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare. + +There was a dead heart-sunken silence. Then there arose on high the +universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. +At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls +of the theater trembled; and beyond in the distance, they heard the +crash of falling roofs; an instant more and the mountain-cloud seemed +to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same time, +it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes mixed with vast fragments +of burning stone! Over the crushing vines,--over the desolate +streets,--over the amphitheater itself,--far and wide,--with many a +mighty splash in that agitated sea,--fell that awful shower! The crowd +turned to fly--each dashing, pressing, crushing, against the other. +Trampling recklessly over the fallen--amidst groans, and oaths, and +prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth +through the numerous passages; prisoner, gladiator and wild beast now +alike freed from their confines. + +Glaucus paced swiftly up the perilous and fearful streets, having +learned that Ione was yet in the house of Arbaces. Thither he fled to +release--to save her! Even as he passed, however, the darkness that +covered the heavens increased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he +could guide his steps. He ascended to the upper rooms--breathless he +paced along, shouting out aloud the name of Ione; and at length he +heard, at the end of a gallery, a voice--her voice, in wondering reply! +He rescued her and they made their way to the sea, boarded a vessel and +were saved from the wrath of Vesuvius. + +Arbaces returned to his house to seek his wealth and Ione ere he fled +from the doomed Pompeii. He found them not; all was lost to him. In the +madness of despair he rushed forth and hurried along the street he knew +not whither; exhausted or lost he halted at the east end of the Forum. +High behind him rose a tall column that supported the bronze statue of +Augustus; and the imperial image seemed changed to a shape of fire. He +advanced one step--it was his last on earth! The ground shook beneath +him with a convulsion that cast all around upon its surface. A +simultaneous crash resounded through the city, as down toppled many a +roof and pillar!--The lightning, as if caught by the metal, lingered an +instant on the Imperial Statue--then shivered bronze and column! Down +fell the ruin, echoing along the street, crushing Arbaces and riving the +solid pavement where it crashed! The prophecy of the stars was +fulfilled! + +So perished the wise Magician--the great Arbaces--the Hermes of the +Burning Belt--the last of the royalty of Egypt. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[4] An adaptation by R. I. Fulton from the "Last Days of Pompeii." + + + + +DORA + +ALFRED LORD TENNYSON + + + With farmer Allan at the farm abode + William and Dora. William was his son, + And she his niece. He often look'd at them, + And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." + Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, + And yearn'd toward William; but the youth, because + He had been always with her in the house, + Thought not of Dora. + + Then there came a day + When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son, + I married late, but I would wish to see + My grandchild on my knees before I die; + And I have set my heart upon a match. + Now therefore look to Dora; she is well + To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. + She is my brother's daughter; he and I + Had once hard words, and parted, and he died + In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred + His daughter Dora. Take her for your wife; + For I have wish'd this marriage, night and day, + For many years." But William answer'd short; + "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, + I will not marry Dora." Then the old man + Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said, + "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! + But in my time a father's word was law, + And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; + Consider, William, take a month to think, + And let me have an answer to my wish; + Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, + And never more darken my doors again." + But William answer'd madly; bit his lips, + And broke away. The more he look'd at her + The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; + But Dora bore them meekly. Then before + The month was out he left his father's house, + And hired himself to work within the fields; + And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed + A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. + Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd + His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; + But if you speak with him that was my son, + Or change a word with her he calls his wife, + My home is none of yours. My will is law." + And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, + "It cannot be, my uncle's mind will change!" + And days went on, and there was born a boy + To William; then distresses came on him; + And day by day he pass'd his father's gate, + Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not. + But Dora stored what little she could save, + And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know + Who sent it; till at last a fever seized + On William, and in harvest time he died. + Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat + And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought + Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said, + "I have obey'd my uncle until now, + And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' me + This evil came on William at the first. + But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, + And for your sake, the woman that he chose, + And for this orphan, I am come to you. + You know there has not been for these five years + So full a harvest; let me take the boy, + And I will set him in my uncle's eye + Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad + Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, + And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." + And Dora took the child, and went her way + Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound + That was unsown, where many poppies grew. + Far off the farmer came into the field + And spied her not; for none of all his men + Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; + And Dora would have risen and gone to him, + But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers reap'd, + And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. + But when the morrow came, she rose and took + The child once more, and sat upon the mound; + And made a little wreath of all the flowers + That grew about, and tied it round his hat + To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. + Then when the farmer pass'd into the field + He spied her, and he left his men at work, + And came and said, "Where were you yesterday? + Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" + So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, + And answer'd softly, "This is William's child!" + "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not + Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again, + "Do with me as you will, but take the child, + And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" + And Allan said, "I see it is a trick + Got up betwixt you and the woman there. + I must be taught my duty, and by you! + You knew my word was law, and yet you dared + To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy, + But go you hence, and never see me more." + So saying, he took the boy that cried aloud + And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell + At Dora's, feet. She bow'd upon her hands, + And the boy's cry came to her from the field, + More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, + Remembering the day when first she came, + And all the things that had been. She bow'd down + And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd, + And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. + Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood + Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy + Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise + To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. + And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; + But, Mary, let me live and work with you: + He says that he will never see me more." + Then answer'd Mary, "This shall never be, + That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: + And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, + For he will teach him hardness, and to slight + His mother; therefore thou and I will go, + And I will have my boy, and bring him home; + And I will beg of him to take thee back; + But if he will not take thee back again, + Then thou and I will live within one house, + And work for William's child, until he grows + Of age to help us." + + So the women kiss'd + Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. + The door was off the latch. They peep'd, and saw + The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, + Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, + And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, + Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out + And babbled for the golden seal, that hung + From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. + Then they came in; but when the boy beheld + His mother, he cried out to come to her, + And Allan set him down, and Mary said, + "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- + I never came a-begging for myself, + Or William, or this child; but now I come + For Dora. Take her back, she loves you well. + O Sir, when William died, he died at peace + With all men; for I ask'd him, and he said, + He could not ever rue his marrying me-- + I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said + That he was wrong to cross his father thus, + 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know + The troubles I have gone thro!' Then he turn'd + His face and pass'd--unhappy that I am! + But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you + Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight + His father's memory; and take Dora back, + And let all this be as it was before." + So Mary said, and Dora hid her face + By Mary. There was silence in the room; + And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- + "I have been to blame--to blame. I have kill'd my son. + I have kill'd him--but I loved him--my dear son. + May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. + Kiss me, my children." + + Then they clung about + The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. + And all the man was broken with remorse; + And all his love came back a hundred-fold; + And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child + Thinking of William. + + So those four abode + Within one house together; and as years + Went forward, Mary took another mate; + But Dora lived unmarried till her death. + + + + +AN EASTER WITH PAREPA + +MYRA S. DELANO + + +When Parepa was here she was everywhere the people's idol. The great +opera houses in all our cities and towns were thronged. There were none +to criticise or carp. Her young, rich, grand voice was beyond compare. +Its glorious tones are remembered with an enthusiasm like that which +greeted her when she sung. + +Her company played in New York during the Easter holidays, and I, as an +old friend, claimed some of her leisure hours. We were friends in Italy, +and this Easter day was to be spent with me. + +At eleven in the morning she sang at one of the large churches; I waited +for her, and at last we two were alone in my snug little room. At noon +the sky was overcast and gray. Down came the snow, whitening the streets +and roofs. The wind swept icy breaths from the water as it came up from +the bay and rushed past the city spires and over tall buildings, +whirling around us the snow and storm. We had hurried home, shut and +fastened our blinds, drawn close the curtains, and piled coal higher on +the glowing grate. We had taken off our wraps, and now sat close to the +cheery fire for a whole afternoon's blessed enjoyment. + +Parepa said, "Mary, this is perfect rest! We shall be quite alone for +four hours." + +"Yes, four long hours!" I replied. "No rehearsals, no engagements. +Nobody knows where you are!" + +Parepa laughed merrily at this idea. + +"Dinner shall be served in this room, and I won't allow even the servant +to look at you!" I said. + +She clasped her dimpled hands together, like a child in enjoyment, and +then sprang up to roll the little center-table near the grate. + +The snow had now turned into sleet; a great chill fell over the whole +city. We looked out of our windows, peeping through the shutters, and +pitying the people as they rushed past. + +A sharp rap on my door. John thrust in a note. + + + "MY DEAR FRIEND:--Can you come? Annie has gone. She said you would + be sure to come to her funeral. She spoke of you to the last. She + will be buried at four." + + +I laid the poor little blotted note in Parepa's hand. How it stormed! We +looked into each other's faces helplessly. I said, "Dear, I must go, but +you sit by the fire and rest. I'll be at home in two hours. And poor +Annie has gone!" + +"Tell me about it, Mary, for I am going with you," she answered. + +She threw on her heavy cloak, wound her long white woolen scarf closely +about her throat, drew on her woolen gloves, and we set out together in +the wild Easter storm. + +Annie's mother was a dressmaker, and sewed for me and my friends. She +was left a widow when her one little girl was five years old. Her +husband was drowned off the Jersey coast, and out of blinding pain and +loss and anguish had grown a sort of idolatry for the delicate, +beautiful child whose brown eyes looked like the young husband's. + +For fifteen years this mother had loved and worked for Annie, her whole +being going out to bless her one child. I had grown fond of them; and in +small ways, with books and flowers, outings and simple pleasures, I had +made myself dear to them. The end of the delicate girl's life had not +seemed so near, though her doom had been hovering about her for years. + +I had thought it all over as I took the Easter lilies from my +window-shelf and wrapped them in thick papers and hid them out of the +storm under my cloak. I knew there would be no other flowers in their +wretched room. How endless was the way to this East-Side tenement house! +No elevated roads, no rapid transit across the great city then as there +are now. At last we reached the place. On the street stood the +canvas-covered hearse, known only to the poor. + +We climbed flight after flight of narrow dark stairs to the small upper +rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a stained coffin, lined with +stiff, rattling cambric and cheap gauze, resting on uncovered trestles +of wood. + +We each took the mother's hand and stood a moment with her, silent. All +hope had gone out of her face. She shed no tears, but as I held her cold +hand I felt a shudder go over her, but she neither spoke nor sobbed. + +The driving storm had made us late, and the plain, hard-working people +sat stiffly against the walls. Some one gave us chairs and we sat close +to the mother. + +The minister came in, a blunt, hard-looking man, self-sufficient and +formal. A woman said the undertaker brought him. Icier than the pitiless +storm outside, yes, colder than ice were his words. He read a few verses +from the Bible, and warned "the bereaved mother against rebellion at the +divine decrees." He made a prayer and was gone. + +A dreadful hush fell over the small room. I whispered to the mother and +asked: "Why did you wait so long to send for me? All this would have +been different." + +With a kind of stare, she looked at me. + +"I can't remember why I didn't send," she said, her hand to her head, +and added: "I seemed to die, too, and forget, till they brought a +coffin. Then I knew it all." + +The undertaker came and bustled about. He looked at myself and Parepa, +as if to say: "It's time to go." The wretched funeral service was over. + +Without a word Parepa rose and walked to the head of the coffin. She +laid her white scarf on an empty chair, threw her cloak back from her +shoulders, where it fell in long, soft, black lines from her noble +figure like the drapery of mourning. She laid her soft, fair hand on the +cold forehead, passed it tenderly over the wasted delicate face, looked +down at the dead girl a moment, and moved my Easter lilies from the +stained box to the thin fingers, then lifted up her head, and with +illumined eyes sang the glorious melody: + + + "Angels, ever bright and fair, + Take, oh! take her to thy care." + + +Her magnificent voice rose and fell in all its richness and power and +pity and beauty! She looked above the dingy room and the tired faces of +men and women, the hard hands and the struggling hearts. She threw back +her head and sang till the choirs of paradise must have paused to listen +to the Easter music of that day. + +She passed her hand caressingly over the girl's soft dark hair, and sang +on--and on--"Take--oh! take her to thy care!" + +The mother's face grew rapt and white. I held her hands and watched her +eyes. Suddenly she threw my hand off and knelt at Parepa's feet, close +to the wooden trestles. She locked her fingers together, tears and sobs +breaking forth. She prayed aloud that God would bless the angel singing +for Annie. A patient smile settled about her lips, the light came back +into her poor, dulled eyes, and she kissed her daughter's face with a +love beyond all interpretation or human speech. I led her back to her +seat as the last glorious notes of Parepa's voice rose triumphant over +all earthly pain and sorrow. + +And I thought that no queen ever went to her grave with a greater +ceremony than this young daughter of poverty and toil, committed to the +care of the angels. + +That same night thousands listened to Parepa's matchless voice. Applause +rose to the skies, and Parepa's own face was gloriously swept with +emotion. I joined in the enthusiasm, but above the glitter and +shimmering of jewels and dress, and the heavy odors of Easter flowers, +the sea of smiling faces, and the murmur of voices, I could only behold +by the dim light of a tenement window the singer's uplifted face, the +wondering countenance of the poor on-lookers, and the mother's wide, +startled, tearful eyes; I could only hear above the sleet on the roof +and the storm outside Parepa's voice singing up to heaven: "Take, oh! +take her to thy care!" + + + + +THOSE EVENING BELLS + +THOMAS MOORE + + + Those evening bells! those evening bells! + How many a tale their music tells + Of youth, and home, and that sweet time + When last I heard their soothing chime. + + Those joyous hours are passed away; + And many a heart that then was gay + Within the tomb now darkly dwells, + And hears no more those evening bells. + + And so 'twill be when I am gone; + That tuneful peal will still ring on, + While other bards shall walk these dells, + And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. + + + + +GINEVRA + +SUSAN COOLIDGE + + + So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile + Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head, + Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without, + As, slowly creeping, he went down the stair. + Were they afraid that I should be afraid? + I, who have died once and been laid in tomb? + They need not. + + Little one, look not so pale. + I am not raving. Ah! you never heard + The story. Climb up there upon the bed: + Sit close and listen. After this one day + I shall not tell you stories any more. + + How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve? + Almost a woman! scarcely more than that + Was your fair mother when she bore her bud; + And scarcely more was I when, long years since, + I left my father's house, a bride in May. + You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church, + Gloomy and rich, which stands and seems to frown + On the Mercato, humming at its base. + That was my play-place ever as a child; + And with me used to play a kinsman's son, + Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days! + Two happy things we were, with none to chide, + Or hint that life was anything but play. + Sudden the play-time ended. All at once + "You must wed," they told me. "What is wed?" + I asked; but with the word I bent my brow, + Let them put on the garland, smiled to see + The glancing jewels tied about my neck; + And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth + By my grave husband, older than my sire. + O the long years that followed! It would seem + That the sun never shone in all those years, + Or only with a sudden, troubled glint + Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by + Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love + Raised to my face--my conscious, woeful face. + Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined + Together, none forbidding, for so long. + They let our childish fingers drop the seed, + Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain; + They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow, + Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant. + I loved Antonio, and he loved me. + + Life was all shadow, but it was not sin! + I loved Antonio; but I kept me pure, + Not for my husband's sake, but for the sake + Of him, my first-born child, my little child, + Mine for a few short weeks, whose touch, whose look + Thrilled all my soul and thrills it to this day. + I loved: but, hear me swear, I kept me pure! + + It was hard + To sit in darkness while the rest had light, + To move to discords when the rest had song, + To be so young and never to have lived. + I bore, as women bear, until one day + Soul said to flesh, "This I endure no more," + And with the word uprose, tore clay apart, + And what was blank before grew blanker still. + It was a fever, so the leeches said. + I had been dead so long, I did not know + The difference or heed. Oil on my breast, + The garments of the grave about me wrapped, + They bore me forth and laid me in the tomb. + + Open the curtain, child. Yes, it is night. + It was night then, when I awoke to feel + That deadly chill, and see by ghostly gleams + Of moonlight, creeping through the grated door, + The coffins of my fathers all about. + Strange, hollow clamors rang and echoed back, + As, struggling out of mine, I dropped and fell. + With frantic strength I beat upon the grate; + It yielded to my touch. Some careless hand + Had left the bolt half-slipped. My father swore + Afterward, with a curse, he would make sure + Next time. Next time! That hurts me even now! + + Dead or alive I issued, scarce sure which, + And down the darkling street I wildly fled, + Led by a little, cold, and wandering moon, + Which seemed as lonely and as lost as I. + I had no aim, save to reach warmth and light + And human touch; but still my witless steps + Led to my husband's door, and there I stopped, + By instinct, knocked, and called. + + A window oped. + A voice--'twas his--demanded: "Who is there?" + "'Tis I, Ginevra." Then I heard the tone + Change into horror, and he prayed aloud + And called upon the saints, the while I urged, + "O, let me in, Francesco; let me in! + I am so cold, so frightened, let me in!" + Then with a crash, the window was shut fast: + And, though I cried and beat upon the door + And wailed aloud, no other answer came. + + Weeping, I turned away, and feebly strove + Down the hard distance toward my father's house. + "They will have pity and will let me in," + I thought. "They loved me and will let me in." + Cowards! At the high window overhead + They stood and trembled, while I plead and prayed. + "I am your child, Ginevra. Let me in! + I am not dead. In mercy, let me in!" + "The holy saints forbid!" declared my sire. + My mother sobbed and vowed whole pounds of wax + To St. Eustachio, would he but remove + This fearful presence from her door. Then sharp + Came click of lock, and a long tube was thrust + From out the window, and my brother cried, + "Spirit or devil, go! or else I fire!" + Where should I go? Back to the ghastly tomb + And the cold coffined ones! Up the long street, + Wringing my hands and sobbing low, I went. + My feet were bare and bleeding from the stones; + My hands were bleeding too; my hair hung loose + Over my shroud. So wild and strange a shape + Saw never Florence since. + + At last I saw a flickering point of light + High overhead, in a dim window set. + I had lain down to die: but at the sight + I rose, crawled on, and with expiring strength + Knocked, sank again, and knew not even then + It was Antonio's door by which I lay. + A window opened, and a voice called out: + "Qui e?" "I am Ginevra." And I thought, + "Now he will fall to trembling, like the rest, + And bid me hence." But, lo, a moment more + The bolts were drawn, and arms whose very touch + Was life, lifted and clasped and bore me in. + "O ghost or angel of my buried love, + I know not, I care not which, be welcome here! + Welcome, thrice welcome, to this heart of mine!" + I heard him say, and then I heard no more. + + It was high noontide when I woke again, + To hear fierce voices wrangling by my bed-- + My father's and my husband's; for, with dawn, + Gathering up valor, they had sought the tomb, + Had found me gone, and tracked my bleeding feet, + Over the pavement to Antonio's door. + Dead, they cared nothing; living, I was theirs. + Hot raged the quarrel: then came Justice in, + And to the court we swept--I in my shroud-- + To try the cause. + + This was the verdict given: + "A woman who has been to burial borne, + Made fast and left and locked in with the dead; + Who at her husband's door has stood and plead + For entrance, and has heard her prayer denied; + Who from her father's house is urged and chased, + Must be adjudged as dead in law and fact. + The Court pronounces the defendant--dead! + She can resume her former ties at will, + Or may renounce them, if such be her will. + She is no more a daughter or a spouse, + Unless she choose, and is set free to form + New ties if so she choose." + + O, blessed words! + That very day we knelt before the priest, + My love and I, were wed, and life began. + Child of my child, child of Antonio's child, + Bend down and let me kiss your wondering face. + 'Tis a strange tale to tell a rose like you. + But time is brief, and, had I told you not, + Haply the story would have met your ears + From them, the Amieris. + Now go, my dearest. When they wake thee up, + To tell thee I am dead, be not too sad. + I who have died once, do not fear to die. + Sweet was that waking, sweeter will be this. + Close to Heaven's gate my own Antonio sits + Waiting, and, spite of all the Frati say, + I know I shall not stand long at that gate, + Or knock and be refused an entrance there, + For he will start up when he hears my voice, + The saints will smile, and he will open quick. + Only a night to part me from that joy. + Jesu Maria! let the dawning come! + + + + +THE HIGH TIDE AT LINCOLNSHIRE + +JEAN INGELOW + + + The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers rang by two, by three; + "Pull, if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. + "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! + Ply all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + + Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; + But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: + And there was naught of strange, beside + The flight of mews and peewits pied + By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. + + I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; + The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies, + And dark against day's golden death + She moved where Lindis wandereth, + My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling + Ere the early dews were falling, + Farre away I heard her song. + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; + Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth, + From the meads where melick groweth, + Faintly came her milking song. + + Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, + Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple towered from out the greene; + And lo! the great bell farre and wide + Was heard in all the country side + That Saturday at eventide. + + I looked without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding down with might and main: + He raised a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, + "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" + (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + + "The old sea wall (he cried) is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, + And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." + He shook as one that looks on death: + "God save you, mother!" straight he saith, + "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + + "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away, + With her two bairns I marked her long; + And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." + He looked across the grassy lea, + To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" + They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" + + With that he cried and beat his breast; + For, lo! along the river's bed + A mighty eygre reared his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. + It swept with thunderous noises loud; + Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, + Or like a demon in a shroud. + + So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat, + Before a shallow, seething wave + Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet. + The feet had hardly time to flee + Before it brake against the knee, + And all the world was in the sea. + + Upon the roofe we sat that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by; + I marked the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high-- + A lurid mark and dread to see; + And awesome bells they were to me, + That in the dark rang "Enderby." + + They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed, + And I--my sonne was at my side, + And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; + And yet he moaned beneath his breath, + "O come in life, or come in death! + O lost! my love, Elizabeth." + + And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; + The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear, + Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, + The lifted sun shone on thy face, + Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + + That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; + A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and me: + But each will mourn his own (she saith), + And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + + I shall never hear her more + By the reedy Lindis shore, + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews be falling; + I shall never hear her song, + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along + Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; + From the meads where melick groweth, + When the water winding down, + Onward floweth to the town. + + I shall never see her more + Where the reeds and rushes quiver, + Shiver, quiver; + Stand beside the sobbing river, + Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling + To the sandy lonesome shore; + I shall never hear her calling, + "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; + Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, + From your clovers lift the head; + Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, + Jetty, to the milking-shed." + + + + +HOW DID YOU DIE?[5] + +EDMUND VANCE COOKE + + + Did you tackle that trouble that came your way + With a resolute heart and cheerful, + Or hide your face from the light of day + With a craven soul and fearful? + Oh, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce, + Or a trouble is what you make it, + And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, + But only--how did you take it? + + You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? + Come up with a smiling face. + It's nothing against you to fall down flat, + But to lie there--that's disgrace. + The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce; + Be proud of your blackened eye! + It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; + It's how did you fight--and why? + + And though you be done to the death, what then? + If you battled the best you could, + If you played your part in the world of men, + Why The Critic will call it good. + Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, + And whether he's slow, or spry, + It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, + But only--how did you die? + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[5] By permission of Forbes & Co, publishers, and of the author. + + + + +THE INDIGO BIRD[6] + +JOHN BURROUGHS + + + Oh, late to come but long to sing, + My little finch of deep-dyed wing, + I welcome thee this day! + Thou comest with the orchard bloom, + The azure days, the sweet perfume + That fills the breath of May. + + A winged gem amid the trees, + A cheery strain upon the breeze + From tree-top sifting down; + A leafy nest in covert low; + When daisies come and brambles blow, + A mate in Quaker brown. + + But most I prize, past summer's prime, + When other throats have ceased to chime, + Thy faithful tree-top strain; + No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall-- + A prelude with a "dying fall," + That soothes the summer's pain. + + Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade, + And clematis a bower hath made, + Or, in the bushy fields, + On breezy slopes where cattle graze, + At noon on dreamy August days, + Thy strain its solace yields. + + Oh, bird inured to sun and heat, + And steeped in summer languor sweet, + The tranquil days are thine. + The season's fret and urge are o'er, + Its tide is loitering on the shore; + Make thy contentment mine! + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[6] By permission of Harper & Bros., publishers, and the author. + + + + +THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS + +R. H. BARHAM + + + The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! + Bishop and abbot and prior were there; + Many a monk, and many a friar, + Many a knight, and many a squire, + With a great many more of lesser degree,-- + In sooth, a goodly company; + And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. + Never, I ween, was a prouder seen, + Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, + Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims! + In and out through the motley rout, + That little Jackdaw kept hopping about: + Here and there, like a dog in a fair, + Over comfits and cates, and dishes and plates, + Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, + Miter and crosier! he hopped upon all. + With a saucy air, he perched on the chair + Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat, + In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; + And he peered in the face + Of his Lordship's Grace, + With a satisfied look, as if he would say, + "We two are the greatest folks here to-day!" + And the priests with awe, as such freaks they saw, + Said, "The deuce must be in that little Jackdaw!" + + The feast was over, the board was cleared, + The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, + And six little singing-boys--dear little souls + In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles-- + Came, in order due, two by two, + Marching that grand refectory through! + + A nice little boy held a golden ewer, + Embossed and filled with water, as pure + As any that flows between Rheims and Namur, + Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch + In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. + Two nice little boys, rather more grown, + Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne; + And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, + Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope. + One little boy more a napkin bore, + Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, + And a Cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink." + + The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight + Of these nice little boys dressed all in white; + From his finger he draws his costly turquoise: + And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, + Deposits it straight by the side of his plate, + While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait; + Till when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, + That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring! + + There's a cry and a shout, and a terrible rout, + And nobody seems to know what they're about, + But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; + The friars are kneeling, and hunting and feeling + The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. + The Cardinal drew off each plum-colored shoe, + And left his red stockings exposed to the view; + He peeps, and he feels in the toes and the heels; + They turn up the dishes, they turn up the plates, + They take up the poker and poke out the grates, + They turn up the rugs, they examine the mugs; + But, no! no such thing,--they can't find THE RING! + + The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, + He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! + In holy anger and pious grief + He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! + Never was heard such a terrible curse! + But what gave rise to no little surprise, + Nobody seemed one penny the worse! + + The day was gone, the night came on, + The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; + When the sacristan saw, on crumpled claw, + Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! + No longer gay, as on yesterday; + His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way; + His pinions drooped, he could hardly stand,-- + His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; + His eye so dim, so wasted each limb, + Regardless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM! + That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, + That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's ring!" + The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks he saw, + Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; + And turned his bald head as much as to say, + "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" + Slower and slower he limped on before, + Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, + Where the first thing they saw, + Midst the sticks and the straw, + Was the RING, in the nest of the little Jackdaw! + + Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, + And off that terrible curse he took; + The mute expression served in lieu of confession, + And, being thus coupled with full restitution, + The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! + When these words were heard, the poor little bird + Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd: + He grew slick and fat; in addition to that, + A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! + His tail waggled more even than before; + But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, + No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair. + He hopped now about with a gait devout; + At matins, at vespers, he never was out; + And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, + He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. + If any one lied, or if any one swore, + Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, + That good Jackdaw would give a great "Caw!" + As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" + While many remarked, as his manners they saw, + That they never had known such a pious Jackdaw! + He long lived the pride of that country side, + And at last in the order of sanctity died: + When, as words were too faint his merits to paint, + The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. + And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, + It's the custom at Rome new names to bestow, + So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow! + + + + +JAFFAR + +LEIGH HUNT + + + Jaffar the Barmecide, the good vizier, + The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer, + Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; + And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust + Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, + Ordained that no man living, from that day, + Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. + All Araby and Persia held their breath; + + All but the brave Mondeer; he, proud to show + How far for love a grateful soul could go, + And facing death for very scorn and grief + (For his great heart wanted a great relief), + Stood forth in Bagdad, daily, in the square + Where once had stood a happy house, and there + Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar + On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. + + "Bring me this man," the caliph cried; the man + Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began + To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he, + "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; + From wants, from shames, from loveliest household fears, + Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; + Restored me, loved me, put me on a par + With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?" + + Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this + The mightiest vengeance could not fall amiss, + Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate + Might smile upon another half as great. + He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; + The caliph's judgment shall be master still. + Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, + The richest in the Tartar's diadem, + And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!" + "Gifts!" cried the friend; he took, and holding it + High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, + Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar!" + + + + +JIM BLUDSOE[7] + +JOHN HAY + + + Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives, + Because he don't live, you see; + Leastways, he's got out of the habit + Of livin' like you and me. + Whar have you been for the last three years, + That you haven't heard folks tell + How Jimmy Bludsoe passed in his checks, + The night of the Prairie Belle? + + He warn't no saint--them engineers + Is all pretty much alike-- + One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill, + And another one here in Pike. + A careless man in his talk was Jim, + And an awkward man in a row-- + But he never flunked, and he never lied-- + I reckon he never knowed how. + + And this was all the religion he had-- + To treat his engine well; + Never be passed on the river; + To mind the pilot's bell; + And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire; + A thousand times he swore, + He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank + Till the last soul got ashore. + + All boats has their day on the Mississip', + And her day came at last-- + The Movastar was a better boat, + But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed, + And so came a-tearin' along that night, + The oldest craft on the line, + With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, + And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. + + The fire burst out as she cleared the bar, + And burnt a hole in the night, + And quick as a flash she turned and made + For that willer-bank on the right. + Ther' was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out + Over all the infernal roar, + "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank + Till the last galoot's ashore." + + Thro' the hot black breath of the burnin' boat + Jim Bludsoe's voice was heard, + And they all had trust in his cussedness, + And know'd he would keep his word. + And sure's you're born, they all got off + Afore the smokestacks fell, + And Bludsoe's ghost went up alone + In the smoke of Prairie Belle. + + He warn't no saint--but at judgment + I'd run my chance with Jim + Longside of some pious gentleman + That wouldn't shook hands with him. + He'd seen his duty, a dead sure thing, + And went fer it thar and then; + And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard + On a man that died for men. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[7] By permission of Mrs. Hay. + + + + +KING ROBERT OF SICILY[8] + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW + + + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Appareled in magnificent attire, + With retinue of many a knight and squire, + On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat, + And heard the priests chant the Magnificat, + And as he listened, o'er and o'er again + Repeated, like a burden or refrain, + He caught the words, "Deposuit potentes + De sede et exultavit humiles;" + And slowly lifting up his kingly head, + He to the learned clerk beside him said, + "What mean those words?" The clerk made answer meet, + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree." + Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, + "'Tis well that such seditious words are sung + Only by priests and in the Latin tongue; + For unto priests and people be it known, + There is no power can push me from my throne!" + And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, + Lulled by the chant, monotonous and deep. + When he awoke it was already night; + The church was empty, and there was no light, + Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint, + Lighted a little space before some saint. + He started from his seat and gazed around, + But saw no living thing and heard no sound. + He groped toward the door, but it was locked; + He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, + And uttered awful threatenings and complaints, + And imprecations upon men and saints. + The sounds reechoed from the roof and walls + As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls. + + At length the sexton hearing from without + The tumult of the knocking and the shout, + And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer, + Came with his lantern asking, "Who is there?" + Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, + "Open: 'Tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?" + The frightened sexton muttering with a curse, + "This is some drunken vagabond or worse!" + Turned the great key and flung the portal wide; + A man rushed by him at a single stride, + Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, + Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, + But leaped into the blackness of the night, + And vanished like a spectre from his sight. + Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane + And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Despoiled of his magnificent attire, + Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, + With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, + Strode on and thundered at the palace gate; + Rushed through the courtyard, thrusting in his rage + To right and left each seneschal and page, + And hurried up the broad and sounding stair, + His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. + From hall to hall he rushed in breathless speed, + Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed, + Until at last he reached the banquet room, + Blazing with light and breathing with perfume. + + There on the dais sat another king, + Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet ring, + King Robert's self in feature, form and height, + But all transfigured with angelic light. + It was an Angel; and his presence there + With a divine effulgence filled the air, + An exaltation piercing the disguise, + Though none the hidden Angel recognize. + + A moment speechless, motionless, amazed, + The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed, + Who met his look of anger and surprise + With the divine compassion of his eyes; + Then said, "Who art thou, and why comest thou here?" + To which King Robert answered with a sneer, + "I am the King, and come to claim my own + From an imposter, who usurps my throne!" + And suddenly, at these audacious words, + Up sprang the angry guests and drew their swords! + The Angel answered with unruffled brow, + "Nay, not the king, but the king's Jester, thou + Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, + And for thy counselor shalt lead an ape; + Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, + And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!" + + Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, + They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs; + A group of tittering pages ran before, + And as they opened wide the folding doors, + His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, + The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, + And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring + With the mock plaudits of "Long live the King!" + + Next morning, waking with the day's first beam, + He said within himself, "It was a dream!" + But the straw rustled as he turned his head, + There were the cap and bells beside his bed, + Around him rose the bare discolored walls, + Close by the steeds were champing in their stalls, + And in the corner, a revolting shape, + Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. + It was no dream; the world he loved so much + Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch! + + Days came and went; and now returned again + To Sicily the old Saturnian reign; + Under the Angel's governance benign + The happy island danced with corn and wine, + And deep within the mountain's burning breast + Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. + + Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, + Sullen and silent and disconsolate, + Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, + With look bewildered and a vacant stare, + Close shaven above the ears as monks are shorn, + By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, + His only friend the ape, his only food + What others left,--he still was unsubdued. + And when the Angel met him on his way, + And half in earnest, half in jest, would say, + Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel, + The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, + "Art thou the King?" the passion of his woe, + Burst from him in resistless overflow, + And, lifting high his forehead he would fling + The haughty answer back, "I am, I am, the King!" + + Almost three years were ended, when there came + Ambassadors of great repute and fame + From Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, + Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane + By letter summoned them forthwith to come + On Holy Thursday to his City of Rome. + + The Pope received them with great pomp and blare + Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's Square, + Giving his benediction and embrace, + Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. + While with congratulations and with prayers + He entertained the Angel unawares. + Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd, + Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, + "I am the King! Look and behold in me + Robert, your brother, King of Sicily! + This man who wears my semblance in your eyes, + Is an imposter in a king's disguise. + Do you not know me? Does no voice within + Answer my cry, and say we are akin?" + The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien, + Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene; + The Emperor, laughing said, "It is strange sport + To keep a madman for thy fool at court!" + And the poor baffled Jester in disgrace + Was hustled back among the populace. + + In solemn state the Holy Week went by, + And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky; + The presence of the Angel, with its light, + Before the sun rose, made the city bright, + And with new fervor filled the hearts of men, + Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. + + Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, + With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw, + He felt within a power unfelt before, + And, kneeling humbly on the chamber floor, + He heard the rushing garments of the Lord + Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. + + And now the visit ending, and once more + Valmond returning to the Danube's shore, + Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again + The land was made resplendent with his train, + Flashing along the towns of Italy + Unto Salerno, and from thence by sea. + And when once more within Palermo's wall, + And, seated on the throne in his great hall, + He heard the Angelus from convent towers, + As if a better world conversed with ours, + He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher, + And with a gesture bade the rest retire; + And when they were alone, the Angel said, + "Art thou the King?" Then, bowing down his head, + King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast, + And meekly answered him: "Thou knowest best! + My sins as scarlet are; let me go hence, + And in some cloister's school of penitence, + Across those stones that pave the way to heaven, + Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul be shriven!" + + The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face + A holy light illumined all the place, + And through the open window, loud and clear, + They heard the monks chant in the chapel near, + Above the noise and tumult of the street: + "He has put down the mighty from their seat, + And has exalted them of low degree!" + And through the chant a second melody + Rose like the throbbing of a single string: + "I am an Angel, and thou art the King!" + + King Robert, who was standing near the throne, + Lifted his eyes, and lo! he was alone! + But all appareled as in days of old, + With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold, + And when his courtiers came, they found him there + Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[8] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, +Mifflin, & Co., authorized publishers of his works. + + + + +THE LADY OF SHALOTT + +ALFRED LORD TENNYSON + +PART I + + + On either side the river lie + Long fields of barley and of rye, + That clothe the wold and meet the sky; + And thro' the field the road runs by + To many-tower'd Camelot; + And up and down the people go, + Gazing where the lilies blow + Round an island there below, + The island of Shalott. + + Willows whiten, aspens quiver, + Little breezes dusk and shiver + Thro' the wave that runs forever + By the island in the river + Flowing down to Camelot. + Four gray walls, and four gray towers, + Overlook a space of flowers, + And the silent isle embowers + The Lady of Shalott. + + By the margin, willow-veil'd + Slide the heavy barges trail'd + By slow horses; and unhail'd + The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd + Skimming down to Camelot. + But who hath seen her wave her hand? + Or at the casement seen her stand? + Or is she known in all the land, + The Lady of Shalott? + + Only reapers, reaping early + In among the bearded barley, + Hear a song that echoes cheerly + From the river winding clearly, + Down to tower'd Camelot: + And by the moon the reaper weary + Piling sheaves in uplands airy, + Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy + Lady of Shalott." + + +PART II + + + There she weaves by night and day + A magic web with colors gay. + She has heard a whisper say, + A curse is on her if she stay + To look down to Camelot. + She knows not what the curse may be, + And so she weaveth steadily, + And little other care hath she, + The Lady of Shalott. + + And moving thro' a mirror clear + That hangs before her all the year, + Shadows of the world appear, + There she sees the highway near + Winding down to Camelot: + There the river eddy whirls, + And there the surly village-churls, + And the red cloaks of market girls, + Pass onward from Shalott. + + Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, + An abbot on an ambling pad, + Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, + Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, + Goes by to tower'd Camelot; + And sometimes thro' the mirror blue + The knights come riding two and two: + She hath no loyal knight and true, + The Lady of Shalott. + + But in her web she still delights + To weave the mirror's magic sights, + For often thro' the silent nights + A funeral, with plumes and lights + And music, went to Camelot: + Or when the moon was overhead, + Came two young lovers lately wed; + "I am half sick of shadows," said + The Lady of Shalott. + + +PART III + + + A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, + He rode between the barley sheaves, + The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, + And flamed upon the brazen greaves + Of bold Sir Lancelot. + A red-cross knight forever kneel'd + To a lady in his shield, + That sparkled on the yellow field, + Beside remote Shalott. + + All in the blue unclouded weather + Thick jewel'd shone the saddle-leather, + The helmet and the helmet-feather + Burn'd like one burning flame together, + As he rode down to Camelot. + As often thro' the purple night, + Below the starry clusters bright, + Some bearded meteor, trailing light, + Moves over still Shalott. + + His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; + On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; + From underneath his helmet flow'd + His coal-black curls as on he rode, + As he rode down to Camelot. + From the bank and from the river + He flashed into the crystal mirror, + "Tirra lirra," by the river + Sang Sir Lancelot. + + She left the web, she left the loom, + She made three paces thro' the room, + She saw the water lily bloom, + She saw the helmet and the plume, + She look'd down to Camelot. + Out flew the web and floated wide; + The mirror crack'd from side to side; + "The curse is come upon me," cried + The Lady of Shalott. + + +PART IV + + + In the stormy east-wind straining, + The pale yellow woods were waning, + The broad stream in his banks complaining, + Heavily the low sky raining + Over tower'd Camelot; + Down she came and found a boat + Beneath a willow left afloat, + And round about the prow she wrote + _The Lady of Shalott_. + + And down the river's dim expanse + Like some bold seer in a trance, + Seeing all his own mischance-- + With a glassy countenance + Did she look to Camelot. + And at the closing of the day + She loosed the chain, and down she lay; + The broad stream bore her far away, + The Lady of Shalott. + + Lying robed in snowy white + That loosely flew to left and right-- + The leaves upon her falling light-- + Thro' the noises of the night + She floated down to Camelot: + And as the boat-head wound along + The willowy hills and fields among, + They heard her singing her last song, + The Lady of Shalott. + + Heard a carol, mournful, holy, + Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, + Till her blood was frozen slowly + And her eyes were darken'd wholly, + Turn'd to tower'd Camelot. + For ere she reached upon the tide + The first house by the water side, + Singing in her song she died, + The Lady of Shalott. + + Under tower and balcony, + By garden-wall and gallery, + A gleaming shape she floated by, + Dead-pale between the houses high, + Silent into Camelot. + Out upon the wharfs they came, + Knight and burgher, lord and dame, + And around the prow they read her name, + _The Lady of Shalott_. + + Who is this? and what is here? + And in the lighted palace near + Died the sound of royal cheer; + And they cross'd themselves for fear, + All the knights at Camelot: + But Lancelot mused a little space; + He said, "She has a lovely face; + God in His mercy lend her grace, + The Lady of Shalott." + + + + +A LEGEND OF SERVICE[9] + +HENRY VAN DYKE + + + It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise his name!) + To hear, one day, report from those who came + With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, + To tell of earthly tasks in His employ; + For some were sorry when they saw how slow + The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; + And some were glad because their eyes had seen, + Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green. + So, at a certain hour, before the throne + The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; + Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, + And thus his tidings to the Master brought: + "Lord, in the city Lupon I have found + Three servants of thy holy name, renowned + Above their fellows. One is very wise, + With thoughts that ever range above the skies; + And one is gifted with the golden speech + That makes men glad to hear when he will teach; + And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, + Has won the people's love by doing good. + With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; + But, Lord, I fain would know which loves thee best?" + + Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look + The hearts of all are like an open book: + "In every soul the secret thought I read, + And well I know who loves me best indeed. + But every life has pages vacant still, + Whereon a man may write the thing he will; + Therefore I read in silence, day by day, + And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way. + But thou shalt go to Lupon, to the three + Who serve me there, and take this word from me: + Tell each of them his Master bids him go + Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow; + There he shall find a certain task for me, + But what, I do not tell to them nor thee. + Give thou the message, make my word the test, + And crown for me the one who answers best." + Silent the angel stood, with folded hands, + To take the imprint of his Lord's commands; + Then drew one breath, obedient and elate, + And passed the self-same hour, through Lupon's gate. + + First to the Temple door he made his way; + And then because it was an holy-day, + He saw the folk by thousands thronging, stirred + By ardent thirst to hear the preacher's word. + Then, while the echoes murmured Bernol's name, + Through aisles that hushed behind him, Bernol came; + Strung to the keenest pitch of conscious might, + With lips prepared and firm, and eyes alight. + One moment at the pulpit step he knelt + In silent prayer, and on his shoulder felt + The angel's hand:--"The Master bids thee go + Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, + To serve Him there." Then Bernol's hidden face + Went white as death, and for about the space + Of ten slow heart-beats there was no reply; + Till Bernol looked around and whispered, "Why?" + But answer to this question came there none; + The angel sighed, and with a sigh was gone. + + Within the humble house where Malvin spent + His studious years, on holy things intent, + Sweet stillness reigned; and there the angel found + The saintly sage immersed in thought profound, + Weaving with patient toil and willing care + A web of wisdom, wonderful and fair: + A seamless robe for Truth's great bridal meet, + And needing but one thread to be complete. + + Then Asmiel touched his hand and broke the thread + Of fine-spun thought, and very gently said, + "The One of whom thou thinkest bids thee go + Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, + To serve Him there." With sorrow and surprise + Malvin looked up, reluctance in his eyes. + The broken thought, the strangeness of the call, + The perilous passage of the mountain-wall, + The solitary journey, and the length + Of ways unknown, too great for his frail strength, + Appalled him. With a doubtful brow + He scanned the doubtful task, and muttered, "How?" + But Asmiel answered, as he turned to go, + With cold disheartened voice, "I do not know." + + Now as he went, with fading hope, to seek + The third and last, to whom God bade him speak, + Scarce twenty steps away whom should he meet + But Fermor, hurrying cheerful down the street, + With ready heart that faced his work like play, + And joyed to find it greater day by day! + The angel stopped him with uplifted hand, + And gave without delay his Lord's command: + "He whom thou servest here would have thee go + Alone to Spiran's huts, across the snow, + To serve Him there." Ere Asmiel breathed again + The eager answer leaped to meet him, "When?" + + The angel's face with inward joy grew bright, + And all his figure glowed with heavenly light; + He took the golden circlet from his brow + And gave the crown to Fermor, answering; "Now! + For thou hast met the Master's bidden test, + And I have found the man who loves Him best. + Not thine, nor mine, to question or reply + When He commands us, asking 'how?' or 'why?' + He knows the cause; His ways are wise and just; + Who serves the King must serve with perfect trust." + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[9] From "Music and other Poems," copyright, 1904, by Charles Scribner's +Sons. + + + + +LITTLE BOY BLUE + +EUGENE FIELD + + + The little toy dog is covered with dust, + But sturdy and stanch he stands; + And the little tin soldier is red with rust, + And his musket molds in his hands. + Time was when the little toy dog was new + And the soldier was passing fair, + And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue + Kissed them and put them there. + + "Now, don't you go till I come," he said; + "And don't you make any noise!" + So toddling off to his trundle bed + He dreamt of the pretty toys. + And, as he was dreaming, an angel song + Awakened our Little Boy Blue-- + Oh, the years are many, the years are long, + But the little toy friends are true. + + Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, + Each in the same old place. + Awaiting the touch of a little hand, + The smile of a little face. + And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, + In the dust of that little chair, + What has become of that Little Boy Blue + Since he kissed them and put them there. + + + + +MARY'S NIGHT RIDE[10] + +GEORGE W. CABLE + + +Mary Richling, the heroine of the story, was the wife of John Richling, +a resident of New Orleans. At the breaking out of the Civil War she went +to visit her parents in Milwaukee. About the time of the bombardment of +New Orleans she received news of the dangerous illness of her husband, +and she decided at once to reach his bedside, if possible. Taking with +her, her baby daughter, a child of three years, she proceeded southward, +where, after several unsuccessful attempts to secure a pass, she finally +determined to break through the lines. + +About the middle of the night Mary Richling was sitting very still and +upright on a large, dark horse that stood champing his Mexican bit in +the black shadow of a great oak. Alice rested before her, fast asleep +against her bosom. Mary held by the bridle another horse, whose naked +saddle-tree was empty. A few steps in front of her the light of the full +moon shone almost straight down upon a narrow road that just there +emerged from the shadow of woods on either side, and divided into a main +right fork and a much smaller one that curved around to Mary's left. Off +in the direction of the main fork the sky was all aglow with camp-fires. +Only just here on the left there was a cool and grateful darkness. + +She lifted her head alertly. A twig crackled under a tread, and the next +moment a man came out of the bushes at the left, and without a word took +the bridle of the old horse from her fingers and vaulted into the +saddle. The hand that rested a moment on the cantle as he rose grasped a +"navy six." He was dressed in dull homespun, but he was the same who had +been dressed in blue. He turned his horse and led the way down the +lesser road. + +"If we'd gone on three hundred yards further," he whispered, falling +back and smiling broadly, "we'd 'a' run into the pickets. I went nigh +enough to see the videttes settin' on their hosses in the main road. +This here ain't no road; it just goes up to a nigger quarters. I've got +one o' the niggers to show us the way." + +"Where is he?" whispered Mary; but before her companion could answer, a +tattered form moved from behind a bush a little in advance and started +ahead in the path, walking and beckoning. Presently they turned into a +clear, open forest, and followed the long, rapid, swinging stride of the +negro for nearly an hour. Then they halted on the bank of a deep, narrow +stream. The negro made a motion for them to keep well to the right when +they should enter the water. The white man softly lifted Alice to his +arms, directed and assisted Mary to kneel in her saddle, with her skirts +gathered carefully under her, and so they went down into the cold +stream, the negro first, with arms outstretched above the flood; then +Mary, and then the white man,--or, let us say plainly, the spy--with the +unawakened child on his breast. And so they rose out of it on the +farther side without a shoe or garment wet, save the rags of their dark +guide. + +Again they followed him, along a line of stake-and-rider fence, with the +woods on one side and the bright moonlight flooding a field of young +cotton on the other. Now they heard the distant baying of house-dogs, +now the doleful call of the chuck-will's-widow, and once Mary's blood +turned, for an instant, almost to ice at the unearthly shriek of the +hoot owl just above her head. At length they found themselves in a dim, +narrow road, and the negro stopped. + +"Dess keep dish yeh road fo' 'bout half mile, an' you strak 'pon de +broad, main road. Tek de left, an' you go whah yo' fancy tek you." + +"Good-by," whispered Mary. + +"Good-by, Miss," said the negro, in the same low voice; "good-by, boss; +don't you fo'git you promise tek me thoo to de Yankee' when you come +back. I 'feered you gwine fo'git it, boss." + +The spy said he would not, and they left him. The half-mile was soon +passed, though it turned out to be a mile and a half, and at length +Mary's companion looked back as they rode single file with Mary in the +rear, and said softly: + +"There's the road," pointing at its broad, pale line with his +six-shooter. + +As they entered it and turned to the left, Mary, with Alice again in her +arms, moved somewhat ahead of her companion, her indifferent +horsemanship having compelled him to drop back to avoid a prickly bush. +His horse was just quickening his pace to regain the lost position, when +a man sprang up from the ground on the farther side of the highway, +snatched a carbine from the earth and cried: "Halt!" + +The dark recumbent forms of six or eight others could be seen, enveloped +in their blankets, lying about a few red coals. Mary turned a frightened +look backward and met the eyes of her companion. + +"Move a little faster," said he, in a low, clear voice. As she promptly +did so she heard him answer the challenge, as his horse trotted softly +after hers. + +"Don't stop us, my friend; we're taking a sick child to the doctor." + +"Halt, you hound!" the cry rang out; and as Mary glanced back three or +four men were just leaping into the road. But she saw also her +companion, his face suffused with an earnestness that was almost an +agony, rise in his stirrups with the stoop of his shoulders all gone, +and wildly cry: + +"Go!" + +She smote the horse and flew. Alice woke and screamed. + +"Hush, my darling," said the mother, laying on the withe; "mamma's here. +Hush, darling, mamma's here. Don't be frightened, darling baby. O God, +spare my child!" and away she sped. + +The report of a carbine rang out and went rolling away in a thousand +echoes through the wood. Two others followed in sharp succession, and +there went close by Mary's ear the waspish whine of a minie-ball. At the +same moment she recognized, once,--twice,--thrice,--just at her back +where the hoofs of her companion's horse were clattering--the tart +rejoinders of his navy six. + +"Go!" he cried again. "Lay low! lay low! cover the child!" But his words +were needless. With head bowed forward and form crouched over the +crying, clinging child, with slackened rein and fluttering dress, and +sun-bonnet and loosened hair blown back upon her shoulders, with lips +compressed and silent prayers, Mary was riding for life and liberty and +her husband's bedside. + +"O mamma, mamma," wailed the terrified little one. + +"Go on! Go on!" cried the voice behind; "they're--saddling up! Go! go! +We're goin' to make it! We're going to make it! Go-o-o!" + +And they made it! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[10] From "Dr. Sevier." + + + + +NYDIA, THE BLIND GIRL[11] + +EDWARD BULWER LYTTON + + +As Glaucus, a young Athenian, now a resident of Pompeii, was strolling +with his friend Clodius through the streets of that renowned city, their +steps were arrested by a crowd gathered round an open space where three +streets met; and just where the porticoes of a light, graceful temple +threw their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on her +right arm and a small three-stringed instrument of music in her left +hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulating a low, plaintive +air. + +"It is my poor, blind Thessalian," said Glaucus, stopping; "I have not +seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush! let us listen to her song." + + +THE BLIND FLOWER GIRL'S SONG + + + Buy my flowers, O buy, I pray! + The blind girl comes from afar; + If the earth be as fair as I hear them say, + These flowers her children are! + + Do they her beauty keep? + They are fresh from her lap, I know, + For I caught them fast asleep + In her arms an hour ago. + + Ye have a world of light, + Where love in the loved rejoices; + But the blind girl's home is the house of night, + And its beings are empty voices. + + Come buy,--buy, come buy!-- + Hark! how the sweet things sigh + (For they have a voice like ours) + O buy--O buy the flowers! + + +"I must have that bunch of violets, sweet Nydia," said Glaucus, "your +voice is more charming than ever." + +The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian's voice; then +as suddenly paused, while a blush of timidity flushed over neck, cheeks, +and temples. + +"So you are returned!" she said in a low voice. + +"Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. My garden +wants your care, you will visit it, I trust, to-morrow, and mind, no +garlands at my house shall be woven by any hands but those of the pretty +Nydia." + +Nydia smiled joyously but did not answer; and Glaucus, placing in his +breast the violets he had selected, turned gaily and carelessly from the +crowd. + +Though of gentle birth, for her cradle was rocked at the foot of +Olympus, Nydia had been sold when quite young to Burbo, a gladiator of +the amphitheater. She was cruelly treated by the wife of Burbo. + +Glaucus bought her, took her to his home, and her sweetest joy was to +minister to the comfort and entertainment of her deliverer. The vines +that grew upon the walls of the peristyle were not more graceful, their +tendrils not more trusting and tender, nor the flowers woven into +wreaths and garlands by her skillful fingers more beautiful than the +blind flower-girl of the house of Glaucus. + +As the months went on what wonder that the kind words and sympathetic +voice which had been the first that had sounded musically to her ear +should awaken in the breast of Nydia a deeper love than that which +springs from gratitude alone! What wonder that in her innocence and +blindness she knew no reason why the most brilliant and the most +graceful of the young nobles of Pompeii should entertain none other than +feelings of friendship for her! When the Athenian drew her unconsciously +to his breast, deeming her still a child--when he kissed her cheek and +wound his arm around her trembling form, Nydia felt that those feelings +she had innocently cherished were of love. + +What wonder then that into her wild and passionate soul should creep the +pangs of jealousy when another claimed the homage of him who was all to +her! + +Glaucus loved Ione, a beautiful young Neapolitan of Greek parentage who +had lately come to Pompeii. She was one of those brilliant characters +which seldom flash across our career. She united in the highest +perfection the rarest of earthly gifts,--Genius and Beauty. No one ever +possessed superior intellectual qualities without knowing them. In the +person of Ione, Glaucus found the long-sought idol of his dreams; and so +infatuated was he, that he could talk of no one else. No song was sweet +but that which breathed of love, and to him love was but a synonym of +Ione. + +"Play to us, dear Nydia,--play, and give us one of thy songs; whether it +be of magic or not as thou wilt--let it at least be of love." + +"Of love! wish you that I should sing of love?" + +"Yes." + +She moved a little way from Ione, who had learned to love her more as a +sister than a slave, and placing her light, graceful instrument on her +knee, after a short prelude, she sang the following strain, in which +with touching pathos, her own sighs were represented by the _Wind_, the +brightness of the beautiful Ione by the _Sun-beam_, and the personality +of Glaucus by his favorite flower, the _Rose_. + + +I + + + The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose, + And the Rose loved one; + For who seeks the Wind where it blows? + Or loves not the Sun? + + +II + + + None knew where the humble Wind stole, + Poor sport of the skies-- + None dreamt that the Wind had a soul, + In its mournful sighs! + + +III + + + Oh, happy Beam! how canst thou prove + That bright love of thine? + In thy light is the proof of thy love, + Thou hast but--to shine! + + +IV + + + How can the Wind its love reveal? + Unwelcome its sigh; + Mute--mute to its Rose be it still-- + Its proof is--to die! + + +Alike in their mornings at the house of Ione, and in their evening +excursions, Nydia was usually their constant, and often their sole +companion. They did not guess the secret fires which consumed her; the +flames of which were ever fanned by the unconscious breath of the two +lovers. Yet her fidelity arose above her pitiful pangs of jealousy and +in the hour of need she was the tried and trusted. + +The scene changes; where only the brightness of uninterrupted love had +hitherto fallen, now creep the black shadows of tragic sorrow. + +Ione falls into the clutches of Arbaces, a subtle, crafty Egyptian, who +attempted by the magic of his dark sorcery, to win her away from +Glaucus. In pursuit of his base designs, Arbaces murders Apaecides, the +brother of Ione, imprisons the priest Calenus, the only witness of the +deed, and with great cunning weaves a convicting web of circumstantial +evidence around Glaucus, his hated rival. Glaucus is tried, convicted, +and doomed to be thrown to the lion. Ione and Nydia are also prisoners +in the house of Arbaces. Glaucus has been placed in that gloomy and +narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena awaited their last and +fearful struggle. + +Alas! how faithless are the friendships made around an epicurean board! +Where were the gay loiterers who once lingered at the feasts and drank +the rich wines of the house of Glaucus? Only Sallust shed a tear, but he +was powerless against Arbaces who was backed by the corrupt priesthood +of Isis. + +What ministering angel should now come forth as a light out of darkness +bearing, even in her blindness, the conditions of deliverance, but +Nydia. From the slaves of Arbaces she learned the approaching fate of +Glaucus. Working upon the superstition of her special guard Sosia, she +manages to escape his vigilance for a time, and creeping along a dark +passage she overhears the cries of the priest Calenus lately +incarcerated in an adjoining dungeon cell. From him she learns the +circumstances of the crime of Arbaces for which the innocent Glaucus was +doomed to die. A few hours later she was captured by Sosia and replaced +in her cell. + +Yet knowing that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on her, +this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely susceptible as she +was--resolved not to give way to despair. Glaucus was in deadly peril, +but she should save him! Sosia was her only hope, the only instrument +with which she could tamper. + +As if afraid he would be again outwitted, Sosia refrained from visiting +her until a late hour of the following day. + +"Kind Sosia, chide me not," said Nydia, "I cannot endure to be so long +alone, the solitude appalls me. Sit with me, I pray, a little while. +Nay, fear not that I should attempt to escape; place thy seat before the +door. Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up thy freedom?" + +"How much?" said he, "why, about 2000 sesterces." + +"The Gods be praised! not more? Seest thou these bracelets and this +chain? they are worth double that sum. I will give them thee if thou +wilt let me out, only for one little hour! let me out at midnight--I +will return ere to-morrow's dawn; nay, thou canst go with me." + +"No," said Sosia, sturdily, "a slave once disobeying Arbaces is never +heard of more." + +"Well, then, thou wilt not, at least, refuse to take a letter for me; +thy master cannot kill thee for that." + +"To whom?" + +"To Sallust, the gay Sallust. Glaucus was my master, he purchased me +from a cruel lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die to-morrow. +I shall never live happily if I cannot, in this hour of trial and doom, +let him know that one heart is grateful to him. Sallust is his friend; +he will convey my message." + +"Well, give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter." + +Nydia carefully prepared the epistle, but ere she placed it in the hands +of Sosia she thus addressed him: + +"Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to deceive me--thou +mayst pretend only to take the letter to Sallust--thou mayst not fulfill +thy charge; but here I solemnly dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul +to the infernal powers, if thou wrongest thy trust; and I call upon thee +to place thy right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these +words;--'_By the ground on which we stand--by the elements which contain +life and which can curse life--by Orcus, the all-avenging--by the +Olympian Jupiter, the all-seeing--I swear that I will honestly discharge +my trust, and faithfully deliver this letter into the hands of +Sallust_.' Enough! I trust thee--take thy reward. It is already +dark--depart at once." + +Sosia was true to his trust--Sallust read the letter, she wrote,--"_I am +a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the Praetor! procure my +release, and we yet shall save Glaucus from the lion. There is another +prisoner within these walls, whose witness can exonerate the Athenian +from the charge against him;--one who saw the crime--who can prove the +criminal to be a villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly! hasten! quick! +quick! Bring with you armed men, lest resistance be made,--and a cunning +and dexterous smith; for the dungeon of my fellow-prisoner is thick and +strong. Oh! by thy right hand, and thy father's ashes, lose not a +moment!_" + +The day for the sports in the amphitheater had come and all the seats +were filled with eager and expectant people. The gladiatorial fights and +other games of the arena were completed. + +"Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian," said the editor. + +Just then a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances of the arena; the +crowd gave way and suddenly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, +his hair disheveled; breathless; half exhausted--he cast his eyes +hastily around the ring. + +"Remove the Athenian," he cried, "haste,--he is innocent. Arrest Arbaces +the Egyptian. He is the murderer of Apaecides." + +"Art thou mad, O Sallust?" said the praetor, "what means this raving?" + +"Remove the Athenian--quick, or his blood be on your head. I bring with +me the eye-witness to the death of Apaecides. Room there--stand +back--give way. People of Pompeii, fix every eye on Arbaces--there he +sits--room there for the priest Calenus." + +"Enough at present," said the praetor. "The details must be reserved for +a more suiting time and place. Ho! guards! remove the accused Glaucus, +arrest Arbaces, guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for your +accusation. Let the sports be resumed." + +As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry of joy--a female +voice--a child voice--and it was of joy! It rang through the heart of +the assembly with electric force--it was touching, it was holy, that +child's voice! + +"Silence!" said the grave praetor--"who is there?" + +"The blind girl--Nydia," answered Sallust; "it is her hand that raised +Calenus from the grave and delivered Glaucus from the lion." + +Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awake, Glaucus had been +led by the officers of the arena into a small cell within the walls of +the theater. They threw a loose robe over his form and crowded around in +congratulation and wonder. There was an impatient and fretful cry +without the cell; the throng gave way, and the blind girl flung herself +at the feet of Glaucus. + +"It is I who saved thee," she sobbed, "now let me die!" + +"Nydia, my child!--my preserver!" + +"Oh, let me feel thy touch--thy breath! yes, yes, thou livest! We are +not too late! That dread door methought would never yield! But thou +livest! Thou livest yet!--and I--I have saved thee!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[11] Adapted by Robt. I. Fulton from "Last Days of Pompeii." + + + + +O CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN![12] + +ON THE DEATH OF LINCOLN + +WALT WHITMAN + + + O Captain, my Captain! our fearful trip is done; + The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; + But, O heart, heart, heart! O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead. + + O Captain, my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, + For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths--for you the shores + a-crowding, + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; + Here, Captain, dear father! this arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck, you've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; + My Captain does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; + The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage is closed and done; + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; + Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! but I with mournful tread + Walk the deck where my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[12] By permission of David McKay, publisher. + + + + +ON THE OTHER TRAIN + +A CLOCK'S STORY + +ANONYMOUS + + +"There, Simmons, you blockhead! Why didn't you trot that old woman +aboard her train? She'll have to wait here now until the 1.05 A.M." + +"You didn't tell me." + +"Yes, I did tell you. 'Twas only your confounded stupid carelessness." + +"She--" + +"She! You blockhead! What else could you expect of her! Probably she +hasn't any wit; besides, she isn't bound on a very jolly journey--got a +pass up the road to the poorhouse. I'll go and tell her, and if you +forget her to-night, see if I don't make mince-meat of you!" and our +worthy ticket agent shook his fist menacingly at his subordinate. + +"You've missed your train, marm," he remarked, coming forward to a +queer-looking bundle in the corner. + +A trembling hand raised the faded black veil, and revealed the sweetest +old face I ever saw. + +"Never mind," said a quivering voice. + +"'Tis only three o'clock now; you'll have to wait until the night train, +which doesn't go up until 1.05." + +"Very well, sir; I can wait." + +"Wouldn't you like to go to some hotel? Simmons will show you the way." + +"No, thank you, sir. One place is as good as another to me. Besides, I +haven't any money." + +"Very well," said the agent, turning away indifferently. "Simmons will +tell you when it's time." + +All the afternoon she sat there so quiet that I thought sometimes she +must be asleep, but when I looked more closely I could see every once +in a while a great tear rolling down her cheek, which she would wipe +away hastily with her cotton handkerchief. + +The depot was crowded, and all was bustle and hurry until the 9.50 train +going east came due; then every passenger left except the old lady. It +is very rare, indeed, that any one takes the night express, and almost +always after ten o'clock the depot becomes silent and empty. + +The ticket agent put on his greatcoat, and, bidding Simmons keep his +wits about him for once in his life, departed for home. + +But he had no sooner gone than that functionary stretched himself out +upon the table, as usual, and began to snore vociferously. + +Then it was I witnessed such a sight as I never had before and never +expect to again. + +The fire had gone down--it was a cold night, and the wind howled +dismally outside. The lamps grew dim and flared, casting weird shadows +upon the wall. By and by I heard a smothered sob from the corner, then +another. I looked in that direction. She had risen from her seat, and +oh! the look of agony on the poor pinched face. + +"I can't believe it," she sobbed, wringing her thin, white hands. "Oh! I +can't believe it! My babies! my babies! how often have I held them in my +arms and kissed them; and how often they used to say back to me, 'Ise +love you, mamma,' and now, O God! they've turned against me. Where am I +going? To the poorhouse! No! no! no! I cannot! I will not! Oh, the +disgrace!" + +And sinking upon her knees, she sobbed out in prayer: + +"O God! spare me this and take me home! O God, spare me this disgrace; +spare me!" + +The wind rose higher and swept through the crevices, icy cold. How it +moaned and seemed to sob like something human that is hurt. I began to +shake, but the kneeling figure never stirred. The thin shawl had +dropped from her shoulders unheeded. Simmons turned over and drew his +blanket more closely about him. + +Oh, how cold! Only one lamp remained, burning dimly; the other two had +gone out for want of oil. I could hardly see, it was so dark. + +At last she became quieter and ceased to moan. Then I grew drowsy, and +kind of lost the run of things after I had struck twelve, when some one +entered the depot with a bright light. I started up. It was the +brightest light I ever saw, and seemed to fill the room full of glory. I +could see 'twas a man. He walked to the kneeling figure and touched her +upon the shoulder. She started up and turned her face wildly around. I +heard him say:-- + +"'Tis train time, ma'am. Come!" + +A look of joy came over her face. + +"I am ready," she whispered. + +"Then give me your pass, ma'am." + +She reached him a worn old book, which he took, and from it read +aloud:-- + +"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you +rest." + +"That's the pass over our road, ma'am. Are you ready?" + +The light died away, and darkness fell in its place. My hand touched the +stroke of one. Simmons awoke with a start and snatched his lantern. The +whistle sounded down brakes; the train was due. He ran to the corner and +shook the old woman. + +"Wake up, marm; 'tis train time." + +But she never heeded. He gave one look at the white set face, and, +dropping his lantern, fled. + +The up train halted, the conductor shouted "All aboard," but no one made +a move that way. + +The next morning, when the ticket agent came, he found her frozen to +death. They whispered among themselves, and the coroner made out the +verdict "apoplexy," and it was in some way hushed up. + +But the last look on the sweet old face, lit up with a smile so +unearthly, I keep with me yet; and when I think of the occurrence of +that night, I know she went out on the other train, that never stopped +at the poorhouse. + + + + +THE PANSY + +ANONYMOUS + + + Of all the bonny buds that blow, + In bright or cloudy weather, + Of all the flowers that come and go, + The whole twelve moons together, + This little purple pansy brings, + Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things. + + I had a little lover once, + Who used to give me posies; + His eyes were blue as hyacinths, + His lips were red as roses; + And everybody loved to praise + His pretty looks and winsome ways. + + The girls that went to school with me + Made little jealous speeches, + Because he brought me royally + His biggest plums and peaches, + And always at the door would wait, + To carry home my books and slate. + + They couldn't see--with pout and fling-- + "The mighty fascination + About that little snub-nosed thing, + To win such admiration; + As if there weren't a dozen girls + With nicer eyes and longer curls!" + + And this I knew as well as they, + And never could see clearly + Why, more than Marion or May, + I should be loved so dearly. + So once I asked him, why was this; + He only answered with a kiss; + + Until I teased him: "Tell me why, + I want to know the reason." + Then from the garden-bed close by + (The pansies were in season) + He plucked and gave a flower to me, + With sweet and simple gravity. + + "The garden is in bloom," he said, + "With lilies pale and slender, + With roses and verbenas red, + And fuchsias' purple splendor; + But over and above the rest, + This little heart's-ease suits me best." + + "Am I your little heart's-ease, then?" + I asked with blushing pleasure. + He answered "Yes!" and "Yes!" again-- + "Heart's-ease and dearest treasure;" + That the round world and all the sea + Held nothing half so sweet as me! + + I listened with a proud delight, + Too rare for words to capture, + Nor ever dreamed what sudden blight, + Would come to chill my rapture. + Could I foresee the tender bloom + Of pansies round a little tomb? + + Life holds some stern experience, + As most of us discover, + And I've had other losses since + I lost my little lover; + But still this purple pansy brings + Thoughts of the sweetest, saddest things. + + + + +"THE REVENGE" + +A BALLAD OF THE FLEET, 1591 + +ALFRED LORD TENNYSON + + + At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, + And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: + "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" + Then spake Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward; + But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, + And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick, + We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" + + Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; + You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. + But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore; + I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, + To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." + + So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day, + Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; + But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land + Very carefully and slow, + Men of Bideford and Devon, + And we laid them on the ballast down below; + For we brought them all aboard, + And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, + To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. + + He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, + And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight + With his huge sea castles heaving upon the weather bow. + "Shall we fight or shall we fly? + Good Sir Richard, let us know, + For to fight is but to die! + There'll be little of us left, by the time this sun be set." + And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good Englishmen; + Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, + For I never turned my back upon Don or Devil yet." + + Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so + The little "Revenge" ran on, sheer into the heart of the foe, + With her hundred fighters on deck and her ninety sick below; + For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were + seen, + And the little "Revenge" ran on, thro' the long sea-lane between. + + Thousands of their soldiers looked down from their decks and + laugh'd, + Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft + Running on and on, till delay'd + By their mountain-like "San Philip," that, of fifteen hundred tons, + And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, + Took the breath from our sails and we stay'd. + And while now the great "San Philip" hung above us like a cloud + Whence the thunderbolt will fall + Long and loud, + Four galleons drew away + From the Spanish fleet that day, + And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, + And the battle-thunder broke from them all. + + And the sun went down, and the stars came out, far over the summer + sea, + But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. + Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons + came, + Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and + flame; + Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and + her shame, + For some were sunk, and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us + no more-- + God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? + + For he said: "Fight on! fight on!" + Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; + And it chanced that, when half of the summer night was gone, + With a grisly wound to be dressed, he had left the deck, + But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, + And himself he was wounded again, in the side and the head, + And he said: "Fight on! fight on!" + + And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer + sea, + And the Spanish fleet, with broken sides, lay round us, all in a + ring; + But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still + could sting, + So they watched what the end would be. + And we had not fought them in vain, + But in perilous plight were we, + Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, + And half of the rest of us maim'd for life + In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife. + + And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, + And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it + spent; + And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; + But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: + "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night + As may never be fought again! + We have won great glory, my men! + And a day less or more + At sea or ashore, + We die--does it matter when? + Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! + Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!" + + And the gunner said: "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: + "We have children, we have wives, + And the Lord hath spared our lives. + We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; + We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow." + And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. + + And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, + Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last. + And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; + But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: + "I have fought for Queen and Faith, like a valiant man and true; + I have only done my duty, as a man is bound to do; + With a joyful spirit, I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" + And he fell upon their decks, and he died. + + And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, + And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap, + That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; + Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, + But they sank his body with honor down into the deep, + And they mann'd the "Revenge" with a swarthier alien crew, + And away she sail'd with her loss, and long'd for her own; + When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, + And the water began to heave, and the weather to moan, + And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, + And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, + Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and + their flags, + And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of + Spain, + And the little "Revenge" herself went down by the island crags, + To be lost evermore in the main. + + + + +THE RIDER OF THE BLACK HORSE + +GEORGE LIPPARD + + +It was the 7th of October, 1777. Horatio Gates stood before his tent, +gazing steadfastly upon the two armies now arrayed in order of battle. +It was a clear, bracing day, mellow with the richness of autumn. The sky +was cloudless, the foliage of the wood scarce tinged with purple and +gold, the buckwheat in yonder fields frostened into snowy ripeness. But +the tread of legions shook the ground, from every bush shot the glimmer +of the rifle barrel, on every hillside blazed the sharpened bayonet. +Gates was sad and thoughtful, as he watched the evolutions of the two +armies. But all at once a smoke arose, a thunder shook the ground and a +chorus of shouts and groans yelled along the darkened air. The play of +death had begun. The two flags, this of the stars, that of the red +cross, tossed amid the smoke of battle, while the sky was clouded with +leaden folds, and the earth throbbed with the pulsations of a mighty +heart. + +Suddenly, Gates and his officers were startled. Along the height on +which they stood came a rider on a black horse, rushing towards the +distant battle. There was something in the appearance of this horse and +his rider that struck them with surprise. Look! he draws his sword, the +sharp blade quivers through the air, he points to the distant battle and +lo! he is gone; gone through those clouds, while his shout echoes over +the plains. Wherever the fight is thickest, there through intervals of +cannon-smoke you may see riding madly forward that strange soldier, +mounted on his steed black as death. Look at him, as with face red with +British blood he waves his sword and shouts to his legions. Now you may +see him fighting in that cannon's glare, and the next moment he is away +off yonder, leading the forlorn hope up that steep cliff. Is it not a +magnificent sight, to see that strange soldier and that noble black +horse dashing, like a meteor, down the long columns of battle? + +Let us look for a moment into those dense war-clouds. Over this thick +hedge bursts a band of American militiamen, their rude farmer-coats +stained with blood, while scattering their arms by the way, they flee +before that company of red-coat hirelings, who come rushing forward, +their solid front of bayonets gleaming in the battle light. At this +moment of their flight, a horse comes crashing over the plains. The +unknown rider reins his steed back on his haunches, right in the path of +a broad-shouldered militiaman. "Now, cowards! advance another step and +I'll strike you to the heart!" shouts the unknown, extending a pistol +in either hand. "What! are you Americans, men, and fly before British +soldiers? Back again, and face them once more, or I myself will ride you +down!" + +This appeal was not without its effect. The militiaman turns; his +comrades, as if by one impulse, follow his example. In one line, but +thirty men in all, they confront thirty sharp bayonets. The British +advance. "Now upon the rebels, charge!" shouts the red-coat officer. +They spring forward at the same bound. Look! their bayonets almost touch +the muzzles of their rifles. At this moment the voice of the unknown +rider was heard: "Now let them have it! Fire!" A sound is heard, a smoke +is seen, twenty Britons are down, some writhing in death, some crawling +along the soil, and some speechless as stone. The remaining ten start +back. "Club your rifles and charge them home!" shouts the unknown. That +black horse springs forward, followed by the militiamen. Then a confused +conflict, a cry for quarter, and a vision of twenty farmers grouped +around the rider of the black horse, greeting him with cheers. + +Thus it was all the day long. Wherever that black horse and his rider +went, there followed victory. At last, towards the setting of the sun, +the crisis of the conflict came. That fortress yonder, on Bemus Heights, +must be won, or the American cause is lost! That cliff is too +steep--that death is too certain. The officers cannot persuade the men +to advance. The Americans have lost the field. Even Morgan, that iron +man among iron men, leans on his rifle and despairs of the field. But +look yonder! In this moment when all is dismay and horror, here, +crashing on, comes the black horse and his rider. That rider bends upon +his steed, his frenzied face covered with sweat and dust and blood; he +lays his hand upon that bold rifleman's shoulder, and as though living +fire had been poured into his veins, he seizes his rifle and starts +toward the rock. And now look! now hold your breath, as that black +steed crashes up that steep cliff. That steed quivers! he totters! he +falls! No! No! Still on, still up the cliff, still on towards the +fortress. The rider turns his face and shouts, "Come on, men of Quebec! +come on!" That call is needless. Already the bold riflemen are on the +rock. Now, British cannon, pour your fires, and lay your dead in tens +and twenties on the rock. Now, red-coat hirelings, shout your battle-cry +if you can! For look! there, in the gate of the fortress, as the smoke +clears away, stands the black horse and his rider. That steed falls +dead, pierced by an hundred balls; but his rider, as the British cry for +quarter, lifts up his voice and shouts afar to Horatio Gates waiting +yonder in his tent, "Saratoga is won!" As that cry goes up to heaven, he +falls with his leg shattered by a cannon-ball. + +Who was the rider of the black horse? Do you not guess his name? Then +bend down and gaze on that shattered limb, and you will see that it +bears the mark of a former wound. That wound was received in the +storming of Quebec. The rider of the black horse was Benedict Arnold. + + + + +SAILING BEYOND SEAS + +JEAN INGELOW + + + Methought the stars were blinking bright, + And the old brig's sails unfurl'd; + I said: "I will sail to my love this night, + At the other side of the world." + I stepp'd aboard--we sail'd so fast-- + The sun shot up from the bourn; + But a dove that perch'd upon the mast + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + O fair dove! O fond dove! + And dove with the white, white breast-- + Let me alone, the dream is my own, + And my heart is full of rest. + + My true love fares on this great hill, + Feeding his sheep for aye; + I look'd in his hut, but all was still, + My love was gone away. + I went to gaze in the forest creek, + And the dove mourn'd on apace; + No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek + Rose up to show me his place. + O last love! O first love! + My love with the true, true heart, + To think I have come to this your home, + And yet--we are apart! + + My love! He stood at my right hand, + His eyes were grave and sweet; + Methought he said: "In this far land, + O, is it thus we meet? + Ah, maid most dear, I am not here; + I have no place, no part, + No dwelling more by sea or shore, + But only in thy heart." + O fair dove! O fond dove! + Till night rose over the bourn, + The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast, + Did mourn, and mourn, and mourn. + + + + +THE SANDS OF DEE + +CHARLES KINGSLEY + + + "O Mary go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + Across the sands o' Dee!" + The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, + And all alone went she. + + The creeping tide came up along the sand, + And o'er and o'er the sand, + And round and round the sand, + As far as eye could see; + The blinding mist came down and hid the land-- + And never home came she. + + "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- + A tress o' golden hair, + O' drowned maiden's hair + Above the nets at sea? + Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, + Among the stakes o' Dee." + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel, crawling foam, + The cruel, hungry foam,-- + To her grave beside the sea; + But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, + Across the sands o' Dee. + + + + +THE SCHOOL OF SQUEERS[13] + +CHARLES DICKENS + + +The following advertisement appeared in the morning papers: + + + EDUCATION.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall at + the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in + Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with + pocket money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all + languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, + astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, + single-stick, if required, writing, arithmetic, fortification, and + every other branch of classical literature. Terms twenty guineas + per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. + Squeers is in town and attends daily, from one till four, at the + Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual + salary, five pounds. A Master of Arts would be preferred. + + +Nicholas Nickleby obtained the above situation, having found that it was +not absolutely necessary to have acquired the degree, and arrived at the +inn, to join Mr. Squeers, at eight o'clock of a November morning. He +found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with five little boys +in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small +measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but +he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys. +"This is two penn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said Squeers, looking +down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an +accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it. + +"That's two penn'orth, sir," replied the waiter. + +"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London! Just fill that mug +up with lukewarm water, William, will you?" + +"To the very top, sir? Why, the milk will be drowned." + +"Never you mind that. Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that +thick bread and butter for three, did you?" + +"Coming directly, sir." + +"You needn't hurry yourself, there's plenty of time. Conquer your +passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this +moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and +recognized Nicholas. + +"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby. Here we are, a-breakfasting, you see! Oh! +that's the milk and water, is it, William? Very good; don't forget the +bread and butter presently. Ah! here's richness! Think of the many +beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little +boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?" + +"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas. + +"When I say number one, the boy on the left hand nearest the window may +take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, +and so till we come to number five which is the last boy. Are you ready? + +"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys. + +"That's right, keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your +appetites, boys, and you've conquered human nature. This is the way we +inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby. Number one may take a drink." + +Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make +him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who +gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process +was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five. + +"And now," said Squeers, dividing the bread for three into as many +portions as there were children, "You had better look sharp with your +breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy +leaves off.--Ah! I thought it wouldn't be long; put what you haven't had +time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road." Which they +certainly did, for the air was cool, and the journey was long and +tiresome. However, they arrived quite safely; and Nicholas, weary, +retired to rest. + +In the morning he was taken to the school-room accompanied by Squeers. + +"There, this is our shop, Nickleby." It was a crowded scene. A bare and +dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of +glass, the remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. Pale +and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, little faces, which should +have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering. +There was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, its beauty gone +and its helplessness alone remaining--truly an incipient Hell. A few +minutes having elapsed, Squeers called up the first class. + +"This is the first class in English, spelling, and philosophy, +Nickleby. We'll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now then, +where's the first boy?" + +"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window." + +"So he is, to be sure. We go upon the practical mode of teaching, +Nickleby, the regular educational system. C-l-e-a-n, clean. Verb active. +To make bright, to scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder. A casement. +When a boy knows this out of his book he goes and does it. It's just the +same principle as the use of the globes. Where's the second boy?" + +"Please, sir, he's weeding the garden." + +"To be sure, so he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, +bottinney. Noun substantive. A knowledge of plants. When a boy learns +that bottinney is a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em. That's +our system, Nickleby. Third boy, what's a horse?" + +"A beast, sir." + +"So it is. A horse is a quadruped, and quadruped is Latin for beast, as +everybody that's gone through the grammar knows, or else where's the use +of havin' grammars at all? As you're perfect in that, go and look after +my horse, and rub him down well or I'll rub you down. The rest of the +class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for +it's washing day to-morrow and they want the coppers filled." + +So saying, he dismissed his first class to their experiments in +practical philosophy. + +It was Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of +report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis. They were +therefore soon recalled from the house, window, garden, stable, and cow +yard, and Mr. Squeers entered the room. A deathlike silence immediately +prevailed. + +"Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as +strong and as well as ever." + +According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at +this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of extra strength with +the chill on. + +"I have seen the parents of some boys, and they're so glad to hear how +their sons are getting on, that there's no prospect at all of their +going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon for +all parties. But I've had disappointments to contend against. Bolder's +father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder? + +"Here he is, please, sir." + +"Come here, Bolder," said Squeers. + +An unhealthy boy with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place +to the Master's desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers's face. + +"Bolder, if your father thinks that because--why, what's this, sir?" + +As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy's hand by the cuff of his jacket, +and surveyed the warts with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust. + +"What do you call this, sir?" + +"I can't help it, indeed, sir. They will come; it's the dirty work, I +think, sir--at least I don't know what it is, sir, but it's not my +fault." + +"Bolder, you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last +thrashing did you no good, we'll see what another will do towards +beating it out of you." + +With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers +fell upon the boy and caned him soundly; not leaving off, indeed, until +his arm was tired out. + +"There, rub away as hard as you like, you won't rub that off in a hurry. +Now let us see. A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey. Oh! Cobbey's +grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is +all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, which will just +pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you +take the money? + +"Graymarsh, he's the next. Stand up, Graymarsh. Graymarsh's aunt is very +glad to hear he's so well and happy, and sends her respectful +compliments to Mrs. Squeers and thinks she must be an angel. She +likewise thinks that Mr. Squeers is too good for this world, but hopes +he may long be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two +pairs of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards a +tract instead, and hopes that Graymarsh will put his trust in +Providence. Hopes, above all, that he will study in everything to please +Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only friends; and that +he will love master Squeers, and not object to sleeping five in a bed, +which no Christian should. Ah! a delightful letter. Very affecting +indeed. + +"Mobbs!--Mobbs's mother-in-law took to her bed on hearing that he +wouldn't eat fat, and has been very ill ever since. She wishes to know, +by an early post, where he expects to go to if he quarrels with his +vittles; and with what feelings he could turn up his nose at the cow's +liver broth, after his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was +told her in the London newspapers--not by Mr. Squeers, for he's too kind +and good to set anybody against anybody. She is sorry to find he is +discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and hopes Mr. Squeers will +flog him into a happier state of mind. With which view she has also +stopped his half penny a week pocket-money, and given a double-bladed +knife with a cork-screw in it to the missionaries, which she had bought +on purpose for him. A sulky state of feeling won't do. Cheerfulness and +contentment must be kept up. Mobbs, come to me!" + +Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in anticipation of +good cause for doing so; and he soon afterwards retired, with as good +cause as a boy need have. + +This business dispatched, a few slovenly lessons were performed, and +Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas to take care of the +boys in the school-room which was very cold, and where a meal of bread +was served out shortly after dark. + +There was a small stove at that corner of the room which was nearest +the master's desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, depressed and +self-degraded. + +As he was absorbed in his meditations, he all at once encountered the +upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a +few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had +paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was +observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow. + +"You need not fear me. Are you cold?" + +"N-n-o." + +"You are shivering." + +"I'm not cold. I'm used to it." + +There was such an obvious fear of giving offense in his manner, and he +was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help +exclaiming, "Poor fellow!" + +"Oh dear, oh dear! my heart will break. It will, it will!" said Smike. + +"Hush! Be a man; you are nearly one by years. God help you!" + +"By years! Oh dear, dear, how many of them! How many of them since I was +a little child, younger than any that are here now! Where are they all?" + +"Of whom do you speak? Tell me." + +"My friends, myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have been!" + +"There is always hope." + +"No, no; none for me. Do you remember the boy that died here?" + +"I was not here, you know." + +"Why, I was with him at night, and when it was all silent, he cried no +more for friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see +faces round his bed that came from home. He said they smiled, and talked +to him; and he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you +hear?" + +"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas. + +"What faces will smile on me when I die? Who will talk to me in those +long nights? They cannot come from home; they would frighten me if they +did, for I shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, +alive or dead. No hope, no hope!" + +The bell rang to bed; and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual +listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a +heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired, there was no +retirement there--followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[13] Adapted by E. P. Trueblood from "Nicholas Nickleby." + + + + +THE SECRET OF DEATH + +EDWIN ARNOLD + + + "She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; + Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!" + + They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair; + On her forehead of stone they laid it fair; + + Over her eyes, that gazed too much, + They drew the lids with a gentle touch; + + With a tender touch they closed up well + The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; + + About her brows and beautiful face + They tied her veil and her marriage lace, + + And drew on her feet her white silk shoes-- + Which were the whitest no eye could choose-- + + And over her bosom they crossed her hands. + "Come away!" they said; "God understands." + + And there was silence, and nothing there + But silence, and scents of eglantere, + + And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; + And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she." + + And they held their breath till they left the room, + With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. + + But he who loved her too well to dread + The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,-- + + He lit his lamp, and took the key + And turned it,--alone again,--he and she. + + He and she; but she would not speak, + Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. + + He and she; yet she would not smile, + Though he called her the name she loved erewhile. + + He and she; still she did not move + To any one passionate whisper of love. + + Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath, + Is there no voice, no language of death? + + "Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, + But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? + + "See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; + What was the secret of dying, dear? + + "Was it the infinite wonder of all + That you ever could let life's flower fall? + + "Or was it a greater marvel to feel + The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? + + "Was the miracle greater to find how deep + Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep? + + "Did life roll back its records, dear, + And show, as they say it does, past things clear? + + "And was it the innermost heart of the bliss + To find out so, what a wisdom love is? + + "Oh, perfect dead! Oh, dead most dear, + I hold the breath of my soul to hear! + + "I listen as deep as to horrible hell, + As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. + + "There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, + To make you so placid from head to feet! + + "I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, + And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,-- + + "I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid + His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. + + "You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, + Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise, + + "The very strangest and suddenest thing + Of all the surprises that dying must bring." + + Ah, foolish world! Oh, most kind dead! + Though he told me, who will believe it was said? + + Who will believe that he heard her say, + With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: + + "The utmost wonder is this,--I hear + And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; + + "And am your angel, who was your bride, + And know that, though dead, I have never died." + + + + +SHAMUS O'BRIEN + +A TALE OF '98, AS RELATED BY AN IRISH PEASANT + +JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU + + + Jist after the war, in the year '98, + As soon as the Boys wor all scattered and bate, + 'Twas the custom, whenever a peasant was got, + To hang him by trial--barrin' such as was shot. + An' the bravest an' hardiest Boy iv them all + Was Shamus O'Brien, from the town iv Glingall. + + An' it's he was the Boy that was hard to be caught, + An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought; + An' it's many the one can remember right well + The quare things he did: an' it's oft I heerd tell + How he frightened the magistrates in Chirbally, + An' 'scaped through the sojers in Aherlow valley; + How he leathered the yeoman, himself agin four, + An' stretched the two strongest on ould Golteemore. + But the fox must sleep sometimes, the wild deer must rest, + An' treachery prey on the blood iv the best; + Afther many a brave action of power and pride, + An' many a hard night on the mountain's bleak side, + An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast, + In the darkness of night he was taken at last. + + Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon, + For the door of the prison must close on you soon. + Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill, + An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still. + Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake, + And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake! + An' twelve sojers brought him to Maryborough jail, + An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail. + + Well, as soon as a few weeks were over and gone, + The terrible day iv the thrial kem on, + There was sich a crowd there was scarce room to stand, + An' sojers on guard, an' Dragoons sword-in-hand; + An' the courthouse so full that the people were bothered, + An' attorneys an' criers on the point iv bein' smothered; + An' counsellors almost gev over for dead, + An' the jury sittin' up in their box overhead; + An' the judge settled out so detarmined an' big + With his gown on his back, and an illegant wig; + An' silence was called, an' the minute 'twas said + The court was as still as the heart of the dead, + An' they heard but the openin' of one prison lock, + An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock. + For one minute he turned his eye round on the throng, + An' he looked at the bars so firm and so strong, + An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend, + A chance to escape, nor a word to defend; + An' he folded his arms as he stood there alone, + As calm and as cold as a statue of stone; + And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste, + An' Jim didn't understand it nor mind it a taste, + An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says, + "Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?" + An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread, + An' Shamus O'Brien made answer and said: + "My lord, if you ask me, if in my lifetime + I thought any treason, or did any crime + That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here, + The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear, + Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow + Before God and the world I would answer you, No! + But if you would ask me, as I think it like, + If in the Rebellion I carried a pike, + An' fought for ould Ireland from the first to the close, + An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes, + I answer you, Yes; and I tell you again, + Though I stand here to perish, it's my glory that then + In her cause I was willin' my veins should run dhry, + An' that now for her sake I am ready to die." + + Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright, + An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light; + By my sowl, it's himself was the crabbed ould chap! + In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap. + Then Shamus's mother, in the crowd standin' by, + Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry: + "O judge! darlin', don't, O, don't say the word! + The crather is young, have mercy, my lord; + He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin'; + You don't know him, my lord--O, don't give him to ruin! + He's the kindliest crathur, the tindherest-hearted; + Don't part us forever, we that's so long parted! + Judge mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord, + An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!" + + That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken, + When he saw that he was not quite forgot or forsaken; + An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother, + The big tears wor runnin' fast, one afther th' other; + An' two or three times he endeavored to spake, + But the sthrong manly voice used to falther and break; + But at last, by the strength of his high-mountin' pride, + He conquered and masthered his grief's swelling tide; + "An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart, + For, sooner or later, the dearest must part; + And God knows it's better than wand'ring in fear + On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer, + To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast, + From labor and sorrow, forever shall rest. + Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more, + Don't make me seem broken, in this my last hour; + For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven, + No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!" + + Then toward the Judge Shamus bent down his head, + An' that minute the solemn death-sentence was said. + The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high, + An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky; + But why are the men standin' idle so late? + An' why do the crowds gather fast in the strate? + What come they to talk of? what come they to see? + An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree? + O Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast, + May the saints take your soul, for this day is your last; + Pray fast an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh, + When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die!-- + + At last they threw open the big prison-gate, + An' out came the sheriffs and sojers in state, + An' a cart in the middle an' Shamus was in it, + Not paler, but prouder than ever, that minute. + An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien, + Wid prayin' and blessin', and all the girls cryin', + A wild, wailin' sound kem on by degrees, + Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees. + On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone, + An' the cart an' the sojers go steadily on; + An' at every side swellin' around of the cart, + A wild, sorrowful sound, that id open your heart. + Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand, + An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand; + An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground, + An' Shamus O'Brien throws one last look round. + + Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still, + Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turned chill; + An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare, + For the grip of the life-strangling cord to prepare; + An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer. + But the good priest did more, for his hands he unbound, + An' with one daring spring Jim has leaped on the ground; + Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash go the sabers; + He's not down! he's alive! now stand to him, neighbors! + Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,-- + By the heavens, he's free!--than thunder more loud, + By one shout from the people the heavens were shaken-- + One shout that the dead of the world might awaken. + The sojers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that, + An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat; + To-night he'll be sleepin' in Aherloe Glin, + An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in. + Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang, + But if you want hangin', it's yourselves you must hang. + + + + +MY SHIPS[14] + +ELLA WHEELER WILCOX + + + If all the ships I have at sea-- + Should come a-sailing home to me, + Ah well! the harbor could not hold + So many ships as there would be, + If all my ships came home to me. + + If half my ships now out at sea + Should come a-sailing home to me, + Ah well! I should have wealth as great + As any king that sits in state, + So rich the treasure there would be + In half my ships now out at sea. + + If but one ship I have at sea + Should come a-sailing home to me, + Ah well! the storm clouds then might frown, + For if the others all went down, + Still rich and glad and proud I'd be, + If that one ship came home to me. + + If that one ship went down at sea, + And all the others came to me, + Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, + Of riches, glory, honor, gold, + The poorest soul on earth I'd be, + If that one ship came not to me. + + Oh, skies, be calm, oh, winds, blow free! + Blow all my ships safe home to me! + But if thou sendest some awrack, + To never more come sailing back, + Send any--all that skim the sea, + But send my love ship back to me. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[14] By permission of the author. + + + + +THE SOLDIER'S REPRIEVE + +R. D. C. ROBBINS + + +"I thought, Mr. Allan, when I gave my Bennie to his country, that not a +father in all this broad land made so precious a gift,--no, not one. The +dear boy only slept a minute, just one little minute, at his post; I +know that was all, for Bennie never dozed over a duty. How prompt and +reliable he was! I know he only fell asleep one little second;--he was +so young, and not strong, that boy of mine! Why, he was as tall as I, +and only eighteen! and now they shoot him because he was found asleep +when doing sentinel duty! Twenty-four hours, the telegram said,--only +twenty-four hours. Where is Bennie now?" + +"We will hope with his heavenly Father," said Mr. Allan, soothingly. + +"Yes, yes; let us hope; God is very merciful!" + +"'I should be ashamed, father!' Bennie said, 'when I am a man, to think +I never used this great right arm,'--and he held it out so proudly +before me,--'for my country, when it needed it! Palsy it rather than +keep it at the plow!' + +"'Go then, go, my boy,' I said, 'and God keep you!' God has kept him, I +think, Mr. Allan!" and the farmer repeated these last words slowly, as +if, in spite of his reason, his heart doubted them. + +"Like the apple of His eye, Mr. Owen, doubt it not!" + +Blossom sat near them listening, with blanched cheek. She had not shed a +tear. Her anxiety had been so concealed that no one had noticed it. She +had occupied herself mechanically in the household cares. Now she +answered a gentle tap at the kitchen door, opening it to receive from a +neighbor's hand a letter. "It is from him," was all she said. + +It was like a message from the dead! Mr. Owen took the letter, but could +not break the envelope, on account of his trembling fingers, and held it +toward Mr. Allan, with the helplessness of a child. + +The minister opened it, and read as follows: + +"DEAR FATHER:--When this reaches you, I shall be in eternity. At first, +it seemed awful to me; but I have thought about it so much now, that it +has no terror. They say they will not bind me, nor blind me; but that I +may meet my death like a man. I thought, father, it might have been on +the battle-field, for my country, and that, when I fell, it would be +fighting gloriously; but to be shot down like a dog for nearly +betraying it,--to die for neglect of duty! O father, I wonder the very +thought does not kill me! But I shall not disgrace you. I am going to +write you all about it; and when I am gone, you may tell my comrades. I +cannot now. + +"You know I promised Jemmie Carr's mother I would look after her boy; +and, when he fell sick, I did all I could for him. He was not strong +when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night, +I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we +went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very +heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not +lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was +all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to +be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I +could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I +did not know it until--well, until it was too late." + +"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was +not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post." + +"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve,--given to me by +circumstances,--'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive +him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could; +and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is +broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die +in my stead. + +"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell +them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they +will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me: it is very +hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all +as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His +poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him +and my Saviour in a better--better life." + +A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said +solemnly,--"Amen." + +"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home +from pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop, +waiting for me--but I shall never, never come! God bless you all! +Forgive your poor Bennie." + +Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly, and a little +figure glided out, and down the footpath that led to the road by the +mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to +the right nor to the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and +folding her hands as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl +stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the +conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the +tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in +his hand. A few questions and ready answers told him all; and no father +could have cared more tenderly for his only child than he for our little +Blossom. + +She was on her way to Washington, to ask President Lincoln for her +brother's life. She had stolen away, leaving only a note to tell her +father where and why she had gone. She had brought Bennie's letter with +her; no good, kind heart, like the President's, could refuse to be +melted by it. The next morning they reached New York, and the conductor +hurried her on to Washington. Every minute, now, might be the means of +saving her brother's life. And so, in an incredibly short time, Blossom +reached the Capital, and hastened immediately to the White House. + +The President had but just seated himself to his morning's task, of +overlooking and signing important papers, when, without one word of +announcement, the door softly opened, and Blossom, with downcast eyes, +and folded hands, stood before him. + +"Well, my child," he said, in his pleasant, cheerful tones, "what do you +want so bright and early in the morning?" + +"Bennie's life, please, sir," faltered Blossom. + +"Bennie? Who is Bennie?" + +"My brother, sir. They are going to shoot him for sleeping at his post." + +"Oh, yes," and Mr. Lincoln ran his eye over the papers before him. "I +remember! It was a fatal sleep. You see, child, it was at a time of +special danger. Thousands of lives might have been lost for his culpable +negligence." + +"So my father said," replied Blossom, gravely; "but poor Bennie was so +tired, sir, and Jemmie so weak. He did the work of two, sir, and it was +Jemmie's night, not his; but Jemmie was too tired, and Bennie never +thought about himself, that he was tired, too." + +"What is this you say, child? Come here; I do not understand," and the +kind man caught eagerly, as ever, at what seemed to be a justification +of an offense. + +Blossom went to him; he put his hand tenderly on her shoulder, and +turned up the pale, anxious face toward his. How tall he seemed, and he +was President of the United States, too! A dim thought of this kind +passed for a moment through Blossom's mind; but she told her simple and +straightforward story, and handed Mr. Lincoln Bennie's letter to read. + +He read it carefully; then, taking up his pen, wrote a few hasty lines, +and rang his bell. + +Blossom heard this order given: "SEND THIS DISPATCH AT ONCE." + +The President then turned to the girl and said: "Go home, my child, and +tell that father of yours, who could approve his country's sentence, +even when it took the life of a child like that, that Abraham Lincoln +thinks the life far too precious to be lost. Go back, or--wait until +to-morrow; Bennie will need a change after he has so bravely faced +death; he shall go with you." + +"God bless you, sir," said Blossom; and who shall doubt that God heard +and registered the request? + +Two days after this interview, the young soldier came to the White House +with his little sister. He was called into the President's private room, +and a strap fastened upon the shoulder. Mr. Lincoln then said: "The +soldier that could carry a sick comrade's baggage, and die for the act +so uncomplainingly, deserves well of his country." Then Bennie and +Blossom took their way to the Green Mountain home. A crowd gathered at +the Mill Depot to welcome them back; and as Farmer Owen's hand grasped +that of his boy, tears flowed down his cheeks, and he was heard to say +fervently, "THE LORD BE PRAISED!" + + + + +THE SONG[15] + +WALTER SCOTT + + + Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, + Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; + Dream of battled fields no more, + Days of danger, nights of waking. + In our isle's enchanted hall, + Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, + Fairy strains of music fall, + Every sense in slumber dewing. + + Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, + Dream of fighting fields no more; + Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, + Morn of toil, nor night of waking. + + Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, + While our slumbrous spells assail ye, + Dream not, with the rising sun, + Bugles here shall sound reveille; + Sleep! the deer is in his den; + Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; + Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen + How thy gallant steed lay dying. + + Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; + Think not of the rising sun, + For at dawning to assail ye + Here no bugles sound reveille. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[15] From "Lady of the Lake." + + + + +THE STIRRUP CUP[16] + +JOHN HAY + + + My short and happy day is done; + The long and lonely night comes on + And at my door the pale horse stands + To carry me to distant lands. + + His whinny shrill, his pawing hoof, + Sounds dreadful as a gathering storm; + And I must leave this sheltering roof + And joys of life so soft and warm. + + Tender and warm the joys of life-- + Good friends, the faithful and the true; + My rosy children and my wife, + So sweet to kiss, so fair to view. + + So sweet to kiss, so fair to view, + The night comes on, the lights burn blue; + And at my door the pale horse stands + To bear me forth to unknown lands. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[16] By permission of Mrs. Hay. + + + + +THE SWAN-SONG + +KATHERINE R. BROOKS + + +The great old-fashioned clock struck twelve, but as yet not one of the +boys had stirred. All were listening too intently to what Carl von Weber +was saying to notice the time. Around one of the grand pianos a group of +boys was gathered. Perched on the top of it was a bright, merry-looking +boy of fourteen. By his side sat a pale, delicate little fellow, with a +pair of soft, dark eyes, which were fixed in eager attention upon Carl's +face. Below, and leaning carelessly upon the piano, was Raoul von +Falkenstein, a dark, handsome boy of fifteen. + +"Pshaw!" he exclaimed, scornfully, after Carl had finished. "Is that +all? just for a few paltry thalers and a beggarly violin, to work myself +to death? No! I don't think I shall trouble myself about it." + +"Oh, Raoul!" cried Franz, the little fellow who sat by Carl, "you forget +that it is to be the most beautiful violin in Germany, and to be given +to us by the Empress herself. And the two hundred thalers--just think of +that!" and Franz's dark eyes grew bright to think what he could do with +them. + +"Really," returned Raoul, insolently, "you don't mean to say that you +are going to try! Why, the last time you played you broke down +entirely!" + +The color mounted into Franz's face, and the tears came into his eyes; +and Carl cried out, angrily: + +"For shame! you know very well that it was only fright that made Franz +fail. + +"Don't mind him," he said, putting his arm around his friend's neck, "he +is only hateful, as he always is. Let us go and see who is to be chosen +for the concert. Come, Franz!" + +"No, Carl," said his friend, quietly; "I would rather stay here. You go +and find out, and then come and tell me." + +The Empress once a year gave a prize to the school, but this year it +was to be finer than usual, and her Majesty had sent to Herr Bach and +requested him to choose five of his best boys, each of whom was to +compose a piece of his own. No one was to see it until the end of three +weeks, when they were to play it at a grand concert, which the imperial +family were to attend with the whole court. Franz was very anxious to be +chosen, for he wanted the prize very much. He thought how pleased the +mother would be, and he thought how hard she worked to give her little +boy a musical education, and how many comforts the thalers would buy. +Oh, he would work hard for it. The dear mother would be so surprised. +And he fell into a brown study, from which he was awakened by feeling a +pair of strong arms around him, and being frantically whirled around the +room, while a voice shouted in his ear: + +"We've got it! We're chosen--you, Gottfried, Johann, old hateful Raoul, +and I!" + +The boys worked very hard, for there was only a short time given them. +Franz put his whole soul into his composition, and made himself almost +sick over it. Raoul went about declaring, in his usual contemptuous +manner, that he did not intend to kill himself over it, but secretly he +worked with great industry. + +One lovely moonlight night, as he sat by his window composing, for the +moon was so bright he could see very well, he impatiently flung his pen +down and muttered, "There is no use; I can never do it; this will never +do!" and began angrily to tear up one of the music sheets, when suddenly +he stopped and raised his head and listened intently. Such a lovely +melody, so soft and clear, rising and falling in the sweetest cadences, +now growing louder and louder in a wild, passionate crescendo, and then +dying slowly away! + +For a moment, the boy remained silent; then, suddenly springing to his +feet, he cried: + +"It is Franz! I know it, for no one but he could write anything so +beautiful. But it shall be mine, for it is the piece that will gain the +prize! Ah, Franz, I play before you, and what I play shall be--" + +He stopped, and the moonlight streaming in at the window glanced across +the room, and revealed a look of half triumph, half shame on his dark, +haughty face. Why had he stopped? Perhaps his guardian angel stood +behind him, warning him against what he was about to do. For a moment, a +fierce struggle seemed to take possession of the boy, between his good +and his evil spirit. But, alas! the evil conquered, and, sitting down, +he wrote off what he had heard, aided by his wonderful memory; and, +after an hour, he threw down the piece, finished. Then, with an exulting +smile, he cried, "The prize is mine!" and, throwing himself on the bed, +he fell into a troubled sleep. + +The time had come at last for the great concert, and the boys were so +excited they could hardly keep still; even Franz, whose cheeks glowed +with a brilliant hectic flush, and whose eyes were strangely bright. The +hall was crowded. The imperial family was there, together with the whole +court. + +The concert began with an overture from the orchestra. Then came +Fraulein, the prima donna of the Imperial Opera, and then the boys. Carl +came first, and played a brilliant, sparkling little piece, and was +loudly applauded; next Gottfried and Johann, and then Raoul. When he +stepped out upon the platform, his handsome face and fine form seemed to +make an impression on the audience, for they remained perfectly silent. +Raoul commenced. At first Franz paid no attention to him, then suddenly +he started. The melody flowed on; louder and louder, clearer and clearer +it rose. Franz stood motionless, listening in strained, fixed attention, +until at last, overcome with grief and astonishment, he sank upon the +floor and cried out piteously, with tears streaming down his face: + +"Oh, Raoul! Raoul! how could you, could you do it--my own little piece +that I loved so much? Oh, mother! mother!"--and, burying his head in +his arms, he sobbed in an agony of grief. + +He heard the burst of applause that greeted his piece--not Raoul's; he +heard it all, but moved not until he heard Carl say: + +"Come, Franz! it's time to go. They are all waiting for you; but I am +afraid that Raoul has won the prize." + +What should he do, he wondered? And then he thought perhaps the kind +Father in heaven would help him. So, breathing a little prayer in his +heart, he walked calmly forth upon the platform. + +At first, he trembled so that he could hardly begin; then a sudden +inspiration seemed to come to him--a quick light swept across his face. +He raised the violin to his shoulder and began. + +The audience at first paid no attention; but presently all became quiet, +and they leaned forward in breathless attention. What a wonderful song +it was!--for it was a song. The violin seemed almost to speak, and so +softly and sweetly and with such exquisite pathos were the notes drawn +forth that the eyes of many were filled with tears. For it was pouring +out all little Franz's griefs and sorrows; it was telling how the little +heart was almost broken by the treachery of the friend; it was telling +how hard he had worked to win, for the dear mother's sake; and it was +telling, and the notes grew sweeter as it told, how the good God had not +forsaken him. The boy seemed almost inspired; his eyes were raised to +heaven, and his face glowed with a rapt delight, as he improvised his +beautiful song. Not a sound was heard; it seemed as if all were turned +to stone, so intense was the silence. His heart seemed to grow lighter +of its burden, and the song burst into a wild, sweet carol, that rang +rich and clear through the hall; and then it changed and grew so soft it +could hardly be heard, and at last it died away. + +For a moment the vast audience seemed spell-bound; then, all rising with +one uncontrollable impulse, and breaking into a tempest of applause +that rocked the building to its very foundations, they rained down +bouquets on his head. + +But the boy stood with a far-off look in his large and beautiful eyes, +and then, giving a little sigh, fell heavily to the floor. + +When he returned to consciousness, he heard a voice say, "Poor child!" +It seemed like Herr Bach's; and then he heard Carl say, in a sobbing +voice, "Franz! dear Franz!" Why did they pity him, he wondered; and then +it all came back to him--the prize, the violin, and Raoul. + +"Where is the violin?" he murmured. + +"It will be here in a moment," some one said. + +Then he saw the pale, remorseful face of Raoul, who said: "Dear little +Franz, forgive me!" + +The boy raised his hand and pointed to heaven, and said, softly: "Dear +Raoul, I forgive you!"--and then all the pain and bitterness in his +heart against Raoul died out. + +The sweet face of the Empress, made lovely by its look of tender pity, +bent over him, and she kissed him and murmured, "Poor little one!" Then +she placed the beautiful violin in his arms, and the thalers in his +hands. + +And so, with the famed violin and bright thalers clasped close on his +breast, the life-light died out of his eyes, and little Franz fell +asleep. + + + + +SWEET AFTON + +ROBERT BURNS + + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, + Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise, + My Mary's asleep by the murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. + + Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds through the glen, + Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, + Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, + I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. + + How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills! + Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills, + There daily I wander as noon rises high, + My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. + + How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below! + Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; + There oft as mild evening sweeps over the lea, + The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. + + Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, + And winds by my cot where my Mary resides; + How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, + As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave. + + Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, + Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays, + My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, + Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. + + + + +VIOLET'S BLUE[17] + +DANIEL HENRY JR. + + + _Theme_. + "Violet's blue--Diddle, diddle! + Lavender's green. + When I am King--Diddle, diddle! + You shall be Queen." + "Mother Goose Melodies." + + You shall have crown--Diddle, diddle! + Jewels and gold, + Damasks and lace--Diddle, diddle! + Centuries old. + + Pages behind--Diddle, diddle! + Heralds before, + And all the state--Diddle, diddle! + Queens had of yore. + + But when you're queen--Diddle, diddle! + And I am king, + Will your eyes shine--Diddle, diddle! + Will my lips sing, + + As they do now--Diddle, diddle! + When we are still, + Poor country-folk--Diddle, diddle! + Plain Jack and Jill? + + Can our hearts beat--Diddle, diddle! + Our love unfold, + Prisoned in pomp--Diddle, diddle! + Girdled with gold? + + Love thrives alone--Diddle, diddle! + In open air; + Where pageants are--Diddle, diddle! + Love is not there. + + When skies are blue--Diddle, diddle! + And fields are green, + I will be king--Diddle, diddle! + You shall be queen. + + Queen of Day-dreams--Diddle, diddle! + King of No-lands, + With full-filled hearts--Diddle, diddle! + And empty hands. + + Let others king--Diddle, diddle! + And queen, who will: + We're better so--Diddle, diddle! + Plain Jack and Jill. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[17] From "Under a Fool's Cap," published by Kegan Paul, French & Co., +London. + + + + +TO A WATERFOWL[18] + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT + + + Whither, midst falling dew, + While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, + Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + + Vainly the fowler's eye + Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, + As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, + Thy figure floats along. + + Seek'st thou the plashy brink + Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, + Or where the rocking billows rise and sink + On the chafed ocean-side? + + There is a power whose care + Teaches thy way along that pathless coast-- + The desert and illimitable air-- + Lone wandering, but not lost. + + All day thy wings have fanned, + At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, + Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; + Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, + And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, + Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven + Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart + Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart: + + He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[18] By permission of D. Appleton & Co., publishers. + + + + +THE WEDDING-GOWN + +ETTA W. PIERCE + + + "Bring it from the oaken press; full fifty years ago + I sewed those seams, my heart all full of youth and hope and Joe-- + Joe, whose wife I was to be--my lover, strong and brown, + Captain of the stanchest craft that sailed from Gloucester town. + It seems a worthless thing to hold so carefully in store, + This poor, old, faded bridal dress, which no bride ever wore; + Cut in the curious style of half a century ago, + With scanty skirt and 'broidered bands--my own hands shaped it so. + Niece Hester, spread it on my bed--my eyes grow blind with tears; + I touch its limp and yellow folds, and lo! the long dead years + Come trooping back like churchyard ghosts. This was my + wedding-gown-- + 'Twas made the year the equinox brought woe to Gloucester town. + + "Ah, I remember well the night I walked the beach with him-- + The moon was rising just above the ocean's purple rim, + And all the savage Cape Ann rocks shone in her mellow light; + The time was spring, and heaven itself seemed close to us that + night. + We heard the cool waves beat the shore, the seabird's startled cry; + Like spirits in the dark, we saw the coasters flitting by. + High in their towers the beacons burned, like wintry embers red, + From Ipswich, down the rough sea-line, to crag-girt Marblehead. + 'I love you, Nan!' Joe said, at last, in his grave, simple way-- + I'd felt the words a-coming, child, for many a long, glad day. + I hung my head, he kissed me--oh, sweetest hour of life! + A stammering word, a sigh, and I was Joe's own promised wife. + + "But fishing-folks have much to do; my lover could not stay-- + The gallant Gloucester fleet was bound to waters far away, + Where wild storms swoop, and shattering fogs muster their dim, gray + ranks, + And spread a winding-sheet for men upon the fatal Banks. + And he, my Joe, must go to reap the harvest of the deep, + While I, like other women, stayed behind to mourn and weep, + And I would see his face no more till autumn woods were brown. + His schooner _Nan_ was swift and new, the pride of Gloucester town; + He called her by my name. ''Tis sure to bring me luck,' said Joe. + She spread her wings, and through my tears I stood and watched her + go. + + "The days grew hot and long; I sewed the crisp and shining seams + Of this, my wedding-gown, and dreamed a thousand happy dreams + Of future years and Joe, while leaf and bud and sweet marsh-flower + I fashioned on the muslin fine, for many a patient hour. + In Gloucester wood the wild rose bloomed, and shed its sweets and + died, + And dry and tawny grew the grass along the marshes wide. + The last stitch in my gown was set; I looked across the sea-- + 'Fly fast, oh, time, fly fast!' I said, 'and bring him home to me; + And I will deck my yellow hair and don my bridal gown, + The day the gallant fishing-fleet comes back to Gloucester town!' + + "The rough skies darkened o'er the deep, loud blew the autumn + gales; + With anxious eyes the fishers' wives watched for the home-bound + sails + From Gloucester shore, and Rockport crags, lashed by the breakers + dread, + From cottage doors of Beverly, and rocks of Marblehead. + Ah, child, with trembling hand I set my candle at the pane, + With fainting heart and choking breath, I heard the dolorous rain-- + The sea that beat the groaning beach with wild and thunderous + shocks, + The black death calling, calling from the savage equinox; + The flap of sails, the crash of masts, or so it seemed to me, + And cries of strong men drowning in the clutches of the sea. + + "I never wore my wedding-gown, so crisp and fine and fair; + I never decked with bridal flowers my pretty yellow hair, + No bridegroom came to claim me when the autumn leaves were sear, + For there was bitter wailing on the rugged coast that year; + And vain was further vigil from its rocks and beaches brown + For never did the fishing-fleet sail back to Gloucester town. + + "'Twas fifty years ago. There, child, put back the faded dress, + My winding-sheet of youth and hope, into the oaken press. + My life hath known no other joy, my heart no other glow, + Feeble and worn, it still beats on in faithful love for Joe; + And, like some hulk cast on a shore by waters sore distressed, + I wait until he calls me from his own good place of rest." + + + She woke at dawn and lifted up her head so old and gray, + And stared across the sandy beach, and o'er the low blue bay. + It was the hour when mists depart and midnight phantoms flee, + The rosy sun was blushing red along the splendid sea. + A rapture lit her face. "The bay is white with sails!" she cried, + "They sweep it like the silver foam of waves at rising tide-- + Sails from an unknown sea. Oh, haste and bring my wedding-gown-- + It is the long-lost fishing-fleet come back to Gloucester town! + And look! his _Nan_ leads all the rest. Dear Lord, I see my Joe! + He beckons from her shining deck--haste, friends, for I must go. + The old, old light is in his eyes, the old smile on his lips; + All grand and pale he stands among the crowding, white-winged + ships. + This is our wedding-morn. At last the bridegroom claims his bride. + Sweetheart, I have been true; my hand--here--take it!" + Then she died. + + + + +WHEN THE SNOW SIFTS THROUGH[19] + +S. W. GILLILAN + + + The icy gale that hurled the snow + Against the window pane, + And rattled the sash with a merry clash + Used not its strength in vain; + For now and then a wee flake sifted + Through the loose ill-fitting frame, + By the warmer breezes each was lifted + All melting as they came. + + The baby stood with shining eyes, + Her hands upon the sill; + She watched each flake and the course 'twould take, + And her voice was never still. + 'Twas, "Papa, where does the whiteness go?" + And, "Where's all the beauty gone? + What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow, + When it gets in where it's warm?" + + I smiled that day, but seldom now + Does the thought of smiling come; + A phantom shape, a bow of crape, + And my sweet little child went home. + O Father, "Where does the whiteness go? + And whither's the beauty flown? + Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow' + On my cheek as I face the storm?" + + Again the wild wind hurls the snow + Against the frosted pane + And a few flakes dash through the rattling sash, + While I hear those words again. + The flakes scurry off to a spot on the hill + Where a little mound is seen, + And they cover it softly and tenderly + As the grass with its cloak of green. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[19] By permission of the author. + + + + +TO A WILD FLOWER[20] + +MAURICE THOMPSON + + + In the green solitudes + Of the deep, shady woods + Thy lot is kindly cast, and life to thee + Is like a gust of rarest minstrelsy. + + The winds of May and June + Hum many a tender tune, + Blowing above thy leafy hiding-place, + Kissing, all thrilled with joy, thy modest face. + + About thee float and glow + Rare insects, hovering low, + And round thee glance thin streams of delicate grass, + Plashing their odors on thee as they pass. + + The sheen of brilliant wings + Songs of shy, flitting things, + The low, mysterious melodies that thrill + Through every summer wood, thy sweet life fill. + + Oh bloom! all joy is thine, + All loves around thee shine, + The thousand hearts of nature throb for thee, + Her thousand voices praise thee tenderly. + + Oh bloom of purest glory, + Flower of love's gentlest story, + Forever keep thy petals fresh and fair, + Forever send thy sweetness down the air! + + I'll put thee in my song, + With all thy joys along, + At which some sunny hearts may sunnier grow, + And frozen ones may gently slip their snow. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[20] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, +Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers of this author's works. + + + + +THE FATE OF ZOROASTER + +F. MARION CRAWFORD + + + + Zoroaster a young Persian and Nehushta a Hebrew maiden were + betrothed lovers; an unfortunate misunderstanding separated them + and, in a fit of jealousy, Nehushta became a wife of Darius, king + of the Persians. Zoroaster entered the priesthood and later became + the high priest of the temple in the king's palace. In a subsequent + interview with the high priest, Nehushta discovers that her + jealousy was groundless, but it was now too late to correct her + unhappy mistake. In the meantime Nehushta had incurred the jealousy + and hatred of another wife of Darius, who, in the absence of the + king, planned the massacre of the priests of the temple and + Nehushta and her servants. + + +Four days after the king's departure, Nehushta was wandering in the +gardens as the sun was going down. Just then a strange sound echoed far +off among the hills, an unearthly cry that rang high in the air and +struck the dark crags and doubled in the echo and died away in short, +faint pulsations of sound. She started slightly, she had never heard +such a sound before. Again that strange cry rang out and echoed and died +away. Her slave women gathered about her. + +"What is it?" asked Nehushta. + +"The war cry of the children of Anak is like that," said a little Syrian +maid. + +Nehushta pushed the slaves aside and fled towards the palace. The truth +had flashed across her. Some armed force was collecting on the hills to +descend upon the palace. But one thought filled her mind. She must find +Zoroaster and warn him. + +Through the garden she ran, and up the broad steps to the portico. +Slaves were moving about under the colonnade, lighting the great torches +that burned there all night. They had not heard the strange cries from +the hills. As she entered the great hall, she heard the cry again. + +"Go, my little maid, in one direction and I will go in another, and +search out Zoroaster, the high priest, and bring him." + +The girl turned and ran through the halls, and Nehushta went another way +upon her search. Something within her told her that she was in great +danger, and the calm she had seen in the palace could not allay the +terror of that cry she had heard three times from the hills. Just then +the Syrian maid came running in and fell breathless at Nehushta's feet. + +"Fly, fly, beloved mistress, the devils of the mountains are upon +us--they cover the hills--they are closing every entrance--the people in +the lower palace are all slain." + +"Where is Zoroaster?" + +"He is in the temple with the priests--by this time he is surely +slain--he could know of nothing going on--fly, fly!" + +"On which side are they coming?" + +"From the hills, from the hills they are descending in thousands." + +"Go you all to the farther window, leap down upon the balcony--it is +scarce a man's height,--follow it to the end past the corner where it +joins the main wall of the garden. Run along upon the wall till you find +a place where you can descend. Through the gardens you can easily reach +the road. Fly, and save yourselves in the darkness." But before she had +half finished, the last of the slave women, mad with terror, +disappeared. + +"Why do you not go with the rest, my little maid?" asked Nehushta. + +"I have eaten thy bread, shall I leave thee in the hour of death?" + +"Go, child, I have seen thy devotion; thou must not perish." + +But the Syrian leaped to her feet as she answered: + +"I am a bondwoman, but I am a daughter of Israel, even as thou art. +Though all the others leave thee, I will not. It may be I can help +thee." + +"Thou art a brave child; I must go to Zoroaster; stay thou here, hide +thyself among the curtains, escape by the window if any one come to harm +thee." She turned and went rapidly out. + +But the maid grasped the knife in her girdle, and stole upon her +mistress's steps. The din rose louder every moment--the shrieks of +wounded women with the moaning of wounded men, the clash of swords and +arms, and a quick, loud rattle, as half a dozen arrows struck the wall +together. + +Onward flew Nehushta till she reached the temple door; then she +listened. Faintly through the thick walls she could hear the sound of +the evening chant. The priests were all within with Zoroaster, +unconscious of their danger. Nehushta tried the door. The great bronze +gates were locked, and though she pushed with her whole strength, they +would not move a hair's breadth. + +"Press the nail nearest the middle," said a small voice. Nehushta +started. It was the little Syrian slave. She put her hand upon the round +head of the nail and pressed. The door opened, turning noiselessly upon +its hinges. The seventy priests, in even rank, stood round. Solemnly the +chant rose round the sacred fire upon the black stone altar. Zoroaster +stood before it, his hands lifted in prayer. But Nehushta with a sudden +cry broke their melody. + +"Zoroaster--fly--there is yet time! The enemy are come in thousands; +they are in the palace. There is barely time!" + +The high priest turned calmly, his face unmoved, although the priests +ceased their chanting and gathered about their chief in fear. As their +voices ceased, a low roar was heard from without as though the ocean +were beating at the gates. + +"Go thou and save thyself," said Zoroaster. "I will not go. If it be the +will of the All-Wise that I perish, I will perish before this altar. Go +thou quickly and save thyself while there is yet time." + +But Nehushta took his hand in hers, and gazed into his calm eyes. + +"Knowest thou not, Zoroaster, that I would rather die with thee than +live with any other? I swear to thee, by the God of my fathers, I will +not leave thee!" + +"There is no more time! There is no more time! Ye are all dead men! +Behold, they are breaking down the doors!" + +As she spoke the noise of some heavy mass striking against the bronze +gates echoed like thunder through the temple, and at each blow a chorus +of hideous yells rose, wild and long drawn out. + +"Can none of you save Zoroaster?" cried Nehushta. + +But Zoroaster gently said: + +"Ye cannot save me, for my hour is come; we must die like men, and like +priests of the Lord before His altar;" and, raising one hand to heaven, +he chanted: + + + "Praise we the all-wise God + Who hath made and created the years and the ages; + Praise Him who rides on death, + In whose hand are all power and honor and glory; + Who made the day of life, + That should rise up and lighten the shadow of death." + + +With a crash the great bronze doors gave way, and fell clanging in. In +an instant the temple was filled with a swarm of hideous men. Their +swords gleamed aloft as they passed forward, and their yells rent the +roof. They had hoped for treasure--they saw but a handful of +white-robed, unarmed men. Their rage knew no bounds, and their screams +rose more piercing than ever, as they surrounded the doomed band, and +dyed their blades in the blood that flowed red over the white vestures. + +The priests struggled like brave men, but the foe were a hundred to one. +A sharp blade fell swiftly and the brave little slave fell shrieking to +the floor. + +Nehushta's eyes met the high priest's triumphant gaze and her hands +clasped his wildly. + +"Oh, Zoroaster, my beloved, my beloved! Say not any more that I am +unfaithful, for I have been faithful even unto death, and I shall be +with you beyond the stars for ever!" + +"Beyond the stars and for ever!" he cried; "in the light of the glory of +God most high!" + +The keen sword flashed and severed Nehushta's neck and found its sheath +in her lover's heart; and they fell down dead together. + + + + +II + +SOLEMN, REVERENTIAL, SUBLIME + + + + +CENTENNIAL HYMN[21] + +JOHN G. WHITTIER + + + Our father's God! from out whose hand + The centuries fall like grains of sand, + We meet to-day, united, free + And loyal to our land and Thee, + To thank Thee for the era done, + And trust Thee for the opening one. + + Here where of old, by Thy design, + The fathers spake that word of Thine + Whose echo is the glad refrain + Of rended bolt and falling chain, + To grace our festal time, from all + The zones of earth, our guests we call. + + Be with us while the New World greets + The Old World thronging all its streets + Unveiling all the triumphs won + By art or toil beneath the sun; + And unto common good ordain + This rivalship of hand and brain. + + Thou, who hast here in concord furled + The war flags of a gathered world, + Beneath the Western skies fulfill + The Orient's mission of good-will, + And, freighted with love's Golden Fleece, + Send back its Argonauts of peace. + + For art and labor met in truce, + For beauty made the bride of use, + We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave + The austere virtues strong to save, + The honor proof to place or gold, + The manhood never bought nor sold! + + Oh, make Thou us, through centuries long, + In peace secure, in justice strong; + Around our gift of freedom draw + The safeguards of Thy righteous law; + And, cast in some diviner mold, + Let the new cycle shame the old! + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[21] By permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & +Co., authorized publishers of this author's works. + + + + +THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS[22] + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES + + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sails the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings, + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Still, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[22] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, +Mifflin and Co., authorized publishers of this author's works. + + + + +CROSSING THE BAR + +ALFRED LORD TENNYSON + + + Sunset and evening star + And one clear call for me! + And may there be no moaning of the bar + When I put out to sea. + + But such a tide as moving seems asleep, + Too full for sound and foam + When that which drew from out the boundless deep + Turns again home. + + Twilight and evening bell + And after that the dark; + And may there be no sadness of farewell + When I embark; + + For though from out our bourne of time and place + The flood may bear me far, + I hope to see my Pilot face to face + When I have crossed the bar. + + + + +THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB + +LORD BYRON + + + The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, + And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; + And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, + When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. + + Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, + That host with their banners at sunset were seen; + Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath flown, + That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. + + For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, + And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; + And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, + And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! + + And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, + But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride; + And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, + And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. + + And there lay the rider distorted and pale, + With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; + And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, + The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. + + And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, + And their idols are broke in the temple of Baal; + And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, + Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! + + + + +EACH AND ALL[23] + +RALPH WALDO EMERSON + + + Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, + On thee, from the hill top looking down; + And the heifer that lows on the upland farm, + Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm; + The sexton, tolling the bell at noon, + Dreams not that great Napoleon + Stops his horse and lists with delight, + As his files sweep round yon distant height; + Nor knowest thou what argument + Thy life to thy neighbor's creed hath lent; + All are needed by each one-- + Nothing is fair or good alone. + + I caught the linnet's note from heaven, + Singing at dawn, on the alder bough; + I brought him home in his nest at even: + He sings the song; but it pleases not now; + For I did not bring home the river and sky; + He sang to my ear--they sing to my eye. + + The delicate shell lay on the shore; + The bubbles of the latest wave + Fresh pearls to their emerald gave; + And the bellowing of the savage sea + Greeted their safe escape to me. + I wiped away the weeds and foam, + And fetched my sea-born treasures home; + But the poor, unsightly, noisome things + Had left their beauty on the shore, + With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar + Nor rose, nor stream, nor bird is fair; + Their concord is beyond compare. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[23] Used by permission of, and special arrangement with, Houghton, +Mifflin & Co., the authorized publishers. + + + + +LAUS DEO![24] + +ON HEARING BELLS ANNOUNCING EMANCIPATION + +JOHN G. WHITTIER + + + It is done! + Clang of bell and roar of gun + Send the tidings up and down. + How the belfries rock and reel! + How the great guns, peal on peal, + Fling the joy from town to town! + + Ring, O bells! + Every stroke exulting tells + Of the burial hour of crime. + Loud and long, that all may hear. + Ring for every listening ear + Of Eternity and Time! + + Let us kneel! + God's own voice is in that peal, + And this spot is holy ground. + Lord, forgive us! What are we, + That our eyes this glory see, + That our ears have heard the sound! + + For the Lord + On the whirlwind is abroad; + In the earthquake he has spoken; + He has smitten with his thunder + The iron walls asunder, + And the gates of brass are broken! + + Loud and long + Lift the old exulting song; + Sing with Miriam by the sea + He has cast the mighty down; + Horse and rider sink and drown; + "He hath triumphed gloriously!" + + Did we dare + In our agony of prayer, + Ask for more than He has done? + When was ever his right hand + Over any time or land + Stretched as now beneath the sun! + + How they pale, + Ancient myth and song and tale, + In this wonder of our days, + When the cruel rod of war + Blossoms white with righteous law, + And the wrath of man is praise! + + Blotted out! + All within and all about + Shall a fresher life begin; + Freer breathe the universe + As it rolls its heavy curse + On the dead and buried sin! + + It is done! + In the circuit of the sun + Shall the sound thereof go forth. + It shall bid the sad rejoice, + It shall give the dumb a voice, + It shall belt with joy the earth! + + Ring and swing, + Bells of joy! On morning's wing + Send the song of praise abroad! + With a sound of broken chains + Tell the nations that He reigns, + Who alone is Lord and God! + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[24] By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of +this author's works. + + + + +THE PILGRIM FATHERS + +FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS + + + The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast, + And the woods against a stormy sky their giant branches tossed, + And the heavy night hung dark the hills and waters o'er, + When a band of exiles moored their bark on the wild New England + shore. + + Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came,-- + Not with the roll of stirring drums, and the trumpet that sings of + fame: + Not as the flying come, in silence and in fear,-- + They shook the depths of the desert's gloom with their hymns of + lofty cheer. + + Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard and the sea! + And the sounding aisles of the dim wood rang to the anthems of the + free! + The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white waves' foam, + And the rocking pines of the forest roared;--this was their welcome + home. + + There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band; + Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's + land? + There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; + There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of + youth. + + What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? + The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?--They sought a faith's pure + shrine! + Aye, call it holy ground, the soil where first they trod! + They have left unstained what there they found,--freedom to worship + God! + + + + +THE PRESENT CRISIS[25] + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL + + + When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's aching + breast + Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from East to West; + And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb, + To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime + Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time. + + For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along + Round the earth's electric circle the swift flash of right or + wrong; + Whether conscious or unconscious, yet humanity's vast frame + Through its ocean-sundered fibers feels the gush of joy or shame-- + In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim. + + Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, + In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; + Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or + blight, + Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, + And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light. + + Backward look across the ages, and the beacon moments see + That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through oblivion's + sea; + Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding cry + Of those crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's + chaff must fly; + Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by. + + Careless seems the great avenger; history's pages but record + One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word; + Truth forever on the scaffold, wrong forever on the throne, + Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, + Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above His own. + + We see dimly in the present what is small and what is great; + Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate! + But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, + List the ominous stern whisper from the delphic cave within, + "They enslave their children's children who make compromise with + sin." + + Then to side with truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, + Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be + just; + Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, + Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, + And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. + + Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes--they were souls that stood + alone, + While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone; + Stood serene and down the future, saw the golden beam incline + To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine + By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. + + By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, + Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, + And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned + One new word of that grand credo which in prophet-hearts hath + burned, + Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven + upturned. + + For humanity sweeps onward; where to-day the martyr stands, + On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; + Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, + While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return + To glean up the scattered ashes into history's golden urn. + + 'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves + Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves. + Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime; + Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their + time? + Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock + sublime? + + They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our + sires, + Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires. + Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to + slay, + From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away + To light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day? + + New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth; + They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth; + Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be, + Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter + sea, + Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[25] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized +publishers of this author's works. + + + + +THE RECESSIONAL + +RUDYARD KIPLING + + + God of our fathers, known of old-- + Lord of our far-flung battle line-- + Beneath whose awful hand we hold + Dominion over palm and pine; + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget,--lest we forget. + + The tumult and the shouting dies, + The captains and the kings depart-- + Still stands thine ancient sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart. + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget,--lest we forget. + + If, drunk with sight of power, we loose + Wild tongues that have not thee in awe-- + Such boastings as the Gentiles use, + Or lesser breeds without the Law-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget,--lest we forget! + + For heathen heart that puts her trust + In reeking tube and iron shard-- + All valiant dust that builds on dust, + And guarding calls not thee to guard, + For frantic boast and foolish word, + Thy mercy on thy people, Lord! + + + + +THE SACREDNESS OF WORK + +THOMAS CARLYLE + + +All true work is sacred; in all true hand-labor, there is something of +divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of +the brow; and up from that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart; +which includes all Kepler's calculations, Newton's meditations, all +sciences, all spoken epics, all acted heroism, martyrdoms--up to that +"Agony of bloody sweat," which all men have called divine! Oh, brother, +if this is not "worship," then, I say, the more pity for worship; for +this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky! + +Who art thou that complainest of thy life of toil? Complain not. Look +up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow-workmen there, in God's Eternity; +surviving there, they alone surviving; sacred Band of the Immortals, +celestial Body-guard of the Empire of Mind. Even in the weak human +memory they survive so long, as saints, as heroes, as gods; they alone +surviving; peopling the immeasured solitudes of Time! To thee Heaven, +though severe, is not unkind; Heaven is kind--as a noble mother; as that +Spartan mother, saying, while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my +son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home, in honor to thy +far-distant home, doubt it not--if in the battle thou keep thy shield. + + + + +WHAT'S HALLOWED GROUND? + +THOMAS CAMPBELL + + + What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod + Its Maker meant not should be trod + By man, the image of his God, + Erect and free, + Unscourged by superstition's rod + To bow the knee? + + What hallows ground where heroes sleep? + 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap, + In dews that Heavens far distant weep, + Their turf may bloom, + Or Genii twine beneath the deep + Their coral tomb. + + But strew his ashes to the wind, + Whose sword or voice has saved mankind, + And is he dead, whose glorious mind + Lifts thine on high? + To live in hearts we leave behind + Is not to die! + + Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? + He's dead alone that lacks her light! + And murder sullies, in Heaven's sight + The sword he draws. + What can alone ennoble fight? + A noble cause. + + What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth + To sacred thoughts in souls of worth. + Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth + Earth's compass round, + And your high priesthood shall make earth + All hallowed ground. + + + + +III + +PATRIOTIC, HEROIC, ORATORICAL + +THE SEVEN GREAT ORATORS OF THE WORLD + + + Harvard University after mature consideration has proclaimed that + in the history of eloquence there are seven great orators who stand + preeminent above other orators whom the world calls great. A + visitor to that venerable institution of learning, on coming to + Memorial Hall, will find at the theater end, on the outside and + just above the cornice, seven niches containing gigantic busts of + these seven orators: Demosthenes, the Greek; Cicero, the Roman; + Chrysostom, the Asiatic Greek; Bossuet, the Frenchman; Chatham, the + Englishman; Burke, the Irishman; and Webster, the American. + + It is in furtherance of this idea that we have selected short + passages of eloquence from each of these men; and also with the + threefold purpose of acquainting young students with masterpieces + of oratory since the dawn of history, of providing passages well + worth committing to memory, and offering extracts well suited for + practice in public speaking. + + + + +I. DEMOSTHENES + +THE ENCROACHMENTS OF PHILIP[26] + + +Men of Athens, if any one regard without uneasiness the might and +dominion of Philip, and imagine that it threatens no danger to the +state, or that all his preparations are not against you, I marvel, and +would entreat you every one to hear briefly from me the reasons why I am +led to form a contrary expectation, and why I deem Philip an enemy; +that, if I appear to have the clearer foresight, you may hearken to me; +if they, who have such confidence and trust in Philip, you may give your +adherence to them. + +What did Philip first make himself master of after the peace? Thermopylae +and the Phocian state. And how used he his power? He chose to act for +the benefit of Thebes, not of Athens. Why so? Because, I conceive, +measuring his calculations by ambition, by his desire of universal +empire, without regard to peace, quiet, or justice, he saw plainly that +to a people of our character and principles nothing could he offer or +give that would induce you for self-interest to sacrifice any of the +Greeks to him. He sees that you, having respect for justice, dreading +the infamy of the thing, and exercising proper forethought, would oppose +him in any such attempt as much as if you were at war. But the Thebans, +he expected, would, in return for the services done them, allow him in +everything else to have his way, and, so far from thwarting or impeding +him, would fight on his side if he required it. You are judged by these +to be the only people incapable of betraying for lucre the national +rights of Greece, or bartering your attachment to her for any obligation +or benefit. And this opinion of you he has naturally formed, not only +from a view of present times, but by reflection on the past. For +assuredly he finds and hears that your ancestors, who might have +governed the rest of Greece on terms of submitting to Persia, not only +spurned the proposal when Alexander, this man's ancestor, came as herald +to negotiate, but preferred to abandon their country and endure any +suffering, and thereafter achieved such exploits as all the world loves +to remember,--though none could ever speak them worthily, and therefore +I must be silent, for their deeds are too mighty to be uttered in words. +But the forefathers of the Thebans either joined the barbarian's army or +did not oppose it; and therefore he knows that they will selfishly +embrace their advantage, without considering the common interest of the +Greeks. He thought then if he chose your friendship, it must be on just +principles; if he attached himself to them, he should find auxiliaries +of his ambition. This is the reason of his preferring them to you both +then and now. For certainly he does not see them with a larger navy than +you, nor has he acquired an inland empire and renounced that of the sea +and the ports, nor does he forget the professions and promises on which +he obtained the peace. + +I cannot think that Philip, either if he was forced into his former +measures, or if he were now giving up the Thebans, would pertinaciously +oppose their enemies; his present conduct rather shows that he adopted +those measures by choice. All things prove to a correct observer that +his whole plan of action is against our state. And this has now become +to him a sort of necessity. Consider. He desires empire; he conceives +you to be his only opponents. He has been for some time wronging you, as +his own conscience best informs him, since, by retaining what belongs to +you, he secures the rest of his dominion. He knows that he is plotting +against you, and that you are aware of it; and supposing you to have +intelligence, he thinks you must hate him; he is alarmed, expecting some +disaster, unless he hastens to prevent you. Therefore he is awake and on +the watch against us; he courts certain people, who from cupidity, he +thinks, will be satisfied with the present, and from dullness of +understanding will foresee none of the consequences. + +I imagine that what Philip is doing will grieve you hereafter more than +it does now. I see the thing progressing, and would that my surmises +were false, but I doubt it is too near already. So when you are able no +longer to disregard events, when, instead of hearing from me or others +that these measures are against Athens, you all see it yourselves and +know it for certain, I expect you will be wrathful and exasperated. I +fear then, as your ambassadors have concealed the purpose for which they +know they were corrupted, those who endeavor to repair what the others +have lost may chance to encounter your resentment, for I see it is a +practice with many to vent their anger, not upon the guilty, but on +persons most in their power. Had you not been then deceived there would +be nothing to distress the state. Philip would certainly never have +prevailed at sea and come to Attica with a fleet, nor would he have +marched with a land force by Phocis and Thermopylae; he must either have +acted honorably, observing the peace and keeping quiet, or been +immediately in a war similar to that which made him desire the peace. +Enough has been said to awaken recollection. Grant, O ye gods, it be not +all fully confirmed! Though he may deserve death I would have no man +punished to the damage and danger of the country. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[26] From the Second Philippic delivered at Athens, 344 B.C. + + + + +II. MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO + +ORATION AGAINST ANTONY[27] + + +Who is there who does not see that Antonius has been adjudged to be an +enemy? For what else can we call him, when the Senate decides that +extraordinary honors are to be devised for those men who are leading +armies against him? What, did not the Martial legion decide by its +resolutions that Antonius was an enemy before the Senate had come to any +resolution? For if he be not an enemy, we must inevitably decide that +those men who have deserted the consul are enemies. Admirably and +seasonably, O Romans, have you by your cries sanctioned the noble +conduct of the men of the Martial legion, who have come over to the +authority of the Senate, to your liberty, and to the whole republic, and +have abandoned that enemy and robber and parricide of his country. Nor +did they display only their spirit and courage in doing this, but their +caution and wisdom also. They encamped at Alba, in a city convenient, +fortified, full of brave men and loyal and virtuous citizens. The fourth +legion imitated and also joined the army of Caius Caesar. + +What more adverse decisions, O Marcus Antonius, can you want? Caesar, who +has levied an army against you, is extolled to the skies. The legions +are praised in the most complimentary manner, which have abandoned you, +which were sent for into Italy by you, and which, if you had been chosen +to be a consul rather than an enemy, were wholly devoted to you. And the +fearless and honest decision of those legions is confirmed by the Senate +and is approved of by the whole Roman people. Do you suppose that the +municipal towns and the colonies and the prefectures have any other +opinion? All men are agreed with one mind, so that every one who wishes +the State to be saved must take every sort of arms against that +pestilence. What, does the opinion of Decimus Brutus which has this day +reached us appear to any one deserving of being lightly esteemed? The +family and name of Brutus has been by some especial kindness and +liberality of the immortal gods given to the republic, for the purpose +of at one time establishing, and at another of recovering, the liberty +of the Roman people. What has been the opinion which Decimus Brutus has +formed of Marcus Antonius? He excludes him from his province. He opposes +him with his army. He rouses all Gaul to war, which is already aroused +of its own accord, and in consequence of the judgment which it has +already formed. If Antonius be consul, Brutus is an enemy. Can we then +doubt which of these alternatives is the fact? + +And just as you now with one mind and one voice affirm that you +entertain no doubt, so did the Senate just now decree that Decimus +Brutus deserved excellently well of the republic, inasmuch as he was +defending the authority of the Senate and the liberty and empire of the +Roman people. Defending it against whom? Why, against an enemy. For what +other sort of defense deserves praise? In the next place the province of +Gaul is praised and is deservedly complimented in most honorable +language by the Senate for resisting Antonius. But if that province +considered him the consul, and still refused to receive him it would be +guilty of great wickedness. For all the provinces belong to the consul +of right, and are bound to obey him. Decimus Brutus, imperator and +consul-elect, a citizen born for the republic, denies that he is consul. +Gaul denies it. All Italy denies it. The Senate denies it. You deny it. +Who then thinks he is consul except a few robbers? I think that at +present not only men but the immortal gods have all united together to +preserve this republic. For if the immortal gods foreshow us the future, +by means of portents and prodigies, then it has been openly revealed to +us that punishment is near at hand to him, and liberty to us. Or if it +was impossible for such unanimity on the part of all men to exist +without the inspiration of the gods, in either case how can we doubt as +to the inclination of the heavenly deities? + +I will act therefore as commanders are in the habit of doing when their +army is ready for battle, who although they see their soldiers ready to +engage, still address an exhortation to them; and in like manner I will +exhort you who are already eager and burning to recover your liberty. +You have not to war against an enemy with whom it is possible to make +peace on any terms whatever. For he does not now desire your slavery, as +he did before, but he is angry now and thirsts for your blood. No sport +appears more delightful to him than bloodshed and slaughter and the +massacre of citizens before his eyes. You have not, O Romans, to deal +with a wicked and profligate man, but with an unnatural, and savage +beast. And since he has fallen into a well let him be buried in it. For +if he escapes out of it there will be no inhumanity of torture which it +will be possible to avoid. But he is at present hemmed in, pressed, and +besieged by those troops which we already have, and will soon be still +more so by those which in a few days the new consuls will levy. Apply +yourselves then to this business, as you are doing. Never have you shown +greater unanimity in any cause, never have you been so cordially united +with the Senate. And no wonder: for the question now is not in what +condition we are to live, but whether we are to live at all, or to +perish with torture and ignominy. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[27] Taken from the Fourth Philippic, delivered in the Forum at Rome. + + + + +III. SAINT JOHN CHRYSOSTOM + +I. UNDUE LAMENTATIONS OVER THE DEAD + + +I am ashamed and blush to see unbecoming groups of women pass along the +mart, tearing their hair, cutting their arms and cheeks, and all this +under the eyes of the Greeks. For what will they not say? What will they +not utter concerning us? Are these the men who philosophize about a +resurrection? How poorly their actions agree with their opinions! In +words they philosophize about a resurrection, but they act just like +those who do not acknowledge a resurrection. If they fully believed in a +resurrection they would not act thus; if they had really persuaded +themselves that a deceased friend had departed to a better state they +would not thus mourn. These things and more than these, the unbelievers +say when they hear those lamentations. Let us then be ashamed, and be +more moderate, and not occasion so much harm to ourselves and to those +who are looking on us. + +For on what account, tell me, do you thus weep for one departed? Because +he was a bad man? You ought on that very account to be thankful, since +the occasions of wickedness are now cut off. Because he was good and +kind? If so, you ought to rejoice, since he has been soon removed before +wickedness had corrupted him; and he has gone away to a world where he +stands ever secure, and there is no room even to mistrust a change. +Because he was a youth? For that, too, praise Him who has taken him, +because He has speedily called him to a better lot. Because he was an +aged man? On this account also give thanks and glorify Him that has +taken him. Be ashamed of your manner of burial. All this is not that +you may weep and lament and afflict yourselves, but that you may render +thanks to Him who has taken the departed. + +When men are called to some high office, multitudes with praises on +their lips assemble to escort them at their departure to their stations, +so do all with abundant praise join to send forward, as to a greater +honor, those of the pious who have departed. Death is rest, a +deliverance from the exhausting labors and cares of this world. When, +then, thou seest a relative departing yield not to despondency; give +thyself to reflection; examine thy conscience; cherish the thought that +after a little while this end awaits thee also. Be more considerate; let +another's death excite thee to salutary fear; shake off all indolence; +examine your past deeds; quit your sins and commence a happy change. + +We differ from unbelievers in our estimate of things. The unbeliever +surveys the heaven and worships it, because he thinks it a divinity; he +looks to the earth and makes himself a servant to it, and longs for the +things of sense. But not so with us. We survey the heaven and admire Him +that made it, for we believe it not to be a god, but a work of God. I +look on the whole creation, and am led by it to the Creator. He looks on +wealth and longs for and laments; I see poverty and rejoice. I see +things in one light, he in another. Just so in regard to death. He sees +a corpse and thinks of it as a corpse; I see a corpse and behold sleep +rather than death. And as in regard to books, both learned persons and +unlearned see them with the same eyes, but not with the same +understanding. To the unlearned the mere shapes of letters appear, while +the learned discover the sense that lies within those letters. So in +respect to affairs in general, we all see what takes place with the same +eyes, but not with the same understanding and judgment. Since, +therefore, in all other things we differ from them, shall we agree with +them in our sentiments respecting death? Consider to whom the departed +has gone. He has gone where Paul is, and the whole company of the +saints. Consider how he shall arise, with what glory and with what +splendor. + + + + +II. ON APPLAUDING PREACHERS + + +It is a mischief when one who teaches will in words impugn the teachings +by his deeds. This has been the cause of many evils in the churches. +Wherefore pardon me, I beseech you, if my discourse dwells long on this +evil affection. Many take a great deal of pains to be able to stand up +in public and make a long speech; and if they get applause from the +multitude, it is to them as if they had gained the very kingdom of +heaven; but if silence follows the close of their speech the defection +that falls upon their spirits from the silence is worse than hell +itself. This has turned the churches upside down, because you desire not +to hear a discourse calculated to lead to compunction, but one that may +delight you from the sound and composition of the words, as though you +were listening to singers and minstrels. When we idly busy ourselves +about beautiful expressions and the composition and harmony of our +sentences in order that we might not profit; when we make it our aim to +be admired, not to instruct; to delight, not prick to the heart; to be +applauded and depart with praise, not to correct men's manners, we do +wrong. Believe me, I speak what I feel, when as I discourse, I hear +myself applauded, at the moment I feel it as a man; I am delighted and +give way to the pleasurable feeling; but when I get home and bethink me +that those who applauded received no benefit from my discourse, but +whatever benefit they ought to have got they lost it while applauding +and praising, I am in pain, and groan and weep, and feel as if I had +spoken all in vain. I say to myself what profit comes to me from my +labors, while the hearers do not choose to benefit by what they hear +from me? + +Even the heathen philosophers--we hear of their discoursing, and +nowhere do we find that noisy applause accompanied their words; we hear +of the apostles making public speeches, and yet nowhere do the accounts +add that in the midst of their discourses the hearers interrupted the +speaker with loud expressions of approbation. Christ spoke publicly on +the mount, yet no one said aught until He had finished His discourse. +How shall the hearer be otherwise than ridiculous? Nay, he will be +deemed a flatterer and his praise no better than irony, when he declares +that the teacher spoke beautifully; but what he said, this he cannot +tell. This has all the appearance of adulation. For when, indeed, one +has been hearing minstrels and players, it is no wonder if such has been +the case with him, seeing he looks not how to utter the strain in the +same manner; but where the matter is not an exhibition of song or of +voice, but the drift and purport of thoughts and wise reflections, and +it is easy for every one to tell and report what was said, how can he +but deserve the accusation, who cannot tell what the matter was for +which he praised the speaker? Nothing so becomes the church as silence +and good order. + +Noise belongs to the theaters, and baths, and public processions, and +market-places; but where doctrines, and such doctrines, are the subject +of teaching, there should be stillness and quiet, and calm reflection, +and a haven of much repose. These things I beseech and entreat; for I go +about in quest of ways by which I shall be enabled to profit your souls. +And no small way I take this to be; it will profit not you only, but us +also. So shall we not be carried away with pride, not be tempted to love +praises and honor, not be led to speak those things which delight, but +those things that profit: so shall we lay the whole stress of our time +and diligence, not upon arts of composition and beauties of expression, +but upon the matter and meaning of the thoughts. + +Is not all nature decked with stillness and silence? Over all the face +of heaven is scattered the charm of repose. On this account we are evil +spoken of even among the Gentiles, as though we did all for display and +ostentation. But if this be prevented the love of the chief seats will +also be extinguished. It is sufficient, if any one be enamored of +praise, that he should obtain it after having been heard, when all is +gathered in. Yea, I beseech you that doing all things according to God's +will, we may be found worthy of the mercy which is from Him, through the +grace and compassion of His only Son. + + + + +IV. JACQUES BENIGNE BOSSUET + +ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCE OF CONDE + + +Our lamentations ought to break forth at the loss of so great a man. But +for the love of truth and the shame of those who despise it, listen once +more to that noble testimony which he bore to it in dying. Informed by +his confessor that if our heart is not entirely right with God, we must, +in our addresses, ask God Himself to make it such as He pleases, and +address Him in the affecting language of David, "O God, create in me a +clean heart," the Prince is arrested by the words, pauses, as if +occupied with some great thought; then calling the ecclesiastic who had +suggested the idea, he says: "I have never doubted the mysteries of +religion, as some have reported." Christians, you ought to believe him, +for in the state he then was he owed to the world nothing but truth. + +What was then taking place in his soul? What new light dawned upon him? +What sudden ray pierced the cloud, and instantly dissipated, not only +all the darkness of sense, but the very shadows, and if I dare to say +it, the sacred obscurities of faith? What then became of those splendid +titles by which our pride is flattered? On the very verge of glory, and +in the dawning of a light so beautiful, how rapidly vanish the phantoms +of the world! How dim appears the splendor of the most glorious victory! +How profoundly we despise the glory of the world, and how deeply regret +that our eyes were ever dazzled by its radiance! Come, ye people, or +rather ye princes and lords, ye judges of the earth, and ye who open to +man the portals of heaven; and more than all others, ye princes and +princesses, nobles descended from a long line of kings, lights of +France, but to-day in gloom, and covered with your grief, as with a +cloud, come and see how little remains of a birth so august, a grandeur +so high, a glory so dazzling. Look around on all sides, and see all that +magnificence and devotion can do to honor so great a hero; titles and +inscriptions, vain signs of that which is no more--shadows which weep +around a tomb, fragile images of a grief which time sweeps away with +everything else; columns which seem as if they would bear to heaven the +magnificent evidence of our emptiness; nothing, indeed, is wanting in +all these honors but him to whom they are rendered! Weep then over these +feeble remains of human life; weep over that mournful immortality we +give to heroes. But draw near, especially ye who run with such ardor the +career of glory, intrepid and warrior spirits! Who was more worthy to +command you, and in whom did you find command more honorable? Mourn then +that great captain, and weeping, say: "Here is the man that led us +through all hazards, under whom were formed so many renowned captains, +raised by his example to the highest honors of war; his shadow might yet +gain battles, and lo! in his silence his very name animates us, and at +the same time warns us, that to find at death some rest from our toils, +and not arrive unprepared at our eternal dwelling, we must, with an +earthly king, yet serve the king of heaven." + +Serve then that immortal and ever merciful King, who will value a sigh +or a cup of cold water, given in His name, more than all others will +value the shedding of your blood. And begin to reckon the time of your +useful services from the day on which you gave yourselves to so +beneficent a Master. Will not ye too come, ye whom he honored by making +you his friends? To whatever extent you enjoyed his confidence, come +all of you, and surround his tomb. Mingle your prayers with your tears; +and while admiring, in so great a prince, a friendship so excellent, an +intercourse so sweet, preserve the remembrance of a hero whose goodness +equaled his courage. Thus may he ever prove your cherished instructor; +thus may you profit by his virtues; and may his death, which you +deplore, serve you at once for consolation and example. + +For myself, if permitted, after all others, to render the last offices +at his tomb, O Prince, the worthy subject of our praises and regrets, +thou wilt live forever in my memory. There will thy image be traced, but +not with that bold aspect which promises victory. No, I would see in you +nothing which death can efface. You will have in that image only +immortal traits. I shall behold you such as you were in your last hours +under the hand of God, when His glory began to dawn upon you. There +shall I see you more triumphant than at Fribourg and at Rocroy; and +ravished by so glorious a triumph, I shall give thanks in the beautiful +words of the well-beloved disciple, "This is the victory that overcometh +the world, even our faith." Enjoy, O Prince, this victory, enjoy it +forever, through the everlasting efficacy of that sacrifice. + + + + +V. WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM + +I. WAR WITH AMERICA[28] + + +I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. I cannot +concur in a blind and servile address, which approves and endeavors to +sanctify the monstrous measures which have heaped disgrace and +misfortune upon us. This, my lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment! +It is not a time for adulation. The smoothness of flattery cannot now +avail; cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now +necessary to instruct the throne in the language of truth. We must +dispel the illusion and the darkness which envelop it, and display, in +its full danger and true colors, the ruin that is brought to our doors. + +Can the minister of the day now presume to expect a continuance of +support in this ruinous infatuation? Can Parliament be so dead to its +dignity and its duty as to be thus deluded into the loss of the one and +the violation of the other? To give an unlimited credit and support for +the steady perseverance in measures not proposed for our parliamentary +advice, but dictated and forced upon us--in measures which have reduced +this late flourishing empire to ruin and contempt! "But yesterday and +England might have stood against the world; now none so poor to do her +reverence." It is a shameful truth that not only the power and strength +of this country are wasting away and expiring, but her well-earned +glories, her true honor and substantial dignity, are sacrificed. + +My lords, this ruinous and ignominious situation, where we cannot act +with success, nor suffer with honor, calls upon us to remonstrate in the +strongest and loudest language of truth, to rescue the ear of Majesty +from the delusions which surround it. The desperate state of our arms +abroad is in part known. No man thinks more highly of them than I do. I +love and honor the English troops. I know their virtues and their valor. +I know they can achieve anything except impossibilities; and I know that +the conquest of English America is an impossibility. You cannot, I +venture to say it, you cannot conquer America. Your armies in the last +war effected everything that could be effected; and what was it? It cost +a numerous army, under the command of a most able general, a long and +laborious campaign, to expel five thousand Frenchmen from French +America. My lords, you cannot conquer America. + +What is your present situation there? We do not know the worst; but we +know that in three campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. +Besides the sufferings, perhaps total loss, of the northern force, the +best-appointed army that ever took the field, commanded by Sir William +Howe, has retired from the American lines. As to conquest, I repeat, it +is impossible. You may swell every expense and every effort still more +extravagantly; pile and accumulate every assistance you can buy or +borrow; traffic and barter with every little pitiful German prince that +sells and sends his subjects to the shambles of a foreign prince; your +efforts are forever vain and impotent--doubly so from this mercenary aid +on which you rely; for it irritates to an incurable resentment the minds +of your enemies, to overrun them with the mercenary sons of rapine and +plunder, devoting them and their possessions to the rapacity of hireling +cruelty! If I were an American, as I am an Englishman, while a foreign +troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down my +arms--never--never--never. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[28] Delivered in the House of Lords, Nov. 18, 1777. + + + + +II. ATTEMPT TO SUBJUGATE AMERICA + +My lords, no man wishes for the due dependence of America on this +country more than I do. To preserve it, and not confirm that state of +independence into which your measures hitherto have driven them, is the +object which we ought to unite in attaining. The Americans, contending +for their rights against arbitrary exactions, I love and admire. It is +the struggle of free and virtuous patriots. America was indeed the +fountain of our wealth, the nerve of our strength, the nursery and basis +of our naval power. It is our duty, therefore, my lords, if we wish to +save our country, most seriously to endeavor the recovery of these most +beneficial subjects; and in this perilous crisis, perhaps the present +moment may be the only one in which we can hope for success. + +I would impart to them every enjoyment and freedom which the colonizing +subjects of a free state can possess, or wish to possess; and I do not +see why they should not enjoy every fundamental right in their property, +and every original substantial liberty, which Devonshire or Surrey, or +the county I live in, or any other county in England, can claim; +reserving always as the sacred right of the mother country the due +constitutional dependency of the colonies. The inherent supremacy of the +state in regulating and protecting the navigation and commerce of all +her subjects is necessary for the mutual benefit and preservation of +every part, to constitute and preserve the prosperous arrangement of the +whole empire. + +You cannot conciliate America by your present measures. You cannot +subdue her by your present, or by any measures. What, then, can you do? +You cannot conquer, you cannot gain, but you can address; you can lull +the fears and anxieties of the moment into an ignorance of the danger +that should produce them. But, my lords, the time demands the language +of truth. We must not now apply the flattering unction of servile +compliance or blind complaisance. In a just and necessary war to +maintain the rights or honor of my country, I would strip the shirt from +my back to support it. But in such a war as this, unjust in principle, +impracticable in its means, and ruinous in its consequences, I would not +contribute a single effort, nor a single shilling. I do not call for +vengeance on the heads of those who have been guilty; I only recommend +to them to make their retreat; and let them make haste, or they may be +assured that speedy and condign punishment will overtake them. + +My lords, I have submitted to you, with the freedom and truth which I +think my duty, my sentiments on this awful situation. I have laid before +you the ruin of your power, the disgrace of your reputation, the +pollution of your discipline, the contamination of your morals, the +complication of calamities, foreign and domestic, that overwhelm your +sinking country. Your dearest interests, your own liberties, the +constitution itself, totters to the foundation. All this disgraceful +danger, this multitude of misery, is the monstrous offspring of this +unnatural war. We have been deceived and deluded too long. Let us now +stop short. This is the crisis, the only crisis of time and situation, +to give us a possibility of escape from the fatal effects of our +delusions. But if, in an obstinate and infatuated perseverance in folly, +we slavishly echo the peremptory words this day presented to us, nothing +can save this devoted country from complete and final ruin. + +Is it possible, can it be believed, that ministers are yet blind to this +impending destruction? I did hope that instead of this false and empty +vanity, this overweening pride, that ministers would have humbled +themselves in their errors, would have confessed and retracted them, and +by an active though a late repentance, have endeavored to redeem them. +But, my lords, since they had neither sagacity to foresee, nor justice +nor humanity to shun, these oppressive calamities; since not even severe +experience can make them feel, nor the imminent ruin of their country +awaken them from their stupefaction, the guardian care of Parliament +must interpose. I shall, therefore, my lords, propose an amendment to +the address to his Majesty, to recommend an immediate cessation of +hostilities and the commencement of a treaty to restore peace and +liberty to America, strength and happiness to England, security and +permanent prosperity to both countries. + + + + +VI. EDMUND BURKE + +I. IMPEACHMENT OF HASTINGS[29] + +My lords, you have now heard the principles on which Mr. Hastings +governs the part of Asia subjected to the British empire. Here he has +declared his opinion, that he is a despotic prince; that he is to use +arbitrary power; and, of course, all his acts are covered with that +shield. "I know," says he, "the Constitution of Asia only from its +practice." Will your lordships submit to hear the corrupt practices of +mankind made the principles of Government? + +He have arbitrary power! My lords, the East India Company have not +arbitrary power to give him; the King has no arbitrary power to give +him; your lordships have not; nor the Commons; nor the whole +Legislature. We have no arbitrary power to give, because arbitrary power +is a thing which neither any man can hold nor any man can give. No man +can lawfully govern himself according to his own will, much less can one +person be governed by the will of another. We are all born in +subjection, all born equally, high and low, governors and governed, in +subjection to one great, immutable, preexistent law, prior to all our +devices, and prior to all our contrivances, paramount to all our ideas, +and all our sensations, antecedent to our very existence, by which we +are knit and connected in the eternal frame of the universe, out of +which we cannot stir. + +This great law does not arise from our conventions or compacts; on the +contrary, it gives to our conventions and compacts all the force and +sanction they can have;--it does not arise from our vain institutions. +Every good gift is of God; all power is of God;--and He, who has given +the power, and from whom alone it originates, will never suffer the +exercise of it to be practiced upon any less solid foundation than the +power itself. If then all dominion of man over man is the effect of the +divine disposition, it is bound by the eternal laws of Him that gave it, +with which no human authority can dispense; neither he that exercises +it, nor even those who are subject to it. And if they were mad enough to +make an express compact that should release their magistrate from his +duty, and should declare their lives, liberties, and properties +dependent upon, not rules and laws, but his mere capricious will, that +covenant would be void. + +This arbitrary power is not to be had by conquest. Nor can any +sovereign have it by succession; for no man can succeed to fraud, +rapine, and violence. Those who give and those who receive arbitrary +power are alike criminal; and there is no man but is bound to resist it +to the best of his power, wherever it shall show its face to the world. +Law and arbitrary power are in eternal enmity. Name me a magistrate, and +I will name property; name me power, and I will name protection. It is a +contradiction in terms; it is blasphemy in religion, it is wickedness in +politics, to say that any man can have arbitrary power. In every patent +of office the duty is included. For what else does a magistrate exist? +To suppose for power, is an absurdity in idea. Judges are guided and +governed by the eternal laws of justice, to which we are all subject. We +may bite our chains, if we will; but we shall be made to know ourselves, +and be taught that man is born to be governed by law; and he that will +substitute will in the place of it, is an enemy to God. + +My lords, I do not mean to go further than just to remind your lordships +of this,--that Mr. Hastings' government was one whole system of +oppression, of robbery of individuals, of spoliation of the public, and +of supersession of the whole system of the English Government, in order +to vest in the worst of the natives all the power that could possibly +exist in any government; in order to defeat the ends which all +governments ought, in common, to have in view. In the name of the +Commons of England, I charge all this villainy upon Warren Hastings in +this last moment of my application to you. + +My lords, what is it that we want here to a great act of national +justice? Do we want a cause, my lords? You have the cause of oppressed +princes, of desolated provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. Do you want a +criminal, my lords? When was there so much iniquity ever laid to the +charge of any one? No, my lords, you must not look to punish any other +such delinquent from India. Warren Hastings has not left substance +enough in India to nourish such another delinquent. + +Therefore, it is with confidence that, ordered by the Commons of Great +Britain, I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanors. I +impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain in Parliament +assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has abused. I impeach him in the +name of the Commons of Great Britain, whose national character he has +dishonored. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose +laws, rights and liberties he has subverted. I impeach him in the name +of the people of India, whose property he has destroyed, whose country +he has laid waste and desolate. I impeach him in the name of human +nature itself, which he has cruelly outraged, injured and oppressed, in +both sexes. And I impeach him in the name and by the virtue of those +eternal laws of justice, which ought equally to pervade every age, +condition, rank, and situation in the world. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[29] On the 15th of February, 1788, Edmund Burke began a four days' +speech in the impeachment of Warren Hastings. + + + + +II. CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA[30] + +Sir, I have in general no very exalted opinion of the virtue of paper +government; nor of any politics in which the plan is to be wholly +separated from the execution. But when I saw that anger and violence +prevailed every day more and more, and that things were hastening +towards an incurable alienation of our colonies, I confess my caution +gave way. I felt this as one of those few moments in which decorum +yields to a higher duty. Public calamity is a mighty leveler; and there +are occasions when any chance of doing good must be laid hold on, even +by the most inconsiderable person. To restore order and repose to an +empire so great and so distracted as ours, is, merely in the attempt, an +undertaking that would ennoble the flights of the highest genius, and +obtain pardon for the efforts of the meanest understanding. + +The proposition is peace. Not peace through the medium of war; not +peace to be hunted through the labyrinth of intricate and endless +negotiations; not peace to arise out of universal discord fomented, from +principle, in all parts of the empire. It is simple peace; sought in its +natural course, and in its ordinary haunts. It is peace sought in the +spirit of peace, and laid in principles purely pacific. I propose, by +removing the ground of the difference, and by restoring the former +unsuspecting confidence of the colonies in the Mother Country, to give +permanent satisfaction to your people; and to reconcile them to each +other in the same act and by the bond of the very same interest which +reconciles them to British government. + +The principle of this proceeding is large enough for my purpose. I mean +to give peace. Peace implies reconciliation; and where there has been a +material dispute, reconciliation does in a manner always imply +concession on the one part or on the other. In this state of things I +make no difficulty in affirming that the proposal ought to originate +from us. Great and acknowledged force is not impaired, either in effect +or in opinion, by an unwillingness to exert itself. The superior power +may offer peace with honor and with safety. Such an offer from such a +power will be attributed to magnanimity. But the concessions of the weak +are the concessions of fear. When such an one is disarmed, he is wholly +at the mercy of his superior; and he loses forever that time and those +chances, which, as they happen to all men, are the strength and +resources of all inferior power. + +The leading questions on which you must this day decide, are these two: +First, whether you ought to concede; and secondly, what your concession +ought to be. On the first of these questions we have gained some ground. +But I am sensible that a good deal more is still to be done. Indeed, +Sir, to enable us to determine both on the one and the other of these +great questions with a firm and precise judgment, I think it may be +necessary to consider distinctly the true nature and the peculiar +circumstances of the object which we have before us; because after all +our struggle, whether we will or not, we must govern America according +to that nature and to those circumstances, and not according to our own +imaginations, nor according to abstract ideas of right. + +America, gentlemen say, is a noble object. It is an object well worth +fighting for. Certainly it is, if fighting a people be the best way of +gaining them. Gentlemen in this respect will be led to their choice of +means by their complexions and their habits. Those who understand the +military art will of course have some predilection for it. Those who +wield the thunder of the state may have more confidence in the efficacy +of arms. But I confess my opinion is much more in favor of prudent +management than of force. The use of force alone is but temporary. It +may subdue for a moment, but it does not remove the necessity of +subduing again; and a nation is not governed which is perpetually to be +conquered. + +My next objection is its uncertainty. Terror is not always the effect of +force, and an armament is not a victory. If you do not succeed, you are +without resource; for, conciliation failing, force remains; but, force +failing, no further hope of reconciliation is left. Power and authority +are sometimes bought by kindness; but they can never be begged as alms +by an impoverished and defeated violence. Nothing less will content me +than whole America. I do not choose to consume its strength along with +our own, because in all parts it is the British strength that I consume. +I do not choose to be caught by a foreign enemy at the end of this +exhausting conflict; and still less in the midst of it. I may escape; +but I can make no insurance against such an event. Let me add, that I do +not choose to break the American spirit; because it is the spirit that +has made the country. + +In the character of the Americans, a love of freedom is the +predominating feature which marks and distinguishes the whole; and as +an ardent is always a jealous affection, your colonies become +suspicious, restive, and untractable whenever they see the least attempt +to wrest from them by force, or shuffle from them by chicanery, what +they think the only advantage worth living for. This fierce spirit of +liberty is stronger in the English colonies probably than in any other +people of the earth. + +Sir, from these six sources--of descent, of form of government, of +religion in the northern provinces, of manners in the southern, of +education, of the remoteness of situation from the first mover of +government--from all these causes a fierce spirit of liberty has grown +up. It has grown with the growth of the people in your colonies, and +increased with the increase of their wealth; a spirit that unhappily +meeting with an exercise of power in England which, however lawful, is +not reconcilable to any ideas of liberty, has kindled this flame that is +ready to consume us. + +I am much against any further experiments which tend to put to the proof +any more of these allowed opinions which contribute so much to the +public tranquillity. In effect, we suffer as much at home by this +loosening of all ties, and this concussion of all established opinions, +as we do abroad; for in order to prove that the Americans have no right +to their liberties, we are every day endeavoring to subvert the maxims +which preserve the whole spirit of our own. To prove that the Americans +ought not to be free, we are obliged to depreciate the value of freedom +itself; and we never seem to gain a paltry advantage over them in debate +without attacking some of those principles, or deriding some of those +feelings, for which our ancestors have shed their blood. + +The temper and character which prevail in our colonies are, I am afraid, +unalterable by any human art. We cannot, I fear, falsify the pedigree of +this fierce people, and persuade them that they are not sprung from a +nation in whose veins the blood of freedom circulates. The language in +which they would hear you tell them this tale would detect the +imposition; your speech would betray you. An Englishman is the unfittest +person on earth to argue another Englishman into slavery. + +But let us suppose all these moral difficulties got over. The ocean +remains. You cannot pump this dry; and as long as it continues in its +present bed, so long all the causes which weaken authority by distance +will continue. If, then, the removal of the causes of this spirit of +American liberty be for the greater part, or rather entirely, +impracticable; if the ideas of criminal process be inapplicable--or, if +applicable, are in the highest degree inexpedient--what way yet remains? +No way is open but to comply with the American spirit as necessary; or, +if you please, to submit to it as a necessary evil. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[30] Delivered in the House of Commons, March 22, 1775. + + + + +III. ENGLISH PRIVILEGES IN AMERICA + +Reflect, sirs, that when you have fixed a quota of taxation for every +colony, you have not provided for prompt and punctual payment. You must +make new Boston Port Bills, new restraining laws, new acts for dragging +men to England for trial. You must send out new fleets, new armies. All +is to begin again. From this day forward the empire is never to know an +hour's tranquillity. An intestine fire will be kept alive in the bowels +of the colonies, which one time or other must consume this whole empire. + +Instead of a standing revenue, you will therefore have a perpetual +quarrel. Indeed, the noble lord who proposed this project seems himself +to be of that opinion. His project was rather designed for breaking the +union of the colonies than for establishing a revenue. But whatever his +views may be, as I propose the peace and union of the colonies as the +very foundation of my plan, it cannot accord with one whose foundation +is perpetual discord. + +Compare the two. This I offer to give you is plain and simple; the other +full of perplexed and intricate mazes. This is mild; that harsh. This +is found by experience effectual for its purposes; the other is a new +project. This is universal; the other calculated for certain colonies +only. This is immediate in its conciliatory operation; the other remote, +contingent, full of hazard. Mine is what becomes the dignity of a ruling +people--gratuitous, unconditional, and not held out as a matter of +bargain and sale. I have done my duty in proposing it to you. I have +indeed tired you by a long discourse; but this is the misfortune of +those to whose influence nothing will be conceded, and who must win +every inch of their ground by argument. You have heard me with goodness. +May you decide with wisdom! For my part, I feel my mind greatly +disburdened by what I have done to-day. I have been the less fearful of +trying your patience, because, on this subject, I mean to spare it +altogether in future. I have this comfort, that in every stage of the +American affairs I have steadily opposed the measures that have produced +the confusion, and may bring on the destruction, of this empire. I now +go so far as to risk a proposal of my own. If I cannot give peace to my +country, I give it to my conscience. + +My hold of the colonies is in the close affection which grows from +common names, from kindred blood, from similar privileges, and equal +protection. These are ties which, though light as air, are as strong as +links of iron. Let the colonists always keep the idea of their civil +rights associated with your government,--they will cling and grapple to +you, and no force under heaven will be of power to tear them from their +allegiance. But let it be once understood that your government may be +one thing, and their privileges another, that these two things may exist +without any mutual relation, the cement is gone--the cohesion is +loosened--and everything hastens to decay and dissolution. As long as +you have the wisdom to keep the sovereign authority of this country as +the sanctuary of liberty, the sacred temple consecrated to our common +faith, wherever the chosen race and sons of England worship freedom, +they will turn their faces towards you. The more they multiply, the more +friends you will have; the more ardently they love liberty, the more +perfect will be their obedience. Until you become lost to all feeling of +your true interest and your natural dignity, freedom they can have from +none but you. + +This is the commodity of price of which you have the monopoly. This is +the true Act of Navigation which binds to you the commerce of the +colonies, and through them secures to you the wealth of the world. Deny +them this participation of freedom, and you break that sole bond which +originally made, and must still preserve, the unity of the empire. Do +not entertain so weak an imagination as that your registers and your +bonds, your affidavits and your sufferances, are what form the great +securities of your commerce. Do not dream that your letters of office, +and your instructions, are the things that hold together the great +contexture of the mysterious whole. These things do not make your +government. Dead instruments, passive tools as they are, it is the +spirit of the English communion that gives all their life and efficacy +to them. It is the spirit of the English Constitution which, infused +through the mighty mass, pervades, feeds, unites, invigorates, vivifies +every part of the empire, even down to the minutest member. Is it not +the same virtue which does everything for us here in England? It is the +love of the people; it is the attachment to their government, from the +sense of the deep stake they have in such a glorious institution, which +gives you your army and your navy, and infuses into both that liberal +obedience without which your army would be a base rabble, and your navy +nothing but rotten timber. + +All this, I know well enough, will sound wild and chimerical to the +profane herd of those vulgar and mechanical politicians who have no +place among us; a sort of people who think that nothing exists but what +is gross and material, and who, therefore, far from being qualified to +be directors of the great movement of empire, are not fit to turn a +wheel in the machine. But to men truly initiated and rightly taught, +these ruling and master principles which, in the opinion of such men as +I have mentioned, have no substantial existence, are in truth +everything, and all in all. Magnanimity in politics is the truest +wisdom; and a great empire and little minds go ill together. We ought to +elevate our minds to the greatness of that trust to which the order of +providence has called us. By adverting to the dignity of this high +calling our ancestors have turned a savage wilderness into a glorious +empire, and have made the most extensive and the only honorable +conquests--not by destroying, but by promoting the wealth, the number, +the happiness, of the human race. Let us get an American revenue as we +have got an American empire. English privileges have made it all that it +is; English privileges alone will make it all it can be. + + + + +VII. DANIEL WEBSTER + + +I. BUNKER HILL MONUMENT + +This uncounted multitude before me and around me proves the feeling +which the occasion has excited. These thousands of human faces, glowing +with sympathy and joy, and from the impulses of a common gratitude +turned reverently to heaven in this spacious temple of the firmament, +proclaim that the day, the place and the purpose of our assembling have +made a deep impression on our hearts. + +If, indeed, there be anything in local association fit to affect the +mind of man, we need not strive to repress the emotions which agitate us +here. We are among the sepulchers of our fathers. We are on ground, +distinguished by their valor, their constancy and the shedding of their +blood. We are here, not to fix an uncertain date in our annals, nor draw +into notice an obscure and unknown spot. If our humble purpose had never +been conceived, if we ourselves had never been born, the 17th of June, +1775, would have been a day on which all subsequent history would have +poured its light, and the eminence where we stand a point of attraction +to the eyes of successive generations. But we are Americans. We live in +what may be called the early age of this great continent; and we know +that our posterity, through all time, are here to enjoy and suffer the +allotments of humanity. We see before us a probable train of great +events; we know that our own fortunes have been happily cast; and it is +natural, therefore, that we should be moved by the contemplation of +occurrences which have guided our destiny before many of us were born, +and settled the condition in which we should pass that portion of our +existence which God allows to men on earth. + +But the great event in the history of the continent, which we are now +met here to commemorate, that prodigy of modern times, at once the +wonder and the blessing of the world, is the American Revolution. In a +day of extraordinary prosperity and happiness, of high national honor, +distinction, and power, we are brought together, in this place, by our +love of country, by our admiration of exalted character, by our +gratitude for signal services and patriotic devotion. + +The Society whose organ I am was formed for the purpose of rearing some +honorable and durable monument to the memory of the early friends of +American Independence. They have thought, that for this object no time +could be more propitious than the present prosperous and peaceful +period; that no place could claim preference over this memorable spot; +and that no day could be more auspicious to the undertaking, than the +anniversary of the battle which was here fought. The foundation of that +monument we have now laid. With solemnities suited to the occasion, with +prayers to Almighty God for his blessing, and in the midst of this cloud +of witnesses, we have begun the work. We trust it will be prosecuted, +and that, springing from a broad foundation, rising high in massive +solidity and unadorned grandeur, it may remain as long as heaven permits +the works of man to last, a fit emblem, both of the events in memory of +which it is raised, and of the gratitude of those who have reared it. + +We know, indeed, that the record of illustrious actions is most safely +deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We know, that if we +could cause this structure to ascend, not only till it reached the +skies, but till it pierced them, its broad surfaces could still contain +but part of that which, in an age of knowledge, hath already been spread +over the earth, and which history charges itself with making known to +all future times. We know that no inscription on entablatures less broad +than the earth itself can carry information of the events we commemorate +where it has not already gone; and that no structure, which shall not +outlive the duration of letters and knowledge among men, can prolong the +memorial. But our object is, by this edifice, to show our own deep sense +of the value and importance of the achievements of our ancestors; and, +by presenting this work of gratitude to the eye, to keep alive similar +sentiments, and to foster a constant regard for the principles of the +Revolution. Human beings are composed, not of reason only, but of +imagination also, and sentiment; and that is neither wasted nor +misapplied which is appropriated to the purpose of giving right +direction to sentiments, and opening proper springs of feeling in the +heart. + +Let it not be supposed that our object is to perpetuate national +hostility, or even to cherish a mere military spirit. It is higher, +purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to the spirit of national +independence, and we wish that the light of peace may rest upon it +forever. We rear a memorial of our conviction of that unmeasured benefit +which has been conferred on our own land, and of the happy influences +which have been produced, by the same events, on the general interests +of mankind. We come, as Americans, to mark a spot which must forever be +dear to us and our posterity. We wish that whosoever, in all coming +time, shall turn his eye hither, may behold that the place is not +undistinguished where the first great battle of the Revolution was +fought. We wish that this structure may proclaim the magnitude and +importance of that event to every class and every age. We wish that +infancy may learn the purpose of its erection from maternal lips, and +that weary and withered age may behold it, and be solaced by the +recollections which it suggests. We wish that labor may look up here, +and be proud, in the midst of its toil. We wish that, in those days of +disaster, which, as they come upon all nations, must be expected to come +upon us also, desponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, and be +assured that the foundations of our national power are still strong. We +wish that this column, rising towards heaven among the pointed spires of +so many temples dedicated to God, may contribute also to produce, in all +minds, a pious feeling of dependence and gratitude. We wish, finally, +that the last object to the sight of him who leaves his native shore, +and the first to gladden him who revisits it, may be something which +shall remind him of the liberty and glory of his country. Let it rise! +let it rise, till it meet the sun in his coming; let the earliest light +of the morning gild it, and parting day linger and play on its +summit.[31] + +FOOTNOTE: + +[31] This and the following extract taken from an address delivered at +the laying of the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, June 17, +1825. + + + + +II. REVOLUTIONARY PATRIOTS + +Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former generation. Heaven +has bounteously lengthened out your lives, that you might behold this +joyous day. You are now where you stood fifty years ago, this very hour, +with your brothers and your neighbors, shoulder to shoulder, in the +strife for your country. Behold, how altered! The same heavens are +indeed over your heads; the same ocean rolls at your feet; but all else +how changed! You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed +volumes of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground +strewed with the dead and the dying; the impetuous charge; the steady +and successful repulse; the loud call to repeated assault; the summoning +of all that is manly to repeated resistance; a thousand bosoms freely +and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of terror there may be in +war and death;--all these you have witnessed, but you witness them no +more. All is peace. The heights of yonder metropolis, its towers and +roofs, which you then saw filled with wives and children and countrymen +in distress and terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the +issue of the combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of the +whole happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with a +universal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a felicity of position +appropriately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to +cling around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your country's +own means of distinction and defense. All is peace; and God has granted +you this sight of your country's happiness, ere you slumber in the +grave. He has allowed you to behold and to partake the reward of your +patriotic toils; and he has allowed us, your sons and countrymen, to +meet you here, and in the name of the present generation, in the name of +your country, in the name of liberty, to thank you! + +But, alas! you are not all here! Time and the sword have thinned your +ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes +seek for you in vain amid this broken band. You are gathered to your +fathers, and live only to your own country in her grateful remembrance +and your own bright example. But let us not too much grieve, that you +have met the common fate of men. You lived at least long enough to know +that your work had been nobly and successfully accomplished. You lived +to see your country's independence established, and to sheathe your +swords from war. On the light of Liberty you saw arise the light of +peace, like + + + "another morn, + Risen on mid-noon;" + + +and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. + +But, ah! Him! the first great martyr in this great cause! Him! the +premature victim of his own self-devoting heart! Him! the head of our +civil councils, and the destined leader of our military bands, whom +nothing brought hither but the unquenchable fire of his own spirit! Him! +cut off by Providence in the hour of overwhelming anxiety and thick +gloom; falling ere he saw the star of his country rise; pouring out his +generous blood like water, before he knew whether it would fertilize a +land of freedom or of bondage!--how shall I struggle with the emotions +that stifle the utterance of thy name! Our poor work may perish; but +thine shall endure! This monument may molder away; the solid ground it +rests upon may sink down to a level with the sea; but thy memory shall +not fail! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be found that beats to the +transports of patriotism and liberty, its aspirations shall be to claim +kindred with thy spirit. + +Veterans! you are the remnant of many a well-fought field. You bring +with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, from Yorktown, +Camden, Bennington, and Saratoga. Veterans of half a century! when in +your youthful days you put everything at hazard in your country's cause, +good as that cause was, and sanguine as youth is, still your fondest +hopes did not stretch onward to an hour like this! At a period to which +you could not reasonably have expected to arrive, at a moment of +national prosperity such as you could never have foreseen, you are now +met here to enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers, and to receive the +overflowings of a universal gratitude. + +But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts inform me that +even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a tumult of contending +feelings rushes upon you. The images of the dead, as well as the persons +of the living, present themselves before you. The scene overwhelms you, +and I turn from it. May the Father of all mercies smile upon your +declining years, and bless them! And when you shall here have exchanged +your embraces, when you shall once more have pressed the hands which +have been so often extended to give succor in adversity, or grasped in +the exultation of victory, then look abroad upon this lovely land which +your young valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is +filled; yea, look abroad upon the whole earth, and see what a name you +have contributed to give your country, and what a praise you have added +to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which beam +upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind! + + + + +III. CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON[32] + +America has furnished to the world the character of Washington! And if +our American institutions had done nothing else, that alone would have +entitled them to the respect of mankind. Washington! "First in war, +first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen!" Washington +is all our own! The enthusiastic veneration and regard in which the +people of the United States hold him, prove them to be worthy of such a +countryman; while his reputation abroad reflects the highest honor on +his country. I would cheerfully put the question to-day to the +intelligence of Europe and the world, what character of the century, +upon the whole, stands out in the relief of history, most pure, most +respectable, most sublime; and I doubt not, that, by a suffrage +approaching to unanimity, the answer would be Washington! + +The structure now standing before us, by its uprightness, its solidity, +its durability, is no unfit emblem of his character. His public virtues +and public principles were as firm as the earth on which it stands; his +personal motives, as pure as the serene heaven in which its summit is +lost. But, indeed, though a fit, it is an inadequate emblem. Towering +high above the column which our hands have builded, beheld, not by the +inhabitants of a single city or a single State, but by all the families +of man, ascends the colossal grandeur of the character and life of +Washington. In all the constituents of the one, in all the acts of the +other, in all its titles to immortal love, admiration, and renown, it is +an American production. It is the embodiment and vindication of our +transatlantic liberty. Born upon our soil, of parents also born upon it; +never for a moment having had sight of the Old World; instructed, +according to the modes of his time, only in the spare, plain, but +wholesome elementary knowledge which our institutions provide for the +children of the people; growing up beneath and penetrated by the genuine +influences of American society; living from infancy to manhood and age +amidst our expanding, but not luxurious civilization; partaking in our +great destiny of labor, our long contest with unreclaimed nature and +uncivilized man, our agony of glory, the war of Independence, our great +victory of peace, the formation of the Union, and the establishment of +the Constitution,--he is all, all our own! Washington is ours. + +I claim him for America. In all the perils, in every darkened moment of +the state, in the midst of the reproaches of enemies and the misgivings +of friends, I turn to that transcendent name for courage and for +consolation. To him who denies or doubts whether our fervid liberty can +be combined with law, with order, with the security of property, with +the pursuits and advancement of happiness; to him who denies that our +forms of government are capable of producing exaltation of soul, and the +passion of true glory; to him who denies that we have contributed +anything to the stock of great lessons and great examples;--to all these +I reply by pointing to Washington! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[32] From the Second Bunker Hill Oration, delivered June 17, 1843. + + + + +SIX GREAT TRIUMPHS IN THE HISTORY OF AMERICAN ORATORY + + +The selections under this division are taken from speeches which +represent six of the greatest victories in the history of American +eloquence: (1) Patrick Henry before the Virginia Convention, (2) +Alexander Hamilton before the New York Convention, (3) Daniel Webster in +Reply to Hayne in the Senate, (4) Wendell Phillips on the Murder of +Lovejoy, (5) Abraham Lincoln in his debates with Douglas, and (6) Henry +Ward Beecher in his speeches in England in defence of the American +Union. + + + + +I. THE CALL TO ARMS + +PATRICK HENRY + + + This speech was delivered March 20, 1775, in the Virginia + Convention. Although the measures he advocated sent a shock of + consternation through the conservative assembly and caused them to + oppose the resolutions with all their power, yet all objections + were swept away and the measures were adopted. + + +Mr. President, it is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of +hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to +the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the +part of wise men engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? +Are we disposed to be of the number of those who having eyes see not, +and having ears hear not, the things which so nearly concern their +temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, +I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst and to provide +for it. + +I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of +experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. +And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the +conduct of the British ministry for the last ten years to justify those +hopes with which gentlemen have been pleased to solace themselves and +the House. Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been +lately received? Trust it not, sir; it will prove a snare to your feet. +Suffer not yourselves to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how +this gracious reception of our petition comports with those warlike +preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and +armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown +ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to +win back our love? + +Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the implements of war and +subjugation, the last arguments to which kings resort. I ask gentlemen, +sir, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to +submission? Can gentlemen assign any other possible motive for it? Has +Great Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world to call for all +this accumulation of navies and armies? No, sir, she has none. They are +meant for us. They can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind +and rivet upon us those chains which the British ministry have been so +long forging. And what have we to oppose them? Shall we try argument? +Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything +new to offer upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in +every light of which it is capable; but it has been all in vain. Shall +we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find +which have not been already exhausted? + +Let us not, I beseech you, sir, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have +done everything that could be done to avert the storm that is now coming +on. We have petitioned; we have remonstrated; we have supplicated; we +have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its +interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the ministry and +Parliament. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have +produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been +disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the +throne! In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of +peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we +wish to be free; if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable +privileges for which we have been so long contending; if we mean not +basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long +engaged, and which we have pledged ourselves never to abandon until the +glorious object of our contest shall be obtained, we must fight! I +repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts +is all that is left us! + +They tell us, sir, that we are weak, unable to cope with so formidable +an adversary; but when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, +or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a +British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather +strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of +effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the +delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and +foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which +the God of Nature hath placed in our power. + +Three millions of people armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such +a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which +our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our +battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of +nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The +battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the +active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base +enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. +There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are +forged. Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is +inevitable, and let it come! I repeat, it, sir, let it come! + +It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, +peace! but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale +that sweeps from the North will bring to our ears the clash of +resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we +here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life +so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains +and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may +take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death! + + + + +II. COERCION OF DELINQUENT STATES + +ALEXANDER HAMILTON + + + In the summer of 1788 the New York Convention assembled at + Poughkeepsie to consider the question of the ratification of the + Constitution of the United States. Forty-six of the sixty-five + delegates at first stoutly opposed ratification. Hamilton in a + series of speeches upheld the Constitution, and when the vote was + taken a majority of three sustained his position. The following is + an extract from one of those speeches: + + +The honorable member who spoke yesterday went into an explanation of a +variety of circumstances, to prove the expediency of a change in our +National Government, and the necessity of a firm Union. At the same time +he described the great advantages which this state, in particular, +receives from the Confederacy, and its peculiar weaknesses when +abstracted from the Union. In doing this he advanced a variety of +arguments which deserve serious consideration. + +Sir, it appears to me extraordinary, that while the gentlemen in one +breath acknowledge that the old Confederation requires many material +amendments, they should in the next deny that its defects have been the +cause of our political weakness and the consequent calamities of our +country. We contend that the radical vice in the old Confederation is +that the laws of the Union apply only to States in their corporate +capacity. Has not every man who has been in our Legislature experienced +the truth of this position? It is inseparable from the disposition of +bodies who have a constitutional power of resistance to examine the +merits of a law. The States have almost uniformly weighed the +requisitions by their own local interests, and have only executed them +so far as answered their particular convenience or advantage. Hence +there have ever been thirteen different bodies to judge of the measures +of Congress, and the operations of Government have been distracted by +their taking different courses. Those which were to be benefited have +complied with the requisitions; others have totally disregarded them. +Have not all of us been witnesses to the unhappy embarrassments which +resulted from these proceedings? Even during the late war, while the +pressure of common danger connected strongly the bond of our union, and +incited to vigorous exertion, we have felt many distressing effects of +the important system. How have we seen this State, though most exposed +to the calamities of the war, complying in an unexampled manner with the +federal requisitions, and compelled by the delinquency of others to bear +most unusual burdens! Our misfortunes in a great degree proceeded from +the want of vigor in the Continental Government. + +From the delinquency of those States which have suffered little by the +war, we naturally conclude that they have made no efforts; and a +knowledge of human nature will teach us that their ease and security +have been a principal cause of their want of exertion. While danger is +distant its impression is weak, and while it affects only our neighbors +we have few motives to provide against it. Sir, if we have national +objects to pursue we must have national revenues. If you make +requisitions and they are not complied with what is to be done? It has +been observed to coerce the States is one of the maddest projects that +was ever devised. A failure of compliance will never be confined to a +single State. This being the case can we suppose it wise to hazard a +civil war? Suppose Massachusetts, or any large State, should refuse and +Congress should attempt to compel them, would they not have influence to +procure assistance, especially from those States which are in the same +situation as themselves? What picture does this idea present to our +view? A complying State at war with a non-complying State; Congress +marching the troops of one State into the bosom of another; this State +collecting auxiliaries and forming, perhaps, a majority against its +federal head. Here is a nation at war with itself. Can any reasonable +man be well disposed toward a government which makes war and carnage the +only means of supporting itself--a government that can exist only by the +sword? Every such war must involve the innocent with the guilty. This +single consideration should be sufficient to dispose every peaceable +citizen against such a government. + +But can we believe that one State will ever suffer itself to be used as +an instrument of coercion? The thing is a dream; it is impossible. Then +we are brought to this dilemma--either a federal standing army is to +enforce the requisitions, or the federal treasury is left without +supplies, and the Government without support. What, sir, is the cure for +this great evil? Nothing, but to enable the national laws to operate on +individuals in the same manner as those of the States do. This is the +true reasoning upon the subject, sir. The gentlemen appear to +acknowledge its force; and yet, while they yield to the principle, they +seem to fear its application to the government. + +What, then, shall we do? Shall we take the old Confederation as a basis +of a new system? Can this be the object of the gentlemen? Certainly not. +Will any man who entertains a wish for the safety of his country trust +the sword and purse with a single assembly organized on principles so +defective, so rotten? Though we might give to such a government certain +powers with safety, yet to give them the full and unlimited powers of +taxation and the national forces would be to establish a despotism, the +definition of which is, a government in which all power is concentrated +in a single body. To take the old Confederation and fashion it upon +these principles would be establishing a power which would destroy the +liberties of the people. These considerations show clearly that a +government totally different must be instituted. They had weight in the +convention who formed the new system. It was seen that the necessary +powers were too great to be trusted to a single body; they therefore +formed two branches and divided the powers that each might be a check +upon the other. This was the result of their wisdom and I presume every +reasonable man will agree to it. The more this subject is explained the +more clear and convincing it will appear to every member of this body. +The fundamental principle of the old Confederation is defective; we must +totally eradicate and discard this principle before we can expect an +efficient government. + + + + +III. THE REPLY TO HAYNE + +DANIEL WEBSTER + + + This speech was delivered in the Senate, January 26, 1830. The + doctrine of Nullification and State Rights had been set forth with + great zeal and ability by Senator Hayne of South Carolina. The + arguments were overthrown by the masterly speech of Webster. + + +If anything be found in the national Constitution, either by original +provision or subsequent interpretation, which ought not to be in it, the +people know how to get rid of it. If any construction unacceptable to +them be established, so as to become practically a part of the +Constitution, they will amend it at their own sovereign pleasure. But +while the people choose to maintain it as it is, while they are +satisfied with it, and refuse to change it, who has given, or who can +give, to the State legislatures a right to alter it either by +interference, construction, or otherwise? Gentlemen do not seem to +recollect that the people have any power to do anything for themselves. +They imagine there is no safety for them, any longer than they are under +the close guardianship of the State legislatures. Sir, the people have +not trusted their safety, in regard to the general Constitution, to +these hands. They have required other security, and taken other bonds. + +They have chosen to trust themselves, first, to the plain words of the +instrument, and to such construction as the government itself, in +doubtful cases, should put on its own powers, under its oaths of office, +and subject to its responsibility to them; just as the people of a State +trust their own State governments with a similar power. Secondly, they +have reposed their trust in the efficacy of frequent elections, and in +their own power to remove their own servants and agents whenever they +see cause. Thirdly, they have reposed trust in the judicial power, +which, in order that it might be trustworthy, they have made as +respectable, as disinterested, and as independent as was practicable. +Fourthly, they have seen fit to rely, in case of necessity or high +expediency, on their known and admitted power to alter or amend the +Constitution peaceably and quietly, whenever experience shall point out +defects or imperfections. And, finally, the people of the United States +have at no time, in no way, directly or indirectly, authorized any State +legislature to construe or interpret their high instrument of +government; much less to interfere by their own power to arrest its +course and operation. + +I have thus stated the reasons of my dissent to the doctrines which have +been advanced and maintained. I am conscious of having detained you and +the Senate much too long. I was drawn into the debate with no previous +deliberation, such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and +important a subject. But it is a subject of which my heart is full, and +I have not been willing to suppress the utterance of its spontaneous +sentiments. I cannot, even now, persuade myself to relinquish it, +without expressing once more my deep conviction that, since it respects +nothing less than the union of the states, it is of most vital and +essential importance to public happiness. + +I profess, sir, in my career hitherto to have kept steadily in view the +prosperity and honor 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 disordered +finance, prostrate commerce, and ruined credit. Under its benign +influences, these great interests immediately 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 farther and farther, 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 preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us together +shall be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over the +precipice of disunion, to see whether, 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 should be best preserved, +but how tolerable might be the condition of the people when it shall be +broken up and destroyed. + +While the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying 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 dishonored +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 rather +behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored +throughout the Earth, still full high advanced, its arms and trophies +streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor +a single star obscured; bearing for its motto, no such miserable +interrogatory 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 characters 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! + + + + +IV. THE MURDER OF LOVEJOY + +WENDELL PHILLIPS + + + On November 7, 1837, Elijah P. Lovejoy, an anti-slavery editor, was + shot by a mob at Alton, Ill., while defending his printing-press + from destruction. Prominent citizens of Boston called a meeting, on + December 8, to condemn the act of the mob. The Attorney-General of + Massachusetts opposed the resolutions of condemnation, defended the + mob, and declared that "Lovejoy died as the fool dieth." Wendell + Phillips said to a friend, "Such a speech made in Faneuil Hall must + be answered in Faneuil Hall." He made his way to the platform and + spoke in part as follows: + + +Mr. Chairman, We have met for the freest discussion of these +resolutions, and the events which gave rise to them. I hope I shall be +permitted to express my surprise at the sentiments of the last speaker, +surprise not only at such sentiments from such a man, but at the +applause they have received within these walls. A comparison has been +drawn between the events of the Revolution and the tragedy at Alton. We +have heard it asserted here, in Faneuil Hall, that Great Britain had a +right to tax the colonies, and we have heard the mob at Alton, the +drunken murderers of Lovejoy, compared to those patriot fathers who +threw the tea overboard. Fellow-citizens, is this Fanueil Hall doctrine? +The mob at Alton were met to wrest from a citizen his just rights, met +to resist the laws. We have been told that our fathers did the same, and +the glorious mantle of Revolutionary precedent has been thrown over the +mobs of our day. To make out their title to such defense the gentleman +says that the British Parliament had a right to tax these colonies. It +is manifest that without this his parallel falls to the ground, for +Lovejoy had stationed himself within constitutional bulwarks. He was not +only defending the freedom of the press, but he was under his own roof +in arms with the sanction of the civil authority. The men who assailed +him went against and over the laws. The mob as the gentleman terms +it,--mob, forsooth! certainly we sons of the tea spillers are a +marvelously patient generation!--the "orderly mob" which assembled in +the Old South to destroy the tea were met to resist, not the laws,--but +illegal exactions. Shame on the American who calls the tea-tax and +stamp-act laws! Our fathers resisted, not the king's prerogative, but +the king's usurpation. To find any other account, you must read our +Revolutionary history upside down. Our State archives are loaded with +arguments of John Adams to prove the taxes laid by the British +Parliament unconstitutional, beyond its power. It was not till this was +made out that the men of New England rushed to arms. + +The arguments of the Council Chamber and the House of Representatives +preceded and sanctioned the contest. To draw the argument of our +ancestors into a precedent for mobs, for a right to resist laws we +ourselves have enacted, is an insult to their memory. The difference +between the excitements of those days and our own, which the gentleman +in kindness to the latter has overlooked, is simply this: the men of our +day went for the right as secured by the laws. They were the people +rising to sustain the laws and constitution of the Province. The rioters +of our day go for their own wills, right or wrong. Sir, when I heard the +gentleman lay down principles which place the murderers of Alton side by +side with Otis and Hancock, with Quincy and Adams, I thought those +pictured lips[33] would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant +American, the slanderer of the dead. The gentleman said that he should +sink into insignificance if he dared to gainsay the principles of these +resolutions. Sir, for the sentiments he has uttered on soil consecrated +by the prayers of Puritans and the blood of patriots, the earth should +have yawned and swallowed him up. + +The gentleman says Lovejoy was presumptuous and imprudent, he "died as +the fool dieth." And a reverend clergyman of the city tells us that no +citizen has a right to publish opinions disagreeable to the community! +If any mob follows such publication on him rests the guilt. He must wait +forsooth till the people come up to it and agree with him. This libel on +liberty goes on to say that the want of right to speak as we think is an +evil inseparable from republican institutions. If this be so what are +they worth? Welcome the despotism of the Sultan where one knows what he +may publish and what he may not, rather than the tyranny of this +many-headed monster the mob, where we know not what we may do or say +till some fellow-citizen has tried it and paid for the lesson with his +life. This clerical absurdity chooses as a check for the abuses of the +press, not the law but the dread of the mob. By so doing it deprives not +only the individual and the minority of their rights, but the majority +also, since the expression of their opinion may sometimes provoke +disturbance from the minority. A few men may make a mob as well as many. +The majority then have no right as Christian men, to utter their +sentiments if by any possibility it may lead to a mob. Shades of Hugh +Peters and John Cotton, save us from such pulpits! + +Imprudent to defend the liberty of the press! Why? Because the defense +was unsuccessful? Does success gild crime into patriotism, and the want +of it change heroic self-devotion into imprudence? Was Hampden imprudent +when he drew the sword and threw away the scabbard? Yet he, judged by +that single hour, was unsuccessful. After a short exile the race he +hated sat again upon the throne. + +Imagine yourself present when the first news of Bunker Hill battle +reached a New England town. The tale would have run thus, "The patriots +are routed, the redcoats victorious, Warren lies dead upon the field." +With what scorn would that Tory have been received who should have +charged Warren with imprudence, who should have said that, bred as a +physician, he was "out of place" in the battle, and "died as the fool +dieth!" How would the intimation have been received that Warren and his +associates should have waited a better time? + +Presumptuous to assert the freedom of the press on American ground! Is +the assertion of such freedom before the age? So much before the age as +to leave one no right to make it because it displeases the community? +Who invents this libel on his country? It is this very thing that +entitles Lovejoy to greater praise. The disputed right which provoked +the revolution--taxation without representation--is far beneath that for +which he died. As much as thought is better than money, so much is the +cause in which Lovejoy died nobler than a mere question of taxes. James +Otis thundered in this hall when the king did but touch his pocket. +Imagine if you can his indignant eloquence had England offered to put a +gag upon his lips. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[33] Phillips points to portraits in the hall. + + + + +V. THE SLAVERY ISSUE + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + + + An extract from a speech delivered at Alton, Ill., October 15, + 1858. It is taken from one of a series of seven speeches delivered + in joint debate with Douglas in the Senatorial campaign in + Illinois. Lincoln lost the Senatorship but won the Presidency by + this series of speeches. + + +Fellow-citizens, I have not only made the declaration that I do not mean +to produce a conflict between the states, but I have tried to show by +fair reasoning that I propose nothing but what has a most peaceful +tendency. The quotation that "a house divided against itself cannot +stand," and which has proved so offensive to Judge Douglas, was part of +the same thing. He tries to show that variety in the domestic +institutions of the different states is necessary and indispensable. I +do not dispute it. I very readily agree with him that it would be +foolish for us to insist upon having a cranberry law here in Illinois +where we have no cranberries, because they have a cranberry law in +Indiana where they have cranberries. I should insist that it would be +exceedingly wrong in us to deny to Virginia the right to enact oyster +laws, where they have oysters, because we want no such laws here. If we +here raise a barrel of flour more than we want and the Louisianians +raise a barrel of sugar more than they want, it is of mutual advantage +to exchange. That produces commerce, brings us together and makes us +better friends. These mutual accommodations bind together the different +parts of this Union. Instead of being a thing to "divide the house" they +tend to sustain it, they are the props of the house tending always to +hold it up. + +But is it true that all the difficulty and agitation we have in regard +to this institution of slavery springs from office seeking, from the +mere ambition of politicians? Is that the truth? How many times have we +had danger from this question? Go back to the days of the Missouri +Compromise. Go back to the Nullification question, at the bottom of +which lay this same slavery question. Go back to the time of the +annexation of Texas. Go back to the troubles that led to the Compromise +of 1850. You will find that every time, with the single exception of the +Nullification question, they sprung from an endeavor to spread this +institution. There never was a party in the history of this country, and +there probably never will be, of sufficient strength to disturb the +general peace of the country. Parties themselves may be divided and +quarrel on minor questions. Yet it extends not beyond the parties +themselves. + +The Judge alludes very often in the course of his remarks to the +exclusive right which the states have to decide for themselves. I agree +with him very readily that the different states have the right. Our +controversy with him is in regard to the new territories. We agree that +when the states come in as states they have the right and the power to +do as they please. We have no power as citizens of the free states or in +our federal capacity as members of the federal Union through the general +government to disturb slavery in the states where it exists. What I +insist upon is that the new territories shall be kept free from it while +in the territorial condition. Judge Douglas assumes that we have no +interest in them, that we have no right whatever to interfere. I think +we have some interest. I think that as white men we have. Do we not wish +for an outlet for our surplus population, if I may so express myself? Do +we not feel an interest in getting to that outlet with such institutions +as we would like to have prevail there? If you go to the territory +opposed to slavery and another man comes to the same ground with his +slave, upon the assumption that the things are equal, it turns out that +he has the equal right all his way and you have no part of it your way. + +The real issue in this controversy is the sentiment on the part of one +class that looks upon the institution of slavery as a wrong, and of +another class that does not look upon it as wrong. It is the sentiment +around which all their actions, all their arguments circle, from which +all their propositions radiate. They look upon it as being a moral, +social, and political wrong. Has anything ever threatened the existence +of this Union save this very institution of slavery? What is it that we +hold most dear amongst us? Our own liberty and prosperity. What has ever +threatened our liberty and prosperity except this institution of +slavery? If this be true, how do you propose to improve the condition of +things by enlarging it? You may have a cancer upon your person and not +be able to cut it out lest you bleed to death, but surely it is no way +to cure it to graft it and spread it over your body. That is no proper +way of treating what you regard as wrong. + +That is the real issue. That is the issue that will continue in this +country when these poor tongues of Judge Douglas and myself are silent. +It is the eternal struggle between these two principles, right and +wrong, throughout the world. They are the two principles that have stood +face to face from the beginning of time, and will ever continue to +struggle. The one is the common right of humanity and the other is the +divine right of kings. It is the same principle in whatever shape it +develops itself. It is the same spirit that says, "You work and toil and +earn bread and I'll eat it." No matter in what shape it comes, whether +from the mouth of a king who seeks to bestride the people of his own +nation and live by the fruit of their labor, or from one race of men as +an apology for enslaving another race, it is the same tyrannical +principle. + + + + +VI. MORAL ASPECT OF THE AMERICAN WAR + +HENRY WARD BEECHER + + + Taken from a speech delivered in London, October 20, 1863. In a + series of five speeches in order at Manchester, Glasgow, Edinburgh, + Liverpool, and London, Henry Ward Beecher changed the attitude of + the English nation from one of open hostility to the Union to + neutrality and even to favor. It is doubtful if there ever was a + greater triumph in the history of eloquence. + + +This war began by the act of the South, firing at the old flag that had +covered both sections with glory and protection. The attack made upon us +was under circumstances which inflicted immediate humiliation and +threatened us with final subjugation. The Southerners held all the keys +of the country. They had robbed our arsenals. They had made our treasury +bankrupt. They had possession of the most important offices in the army +and navy. They had the advantage of having long anticipated and prepared +for the conflict. We knew not whom to trust. One man failed and another +man failed. Men, pensioned by the Government, lived on the salary of the +Government only to have better opportunity to stab and betray it. And +for the North to have lain down like a spaniel, to have given up the +land that every child in America is taught, as every child in Britain is +taught, to regard as his sacred right and his trust, to have given up +the mouths of our own rivers and our mountain citadels without a blow, +would have marked the North in all future history as craven and mean. + +Second, the honor and safety of that grand experiment, self-government +by free institutions, demanded that so flagitious a violation of the +first principles of legality should not carry off impunity and reward, +thereafter enabling the minority in every party conflict to turn and say +to the majority, "If you don't give us our way we will make war." Oh, +Englishmen, would you let a minority dictate in such a way to you? The +principle thus introduced would literally have no end, would carry the +nation back to its original elements of isolated states. Nor is there +any reason why it should stop with states. If every treaty may be +overthrown by which states have been settled into a nation, what form of +political union may not on like grounds be severed? There is the same +force in the doctrine of secession in the application of counties as in +the application to states, and if it be right for a state or a county to +secede, it is equally right for a town or a city. This doctrine of +secession is a huge revolving millstone that grinds the national life to +powder. It is anarchy in velvet, and national destruction clothed in +soft phrases. No people with patriotism and honor will give up territory +without a struggle for it. Would you give it up? It is said that the +states are owners of their territory! It is theirs to use not theirs to +run away with. We have equal right with them to enter it. I would like +to ask those English gentlemen who hold that it is right for a state to +secede when it pleases, how they would like it if the county of Kent +would try the experiment. The men who cry out for secession of the +Southern States in America would say, "Kent seceding? Ah, circumstances +alter cases." + +One more reason why we will not let this people go is because we do not +want to become a military people. A great many say America is becoming +too strong, she is dangerous to the peace of the world. But if you +permit or favor this division, the South becomes a military nation and +the North is compelled to become a military nation. Along a line of 1500 +miles she must have forts and men to garrison them. Now any nation that +has a large standing army is in great danger of losing its liberties. +Before this war the legal size of the national army was 25,000. If the +country were divided then we should have two great military nations +taking its place. And if America by this ill-advised disruption is +forced to have a standing army, like a boy with a knife she will always +want to whittle with it. It is the interest then of the world, that the +nation should be united, and that it should be under the control of that +part of America that has always been for peace. + +The religious minded among our people feel that in the territory +committed to us there is a high and solemn trust, a national trust. We +are taught that in some sense the world itself is a field, and every +Christian nation acknowledges a certain responsibility for the moral +condition of the globe. But how much nearer does it come when it is +one's own country! And the church of America is coming to feel more and +more that God gave us this country not merely for material +aggrandizement, but for a glorious triumph of the church of Christ. +Therefore we undertook to rid the territory of slavery. Since slavery +has divested itself of its municipal protection and has become a +declared public enemy, it is our duty to strike down slavery which would +blight this territory. These truths are not exaggerated, they are +diminished rather than magnified in my statement, and you cannot tell +how powerfully they are influencing us unless you are standing in our +midst in America; you cannot understand how firm that national feeling +is which God has bred in the North on this subject. It is deeper than +the sea, it is firmer than the hills, it is serene as the sky over our +head where God dwells. + +We believe that the war is a test of our institutions, that it is a +life-and-death struggle between the two principles of liberty and +slavery, that it is the cause of the common people the world over. We +believe that every struggling nationality on the globe will be stronger +if we conquer this odious oligarchy of slavery and that every oppressed +people in the world will be weaker if we fail. The sober American +regards the war as part of that awful yet glorious struggle which has +been going on for hundreds of years in every nation between right and +wrong, between virtue and vice, between liberty and despotism, between +freedom and bondage. It carries with it the whole future condition of +our vast continent, its laws, its policy, its fate. And standing in view +of these tremendous realities we have consecrated all that we have, our +children, our wealth, our national strength, and we lay them all on the +altar and say, "It is better that they should all perish than that the +North should falter and betray this trust of God, this hope of the +oppressed, this western civilization." If we say this of ourselves, +shall we say less of the slave-holders? If we are willing to do these +things, shall we say, "Stop the war for their sakes!" If we say this of +ourselves, shall we have more pity for the rebellious, for slavery +seeking to blacken a continent with its awful evil, desecrating the +social phrase, "National Independence," by seeking only an independence +that shall enable them to treat four millions of human beings as +chattels? Shall we be tenderer over them than over ourselves? Standing +by my cradle, standing by my hearth, standing by the altar of the +church, standing by all the places that mark the name and memory of +heroic men who poured out their lives for principle, I declare that in +ten or twenty years of war we will sacrifice everything we have for +principle. If the love of popular liberty is dead in Great Britain you +will not understand us, but if the love of liberty lives as it once +lived, and has worthy successors of those renowned men that were our +ancestors as much as yours, and whose example and principles we inherit +as so much seed corn in a new and fertile land, then you will understand +our firm invincible determination to fight this war through at all +hazards and at every cost. + + + + +ABOLITION OF WAR[34] + +CHARLES SUMNER + + +Can there be in our age any peace that is not honorable, any war that is +not dishonorable? The true honor of a nation is conspicuous only in +deeds of justice and beneficence, securing and advancing human +happiness. In the clear eye of that Christian judgment which must yet +prevail, vain are the victories of war, infamous its spoils. He is the +benefactor, and worthy of honor, who carries comfort to wretchedness, +dries the tear of sorrow, relieves the unfortunate, feeds the hungry, +clothes the naked, does justice, enlightens the ignorant, unfastens the +fetters of the slave, and finally, by virtuous genius, in art, +literature, science, enlivens and exalts the hours of life, or by +generous example, inspires a love for God and man. This is the Christian +hero; this is the man of honor in a Christian land. He is no benefactor, +nor worthy of honor, whatever his worldly renown, whose life is absorbed +in feats of brute force, who renounces the great law of Christian +brotherhood, whose vocation is blood. + +Fellow-citizens, this criminal and impious custom of war, which all +condemn in the case of individuals, is openly avowed by our own country, +and by other countries of the great Christian Federation, nay, that it +is expressly established by international law, as the proper mode of +determining justice between nations,--while the feats of hardihood by +which it is waged, and the triumphs of its fields, are exalted beyond +all other labors, whether of learning, industry, or benevolence, as the +wellspring of glory. Alas! upon our own heads be the judgment of +barbarism which we pronounce upon those who have gone before! + +Who has taught you, O man! thus to find glory in an act, performed by a +nation, which you condemn as a crime or a barbarism, when committed by +an individual? In what vain conceit of wisdom and virtue do you find +this incongruous morality? Where is it declared that God, who is no +respecter of persons, is a respecter of multitudes? Whence do you draw +these partial laws of an impartial God? Man is immortal; but nations are +mortal. Man has a higher destiny than nations. Can nations be less +amenable to the supreme moral law? Each individual is an atom of the +mass. Must not the mass, in its conscience, be like the individuals of +which it is composed? Shall the mass, in relation with other masses, do +what individuals in relation with each other may not do? As in the +physical creation, so in the moral, there is but one rule for the +individual and the mass. It was the lofty discovery of Newton, that the +simple law which determines the fall of an apple prevails everywhere +throughout the universe, reaching from earth to heaven, and controlling +the infinite motions of the spheres. So, with equal scope, another +simple law, the law of right, which binds the individual, binds also two +or three when gathered together, binds conventions and congregations of +men, binds villages, towns, and cities, binds states, nations, and +races, clasps the whole human family in its embrace, and binds in +self-imposed bonds, a just and omnipotent God. + +Stripped of all delusive apology and tried by that comprehensive law +under which nations are set to the bar like common men, war falls from +glory into barbarous guilt, taking its place among bloody +transgressions, while its flaming honors are turned into shame. Painful +to existing prejudice as this may be, we must learn to abhor it, as we +abhor similar transgressions by vulgar offenders. Every word of +reprobation which the enlightened conscience now fastens upon the savage +combatant in trial by battle, or which it applies to the unhappy being +who in murderous duel takes the life of his fellow-man, belongs also to +the nation that appeals to war. Amidst the thunders of Sinai God +declared, "Thou shalt not kill"; and the voice of these thunders, with +this commandment, is prolonged to our own day in the echoes of Christian +churches. What mortal shall restrict the application of these words? Who +on earth is empowered to vary or abridge the commandments of God? Who +shall presume to declare that this injunction was directed, not to +nations, but to individuals only; not to many, but to one only; that one +man shall not kill but that many may; that one man shall not slay in +duel, but that a nation may slay a multitude in the duel of war; that +each individual is forbidden to destroy the life of a single human +being, but that a nation is not forbidden to cut off by the sword a +whole people? We are struck with horror and our hair stands on end, at +the report of a single murder; we think of the soul hurried to final +account; we hunt the murderer; and Government puts forth its energies +to secure his punishment. Viewed in the unclouded light of truth, what +is war but organized murder, murder of malice aforethought, in cold +blood, under sanction of impious law, through the operation of extensive +machinery of crime, with innumerable hands, at incalculable cost of +money, by subtle contrivances of cunning and skill, or amidst the +fiendish atrocities of the savage, brutal assault. The outrages, which, +under most solemn sanction, it permits and invokes for professed +purposes of justice, cannot be authorized by any human power; and they +must rise in overwhelming judgment, not only against those who wield the +weapons of battle, but more still against all who uphold its monstrous +arbitrament. + +Oh, when shall the St. Louis of the nations arise, and in the spirit of +true greatness, proclaim that henceforward forever the great trial by +battle shall cease, that war shall be abolished throughout the +commonwealth of civilization, that a spectacle so degrading shall never +be allowed again to take place, and that it is the duty of nations, +involving the highest and wisest policy, to establish love between each +other, and, in all respects, at all times, with all persons, whether +their own people or the people of other lands, to be governed by the +sacred law of right, as between man and man. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[34] From the "True Grandeur of Nations," delivered in Boston, July 4, +1845. + + + + +THE AMERICAN FLAG[35] + +HENRY WARD BEECHER + + +A thoughtful mind, when it sees a nation's flag, sees not the flag only, +but the nation itself; and whatever may be its symbols, its insignia, he +reads chiefly in the flag the government, the principles, the truths, +the history, which belong to the nation which sets it forth. + +When the French tricolor rolls out to the wind, we see France. When the +new-found Italian flag is unfurled, we see resurrected Italy. When the +other three-cornered Hungarian flag shall be lifted to the wind, we +shall see in it the long-buried but never dead principles of Hungarian +liberty. When the united crosses of St. Andrew and St. George on a fiery +ground set forth the banner of Old England, we see not the cloth merely; +there rises up before the mind the noble aspect of that monarchy, which, +more than any other on the globe, has advanced its banner for liberty, +law, and national prosperity. This nation has a banner, too; and +wherever it streamed abroad, men saw daybreak bursting on their eyes, +for the American flag has been the symbol of liberty, and men rejoiced +in it. Not another flag on the globe had such an errand, or went forth +upon the sea carrying everywhere, the world around, such hope for the +captive, and such glorious tidings. + +The stars upon it were to the pining nations like the morning stars of +God, and the stripes upon it were beams of morning light. As at early +dawn the stars stand first, and then it grows light, and then as the sun +advances, that light breaks into banks and streaming lines of color, the +glowing red and intense white striving together and ribbing the horizon +with bars effulgent, so on the American flag, stars and beams of +many-colored light shine out together. And wherever the flag comes, and +men behold it, they see in its sacred emblazonry no rampant lion and +fierce eagle, but only light, and every fold significant of liberty. + +The history of this banner is all on one side. Under it rode Washington +and his armies; before it Burgoyne laid down his arms. It waved on the +highlands at West Point; it floated over old Fort Montgomery. When +Arnold would have surrendered these valuable fortresses and precious +legacies, his night was turned into day, and his treachery was driven +away by the beams of light from this starry banner. It cheered our army, +driven from New York, in their solitary pilgrimage through New Jersey. +It streamed in light over Valley Forge and Morristown. It crossed the +waters rolling with ice at Trenton; and when its stars gleamed in the +cold morning with victory, a new day of hope dawned on the despondency +of the nation. And when, at length, the long years of war were drawing +to a close, underneath the folds of this immortal banner sat Washington +while Yorktown surrendered its hosts and our Revolutionary struggles +ended with victory. + +Let us, then, twine each thread of the glorious tissue of our country's +flag about our heartstrings; and looking upon our homes and catching the +spirit that breathes upon us from the battle-fields of our fathers, let +us resolve, come weal or woe, we will, in life and in death, now and +forever, stand by the Stars and Stripes. They have been unfurled from +the snows of Canada to the plains of New Orleans, in the halls of the +Montezumas and amid the solitude of every sea; and everywhere, as the +luminous symbol of resistless and beneficent power, they have led the +brave to victory and to glory. They have floated over our cradles; let +it be our prayer and our struggle that they shall float over our graves. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[35] By permission of the publishers, Fords, Howard & Hulbert. + + + + +THE AMERICAN PEOPLE[36] + +ALBERT J. BEVERIDGE + + +The day for the provincial and the transient has passed in American +statesmanship. To-day our destiny is brooding over every sea. We are +dealing with the world and with the unborn years. We are dealing with +the larger duties that ever crowned and burdened human brows. American +statesmanship must be as broad as American destiny and as brave as +American duty. And American statesmanship will be all this if it draws +its inspiration from the masterful American people and their imperial +history. + +For the American people have never taken fear for a counselor. They +have never taken doubt for a guide. They have obeyed the impulses of +their blood. They have hearkened to the voice of our God. They have +surmounted insuperable obstacles on the wings of a mighty faith; they +have solved insoluble problems by the sovereign rule of liberty; they +have made the bosom of the ocean and the heart of the wilderness their +home; they have subdued nature and told history a new tale. Let American +statesmanship listen to the heart-beats of the American people in the +present hour and there will be no confusion, no hesitation, no craven +doubt. The faith of the Mayflower, as it sailed into the storm-fringed +horizon, is with us yet. The courage of Lexington and Bunker Hill is +with us yet. The spirit of Hamilton and Jefferson and Jackson and Seward +and Grant is with us yet. The unconquerable heart of the pioneer still +beats within American breasts, and the American flag advances still in +its ceaseless and imperial progress, with law and order and Christian +civilization trooping beneath its sacred folds. + +The American people are the propagandists and not the misers of liberty. +He who no longer believes in the vitality of the American people, in the +immortality and saving grace of free institutions, in the imperial +greatness of American destiny, belongs not in the councils of the +American Nation, but in the somber Cabinets of the decaying races of the +world. The American people are not perishing; they are just beginning +their real career. The full sunrise of the day which peculiarly belongs +to the American people in the progress of human events has flooded all +the world at last; and we will live each golden moment of our mighty day +in a way as great as the day itself. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[36] By permission of the author. + + + + +THE AMERICAN QUESTION + +JOHN BRIGHT + + +Now let me ask you, what is this people about which so many men in +England at this moment are writing and speaking and thinking with +harshness? Two centuries ago multitudes of the people of this country +found a refuge on the North American Continent, escaping from the +tyranny of the Stuarts, and from the bigotry of Laud. Many noble spirits +from our country made great experiments in favor of human freedom on +that continent. Bancroft, the great historian of his country, has said, +"The history of the colonization of America is the history of the crimes +of Europe." + +From that time down to our own period America has admitted the wanderers +from every clime. Since 1815, a time which many here remember, and which +is within my lifetime, more than three millions of persons have +emigrated from the United Kingdom to the United States. During the +fifteen years from 1845 to 1860 more than two million persons left the +shores of the United Kingdom as emigrants to North America. + +At this very moment, then, there are millions in the United States who +personally have been citizens of this country. They found a home in the +far West, they subdued the wilderness, they met with plenty there and +became a great people. There may be men in England who dislike democracy +and who hate a republic. But of this I am certain that only +misrepresentation the most gross or calumny the most wicked can sever +the tie which unites the great mass of the people of this country with +their friends and relatives beyond the Atlantic. + +Now whether the Union will be restored I know not. But this I think I +know, that in a few years, a very few years, the twenty millions of +freemen in the North will be thirty or even fifty millions, a population +equal to that of this kingdom. When that time comes I pray that it may +not be said amongst them that, in the darkest hour of their country's +trials, England, the land of their fathers, looked on with icy coldness +and saw unmoved the perils and calamities of their children. As for me I +have but this to say, if all other tongues are silent, mine shall speak +for that policy which gives hope to the bondsmen of the South and which +tends to generous thoughts and generous words and generous deeds between +the two great nations who speak the English language, and from their +origin are alike entitled to the English name. + + + + +AMERICA'S RELATION TO MISSIONS + +JAMES B. ANGELL + + +The government which breaks treaties with respect to missionaries and +takes no steps to protect them will easily yield to the temptation to +infringe on the rights of other citizens. Is it not possible that +because our government has allowed outrages against our missionaries to +go on since 1883 in Turkey,--highway robbery, brutal assault, +destruction of buildings,--without any demonstration beyond peaceful and +patient argument, the Ottoman government is now proceeding in so +highhanded a manner to prevent by false allegations the importation of +our flour and our pork? A nation which allows one class of citizens, who +are of the purest character and most unselfish spirit, to be insulted +and outraged with impunity in a foreign land must not be surprised if +other classes of its citizens are also imposed upon and wronged in that +land, wherever selfish interests are invoked against them. + +Careful observation will show that our large mercantile interests are +likely to be imperiled by our neglect to insist on the rights which +citizens of any honorable calling are entitled to under treaties of +international law. A display of force does not necessarily mean war. It +is certainly an emphatic mode of making a demand. It often insures a +prompt settlement of difficulties, which, if allowed to drag on and +accumulate, would end in war. Therefore, wisely and opportunely made, a +proper demonstration in support of a just demand may obviate the +ultimate necessity of war. + +The problem is not a simple one for the government. If it does nothing +but register requests for justice, injustice may be done, not only to +missionaries, but also to other citizens. Those dilatory, oriental +governments, embarrassed by so many difficult problems of internal +administration, do not willingly act except under some pressure. And +pressure which is not war and which will probably not lead to war, can +be brought to bear by diplomatic and naval agencies. + +Our government was never in so good a condition to pursue such a policy. +It has a prestige among oriental nations before unknown. Its voice, when +it speaks with an imperative tone, will now be heard. The question for +it is far larger than a missionary question. An influential American +citizen has lately written me from an oriental country where our +requests have received little attention, saying: "If our government +proposes to do nothing for American citizens they should say so and turn +us over to the care of the British embassy." + +Such language as that makes one's blood tingle and stirs us to ask +afresh, not alone as friends of missionaries, but as American citizens, +what policy will our nation adopt to secure the rights of all our +countrymen of whatever pursuit who are dwelling under treaty guarantees +in China and Turkey? The friends of missions ask no exceptional favors +from the government. They simply seek for such protection as their +fellow-citizens need. + +It is, of course, for our government to say at what time and by what +methods it shall act. It is sometimes wise and even necessary for a +government to postpone seeking a settlement of difficulties with a +foreign power, even when it is clear that a settlement is highly +desirable. Great exigencies may require delays. We must exercise the +patience which patriotism calls for. But we may be permitted without +impropriety to express our desire and our opinion that our government +should find some way to make it absolutely clear to oriental countries +that it intends to secure the protection for all our citizens, including +missionaries, to which they are entitled by treaties and by +international law. + + + + +AMERICAN SLAVERY + +JOHN BRIGHT + + +Slavery has been as we all know the huge, foul blot upon the fame of the +American Republic. It is an outrage against human right and against +divine law, but the pride, the passion of man, will not permit its +peaceable extinction. Is not this war the penalty which inexorable +justice exacts from America, North and South, for the enormous guilt of +cherishing that frightful iniquity of slavery for the last eighty years? +The leaders of this revolt propose this monstrous thing,--that over a +territory forty times as large as England the blight and curse of +slavery shall be forever perpetuated. + +I cannot believe that such a fate can befall that fair land, stricken as +it now is with the ravages of war. I cannot believe that civilization in +its journey with the sun will sink into endless night to gratify the +ambition of leaders of this revolt, who seek to + + + "Wade through slaughter to a throne, + And shut the gates of mercy on mankind." + + +I have a far other and brighter vision before my gaze. It may be but a +vision, but I will cherish it. I see one vast confederation stretching +from the frozen North in unbroken line to the glowing South, and from +the wild billows of the Atlantic, westward to the calmer waters of the +Pacific main,--and I see one people, and one law, and one language, and +one faith, and over all that wide continent the home of freedom and a +refuge for the oppressed of every race and of every clime. + + + + +THE ARMENIAN MASSACRES + +WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE + + +Ladies and Gentlemen, Before I come to the resolution which I have +undertaken to move, there are certain subjects which I wish to clear out +of the way. There are most important distinctions to be drawn on the +ground that the sufferers under the present misrule and the horribly +accumulated outrages of the last two years are our own +fellow-Christians. But we do not prosecute the cause we have in hand +upon the ground that they are our fellow-Christians. This is no crusade +against Mohammedanism. This is no declaration of an altered policy or +sentiment as regards our Mohammedan fellow-subjects in India. Nay, more; +I will say that it is no declaration of universal condemnation of the +Mohammedans of the Turkish Empire. On the contrary, amid the dismal and +heartrending reports of which we have had to read and hear so much, one +of the rare touches of comfort and relief has been that in spite of the +perpetration of massacres by the agents of the Government, in spite of +the countenance given to massacre by the highest authority, there have +been good and generous Mohammedans who have resisted these misdeeds to +the uttermost of their power, who have established for themselves a +claim to our sympathy and our admiration. + +Although it is true that those persons are Christians on whose behalf we +move, I confidently affirm, and you will back me in my affirmation, that +if instead of being Christians they were themselves Mohammedans, Hindus, +Buddhists, or Confucianists--they would have precisely the same claims +upon our support; and the motives which have brought us here to-day +would be incumbent upon us with the same force and with the same +sacredness that we recognize at the present moment. + +There is another distinction, gentlemen, less conspicuous, that I would +wish to draw your attention to. You have been discouraged by the +attitude or by the tone of several of the Continental Governments. Do +not too hastily assume that in that attitude and tone they are faithful +representatives of the people whom they rule. The ground on which we +stand here is not British nor European, but human. Nothing narrower than +humanity could pretend for a moment justly to represent it. + +It may have occurred to some that atrocities which it is hardly possible +to exaggerate have been boldly denied; and we are told by the Government +of Turkey that the destruction of life which has taken place is not the +work of either the Sultan or his agents, but is the work of +revolutionaries and agitators. + +In answer to this we may say that we do not rely upon the reports of +revolutionaries or agitators. We rely upon the responsible reports of +our public men. Nay, more; while we know that there are those among the +six Powers who have shown every disposition to treat the case of the +Sultan with all the leniency, with all the friendship that they could, +yet every one of them concurs in the statements upon which we stand, and +in giving an entire denial to counter-statements of the Turkish +Government. The guilt of massacre, and not of massacre only but of every +other horror that has been transacted, rests upon that Government. And +to the guilt of massacre is added the impudence of denial, and this +process will continue--how long? Just as long as you, as Europe, are +contented to hear it. Recollect that eighteen months or more have passed +since the first of those gigantic massacres was perpetrated, and when +that occurrence took place it was thought to be so extraordinary that it +was without precedent in the past; for Bulgaria becomes pale by the side +of Armenia. But alas! that massacre, gigantic as it was, has been +followed up so that one has grown into a series. To the work of murder +was added the work of lust, the work of torture, the work of pillage, +the work of starvation, and every accessory that it was possible for +human wickedness to devise. To all other manifestations which had +formerly been displayed in the face of the world there was added +consummate insolence. + +Come what may, let us extract ourselves from an ambiguous position. Let +us have nothing to do with countenance of, and so renounce and condemn, +neutrality; and let us present ourselves to Her Majesty's Ministers, +promising them in good faith our ungrudging and our enthusiastic +support in every effort which they may make to express by word and by +deed their detestation of acts, not yet perhaps having reached their +consummation, but which already have come to such a magnitude and such a +depth of atrocity that they constitute the most terrible and most +monstrous series of proceedings that have ever been recorded in the +dismal and deplorable history of human crime. + + + + +BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC[37] + +JULIA WARD HOWE + + + Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; + He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are + stored; + He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: + His truth is marching on. + + I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps; + They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; + I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: + His day is marching on. + + I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel: + "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal, + Let the hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel, + Since God is marching on." + + He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat, + He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat. + Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet! + Our God is marching on. + + In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, + With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; + As He died to make men holy let us die to make men free, + While God is marching on. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[37] By special permission of the author. + + + + +THE BLUE AND THE GRAY + +HENRY CABOT LODGE + + +I was a boy ten years old when the troops marched away to defend +Washington. I saw the troops, month after month, pour through the +streets of Boston. I saw Shaw go forth at the head of his black +regiment, and Bartlett, shattered in body but dauntless in soul, ride by +to carry what was left of him once more to the battlefields of the +Republic. I saw Andrew, standing bareheaded on the steps of the State +House, bid the men godspeed. I cannot remember the words he said, but I +can never forget the fervid eloquence which brought tears to the eyes +and fire to the hearts of all who listened. To my boyish mind one thing +alone was clear, that the soldiers, as they marched past, were all, in +that supreme hour, heroes and patriots. Other feelings have, in the +progress of time, altered much, but amid many changes that simple belief +of boyhood has never altered. + +And you, brave men who wore the gray, would be the first to hold me or +any other son of the North in just contempt if I should say that now it +was all over I thought the North was wrong and the result of the war a +mistake. To the men who fought the battles of the Confederacy we hold +out our hands freely, frankly and gladly. We have no bitter memories to +revive, no reproaches to utter. Differ in politics and in a thousand +other ways we must and shall in all good nature, but never let us differ +with each other on sectional or state lines, by race or creed. + +We welcome you, soldiers of Virginia, as others more eloquent than I +have said, to New England. We welcome you to old Massachusetts. We +welcome you to Boston and to Faneuil Hall. In your presence here, and at +the sound of your voices beneath this historic roof, the years roll +back, and we see the figure and hear again the ringing tones of your +great orator, Patrick Henry, declaring to the first Continental +Congress, "The distinctions between Virginians, Pennsylvanians, New +Yorkers, and New Englanders are no more. I am not a Virginian, but an +American." + +A distinguished Frenchman, as he stood among the graves at Arlington, +said: "Only a great people is capable of a great civil war." Let us add +with thankful hearts that only a great people is capable of a great +reconciliation. Side by side, Virginia and Massachusetts led the +colonies into the War for Independence. Side by side, they founded the +government of the United States. Morgan and Greene, Lee and Knox, +Moultrie and Prescott, men of the South and men of the North, fought +shoulder to shoulder, and wore the same uniform of buff and blue,--the +uniform of Washington. + +Mere sentiment all this, some may say. But it is sentiment, true +sentiment, that has moved the world. Sentiment fought the war, and +sentiment has reunited us. When the war was closed it was proposed to +give Governor Andrew, who had sacrificed health and strength and +property in his public duties, some immediately lucrative office. A +friend asked him if he would take such a place. "No," said he; "I have +stood as high priest between the horns of the altar, and I have poured +out upon it the best blood of Massachusetts, and I cannot take money for +that." Mere sentiment truly, but the sentiment which ennobles and +uplifts mankind. + +So I say that the sentiment manifested by your presence here, brethren +of Virginia, sitting side by side with those who wore the blue, tells +us that if war should break again upon the country, the sons of Virginia +and Massachusetts would, as in the olden days, stand once more shoulder +to shoulder, with no distinction in the colors that they wear. It is +fraught with tidings of peace on earth, and you may read its meaning in +the words on yonder picture, "Liberty and union, now and forever, one +and inseparable!" + + + + +CORRUPTION OF PRELATES + +GIROLAMO SAVONAROLA + + +When the demon sees that man is weak he gives him a blow with a hatchet, +to make him fall into sin, but when he sees him strong he strikes him +down with an axe. If there be a young woman, honest and well brought up, +he sets an immoral youth near her, and with all kinds of flattery +deceives her, and makes her fall into sin. Here the devil has dealt a +blow with an axe. Here is an honorable citizen, he enters the courts of +the great lords; there is the axe, and so well sharpened, that no +strength of virtue can resist it. But we are in these days in a sadder +plight; the demon has called his followers for the harvest, and has +struck terrible blows upon the doors of the temple. The doors are those +which lead into the house, and the prelates are those who should lead +the faithful into the church of Christ. It is because of this that the +devil has dealt his great blows, and broken the doors to pieces. It is +for this that good pastors are no longer to be found in the church. Do +ye not perceive that they are bringing everything to ruin? They have no +judgment. They can make no distinction between good and evil, between +truth and falsehood, between sweet and bitter. Things good appear to +them evil, things true to them false, the sweet are to them bitter, the +bitter sweet. Ye see prelates prostrating themselves before earthly +affections and earthly things; they no longer lay to heart the care of +souls; it is enough for them if they receive their incomes; the sermons +of their preachers are composed to please princes, and be magnified by +them. But something worse yet remains; not only have they destroyed the +church of God, but have erected one according to a fashion of their own. +This is the modern church, no longer built with living stones, that is, +by Christians established in a living faith, and so formed of love. Go +to Rome and through all Christendom, in the houses of the great prelates +and the great lords, nothing is thought of but poetry and the art of +oratory. + +Go and see, and you will find them with books of the humanities in their +hands, and giving themselves up to the belief that they know how to lead +the souls of men aright by Virgil, Horace, and Cicero. Do you wish to +see the church guided by the hand of the astrologer? Ye will not find +either prelate or great lord who is not in confidential intercourse with +some astrologer, who predicts to him the hour when he must ride or +engage in some other affair. These same great lords do not dare to move +a step contrary to what their astrologer tells them. There are only two +things in that temple in which they find delight, and these are the +paintings, and the gilding with which it is covered. + +It is thus that in our church there are many beautiful external +ceremonies in the solemnization of the holy offices, splendid vestments +and draperies, with gold and silver candlesticks, and many chalices, all +of which have a majestic effect. There you see great prelates, wearing +golden miters, set with precious stones, on their heads, and with silver +crosiers, standing before the altar with copes of brocade, slowly +intoning vespers and other masses with much ceremony, accompanied by an +organ and singers, until ye become quite stupefied; and these men appear +to you to be men of great gravity and holiness, and ye believe that they +are incapable of error, and they themselves believe that all they say +and do is commanded by the gospel to be observed. + +Men feed upon those vanities, and rejoice in those ceremonies, and say +that the church of Christ was never in so flourishing a state, and that +divine worship was never so well conducted as in this day; and that the +first prelates were very contemptible preachers in comparison with those +of modern times. They certainly had not so many golden miters, nor so +many chalices; and they parted with those they had to relieve the +necessities of the poor; our prelates get their chalices by taking that +from the poor which is their support. But dost thou know what I would +say? In the primitive church there were wooden chalices and golden +prelates; but now the church has golden chalices and wooden prelates. +They have established amongst us the festivals of the devil, they +believe not in God, and make a mockery of the mysteries of our religion. + +What doest thou, O Lord? Why slumberest thou? Arise and take the church +out of the hands of the devil, out of the hands of tyrants, out of the +hands of wicked prelates. Hast thou forgotten thy church? Dost thou not +love her? Hast thou no care for her? We are become, O Lord, the +opprobrium of the nations; Turks are masters of Constantinople; we have +lost Asia, we have lost Greece, we are become tributaries of infidels. O +Lord God, thou hast dealt with us as an angry father, thou hast banished +us from before thee! Hasten the punishment and the scourge that there +may be a speedy return to thee! Pour out thy wrath upon the nations! + +Be not scandalized, my brethren, by these words; rather consider that +when the good wish for punishment, it is because they wish to see evil +driven away and the blessed reign of Jesus Christ triumphant throughout +the world. We have no other hope left us, unless the sword of the Lord +threatens the earth. + + + + +THE CROSS OF GOLD[38] + +W. J. BRYAN + + +I would be presumptuous, indeed, to present myself against the +distinguished gentlemen to whom you have listened if this were a mere +measuring of abilities; but this is not a contest between persons. The +humblest citizen in all the land, when clad in the armor of a righteous +cause, is stronger than all the hosts of error. I come to speak to you +in defense of a cause as holy as the cause of liberty--the cause of +humanity. We object to bringing this question down to the level of +persons. The individual is but an atom; he is born, he acts, he dies; +but principles are eternal; and this has been a contest over a +principle. + +When you come before us and tell us that we are about to disturb your +business interests, we reply that you have disturbed our business +interests by your course. We say to you that you have made the +definition of a business man too limited in its application. The man who +is employed for wages is as much a business man as his employer; the +attorney in a country town is as much a business man as the corporation +counsel in a great metropolis; the merchant at the cross-roads store is +as much a business man as the merchant of New York; the farmer who goes +forth in the morning and toils all day, who begins in spring and toils +all summer, and who by the application of brain and muscle to the +natural resources of the country creates wealth, is as much a business +man as the man who goes upon the Board of Trade and bets upon the price +of grain; the miners who go down a thousand feet into the earth, or +climb two thousand feet upon the cliffs, and bring forth from their +hiding-places the precious metals to be poured into the channels of +trade are as much business men as the few financial magnates who, in a +back room, corner the money of the world. We come to speak of this +broader class of business men. + +Ah, my friends, we say not one word against those who live upon the +Atlantic Coast, but the hardy pioneers who have braved all the dangers +of the wilderness, who have made the desert to blossom as the rose--the +pioneers away out there, who rear their children near to Nature's heart, +where they can mingle their voices with the voices of the birds--out +there where they have erected schoolhouses for the education of their +young, churches where they praise their Creator, and cemeteries where +rest the ashes of their dead--these people, we say, are as deserving of +the consideration of our party as any people in this country. It is for +these that we speak. We do not come as aggressors. Our war is not a war +of conquest; we are fighting in the defense of our homes, our families, +and posterity. We have petitioned, and our petitions have been scorned; +we have entreated, and our entreaties have been disregarded; we have +begged, and they have mocked when our calamity came. We beg no longer; +we entreat no more; we petition no more. We defy them! + +We say in our platform that we believe that the right to coin and issue +money is a function of government. We believe it. We believe that it is +a part of sovereignty, and can no more with safety be delegated to +private individuals than we could afford to delegate to private +individuals the power to make penal statutes or levy taxes. Mr. +Jefferson seems to have differed in opinion from the gentleman who has +addressed us on the part of the minority. Those who are opposed to this +proposition tell us that the issue of paper money is a function of the +bank, and that the government ought to go out of the banking business. I +stand with Jefferson rather than with them, and tell them, as he did, +that the issue of money is a function of government, and that the banks +ought to go out of the governing business. + +And now, my friends, let me come to the paramount issue. If they ask us +why it is that we say more on the money question than we say upon the +tariff question, I reply that, if protection has slain its thousands, +the gold standard has slain its tens of thousands. If they ask us why we +do not embody in our platform all the things that we believe in, we +reply that when we have restored the money of the Constitution all other +necessary reforms will be possible; but that until this is done there is +no other reform that can be accomplished. + +Why is it that within three months such a change has come over the +country? Three months ago when it was confidently asserted that those +who believe in the gold standard would frame our platform and nominate +our candidates, even the advocates of the gold standard did not think +that we could elect a President. Why this change? Ah, my friends, is not +the reason for the change evident to any one who will look at the +matter? No private character, however pure, no personal popularity, +however great, can protect from the avenging wrath of an indignant +people a man who will declare that he is in favor of fastening the gold +standard upon this country, or who is willing to surrender the right of +self-government and place the legislative control of our affairs in the +hands of foreign potentates and powers. + +We go forth confident that we shall win. Why? Because upon the paramount +issue of this campaign there is not a spot of ground upon which the +enemy will dare to challenge battle. If they tell us that the gold +standard is a good thing, we shall point to their platform and tell them +that their platform pledges the party to get rid of the gold standard +and substitute bimetallism. If the gold standard is a good thing, why +try to get rid of it? If the gold standard is a bad thing, why should we +wait until other nations are willing to help us to let go? Here is the +line of battle, and we care not upon which issue they force the fight; +we are prepared to meet them on either issue or on both. If they tell +us that the gold standard is the standard of civilization, we reply to +them that this, the most enlightened of all the nations of the earth, +has never declared for a gold standard and that both the great parties +this year are declaring against it. If the gold standard is the standard +of civilization, why should we not have it? If they come to meet us on +that issue, we can present the history of our nation. + +More than that; we can tell them that they will search the pages of +history in vain to find a single instance where the common people of any +land have ever declared themselves in favor of the gold standard. They +can find where the holders of fixed investments have declared for a gold +standard, but not where the masses have. There are two ideas of +government. There are those who believe that, if you will only legislate +to make the well-to-do prosperous, their prosperity will leak through on +those below. The Democratic idea, however, has been that if you +legislate to make the masses prosperous, their prosperity will find its +way up through every class which rests upon them. You come to us and +tell us that the great cities are in favor of the gold standard; we +reply that the great cities rest upon our broad and fertile prairies. +Burn down your cities and leave our farms, and your cities will spring +up again as if by magic; but destroy our farms and the grass will grow +in the streets of every city in the country. + +My friends, we declare that this nation is able to legislate for its own +people on every question, without waiting for the aid or consent of any +other nation on earth; and upon that issue we expect to carry every +state in the Union. I shall not slander the inhabitants of the fair +State of Massachusetts nor the inhabitants of the State of New York by +saying that, when they are confronted with the proposition, they will +declare that this nation is not able to attend to its own business. It +is the issue of 1776 over again. Our ancestors, when but three millions +in number, had the courage to declare their political independence of +every other nation; shall we, their descendants, when we have grown to +seventy millions, declare that we are less independent than our +forefathers? + +No, my friends, that will never be the verdict of our people. Therefore, +we care not upon what lines the battle is fought. If they say +bimetallism is good, but that we cannot have it until other nations help +us, we reply that, instead of having a gold standard because England +has, we will restore bimetallism, and then let England have bimetallism +because the United States has it. If they dare to come out in the open +field and defend the gold standard as a good thing, we will fight them +to the uttermost. Having behind us the producing masses of this nation +and the world, supported by the commercial interests, the laboring +interests and the toilers everywhere, we will answer their demand for a +gold standard by saying to them: You shall not press down upon the brow +of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a +cross of gold. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[38] From a speech delivered in the city of Chicago before the +Democratic National Convention of 1896. + + + + +DEATH OF CONGRESSMAN BURNES + +J. J. INGALLS + + +At this crisis and juncture, when every instant is priceless, the Senate +proceeds by unanimous consent to consider resolutions of the highest +privilege, and reverently pauses in obedience to the holiest impulses of +human nature to contemplate the profoundest mystery of human +destiny--the mystery of death. In the democracy of death all men at +least are equal. There is neither rank, nor station, nor prerogative in +the republic of the grave. + +At that fatal threshold the philosopher ceases to be wise and the song +of the poet is silent. At that fatal threshold Dives relinquishes his +millions and Lazarus his rags. The poor man is as rich as the richest +and the rich man is as poor as the pauper. The creditor loses his usury +and the debtor is acquitted of his obligation. The proud man surrenders +his dignity, the politician his honors, the worldling his pleasures. +James Nelson Burnes, whose life and virtues we commemorate to-day, was a +man whom Plutarch might have described and Vandyke portrayed. Massive, +rugged and robust, in motion slow, in speech serious and deliberate, +grave in aspect, serious in demeanor, of antique and heroic mold, the +incarnation of force. As I looked for the last time upon that +countenance, from which no glance of friendly recognition nor word of +welcome came, I reflected upon the impenetrable and insoluble mystery of +death. + +If death be the end, if the life of Burnes terminated upon "this bank +and shoal of time," if no morning is to dawn upon the night in which he +sleeps, then sorrow has no consolation, and this impressive and solemn +ceremony which we observe to-day has no more significance than the +painted pageant of the stage. If the existence of Burnes was but a +troubled dream, his death oblivion, what avails it that the Senate +should pause to recount his virtues? Neither veneration nor reverence is +due the dead if they are but dust; no cenotaph should be reared to +preserve for posterity the memory of their achievements if those who +come after them are to be only their successors in annihilation and +extinction. If in this world only we have hope and consciousness duty +must be a chimera; our pleasures and our passions should be the guides +of conduct, and virtue is indeed a superstition if life ends at the +grave. This is the conclusion which the philosophy of negation must +accept at last. Such is the felicity of those degrading precepts which +make the epitaph the end. If the life of Burnes is as a taper that is +burned out then we treasure his memory and his example in vain, and the +latest prayer of his departing spirit has no more sanctity to us, who +soon or late must follow him, than the whisper of winds that stir the +leaves of the protesting forest, or the murmur of the waves that break +upon the complaining shore. + + + + +THE DEATH OF GARFIELD[39] + +JAMES GILLESPIE BLAINE + + +On the morning of Saturday, July second, the President was a contented +and happy man--not in an ordinary degree, but joyfully, almost boyishly, +happy. On his way to the railroad-station, to which he drove slowly, in +conscious enjoyment of the beautiful morning, with an unwonted sense of +leisure and a keen anticipation of pleasure, his talk was all in the +grateful and gratulatory vein. He felt that after four months of trial +his administration was strong in its grasp of affairs, strong in popular +favor and destined to grow stronger; that grave difficulties confronting +him at his inauguration had been safely passed; that trouble lay behind +him, and not before him; that he was soon to meet the wife whom he +loved, now recovering from an illness which had but lately disquieted +and at times almost unnerved him; that he was going to his alma mater to +renew the most cherished associations of his young manhood, and to +exchange greetings with those whose deepening interest had followed +every step of his upward progress from the day he entered upon his +college course until he had attained the loftiest elevation in the gift +of his countrymen. + +Surely, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this +world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a +happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him, no slightest premonition +of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. +One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching +peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, +doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence and the grave. + +Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the +very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of Murder he +was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, +its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death. And +he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned +and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, +but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony that was not +less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage he +looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes, +whose lips may tell? What brilliant broken plans, what baffled high +ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what +bitter rending of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud, expectant +nation; a great host of sustaining friends; a cherished and happy mother +wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of +his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged +from childhood's day of frolic; the fair young daughter; the sturdy sons +just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day, and every +day rewarding, a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, +rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before him, desolation and great +darkness! And his soul was not shaken. His countrymen were thrilled with +instant, profound, and universal sympathy. Masterful in his mortal +weakness, he became the center of a nation's love, enshrined in the +prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not +share with him his suffering. He trod the winepress alone. With +unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took +leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard +the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the divine decree. + +As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The +stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of +pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison-walls, from its +oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and its hopelessness. +Gently, silently, the love of a great people bore the pale sufferer to +the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should +will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold +voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze he +looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders, on its far sails +whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves rolling shoreward +to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening +arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the +stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only +the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence +of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a farther +shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal +morning. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[39] From a memorial oration delivered in the House of Representatives, +February 27, 1882, published by Henry Bill Publishing Co., Norwich, +Conn. + + + + +DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OVERTURE[40] + +WENDELL PHILLIPS + + +Returning to the hills, Toussaint issued the only proclamation which +bears his name, and breathes vengeance: "My children, France comes to +make us slaves. God gave us liberty. France has no right to take it +away. Burn the cities, destroy the harvests, tear up the roads with +cannon, poison the wells. Show the white man the hell he comes to make"; +and he was obeyed. + +When the great William of Orange saw Louis XIV. cover Holland with +troops, he said: "Break down the dikes, give Holland back to ocean"; and +Europe said, "Sublime!" When Alexander saw the armies of France descend +upon Russia, he said: "Burn Moscow, starve back the invaders!" and +Europe said, "Sublime!" This black saw all Europe come to crush him, +and gave to his people the same heroic example of defiance. + +Holland lent sixty ships. England promised by special message to be +neutral; and you know neutrality means sneering at freedom, and sending +arms to tyrants. England promised neutrality, and the black looked out +and saw the whole civilized world marshaled against him. America, full +of slaves, was of course hostile. Only the Yankee sold him poor muskets +at a very high price. Mounting his horse, and riding to the eastern end +of the island, he looked out on a sight such as no native had ever seen +before. Sixty ships of the line, crowded by the best soldiers of Europe, +rounded the point. They were soldiers who had never yet met an equal, +whose tread, like Caesar's, had shaken Europe: soldiers who had scaled +the Pyramids, and planted the French banners on the walls of Rome. He +looked a moment, counted the flotilla, let the reins fall on the neck of +his horse, and turning to Christophe, exclaimed: "All France is come to +Hayti; they can only come to make us slaves; and we are lost!" + +Toussaint was too dangerous to be left at large. So they summoned him to +attend a council; he went, and the moment he entered the room the +officers drew their swords and told him he was a prisoner. They put him +on shipboard and weighed anchor for France. As the island faded from his +sight he turned to the captain and said, "You think you have rooted up +the tree of liberty, but I am only a branch; I have planted the tree so +deep that all France can never root it up." + +He was sent to a dungeon twelve feet by twenty, built wholly of stone, +with a narrow window, high up on one side, looking out on the snows of +Switzerland. In this living tomb the child of the sunny tropics was left +to die. But he did not die fast enough. Napoleon ordered the commandant +to go into Switzerland, to carry the keys of the dungeon with him and +stay four days. When he returned, Toussaint was found starved to death. + +Napoleon, that imperial assassin, was taken, twelve years later, to his +prison at St. Helena, planned for a tomb, as he had planned that of +Toussaint, and there he whined away his dying hours in pitiful +complaints. God grant that when some future Plutarch shall weigh the +great men of our epoch, he do not put that whining child of St. Helena +into one scale, and into the other the negro, meeting death like a +Roman, without a murmur, in the solitude of his icy dungeon. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[40] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. + + + + +THE DEDICATION OF GETTYSBURG CEMETERY + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + + +Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this +continent a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the +proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a +great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived +and so dedicated, can long endure. + +We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have met to dedicate +a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their +lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper +that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we +cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living +and dead, who struggled here have consecrated it far beyond our power to +add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we +say here; but it can never forget what they did here. + +It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated to the unfinished work +that they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be +here dedicated to the great task remaining before us; that from these +honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they +here gave the last full measure of devotion; that we here highly +resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation +shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that government of +the people, by the people and for the people, shall not perish from the +earth. + + + + +THE FALLEN HEROES OF JAPAN + +ADMIRAL HEIHAICHIRO TOGO + + + This speech was a part of a very impressive Shinto ceremony in + which the Commander-in-Chief of the Japanese fleets addressed the + spirits of the officers and sailors who lost their lives during the + war with Russia. For simple eloquence it has seldom been surpassed. + + +The clouds of war have disappeared from sea and from shore, and the +whole city, with a peaceful, placid heart like that of a child, goes out +to meet the men who shared life and death with you, and who now return +triumphant under the imperial standard, while their families wait for +them at the gates of their homes. + +Looking back, we recall how, bearing the bitter cold and enduring the +fierce heat, you fought again and again with our strong foe, and while +the issue of the contest was still uncertain you went before us to the +grave, leaving us to envy the glory you had won by your loyal deaths. We +longed to imitate you in paying the debt to sovereign and country. Your +valiant and vehement fighting always achieved success. In no combat did +you fail to conquer. Throughout ten months the attack on Port Arthur +continued and the result was determined. In the Sea of Japan a single +annihilating effort decided the issue. Thenceforth the enemy's shadow +disappeared from the face of the ocean. This success had its origin in +the infinite virtues of the emperor, but it could not have been achieved +had not you, forgetting yourselves, sacrificed your lives in the public +service. The war is over. We who return in triumph see signs of joy +everywhere. But we remember that we cannot share it with you, and +mingled feelings of sadness and rejoicing struggle painfully for +expression. The triumph of to-day has been purchased by your glorious +deaths, and your loyalty and valor will inspire our navy, guarding the +imperial land for all time. + +We here perform this rite of worship to your spirits, and speaking +something of our sad thoughts, pray you to come and receive the +offerings we make. + + + + +SECESSION[41] + +ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS + + +Mr. President: This step of secession, once taken, can never be +recalled; and all the baleful and withering consequences that must +follow, will rest on the convention for all coming time. When we and our +posterity shall see our lovely South desolated by the demon of war, +which this act of yours will inevitably invite and call forth; when our +green fields of waving harvest shall be trodden down by the murderous +soldiery and fiery car of war sweeping over our land; our temples of +justice laid in ashes; all the horrors and desolation of war upon us; +who but this Convention will be held responsible for it? And who but him +who shall have given his vote for this unwise and ill-timed measure, as +I honestly think and believe, shall be held to strict account for this +suicidal act by the present generation, and probably cursed and +execrated by posterity for all coming time, for the wide and desolating +ruin that will inevitably follow this act you now propose to perpetrate? +Pause, I entreat you, and consider for a moment what reasons you can +give, that will even satisfy yourselves in calmer moments--what reason +you can give to your fellow-sufferers in the calamity that it will bring +upon us. What reasons can you give to the nations of the earth to +justify it? They will be the calm and deliberate judges in the case; and +what cause or one overt act can you name or point, on which to rest the +plea of justification? What right has the North assailed? What interest +of the South has been invaded? What justice has been denied? And what +claim founded in justice and right has been withheld? Can either of you +to-day name one governmental act of wrong, deliberately and purposely +done by the government of Washington, of which the South has a right to +complain? I challenge the answer. While, on the other hand, let me show +the facts, of which I wish you to judge, and I will only state facts +which are clear and undeniable, and which now stand as records authentic +in the history of our country. When we of the South demanded the +slave-trade, or the importation of Africans for the cultivation of our +lands, did they not yield the right for twenty years? When we asked a +three-fifths representation in Congress for our slaves, was it not +granted? When we asked and demanded the return of any fugitive from +justice, or the recovery of those persons owing labor or allegiance, was +it not incorporated in the Constitution, and again ratified and +strengthened by the Fugitive Slave Law of 1850? But do you reply that in +many instances they have violated this compact, and have not been +faithful to their engagements? As individual and local communities, they +may have done so; but not by the sanction of government; for that has +always been true to Southern interests. Again, gentlemen, look at +another act; when we have asked that more territory should be added, +that we might spread the institution of slavery, have they not yielded +to our demands in giving us Louisiana, Florida, and Texas? From these, +four States have been carved, and ample territory for four more is to be +added in due time, if you, by this unwise and impolitic act, do not +destroy this hope, and, perhaps, by it lose all, and have your last +slave wrenched from you by stern military rule, as South America and +Mexico were; or by the vindictive decree of a universal emancipation +which may reasonably be expected to follow. + +But, again, gentlemen, what have we to gain by this proposed change of +our relation to the general government? We have always had the control +of it, and can yet, if we remain in it, and are as united as we have +been. We have had a majority of the Presidents chosen from the South, as +well as the control and management of most of those chosen from the +North. We have had sixty years of Southern Presidents to their +twenty-four, thus controlling the executive department. So of the judges +of the Supreme Court, we have had eighteen from the South and but eleven +from the North; although nearly four-fifths of the judicial business has +arisen in the free states, yet a majority of the Court has always been +from the South. This we have required so as to guard against any +interpretation of the Constitution unfavorable to us. In like manner we +have been equally watchful to guard our interests in the legislative +branch of government. In choosing the presidents of the Senate, we have +had twenty-four to their eleven. Speakers of the House we have had +twenty-three, and they twelve. While the majority of the +representatives, from their greater population, have always been from +the North, yet we have generally secured the Speaker, because he, to a +great extent, shapes and controls the legislation of the country. Nor +have we had less control in every other department of the general +government. Attorney-generals we have had fourteen, while the North have +had but five. Foreign ministers we have had eighty-six and they but +fifty-four. While three-fourths of the business which demands diplomatic +agents abroad is clearly from the free states, from their greater +commercial interest, yet we have had the principal embassies, so as to +secure the world-markets for our cotton, tobacco, and sugar on the best +possible terms. We have had a vast majority of the higher offices of +both army and navy, while a larger proportion of the soldiers and +sailors were drawn from the North. Again, from official documents, we +learn that a fraction over three-fourths of the revenue collected for +the support of the government has uniformly been raised from the North. + +Leaving out of view, for the present, the countless millions of dollars +you must expend in a war with the North; with tens of thousands of your +sons and brothers slain in battle, and offered up as sacrifices upon the +altar of your ambition--and for what, we ask again? Is it for the +overthrow of the American government, established by our common +ancestry, cemented and built up by their sweat and blood, and founded on +the broad principles of right, justice, and humanity? And as such, I +must declare here, as I have often done before, and which has been +repeated by the greatest and wisest of statesmen and patriots, in this +and other lands, that it is the best and freest government--the most +equal in its rights, the most just in its decisions, the most lenient in +its measures, and the most aspiring in its principles, to elevate the +race of men, that the sun of heaven ever shone upon. Now, for you to +attempt to overthrow such a government as this, under which we have +lived for more than three-quarters of a century--in which we have gained +our wealth, our standing as a nation, our domestic safety, while the +elements of peril are around us, with peace and tranquillity accompanied +with unbounded prosperity and rights unassailed--is the height of +madness, folly, and wickedness, to which I neither lend my sanction nor +my vote. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[41] Delivered at the Georgia State Convention, January, 1861. + + + + +THE DEATH OF GRADY + +JOHN TEMPLE GRAVES + + +Oh, brilliant and incomparable Grady! We lay for a season thy precious +dust beneath the soil that bore and cherished thee, but we fling back +against all our brightening skies the thoughtless speech that calls thee +dead! God reigns and His purpose lives, and although these brave lips +are silent here, the seeds sown in his incarnate eloquence will sprinkle +patriots through the years to come, and perpetuate thy living in a race +of nobler men! + +But all our words are empty, and they mock the air. If we should speak +the eulogy that fills this day, let us build within the city that he +loved, a monument tall as his services, and noble as the place he +filled. Let every Georgian lend a hand, and as it rises to confront in +majesty his darkened home, let the widow who weeps there be told that +every stone that makes it has been sawn from the sound prosperity that +he builded, and that the light which plays upon its summit is, in +afterglow, the sunshine that he brought into the world. + +And for the rest--silence. The sweetest thing about his funeral was that +no sound broke the stillness save the reading of the Scriptures, and the +melody of music. No fire that can be kindled upon the altar of speech +can relume the radiant spark that perished yesterday. No blaze born in +all our eulogy can burn beside the sunlight of his useful life. After +all, there is nothing grander than such living. + +I have seen the light that gleamed from the headlight of some giant +engine rushing onward through the darkness, heedless of opposition, +fearless of danger, and I thought it was grand. I have seen the light +come over the eastern hills in glory, driving the hazy darkness like +mist before a sea-born gale, till leaf and tree and blade of grass +glittered in the myriad diamonds of the morning ray, and I thought it +was grand. I have seen the light that leaped at midnight athwart the +storm-swept sky, shivering over chaotic clouds, mid howling winds, till +cloud and darkness and the shadow-haunted earth flashed into mid-day +splendor, and I knew it was grand. But the grandest thing next to the +radiance that flows from the Almighty Throne is the light of a noble +and beautiful life, wrapping itself in benediction round the destinies +of men, and finding its home in the blessed bosom of the Everlasting +God! + + + + +THE GLORY OF PEACE + +CHARLES SUMNER + + +The art of war is yet held even among Christians to be an honorable +pursuit. It shall be for another age to appreciate the more exalted +character of the art of benevolence which, in blessed contrast with the +misery, the degradation, the wickedness of war, shall shine resplendent +in the true grandeur of peace. Then shall the soul thrill with a nobler +heroism than that of battle. Peaceful industry, with untold multitudes +of cheerful and beneficent laborers, shall be its gladsome token. +Literature, full of sympathy and comfort for the heart of man, shall +appear in garments of purer glory than she has yet assumed. Science +shall extend the bounds of knowledge and power, adding unimaginable +strength to the hands of men, opening innumerable resources in the earth +and revealing new secrets and harmonies in the skies. + +The increasing beneficence and intelligence of our own day, the +broad-spread sympathy with suffering, the widening thoughts of men, the +longings of the heart for a higher condition on earth, the unfulfilled +promises of Christian progress are the auspicious auguries of this happy +future. As early voyagers over untried realms of waste we have already +observed the signs of land. The green and fresh red berries have floated +by our bark, the odors of the shore fan our faces, nay, we may seem to +descry the distant gleam of light, and hear from the more earnest +observers, as Columbus heard, after midnight from the masthead of the +Pinta, the joyful cry of "Land! Land!" and lo! a new world broke upon +his early morning gaze. + + + + +THE HOPE OF THE REPUBLIC + +H. W. GRADY + + +I went to Washington the other day and I stood on the Capitol hill, and +my heart beat quick as I looked at the towering marble of my country's +Capitol, and a mist gathered in my eyes as I thought of its tremendous +significance, of the armies and the treasury, and the judges and the +President, and the Congress and the courts, and all that was gathered +there; and I felt that the sun in all its course could not look down on +a better sight than that majestic home of a Republic that had taught the +world its best lessons of liberty. And I felt that if honor and wisdom +and justice dwelt therein, the world would at last owe that great house, +in which the ark of the covenant of my country is lodged, its final +uplifting and its regeneration. + +But a few days afterwards I went to visit a friend in the country, a +modest man, with a quiet country home. It was just a simple, +unpretentious house, set about with great trees and encircled in meadow +and field rich with the promise of harvest; the fragrance of the pink +and the hollyhock in the front yard was mingled with the aroma of the +orchard and the garden, and the resonant clucking of poultry and the hum +of bees. Inside was quiet, cleanliness, thrift and comfort. + +Outside there stood my friend, the master, a simple, independent, +upright man, with no mortgage on his roof, no lien on his growing +crops--master of his land and master of himself. There was the old +father, an aged and trembling man, but happy in the heart and home of +his son. And, as he started to enter his home, the hand of the old man +went down on the young man's shoulder, laying there the unspeakable +blessing of an honored and honorable father, and ennobling it with the +knighthood of the fifth commandment. And as we approached the door the +mother came, a happy smile lighting up her face, while with the rich +music of her heart she bade her husband and her son welcome to their +home. Beyond was the housewife, busy with her domestic affairs, the +loving helpmate of her husband. Down the lane came the children after +the cows, singing sweetly, as like birds they sought the quiet of their +nest. + +So the night came down on that house, falling gently as the wing of an +unseen dove. And the old man, while a startled bird called from the +forest and the trees thrilled with the cricket's cry, and the stars were +falling from the sky, called the family around him and took the Bible +from the table and called them to their knees. The little baby hid in +the folds of its mother's dress while he closed the record of that day +by calling down God's blessing on that simple home. While I gazed, the +vision of the marble Capitol faded; forgotten were its treasuries and +its majesty; and I said, "Surely here in the house of the people lodge +at last the strength and the responsibility of this government, the hope +and the promise of this Republic." + + + + +HUNGARIAN HEROISM + +LOUIS KOSSUTH + + +Gentlemen have said that it was I who inspired the Hungarian people. I +cannot accept the praise. No, it was not I who inspired the Hungarian +people, it was the Hungarian people who inspired me. Whatever I thought +and still think, whatever I felt and still feel, is but the pulsation of +that heart which in the breast of my people beats. The glory of battle +is for the historic leaders. Theirs are the laurels of immortality. And +yet in encountering the danger, they knew that, alive or dead, their +names would, on the lips of people, forever live. + +How different the fortune, how nobler, how purer the heroism of those +children of the people who went forth freely to meet death in their +country's cause, knowing that where they fell they would lie +undistinguished and unknown, their names unhonored and unsung. +Animated, nevertheless, by the love of freedom and the fatherland, they +went forth calmly singing their national anthems till, rushing upon the +batteries whose cross fires vomited upon them death and destruction, +they took them without firing a shot,--those who fell falling with the +shout, "Hurrah for Hungary!" And so they died by thousands--the unnamed +demigods! Such is the people of Hungary. Still it is said it is I who +have inspired them. No! a thousand times, no! It is they who have +inspired me. + + + + +INTERNATIONAL RELATIONS[42] + +WILLIAM MCKINLEY + + +Ladies and Gentlemen, I am glad to be again in the City of Buffalo and +exchange greetings with her people, to whose generous hospitality I am +not a stranger, and with whose good will I have been repeatedly and +signally honored. Expositions are the timekeepers of progress. They +record the world's advancement. They stimulate the energy, enterprise +and intellect of the people and quicken human genius. They go into the +home. They broaden and brighten the daily life of the people. They open +mighty storehouses of information to the student. + +The wisdom and energy of all the nations are none too great for the +world's work. The success of art, science, industry and invention is an +international asset and a common glory. After all, how near one to the +other is every part of the world. Modern inventions have brought into +close relation widely separated peoples, and made them better +acquainted. Geographic and political divisions will continue to exist, +but distances have been effaced. + +Swift ships and fast trains are becoming cosmopolitan. They invade +fields which a few years ago were impenetrable. The world's products are +exchanged as never before, and with increasing transportation facilities +come increasing knowledge and trade. Prices are fixed with mathematical +precision by supply and demand. The world's selling prices are regulated +by market and crop reports. We travel greater distances in a shorter +space of time, and with more ease than was ever dreamed of by the +fathers. + +Isolation is no longer possible or desirable. The same important news is +read, though in different languages, the same day in all Christendom. +The telegraph keeps us advised of what is occurring everywhere, and the +press foreshadows, with more or less accuracy, the plans and purposes of +the nations. Market prices of products and of securities are hourly +known in every commercial mart, and the investments of the people extend +beyond their own national boundaries into the remotest parts of the +earth. Vast transactions are conducted and international exchanges are +made by the tick of the cable. Every event of interest is immediately +bulletined. + +The quick gathering and transmission of news, like rapid transit, are of +recent origin, and are only made possible by the genius of the inventor +and the courage of the investor. It took a special messenger of the +government, with every facility known at the time for rapid travel, +nineteen days to go from the City of Washington to New Orleans with a +message to General Jackson that the war with England had ceased and a +treaty of peace had been signed. + +How different now! We reached General Miles in Porto Rico by cable, and +he was able through the military telegraph to stop his army on the +firing line with the message that the United States and Spain had signed +a protocol suspending hostilities. We knew almost instantly of the first +shots fired at Santiago, and the subsequent surrender of the Spanish +forces was known at Washington within less than an hour of its +consummation. The first ship of Cervera's fleet had hardly emerged from +that historic harbor when the fact was flashed to our capital and the +swift destruction that followed was announced immediately through the +wonderful medium of telegraphy. + +At the beginning of the nineteenth century there was not a mile of steam +railroad on the globe. Now there are enough miles to make its circuit +many times. Then there was not a line of electric telegraph; now we have +vast mileage traversing all lands and all seas. God and man have linked +the nations together. No nation can longer be indifferent to any other. +And as we are brought more and more in touch with each other the less +occasion there is for misunderstandings and the stronger the +disposition, when we have differences, to adjust them in the court of +arbitration, which is the noblest forum for the settlement of +international disputes. + +The period of exclusiveness is past. The expansion of our trade and +commerce is the pressing problem. Commercial wars are unprofitable. A +policy of good will and friendly trade relations will prevent reprisals. +Reciprocity treaties are in harmony with the spirit of the times; +measures of retaliation are not. If perchance some of our tariffs are no +longer needed for revenue or to encourage and protect our industries at +home, why should they not be employed to extend and promote our markets +abroad? + +Then, too, we have inadequate steamship service. New lines of steamers +have already been put in commission between the Pacific coast ports of +the United States and those on the western coasts of Mexico and Central +and South America. These should be followed up with direct steamship +lines between the eastern coast of the United States and South American +ports. One of the needs of the times is direct commercial lines from our +vast fields of production to the fields of consumption that we have but +barely touched. + +Next in advantage to having the thing to sell is to have the convenience +to carry it to the buyer. We must encourage our merchant marine. We must +have more ships. They must be under the American flag, built and manned +and owned by Americans. These will not be profitable in a commercial +sense; they will be messengers of peace and amity wherever they go. + +We must build the isthmian canal, which will unite the two oceans and +give a straight line of water communication with the western coasts of +Central America, South America and Mexico. The construction of a Pacific +cable cannot be longer postponed. + +In the furtherance of these objects of national interest and concern you +are performing an important part. This exposition would have touched the +heart of that American statesman whose mind was ever alert and thought +ever constant for a larger commerce and a truer fraternity of the +republics of the new world. His broad American spirit is felt and +manifested here. He needs no identification to an assemblage of +Americans anywhere, for the name of Blaine is inseparably associated +with the pan-American movement, which finds this practical and +substantial expression and which we all hope will be firmly advanced by +the pan-American congress that assembles this autumn in the capital of +Mexico. + +The good work will go on. It cannot be stopped. These buildings will +disappear, this creation of art and beauty and industry will perish from +sight, but their influence will remain to + + + "Make it live beyond its too short living + With praises and thanksgiving." + + +Who can tell the new thoughts that have been awakened, and ambitions +fired, and the high achievements that will be wrought through this +Exposition? + +Gentlemen, let us ever remember that our interest is in concord, not +conflict, and that our real eminence rests in the victories of peace, +not those of war. We hope that all who are represented here may be moved +to higher and nobler effort for their own and the world's good, and that +out of this city may come not only greater commerce and trade for us +all, but, more essential than these, relations of mutual respect, +confidence and friendship which will deepen and endure. Our earnest +prayer is that God will graciously vouchsafe prosperity, happiness and +peace to all our neighbors and like blessings to all the peoples and +powers of earth. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[42] His last speech, delivered at the Buffalo Exposition, September 5, +1901. + + + + +IRISH HOME RULE[43] + +WILLIAM E. GLADSTONE + + +I may without impropriety remind the House that the voices which usually +pleaded the cause of Irish self-government in Irish affairs have within +these walls during the last seven years been almost entirely mute. I +return therefore to the period of 1886, when a proposition of this kind +was submitted on the part of the government, and I beg to remind the +House of the position then taken up by all the promoters of these +measures. We said that we had arrived at a point in our transactions +with Ireland where the two roads parted. "You have," we said, "to choose +one or the other." One is the way of Irish autonomy according to the +conceptions I have just referred to, the other is the way of coercion. + +What has been the result of the dilemma as it was then put forward on +this side of the House and repelled by the other? Has our contention +that the choice lay between autonomy and coercion been justified or not? +What has become of each and all of these important schemes for giving +Ireland self-government in provinces and giving her even a central +establishment in Dublin with limited powers? All vanished into thin +air, but the reality remains. The roads were still there, autonomy or +coercion. The choice lay between them, and the choice made was to repel +autonomy and embrace coercion. + +In 1886 for the first time coercion was imposed on Ireland in the shape +of a permanent law added to the statute book. This state of things +constituted an offense against the harmony and traditions of +self-government. It was a distinct and violent breach of the promise on +the faith of which union was obtained. The permanent system of +repression inflicted upon the country a state of things which could not +continue to exist. It was impossible to bring the inhabitants of the +country under coercion into sympathy with the coercion power. + +It was then prophesied confidently that Irishmen would take their places +in the Cabinet of the United Kingdom, but it has been my honored destiny +to sit in Cabinet with no less than sixty to seventy statesmen, of whom +only one, the Duke of Wellington, was an Irishman, while Castlereagh was +the only other Irishman who has sat in the Cabinet since union. Pitt +promised equal laws when the union was formed, but the broken promises +made to Ireland are unhappily written in indelible characters in the +history of the country. It is to me astonishing that so little weight is +attached by many to the fact that Irish wishes of self-government were +represented only by a small minority. + +Now what voting power are the eighty members to have? Ireland is to be +represented here fully; that is my first postulate. My second postulate +is that Ireland is to be invested with separate powers, subject, no +doubt, to imperial authority. Ireland is to be endowed with separate +powers over Irish affairs. Then the question before us is: Is she or is +she not to vote so strongly upon matters purely British? There are +reasons both ways. We cannot cut them off in a manner perfectly clean +and clear from these questions. We cannot find an absolutely accurate +line of cleavage between questions that are imperial questions and those +that are Irish questions. Unless Irish members vote on all questions you +break the parliamentary tradition. The presence of eighty members with +only limited powers of voting is a serious breach of that tradition, +which ought to be made the subject of most careful consideration. + +Now come the reasons against the universal voting powers. It is +difficult to say: Everything on that side Irish, everything on this side +imperial. That, I think, you cannot do. If you ask me for a proportion, +I say nine-tenths, perhaps nineteen-twentieths, of the business of +Parliament can without difficulty be classed as Irish or imperial. It +would be a great anomaly if these eighty Irish members should come here +continually to intervene in questions purely and absolutely British. If +some large question or controversy in British affairs should then come +up, causing a deep and vital severing of the two great parties in this +House, and the members of those parties knew that they could bring over +eighty members from Ireland to support their views, I am afraid a case +like that would open a possible door to dangerous political intrigue. +The whole subject is full of thorns and brambles, but our object is the +autonomy and self-government of Ireland in all matters properly Irish. + +I wish to supply the keynote to the financial part of the legislation. +That keynote is to be found in the provision included in our plans from +the first, and wisely and generously acceded to by Ireland through her +representatives, that there is to be but one system of legislation as +far as external things are concerned that will be found to entail very +important consequences. It has guided us to the conclusion at which we +arrived of unity of commercial legislation for the three kingdoms. By +adopting this keynote we can attain to the most valuable results and +will be likely to avoid the clashing of agents of the Imperial and +agents of the Irish Government. We can make, under cover of this +proposal, a larger and more liberal transfer to Ireland in the +management of her own affairs than we could make if we proceeded on any +other principles. The principle to which we are bound to give effect in +Ireland is: Ireland has to bear a fair share of imperial expenditure. + +I will now release the House from the painful consideration of details +which it has pursued with unexampled patience. I must say, however, for +my own part that I never will and never can be a party to bequeathing to +my country the continuance of this heritage of discord which has been +handed down from generation to generation, with hardly momentary +interruption, through seven centuries--this heritage of discord, with +all the evils that follow in its train. I wish no part in that process. +It would be misery for me if I had foregone or omitted in these closing +years of my life any measure it was possible for me to take toward +upholding and promoting the cause which I believe to be the cause--not +of one party or one nation--but of all parties and all nations. To these +nations, viewing them as I do, with their vast opportunities, under a +living union for power and happiness, to these nations I say: Let me +entreat you--if it were my latest breath I would so entreat you--let the +dead bury their dead, and cast behind you former recollections of bygone +evils; cherish love and sustain one another through all the vicissitudes +of human affairs in times that are to come. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[43] Delivered in the House of Commons, February 13, 1893. + + + + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + +EMILIO CASTELAR + + +The past century has not, the century to come will not have, a figure so +grand as that of Abraham Lincoln, because as evil disappears so +disappears heroism also. + +I have often contemplated and described his life. Born in a cabin of +Kentucky, of parents who could hardly read; born a new Moses in the +solitude of the desert, where are forged all great and obstinate +thoughts, monotonous like the desert, and growing up among those +primeval forests, which, with their fragrance, send a cloud of incense, +and, with their murmurs, a cloud of prayers to heaven; a boatman at +eight years in the impetuous current of the Ohio, and at seventeen in +the vast and tranquil waters of the Mississippi; later, a woodman, with +axe and arm felling the immemorial trees, to open a way to unexplored +regions for his tribe of wandering workers; reading no other book than +the Bible, the book of great sorrows and great hopes, dictated often by +prophets to the sound of fetters they dragged through Nineveh and +Babylon; a child of Nature; in a word, by one of those miracles only +comprehensible among free peoples, he fought for the country, and was +raised by his fellow-citizens to the Congress at Washington, and by the +nation to the Presidency of the Republic; and when the evil grew more +virulent, when those States were dissolved, when the slave-holders +uttered their war-cry and the slaves their groans of despair, humblest +of the humble before his conscience, greatest of the great before +history, ascends the Capitol, the greatest moral height of our time, and +strong and serene with his conscience and his thought; before him a +veteran army, hostile Europe behind him, England favoring the South, +France encouraging reaction in Mexico, in his hands the riven country; +he arms two millions of men, gathers half a million of horses, sends his +artillery twelve hundred miles in a week, from the banks of the Potomac +to the shores of the Tennessee; fights more than six hundred battles; +renews before Richmond the deeds of Alexander, of Caesar; and, after +having emancipated three million slaves, that nothing might be wanting, +he dies in the very moment of victory--like Christ, like Socrates, like +all redeemers, at the foot of his work. His work! sublime achievement! +over which humanity shall eternally shed its tears, and God his +benedictions! + + + + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + +JAMES A. GARFIELD + + +In the great drama of the rebellion there were two acts. The first was +the war, with its battles and sieges, its victories and defeats, its +sufferings and tears. Just as the curtain was lifting on the second and +final act, the restoration of peace and liberty, the evil spirit of the +rebellion, in the fury of despair, nerved and directed the hand of an +assassin to strike down the chief character in both. It was no one man +who killed Abraham Lincoln; it was the embodied spirit of treason and +slavery, inspired with fearful and despairing hate, that struck him down +in the moment of the nation's supremest joy. + +Sir, there are times in the history of men and nations when they stand +so near the veil that separates mortals from immortals, time from +eternity, and men from God that they can almost hear the beatings and +pulsations of the heart of the Infinite. Through such a time has this +nation passed. + +When two hundred and fifty thousand brave spirits passed from the field +of honor, through that thin veil, to the presence of God, and when at +last its parting folds admitted the martyr President to the company of +those dead heroes of the Republic, the nation stood so near the veil +that the whispers of God were heard by the children of men. Awe-stricken +by his voice, the American people knelt in tearful reverence and made a +solemn covenant with Him and with each other that this nation should be +saved from its enemies, that all its glories should be restored, and, on +the ruins of slavery and treason, the temples of freedom and justice +should be built, and should survive forever. + +It remains for us, consecrated by that great event and under a covenant +with God, to keep that faith, to go forward in the great work until it +shall be completed. Following the lead of that great man, and obeying +the high behests of God, let us remember that: + + + "He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; + He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat; + Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! + Our God is marching on." + + + + +LOUISIANA PURCHASE EXPOSITION[44] + +JOHN HAY + + +I thank you, Mr. Chairman; I thank you, gentlemen--all of you--for your +too generous and amiable welcome. I esteem it a great privilege to meet +so many representatives of an estate which, more than any other, at this +hour controls the world. It is my daily duty in Washington to confer +with the able and distinguished representatives of civilized sovereigns +and states. But we are all aware that the days of personal government +are gone forever; that behind us, and behind the rulers we represent, +there stands the vast, irresistible power of public opinion, which in +the last resort must decide all the questions we discuss, and whose +judgment is final. In your persons I greet the organs and exponents of +that tremendous power with all the respect which is due to you and your +constituency, deeply sensible of the honor which has been done me in +making me the mouthpiece of the sentiment of appreciation and regard +with which the nation welcomes you to this great festival of peace and +of progress. + +Upon none of the arts or professions has the tremendous acceleration of +progress in recent years had more effect than upon that of which you are +the representatives. We easily grow used to miracles; it will seem a +mere commonplace when I say that all the wonders of the magicians +invented by those ingenious oriental poets who wrote the "Arabian +Nights" pale before the stupendous facts which you handle in your daily +lives. The air has scarcely ceased to vibrate with the utterances of +kings and rulers in the older realms when their words are read in the +streets of St. Louis and on the farms of Nebraska. The telegraph is too +quick for the calendar; you may read in your evening paper a dispatch +from the antipodes with a date of the following day. The details of a +battle on the shores of the Hermit Kingdom, a land which a few years ago +was hidden in the mists of legend, are printed and commented on before +the blood of the wounded has ceased to flow. Almost before the smoke of +the conflict has lifted we read the obituaries of the unsepultured dead. +And not only do you record with the swiftness of thought these incidents +of war and violence, but the daily victories of truth over error, of +light over darkness; the spread of commerce in distant seas, the +inventions of industry, the discoveries of science, are all placed +instantly within the knowledge of millions. The seeds of thought, +perfected in one climate, blossom and fructify under every sky, in every +nationality which the sun visits. + +With these miraculous facilities, with this unlimited power, comes also +an enormous responsibility in the face of God and man. I am not here to +preach to you a gospel whose lessons are known to you far better than to +me. I am not calling sinners to repentance, but I am following a good +tradition in stirring up the pure minds of the righteous by way of +remembrance. It is well for us to reflect on the vast import, the +endless chain of results, of that globe-encircling speech you address +each day to the world. Your winged words have no fixed flight; like the +lightning, they traverse the ether according to laws of their own. They +light in every clime; they influence a thousand different varieties of +minds and manners. How vastly important is it, then, that the sentiments +they convey should be those of good will rather than of malevolence, +those of national concord rather than of prejudice, those of peace +rather than of hostility. The temptation to the contrary is almost +irresistible. I acknowledge with contrition how often I have fallen by +the way. It is far more amusing to attack than to defend, to excite than +to soothe. But the highest victory of great power is that of +self-restraint, and it would be a beneficent result of this memorable +meeting, this oecumenical council of the press, if it taught us +all--the brethren of this mighty priesthood--that mutual knowledge of +each other which should modify prejudices, restrain acerbity of thought +and expression, and tend in some degree to bring in that blessed time-- + + + "When light shall spread and man be liker man + Through all the season of the Golden Year." + + +What better school was ever seen in which to learn the lesson of mutual +esteem and forbearance than this great exposition? The nations of the +earth are met here in friendly competition. The first thing that strikes +the visitor is the infinite diversity of thought and effort which +characterizes the several exhibits; but a closer study every day reveals +a resemblance of mind and purpose more marvelous still. Integrity, +industry, the intelligent adaptation of means to ends, are everywhere +the indispensable conditions of success. Honest work, honest dealing, +these qualities mark the winner in every part of the world. The artist, +the poet, the artisan, and the statesman, they everywhere stand or fall +through the lack or the possession of similar qualities. How shall one +people hate or despise another when we have seen how like us they are in +most respects, and how superior they are in some! Why should we not +revert to the ancient wisdom which regarded nothing human as alien, and +to the words of Holy Writ which remind us that the Almighty has made all +men brethren? + +In the name of the President--writer, soldier, and statesman, eminent in +all three professions and in all equally an advocate of justice, peace, +and good will--I bid you a cordial welcome, with the prayer that this +meeting of the representatives of the world's intelligence may be +fruitful in advantage to the press of all nations and may bring us +somewhat nearer to the dawn of the day of peace on earth and good will +among men. Let us remember that we are met to celebrate the transfer of +a vast empire from one nation to another without the firing of a shot, +without the shedding of one drop of blood. If the press of the world +would adopt and persist in the high resolve that war should be no more, +the clangor of arms would cease from the rising of the sun to its going +down, and we could fancy that at last our ears, no longer stunned by the +din of armies, might hear the morning stars singing together and all the +sons of God shouting for joy. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[44] Address of the Secretary of State at the opening of the Press +Parliament of the World, at St. Louis, on the 19th of May, 1904. Used by +permission of Mrs. Hay. + + + + +THE MAN WITH THE MUCK-RAKE[45] + +THEODORE ROOSEVELT + + +In Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress" you may recall the description of the +Man with the Muck-rake, the man who could look no way but downward, with +the muck-rake in his hand; who was offered a celestial crown for his +muck-rake, but who would neither look up nor regard the crown he was +offered, but continued to rake to himself the filth of the floor. + +In "Pilgrim's Progress" the Man with the Muck-rake is set forth as the +example of him whose vision is fixed on carnal instead of on spiritual +things. Yet he also typifies the man who in this life consistently +refuses to see aught that is lofty, and fixes his eyes with solemn +intentness only on that which is vile and debasing. Now, it is very +necessary that we should not flinch from seeing what is vile and +debasing. There is filth on the floor, and it must be scraped up with +the muck-rake; and there are times and places where this service is the +most needed of all the services that can be performed. But the man who +never does anything else, who never thinks or speaks or writes, save of +his feats with the muck-rake, speedily becomes, not a help to society, +not an incitement to good, but one of the most potent forces for evil. + +There are, in the body politic, economic and social, many and grave +evils, and there is urgent necessity for the sternest war upon them. +There should be relentless exposure of and attack upon every evil man, +whether politician or business man, every evil practice, whether in +politics, in business, or in social life. I hail as a benefactor every +writer or speaker, every man who, on the platform, or in book, magazine, +or newspaper, with merciless severity makes such attack, provided always +that he in his turn remembers that the attack is of use only if it is +absolutely truthful. The liar is no whit better than the thief, and if +his mendacity takes the form of slander, he may be worse than most +thieves. It puts a premium upon knavery untruthfully to attack an honest +man, or even with hysterical exaggeration to assail a bad man with +untruth. An epidemic of indiscriminate assault upon character does not +good, but very great harm. The soul of every scoundrel is gladdened +whenever an honest man is assailed, or even when a scoundrel is +untruthfully assailed. + +Now, it is easy to twist out of shape what I have just said, easy to +affect to misunderstand it, and, if it is slurred over in repetition, +not difficult really to misunderstand it. Some persons are sincerely +incapable of understanding that to denounce mud-slinging does not mean +the indorsement of whitewashing; and both the interested individuals who +need whitewashing, and those others who practice mud-slinging, like to +encourage such confusion of ideas. One of the chief counts against those +who make indiscriminate assault upon men in business or men in public +life, is that they invite a reaction which is sure to tell powerfully in +favor of the unscrupulous scoundrel who really ought to be attacked, who +ought to be exposed, who ought, if possible, to be put in the +penitentiary. If Aristides is praised overmuch as just, people get tired +of hearing it; and overcensure of the unjust finally and from similar +reasons results in their favor. + +Any excess is almost sure to invite a reaction; and, unfortunately, the +reaction, instead of taking the form of punishment of those guilty of +the excess, is very apt to take the form either of punishment of the +unoffending or of giving immunity, and even strength, to offenders. The +effort to make financial or political profit out of the destruction of +character can only result in public calamity. Gross and reckless +assaults on character, whether on the stump or in newspaper, magazine, +or book, create a morbid and vicious public sentiment, and at the same +time act as a profound deterrent to able men of normal sensitiveness and +tend to prevent them from entering the public service at any price. As +an instance in point, I may mention that one serious difficulty +encountered in getting the right type of men to dig the Panama Canal is +the certainty that they will be exposed, both without, and, I am sorry +to say, sometimes within Congress, to utterly reckless assaults on their +character and capacity. + +At the risk of repetition let me say again that my plea is, not for +immunity to but for the most unsparing exposure of the politician who +betrays his trust, of the big business man who makes or spends his +fortune in illegitimate or corrupt ways. There should be a resolute +effort to hunt every such man out of the position he has disgraced. +Expose the crime, and hunt down the criminal; but remember that even in +the case of crime, if it is attacked in sensational, lurid, and +untruthful fashion, the attack may do more damage to the public mind +than the crime itself. It is because I feel that there should be no +rest in the endless war against the forces of evil that I ask that the +war be conducted with sanity as well as with resolution. The men with +the muck-rakes are often indispensable to the well-being of society; but +only if they know when to stop raking the muck, and to look upward to +the celestial crown above them, to the crown of worthy endeavor. There +are beautiful things above and round about them; and if they gradually +grow to feel that the whole world is nothing but muck, their power of +usefulness is gone. If the whole picture is painted black, there remains +no hue whereby to single out the rascals for distinction from their +fellows. Such painting finally induces a kind of moral color-blindness; +and people affected by it come to the conclusion that no man is really +black, and no man really white, but they are all gray. In other words, +they neither believe in the truth of the attack, nor in the honesty of +the man who is attacked; they grow as suspicious of the accusation as of +the offense; it becomes well-nigh hopeless to stir them either to wrath +against wrong-doing or to enthusiasm for what is right; and such a +mental attitude in the public gives hope to every knave, and is the +despair of honest men. + +To assail the great and admitted evils of our political and industrial +life with such crude and sweeping generalizations as to include decent +men in the general condemnation means the searing of the public +conscience. There results a general attitude either of cynical belief in +and indifference to public corruption or else of a distrustful inability +to discriminate between the good and the bad. Either attitude is fraught +with untold damage to the country as a whole. The fool who has not sense +to discriminate between what is good and what is bad is well-nigh as +dangerous as the man who does discriminate and yet chooses the bad. +There is nothing more distressing to every good patriot, to every good +American, than the hard, scoffing spirit which treats the allegation of +dishonesty in a public man as a cause for laughter. Such laughter is +worse than the crackling of thorns under a pot, for it denotes not +merely the vacant mind, but the heart in which high emotions have been +choked before they could grow to fruition. + +There is any amount of good in the world, and there never was a time +when loftier and more disinterested work for the betterment of mankind +was being done than now. The forces that tend for evil are great and +terrible, but the forces of truth and love and courage and honesty and +generosity and sympathy are also stronger than ever before. It is a +foolish and timid, no less than a wicked thing, to blink the fact that +the forces of evil are strong, but it is even worse to fail to take into +account the strength of the forces that tell for good. Hysterical +sensationalism is the very poorest weapon wherewith to fight for lasting +righteousness. The men who, with stern sobriety and truth, assail the +many evils of our time, whether in the public press, or in magazines, or +in books, are the leaders and allies of all engaged in the work for +social and political betterment. But if they give good reason for +distrust of what they say, if they chill the ardor of those who demand +truth as a primary virtue, they thereby betray the good cause, and play +into the hands of the very men against whom they are nominally at +war.... + +At this moment we are passing through a period of great unrest--social, +political, and industrial unrest. It is of the utmost importance for our +future that this should prove to be not the unrest of mere +rebelliousness against life, of mere dissatisfaction with the inevitable +inequality of conditions, but the unrest of a resolute and eager +ambition to secure the betterment of the individual and the nation. So +far as this movement of agitation throughout the country takes the form +of a fierce discontent with evil, of a determination to punish the +authors of evil, whether in industry or politics, the feeling is to be +heartily welcomed as a sign of healthy life. + +If, on the other hand, it turns into a mere crusade of appetite against +appetite, of a contest between the brutal greed of the "have-nots" and +the brutal greed of the "haves," then it has no significance for good, +but only for evil. If it seeks to establish a line of cleavage, not +along the line which divides good men from bad, but along that other +line, running at right angles thereto, which divides those who are well +off from those who are less well off, then it will be fraught with +immeasurable harm to the body politic. + +We can no more and no less afford to condone evil in the man of capital +than evil in the man of no capital. The wealthy man who exults because +there is a failure of justice in the effort to bring some trust magnate +to an account for his misdeeds is as bad as, and no worse than, the +so-called labor leader who clamorously strives to excite a foul class +feeling on behalf of some other labor leader who is implicated in +murder. One attitude is as bad as the other, and no worse; in each case +the accused is entitled to exact justice; and in neither case is there +need of action by others which can be construed into an expression of +sympathy for crime. + +It is a prime necessity that if the present unrest is to result in +permanent good the emotion shall be translated into action, and that the +action shall be marked by honesty, sanity and self-restraint. There is +mighty little good in a mere spasm of reform. The reform that counts is +that which comes through steady, continuous growth; violent emotionalism +leads to exhaustion.... + +The first requisite in the public servants who are to deal in this shape +with corporations, whether as legislators or as executives, is honesty. +This honesty can be no respecter of persons. There can be no such thing +as unilateral honesty. The danger is not really from corrupt +corporations; it springs from the corruption itself, whether exercised +for or against corporations. + +The eighth commandment reads, "Thou shalt not steal." It does not read, +"Thou shalt not steal from the rich man." It does not read, "Thou shalt +not steal from the poor man." It reads simply and plainly, "Thou shalt +not steal." No good whatever will come from that warped and mock +morality which denounces the misdeeds of men of wealth and forgets the +misdeeds practiced at their expense; which denounces bribery, but blinds +itself to blackmail; which foams with rage if a corporation secures +favors by improper methods, and merely leers with hideous mirth if the +corporation is itself wronged. The only public servant who can be +trusted honestly to protect the rights of the public against the misdeed +of a corporation is that public man who will just as surely protect the +corporation itself from wrongful aggression. If a public man is willing +to yield to popular clamor and do wrong to the men of wealth or to rich +corporations, it may be set down as certain that if the opportunity +comes he will secretly and furtively do wrong to the public in the +interest of a corporation. + +But, in addition to honesty, we need sanity. No honesty will make a +public man useful if that man is timid or foolish, if he is a hot-headed +zealot or an impracticable visionary. As we strive for reform we find +that it is not at all merely the case of a long uphill pull. On the +contrary, there is almost as much of breeching work as of collar work; +to depend only on traces means that there will soon be a runaway and an +upset. The men of wealth who to-day are trying to prevent the regulation +and control of their business in the interest of the public by the +proper Government authorities will not succeed, in my judgment, in +checking the progress of the movement. But if they did succeed they +would find that they had sown the wind and would surely reap the +whirlwind, for they would ultimately provoke the violent excesses which +accompany a reform coming by convulsion instead of by steady and natural +growth. + +On the other hand, the wild preachers of unrest and discontent, the wild +agitators against the entire existing order, the men who act crookedly, +whether because of sinister design or from mere puzzleheadedness, the +men who preach destruction without proposing any substitute for what +they intend to destroy, or who propose a substitute which would be far +worse than the existing evils--all these men are the most dangerous +opponents of real reform. If they get their way, they will lead the +people into a deeper pit than any into which they could fall under the +present system. If they fail to get their way, they will still do +incalculable harm by provoking the kind of reaction which, in its revolt +against the senseless evil of their teaching, would enthrone more +securely than ever the very evils which their misguided followers +believe they are attacking. + +More important than aught else is the development of the broadest +sympathy of man for man. The welfare of the wage-worker, the welfare of +the tiller of the soil, upon these depend the welfare of the entire +country; their good is not to be sought in pulling down others; but +their good must be the prime object of all our statesmanship. + +Materially we must strive to secure a broader economic opportunity for +all men, so that each shall have a better chance to show the stuff of +which he is made. Spiritually and ethically we must strive to bring +about clean living and right thinking. We appreciate that the things of +the body are important; but we appreciate also that the things of the +soul are immeasurably more important. The foundation stone of national +life is, and ever must be, the high individual character of the average +citizen. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[45] From an address delivered by the President at the laying of the +corner-stone of the Office Building of the House of Representatives, +April 14, 1906. + + + + +MESSAGE TO THE SQUADRON[46] + +ADMIRAL HEIHAICHIRO TOGO + + +The war of twenty months' duration is now a thing of the past, and our +united squadron, having completed its functions, is to be herewith +dispersed. But our duties as naval men are not at all lightened for that +reason. To preserve in perpetuity the fruits of this war, to promote to +ever greater heights of prosperity the fortunes of the country, the +navy, which, irrespective of peace or war, has to stand between the +Empire and shocks from abroad, must always maintain its strength at sea +and must be prepared to meet any emergency. + +This strength does not consist solely in ships and armaments, it +consists also in material ability to utilize such agents. When we +understand that one gun that scores a hundred per cent of hits is a +match for a hundred of the enemy's guns each of which scores only one +per cent, it becomes evident that we sailors must have recourse before +everything to the strength which is over and above externals. The +triumphs recently won by our navy are largely to be attributed to the +habitual training which enabled us to garner the fruits of the fighting. +If, then, we infer the future from the past, we recognize that, though +wars may cease, we cannot abandon ourselves to ease and rest. A +soldier's whole life is one continuous and unceasing battle, and there +is no reason why his responsibilities should vary with the state of the +times. In days of crisis he has to display his strength, in days of +peace to accumulate it, thus perpetually and uniquely discharging his +duties to the full. + +If men calling themselves sailors grasp at the pleasures of peace, they +will learn the lesson that, however fine in appearance their engines of +war, those, like a house built on the sand, will fall at the first +approach of the storm. + +When in ancient times we conquered Korea that country remained over four +hundred years under our control, only to be lost by Japan as soon as our +navy had declined. Again, when under the sway of the Tokugawa in modern +days our armaments were neglected, the coming of a few American ships +threw us into distress. On the other hand, the British navy, which won +the battles of the Nile and of Trafalgar, not only made England as +secure as a great mountain, but also by thenceforth carefully +maintaining its strength and keeping it on a level with the world's +progress has safeguarded that country's interests and promoted its +fortunes. + +Such lessons, whether ancient or modern, occidental or oriental, though +to some extent they are the outcome of political happenings, must be +regarded as in the main the natural result of whether the soldier +remembers war in the day of peace. We naval men who have survived the +war must plan future developments and seek not to fall behind the +progress of the time. If, keeping the instructions of our Sovereign ever +graven on our hearts, we serve him earnestly and diligently, and putting +forth our full strength await what the hour may bring forth, we shall +then have discharged our great duty of perpetually guarding our country. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[46] Address at the dispersal of the squadron at the close of the +Russo-Japanese war. + + + + +THE MINUTE MAN + +GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS + + +Citizens of a great, free, and prosperous country, we come hither to +honor the men, our fathers, who on this spot struck the first blow in +the contest which made our country independent. Here, beneath the hills +they trod, by the peaceful river on whose shores they dwelt, amidst the +fields that they sowed and reaped, we come to tell their story, to try +ourselves by their lofty standard, to know if we are their worthy +children; and, standing reverently where they stood and fought and died, +to swear before God and each other, that government of the people, by +the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth. + +The minute man of the Revolution! And who was he? He was the husband and +father, who left the plough in the furrow, the hammer on the bench, and, +kissing his wife and children, marched to die or to be free! He was the +old, the middle-aged, the young. He was Captain Miles, of Acton, who +reproved his men for jesting on the march! He was Deacon Josiah Haines, +of Sudbury, eighty years old, who marched with his company to South +Bridge, at Concord, then joined in that hot pursuit to Lexington, and +fell as gloriously as Warren at Bunker Hill. He was James Hayward, of +Acton, twenty-two years old, foremost in that deadly race from +Charlestown to Concord, who raised his piece at the same moment with a +British soldier, each exclaiming, "You are a dead man!" The Briton +dropped, shot through the heart. Hayward fell mortally wounded. +"Father," said he, "I started with forty balls; I have three left. I +never did such a day's work before. Tell mother not to mourn too much; +and tell her whom I love more than my mother that I am not sorry I +turned out." + +The last living link with the Revolution has long been broken; and we +who stand here to-day have a sympathy with the men at the old North +Bridge, which those who preceded us here at earlier celebrations could +not know. With them war was a name and a tradition. When they assembled +to celebrate this day, they saw a little group of tottering forms, whose +pride was that, before living memory, they had been minute men of +American Independence. + +But with us, how changed! War is no longer a tradition, half romantic +and obscure. It has ravaged how many of our homes, it has wrung how many +of the hearts before me? North and South, we know the pang. We do not +count around us a few feeble veterans of the contest, but we are girt +with a cloud of witnesses. Behold them here to-day, sharing in these +pious and peaceful rites, the honored citizens whose glory it is that +they were minute men of American liberty and union! These men of to-day +interpret to us, with resistless eloquence, the men and the times we +commemorate. Now, if never before, we understand the Revolution. Now, we +know the secrets of those old hearts and homes. + +No royal governor sits in yon stately capitol; no hostile fleet for many +a year has vexed the waters of our coast; nor is any army but our own +ever likely to tread our soil. Not such are our enemies to-day. They do +not come proudly stepping to the drum-beat, with bayonets flashing in +the morning sun. But wherever party spirit shall strain the ancient +guarantees of freedom, or bigotry and ignorance of caste shall strike at +equal rights, or corruption shall poison the very springs of national +life, there, minute men of liberty, are your Lexington Green and Concord +Bridge! And, as you love your country and your kind, and would have your +children rise up and call you blessed, spare not the enemy! Over the +hills, out of the earth, down from the clouds, pour in resistless might! +Fire from every rock and tree, from door and window, from hearth-stone +and chamber; hang upon his flank and rear from morn to sunset, and so +through a land blazing with holy indignation, hurl the hordes of +ignorance and corruption and injustice back, back in utter defeat and +ruin. + + + + +A MORE PERFECT UNION[47] + +GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS + + +Upon this field consecrated by American valor we meet to consecrate +ourselves to American union. In this hallowed ground lie buried, not +only brave soldiers of the blue and the gray, but the passions of war, +the jealousies of sections, and the bitter root of all our national +differences, human slavery. Here long and angry controversies of +political dogma, of material interest, and of local pride and tradition, +came to their decisive struggle. As the fate of Christendom was +determined at Tours, that of American Independence at Saratoga, and that +of modern Europe at Waterloo, the destiny of the American Union was +decided at Gettysburg. A hundred other famous fields there are of the +same American bravery in the same tremendous strife; fields whose proud +and terrible tale history and song will never tire of telling. But it is +here that the struggle touched its highest point. Here broke the fiery +crest of that invading wave of war. + +This is one of the historic fields of the world, and to us Americans no +other has an interest so profound. Marathon and Arbela, Worcester and +Valmy, even our own Bunker Hill and Saratoga and Yorktown, fields of +undying fame, have not for us a significance so vital and so beneficent +as this field of Gettysburg. Around its chief and central interest +gather associations of felicitous significance. Like the House of +Delegates in Williamsburg, where Patrick Henry roused Virginia to +resistance; like Faneuil Hall in Boston, where Samuel Adams lifted New +England to independence; like Carpenter's Hall in Philadelphia, where +the Continental Congress assembled, this field is invested with the +undying charm of famous words fitly spoken. While yet the echoes of the +battle might have seemed to linger in the awed and grieving air, stood +the sad and patient and devoted man, whose burden was greater than that +of any man of his generation, and as greatly borne as any solemn +responsibility in human history. Upon this field he spoke the few simple +words which enshrine the significance of the great controversy and which +have become a part of this historic scene, to endure with the memory of +Gettysburg, and to touch the heart and exalt the hope of every American +from the gulf to the lakes and from ocean to ocean, so long as this +valley shall smile with spring and glow with autumn, and day and night +and seed time and harvest shall not fail. + +To-day his prophetic vision is fulfilled. The murmur of these hosts of +peace encamped upon this field of war, this universal voice of friendly +greeting and congratulation, these cheers of the gray echoing the cheers +of the blue, what are they but the answering music of those chords of +memory; the swelling chorus of the Union responding to the better +angels of our nature? If there be joy in Heaven this day, it is in the +heart of Abraham Lincoln as he looks down upon this field of Gettysburg. + +But that the glory of this day, and of America, and of human nature, may +be full, it is the veterans and survivors of the armies whose tremendous +conflict interpreted the Constitution, who to-day, here upon the field +of battle and upon its twenty-fifth anniversary, clasp friendly hands of +sympathy to salute a common victory. This is a spectacle without +precedent in history. No field of the cloth of gold, or of the grounded +arms, no splendid scene of the royal adjustment of conquests, the +diplomatic settlement of treaties, or the papal incitement of crusades, +rivals in moral grandeur and significance this simple pageant. + +The sun of Gettysburg rose on the 1st of July and saw the army of the +gray already advancing in line of battle; the army of the blue still +hastening eagerly forward and converging to this point. The glory of +midsummer filled this landscape as if nature had arrayed a fitting scene +for a transcendent event. Once more the unquailing lines so long arrayed +against each other stood face to face. Once more the inexpressible +emotion mingled of yearning memory, of fond affection, of dread +foreboding, of high hope, of patriotic enthusiasm and of stern resolve, +swept for a moment over thousands of brave hearts, and the next instant +the overwhelming storm of battle burst. For three long, proud, immortal +days it raged and swayed, the earth trembling, the air quivering, the +sky obscured; with shouting charge, and rattling volley, the thundering +cannonade piling the ground with mangled and bleeding blue and gray, the +old, the young, but always and everywhere the devoted and the brave. +Doubtful the battle hung and paused. Then a formidable bolt of war was +forged on yonder wooded height and launched with withering blasts and +roar of fire against the foe. It was a living bolt and sped as if +resistless. It reached and touched the flaming line of the embattled +blue. It pierced the line. For one brief moment in the sharp agony of +mortal strife it held its own. It was the supreme moment of the peril of +the Union. It was the heroic crisis of the war. But the fiery force was +spent. In one last, wild, tumultuous struggle brave men dashed headlong +against men as brave, and the next moment that awful bolt of daring +courage was melted in the fervent heat of an equal valor, and the battle +of Gettysburg was fought. + +If the rising sun of the Fourth of July, 1863, looked upon a sad and +unwonted scene, a desolated battlefield, upon which the combatants upon +either side had been American citizens, yet those combatants could they +have seen aright would have hailed that day as more glorious than ever +before. For as the children of Israel beheld Moses descending amid the +clouds and thunder of the sacred mount bearing the divinely illuminated +law, so from that smoking and blood-drenched field on which all hope of +future union might seem to have perished utterly, they would have seen a +more perfect union rising, with the constitution at last immutably +interpreted, and they would have heard, before they were uttered by +human lips, the words of which Gettysburg is the immortal pledge to +mankind, government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall +not perish from the earth. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[47] Delivered at Gettysburg, July 3, 1888. The occasion was a reunion +of the Blue and the Gray on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the great +battle. + + + + +NAPOLEON + +THOMAS CORWIN + + +Napoleon thought France was too small, that Europe should bow down to +him. But as soon as this idea took possession of his soul he became +powerless, while he meditated the subjugation of Russia. He who holds +the winds in his power, gathered the snows from the north and blew them +upon his six hundred thousand men. They fled, they froze, they +perished. And now the mighty Napoleon, who had resolved on universal +dominion, is summoned to answer for the violation of that ancient law, +"Thou shalt not covet anything which is thy neighbor's." And how is the +mighty fallen! He beneath whose proud footstep Europe trembled, he is +now an exile at Elba, and now, finally a prisoner on the rock of St. +Helena, and there on a barren island, in an unfrequented sea, in the +crater of an extinguished volcano, there is the death-bed of the mighty +conqueror. And all his annexations have come to that! His last hour has +now come, and he, the man of destiny, he who had rocked the world as in +the throes of an earthquake, is now powerless--even as a beggar, so he +died. On the wings of a tempest, that raged with unwonted fury, up to +the throne of the only power that controlled him while he lived, went +the fiery soul of that wonderful warrior, another witness to the +existence of that eternal decree, that they who do not rule in +righteousness shall perish from the earth. + + + + +NAPOLEON[48] + +ROBERT G. INGERSOLL + + +A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon, a +magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity, and +gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at +last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and +thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world. + +I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I +saw him at Toulon. I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of +Paris. I saw him at the head of the army of Italy. I saw him crossing +the bridge of Lodi with the tricolor in his hand. I saw him in Egypt in +the shadows of the Pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the +eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at +Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow +and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's +withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster, driven by +a million bayonets back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished +to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his +genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and +Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him +at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the +sad and solemn sea. + +I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that had +been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, +pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said, "I would +rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather +have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes +growing purple in the amorous kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather +have been that poor peasant, with my loving wife by my side, knitting as +the day died out of the sky, with my children upon my knees and their +arms about me. I would rather have been that man, and gone down to the +tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that +imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as Napoleon the +Great." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[48] By permission of C. P. Farrell, publisher. + + + + +NATIONAL CONTROL OF CORPORATIONS[49] + +THEODORE ROOSEVELT + + +When this government was founded there were no great individual or +corporate fortunes, and commerce and industry were being carried on very +much as they had been carried on in the days when Nineveh and Babylon +stood in the Mesopotamian Valley. Sails, oars, wheels--those were the +instruments of commerce. The pack train, the wagon train, the row boat, +the sailing craft--those were the methods of commerce. Everything has +been revolutionized in the business world since then, and the progress +of civilization from being a dribble has become a torrent. There was no +particular need at that time of bothering as to whether the nation or +the state had control of corporations. They were easy to control. Now, +however, the exact reverse is the case. And remember when I say +corporations I do not mean merely trusts, technically so-called, merely +combinations of corporations, or corporations under certain peculiar +conditions. For instance, some time ago the Attorney General took action +against a certain trust. There was considerable discussion as to whether +the trust aimed at would not seek to get out from under the law by +becoming a single corporation. Now I want laws that will enable us to +deal with any evil no matter what shape it takes. + +I want to see the government able to get at it definitely, so that the +action of the government cannot be evaded by any turning within or +without federal or state statutes. At present we have really no +efficient control over a big corporation which does business in more +than one state. Frequently the corporation has nothing whatever to do +with the state in which it is incorporated except to get incorporated; +and all its business may be done in entirely different +communities--communities which may object very much to the methods of +incorporation in the state named. I do not believe that you can get any +action by any state, I do not believe it practicable to get action by +all the states that will give us satisfactory control of the trusts, of +big corporations; and the result is at present that we have a great, +powerful, artificial creation which has no creator to which it is +responsible. The creator creates it and then it goes and operates +somewhere else, and there is no interest on the part of the creator to +deal with it. It does not do anything where the creator has power; it +operates entirely outside of the creator's jurisdiction. + +It is, of course, a mere truism to say that the corporation is the +creature of the state, that the state is sovereign. There should be a +real and not a nominal sovereign, some one sovereign to which the +corporation shall be really and not nominally responsible. At present if +we pass laws nobody can tell whether they will amount to anything. That +has two bad effects. In the first place, the corporation becomes +indifferent to the lawmaking body; and in the next place, the lawmaking +body gets into that most pernicious custom of passing a law not with +reference to what will be done under it, but with reference to its +effects upon the opinions of the voters. That is a bad thing. When any +body of lawmakers passes a law, not simply with reference to whether +that law will do good or ill, but with the knowledge that not much will +come of it, and yet that perhaps the people as a whole will like to see +it on the statute books--it does not speak well for the lawmakers, and +it does not speak well for the people either. What I hope to see is +power given to the national legislature which shall make the control +real. It would be an excellent thing if you could have all the states +act on somewhat similar lines so that you would make it unnecessary for +the national government to act; but all of you know perfectly well that +the states will not act on similar lines. No advance whatever has been +made in the direction of intelligent dealing by the states as a +collective body with those great corporations. + + +I am not advocating anything very revolutionary. I am advocating action +to prevent anything revolutionary. Now if we can get adequate control by +the nation of these great corporations, then we can pass legislation +which will give us the power of regulation and supervision over them. +If the nation had that power, I should advocate as strenuously as I know +how that the power should be exercised with extreme caution and +self-restraint. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[49] From a speech delivered at Symphony Hall, Boston, August 25, 1902. + + + + +THE NEGRO + +HENRY W. GRADY + + +The love we feel for that race you cannot measure nor comprehend. As I +attest it here, the spirit of my old black mammy from her home up there +looks down to bless, and through the tumult of this night steals the +sweet music of her croonings as thirty years ago she held me in her +black arms and led me smiling into sleep. This scene vanishes as I +speak, and I catch a vision of an old Southern home, with its lofty +pillars, and its white pigeons fluttering down through the golden air. I +see women with strained and anxious faces, and children alert yet +helpless. I see night come down with its dangers and its apprehensions, +and in a big homely room I feel on my tired head the touch of loving +hands, and I thank God that she is safe in her sanctuary, because her +slaves, sentinel in the silent cabin or on guard at her chamber door, +put a black man's loyalty between her and danger. + +I catch another vision. The crisis of battle, a soldier struck, +staggering, fallen. I see a slave, scuffling through the smoke, winding +his black arms about the fallen form, reckless of the hurtling +death--bending his trusty face to catch the words that tremble on the +stricken lips. I see him by the weary bedside, ministering with +uncomplaining patience, praying with all his humble heart that God will +lift his master up, until death comes in mercy and in honor to still the +soldier's agony and seal the soldier's life. I see him by the open +grave, mute, motionless, uncovered, suffering for the death of him who +in life fought against his freedom. I see him when the mound is heaped +and the great drama of his life is closed, turn away and with downcast +eyes and uncertain step start out into new and strange fields, +faltering, struggling, but moving on, until his shambling figure is lost +in the light of this better and brighter day. And out into this new +world--strange to me as to him, dazzling, bewildering both--I follow! +And may God forget my people when they forget these. + + + + +NEW ENGLAND + +JOSIAH QUINCY + + +The great comprehensive truths, written in letters of living light on +every page of our history,--the language addressed by every past age of +New England to all future ages, is this: Human happiness has no perfect +security but freedom; freedom, none but virtue; virtue, none but +knowledge; and neither freedom, nor virtue, nor knowledge, has any vigor +or immortal hope, except in the principles of the Christian faith, and +in the sanctions of the Christian religion. + +Men of Massachusetts! citizens of Boston! descendants of the early +immigrants! consider your blessings; consider your duties. You have an +inheritance acquired by the labors and sufferings of six successive +generations of ancestors. They founded the fabric of your prosperity in +a severe and masculine morality, having intelligence for its cement, and +religion for its groundwork. Continue to build on the same foundation, +and by the same principles let the extending temple of your country's +freedom rise in the spirit of ancient times, in proportions of +intellectual and moral architecture,--just, simple, and sublime. + + + + +THE NEW SOUTH + +HENRY W. GRADY + + +"There was a South of slavery and secession--that South is dead. There +is a South of union and freedom--that South, thank God, is living, +breathing, growing every hour." These words, delivered from the immortal +lips of Benjamin H. Hill, at Tammany Hall, in 1866, true then and true +now, I shall make my text to-night. + +Mr. President and Gentlemen: Let me express to you my appreciation of +the kindness by which I am permitted to address you. I make this abrupt +acknowledgment advisedly, for I feel that if, when I raise my provincial +voice in this ancient and august presence, I could find courage for no +more than the opening sentence, it would be well if in that sentence I +had met in a rough sense my obligation as a guest, and had perished, so +to speak, with courtesy on my lips and grace in my heart. Permitted, +through your kindness, to catch my second wind, let me say that I +appreciate the significance of being the first Southerner to speak at +this board, which bears the substance, if it surpasses the semblance, of +original New England hospitality--and honors the sentiment that in turn +honors you, but in which my personality is lost, and the compliment to +my people made plain. + +My friends, Dr. Talmage has told you that the typical American has yet +to come. Let me tell you that he has already come. Great types, like +valuable plants, are slow to flower and fruit. But from the union of the +colonists, Puritans and Cavaliers, from the straightening of their +purposes and the crossing of their blood, slow perfecting through a +century, came he who stands as the first typical American, the first who +comprehended within himself all the strength and gentleness, all the +majesty and grace of this republic--Abraham Lincoln. He was the sum of +Puritan and Cavalier, for in his ardent nature were fused the virtues of +both, and in the depths of his great soul the faults of both were lost. +He was greater than Puritan, greater than Cavalier, in that he was +American, and that in his honest form were first gathered the vast and +thrilling forces of his ideal government--charging it with such +tremendous meaning and elevating it above human suffering that +martyrdom, though infamously aimed, came as a fitting crown to a life +consecrated from the cradle to human liberty. Let us, each cherishing +the traditions and honoring his fathers, build with reverent hands to +the type of this simple but sublime life, in which all types are +honored, and in our common glory as Americans there will be plenty and +to spare for your forefathers and for mine. + +Dr. Talmage has drawn for you, with a master's hand, the picture of your +returning armies. He has told you how, in the pomp and circumstance of +war, they came back to you, marching with proud and victorious tread, +reading their glory in a nation's eyes! Will you bear with me while I +tell you of another army that sought its home at the close of the late +war--an army that marched home in defeat and not in victory--in pathos +and not in splendor, but in glory that equaled yours, and to hearts as +loving as ever welcomed heroes home! Let me picture to you the footsore +Confederate soldier, as buttoning up in his faded gray jacket the parole +which was to bear testimony to his children of his fidelity and faith, +he turned his face southward from Appomattox in April, 1865. Think of +him as ragged, half-starved, heavy-hearted, enfeebled by want and +wounds. Having fought to exhaustion, he surrenders his gun, wrings the +hands of his comrades in silence, and lifting his tear-stained and +pallid face for the last time to the graves that dot old Virginia hills, +pulls his gray cap over his brow and begins the slow and painful +journey. What does he find--let me ask you who went to your homes eager +to find, in the welcome you had justly earned, full payment for four +years' sacrifice--what does he find when, having followed the +battle-stained cross against overwhelming odds, dreading death not half +so much as surrender, he reaches the home he left so prosperous and +beautiful? He finds his house in ruins, his farm devastated, his slaves +free, his stock killed, his barns empty, his trade destroyed, his money +worthless, his social system, feudal in its magnificence, swept away; +his people without law or legal status; his comrades slain, and the +burdens of others heavy on his shoulders. Crushed by defeat, his very +traditions are gone. Without money, credit, employment, material, or +training; and beside all this, confronted with the gravest problem that +ever met human intelligence--the establishing of a status for the vast +body of his liberated slaves. + +What does he do--this hero in gray with a heart of gold? Does he sit +down in sullenness and despair? Not for a day. Surely God, who had +stripped him of his prosperity, inspired him in his adversity. As ruin +was never before so overwhelming, never was restoration swifter. The +soldier stepped from the trenches into the furrow; horses that had +charged Federal guns marched before the plow, and fields that ran red +with human blood in April were green with the harvest in June; women +reared in luxury cut up their dresses and made breeches for their +husbands, and, with a patience and heroism that fit women always as a +garment, gave their hands to work. There was little bitterness in all +this. Cheerfulness and frankness prevailed. + +Never was nobler duty confided to human hands than the uplifting and +upbuilding of the prostrate and bleeding South--misguided, perhaps, but +beautiful in her suffering, and honest, brave and generous always. In +the record of her social, industrial and political lustration we await +with confidence the verdict of the world. + +The new South is enamored of her new work. Her soul is stirred with the +breath of a new life. The light of a grander day is falling fair on her +face. She is thrilling with the consciousness of growing power and +prosperity. As she stands upright, full-statured and equal among the +people of the earth, breathing the keen air and looking out upon the +expanded horizon, she understands that her emancipation came because +through the inscrutable wisdom of God her honest purpose was crossed, +and her brave armies were beaten. + +This is said in no spirit of time-serving or apology. The South has +nothing for which to apologize. She believes that the late struggle +between the States was war and not rebellion; revolution and not +conspiracy, and that her convictions were as honest as yours. I should +be unjust to the dauntless spirit of the South and to my own convictions +if I did not make this plain in this presence. The South has nothing to +take back. In my native town of Athens is a monument that crowns its +central hill--a plain, white shaft. Deep cut into its shining side is a +name dear to me above the names of men--that of a brave and simple man +who died in brave and simple faith. Not for all the glories of New +England, from Plymouth Rock all the way, would I exchange the heritage +he left me in his soldier's death. To the foot of that shaft I shall +send my children's children to reverence him who ennobled their name +with his heroic blood. But, sir, speaking from the shadow of that +memory, which I honor as I do nothing else on earth, I say that the +cause in which he suffered and for which he gave his life was adjudged +by higher and fuller wisdom than his or mine, and I am glad that the +omniscient God held the balance of battle in His Almighty hand and that +human slavery was swept forever from American soil, and the American +Union was saved from the wreck of war. + +This message, Mr. President, comes to you from consecrated ground. Every +foot of soil about the city in which I live is as sacred as a +battle-ground of the republic. Every hill that invests it is hallowed to +you by the blood of your brothers who died for your victory, and doubly +hallowed to us by the blood of those who died hopeless, but undaunted, +in defeat--sacred soil to all of us--rich with memories that make us +purer and stronger and better--silent but stanch witnesses in its red +desolation of the matchless valor of American hearts and the deathless +glory of American arms--speaking an eloquent witness in its white peace +and prosperity to the indissoluble union of American States and the +imperishable brotherhood of the American people. + +Now, what answer has New England to this message? Will she permit the +prejudice of war to remain in the hearts of the conquerors, when it has +died in the hearts of the conquered? Will she transmit this prejudice to +the next generation, that in their hearts which never felt the generous +ardor of conflict it may perpetuate itself? Will she withhold, save in +strained courtesy, the hand which straight from his soldier's heart +Grant offered to Lee at Appomattox? Will she make the vision of a +restored and happy people, which gathered above the couch of your dying +captain, filling his heart with grace, touching his lips with praise, +and glorifying his path to the grave--will she make this vision, on +which the last sigh of his expiring soul breathed a benediction, a cheat +and delusion? If she does, the South, never abject in asking for +comradeship, must accept with dignity its refusal; but if she does not +refuse to accept in frankness and sincerity this message of good will +and friendship, then will the prophecy of Webster, delivered in this +very society forty years ago amid tremendous applause, be verified in +its fullest sense, when he said: "Standing hand to hand and clasping +hands, we should remain united as we have been for sixty years, citizens +of the same country, members of the same government, united, all united +now and united forever." There have been difficulties, contentions, and +controversies, but I tell you that in my judgment, + + + "Those opened eyes, + Which like the meteors of a troubled heaven, + All of one nature, of one substance bred, + Did lately meet in th' intestine shock, + Shall now, in mutual, well beseeming ranks, + March all one way." + + + + +DANIEL O'CONNELL[50] + +WENDELL PHILLIPS + + +I do not think I exaggerate when I say that never since God made +Demosthenes has He made a man better fitted for a great work than He did +Daniel O'Connell. + +You may say that I am partial to my hero, but John Randolph of Roanoke, +who hated an Irishman almost as much as he did a Yankee, when he got to +London and heard O'Connell, the old slaveholder threw up his hands and +exclaimed, "This is the man, those are the lips, the most eloquent that +speak English in my day," and I think he was right. + +Webster could address a bench of judges; Everett could charm a college; +Choate could delude a jury; Clay could magnetize a senate; and Tom +Corwin could hold the mob in his right hand, but no one of these men +could do more than this one thing. The wonder about O'Connell was that +he could out-talk Corwin, he could charm a college better than Everett, +and leave Henry Clay himself far behind in magnetizing a senate. + +It has been my privilege to have heard all the great orators of America +who have become singularly famed about the world's circumference. I know +what was the majesty of Webster; I know what it was to melt under the +magnetism of Henry Clay; I have seen eloquence in the iron logic of +Calhoun; but O'Connell was Webster, Clay, and Calhoun in one. Before the +courts, logic; at the bar of the senate, unanswerable and dignified; on +the platform, grace, wit, and pathos; before the masses, a whole man. +Emerson says, "There is no true eloquence, unless there is a man behind +the speech." Daniel O'Connell was listened to because all England and +Ireland knew that there was a man behind the speech,--one who could be +neither bought, bullied, nor cheated. + +When I was in Naples, I asked Thomas Fowell Buxton, "Is Daniel +O'Connell an honest man?" "As honest a man as ever breathed," said he, +and then he told me the following story: "When, in 1830, O'Connell first +entered Parliament, the anti-slavery cause was so weak that it had only +Lushington and myself to speak for it, and we agreed that when he spoke +I should cheer him up, and when I spoke he should cheer me, and these +were the only cheers we ever got. O'Connell came with one Irish member +to support him. A large party of members (I think Buxton said +twenty-seven) whom we called the West India interest, the Bristol party, +the slave party, went to him, saying, 'O'Connell, at last you are in the +House, with one helper. If you never go down to Freemason's Hall with +Buxton and Brougham, here are twenty-seven votes for you on every Irish +question. If you work with those Abolitionists, count us always against +you.' + +"It was a terrible temptation. How many a so-called statesman would have +yielded! O'Connell said, 'Gentlemen, God knows I speak for the saddest +people the sun sees; but may my right hand forget its cunning and my +tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth, if to help Ireland--even +Ireland--I forget the negro one single hour.' From that day," said +Buxton, "Lushington and I never went into the lobby that O'Connell did +not follow us." + +And then, besides his irreproachable character he had what is half the +power of a popular orator, he had a majestic presence. A little +O'Connell would have been no O'Connell at all. In youth he had the brow +of a Jupiter and a stature of Apollo. Sydney Smith says of Lord John +Russell's five feet, when he went down to Yorkshire after the Reform +Bill had passed, the stalwart hunters of Yorkshire exclaimed, "What, +that little shrimp, he carry the Reform Bill!" "No, no!" said Smith, "he +was a large man, but the labors of the bill shrunk him." + +I remember the story Russell Lowell tells of Webster; when a year or two +before his death, the Whig party thought of dissolution, Webster came +home from Washington and went down to Faneuil Hall to protest, and four +thousand of his fellow Whigs came out; drawing himself up to his +loftiest proportion, his brow charged with thunder, before the listening +thousands, he said, "Gentlemen, I am a Whig, a Massachusetts Whig, a +Faneuil Hall Whig, a revolutionary Whig, a constitutional Whig. If you +break up the Whig party, sir, where am I to go?" And says Lowell, "We +all held our breath, thinking where he could go. But if he had been five +feet three, we should have said, 'Who cares where you go?'" + +Well, O'Connell had all that; and true nature seemed to be speaking all +over him. It would have been a pleasure even to look at him if he had +not spoken at all, and all you thought of was a greyhound. + +And then he had what so few American speakers have, a voice that sounded +the gamut. I heard him once in Exeter Hall say, "Americans, I send my +voice careering across the Atlantic like a thunderstorm, to tell the +slave-holders of the Carolinas that God's thunderbolts are hot, and to +remind the negro that the dawn of his redemption is drawing near," and I +seemed to hear his voice reverberating and reechoing back to Boston from +the Rocky Mountains. + +And then, with the slightest possible flavor of an Irish brogue, he +would tell a story that would make all Exeter Hall laugh, and the next +moment there would be tears in his voice, like an old song, and five +thousand men would be in tears. And all the while no effort--he seemed +only breathing. + + + "As effortless as woodland nooks + Send violets up and paint them blue." + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[50] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. + + + + +THE OPEN DOOR + +PATRICK HENRY + + +I venture to prophesy there are those now living who will see this +favored land among the most powerful on earth; able, sir, to take care +of herself, without resorting to that policy which is always so +dangerous, though sometimes unavoidable, of calling in foreign aid. Yes, +sir, they will see her great in arts and in arms, her golden harvests +waving over fields of immeasurable extent, her commerce permeating the +most distant seas. But, sir, you must have men, you cannot get along +without them. Those heavy forests of valuable timber under which your +lands are groaning must be cleared away. Those vast riches which cover +the face of your soil as well as those which lie hid in its bosom are to +be developed and gathered only by the skill and enterprise of men. Your +timber must be worked up into ships to transport the productions of the +soil from which it has been cleared. Then you must have commercial men +and commercial capital to take off your productions and find the best +markets for them abroad. Your great want, sir, is the want of men, and +these you must have and will have speedily if you are wise. + +Do you ask how you are to get them? Open your doors and they will come +in. The population of the Old World is full to overflowing. That +population is oppressed by the government under which they live. They +are already standing on tiptoe on their native shores and looking to +your coasts with wistful and longing eyes. They see here a land blessed +with natural and political advantages, which are not equaled by those of +any other country upon earth, a land upon which a gracious Providence +hath emptied the horn of abundance, a land over which peace hath now +stretched forth her white wings, and where content and plenty lie down +at every door. + +Sir, they see something still more attractive than all this. They see a +land where Liberty hath taken up her abode, that Liberty whom they had +considered a fabled goddess existing only in the fancies of poets. They +see her here a real divinity, her altars rising on every hand throughout +these happy states, her glories chanted by three millions of tongues and +the whole region smiling under her blessed influence. Let but this, our +celestial goddess, stretch forth her fair hands toward the people of the +Old World, and you will see them pouring in from the North, from the +South, from the East, and from the West. Your wilderness will be cleared +and settled, your deserts will smile, your ranks will be filled, and you +will soon be in a condition to defy the powers of any adversary. + + + + +ORGANIZATION OF THE WORLD[51] + +EDWIN D. MEAD + + +To-day, a century after Washington, we are called to a vision as +inspiring and imperative as that which came to him as he rode up the +Mohawk, and to a greater organizing work than that which he performed +with such wisdom, courage, patience, and success. He was commanded to +organize a nation; we are commanded to organize the world. He saw that +the time had come when our power and our true interests must be measured +on a continental scale; we are warned that the time has come when we +must conceive of our power and our true interests by the measure of +mankind. Let no man think himself any longer in the first place as a New +England man, as a New Yorker, as a Virginian, but all of us +Americans,--that was the vision and message of Washington; and that +insight and that law, coming to petty, prejudiced, jealous, and +disordered states, put an end to chaos and brought peace, prosperity, +strength, largeness of life, and an ever broadening horizon. Let no man +think of himself any longer in the first place as an American, as an +Englishman, a Spaniard, a Frenchman, a German, a Russian, but all men in +the first place citizens of the world,--that is the message which has +been thundered in the ears of Washington's America in these eventful and +surprising years as it was never done before. It took a civil war to +teach Gadsden's Carolina and Washington's Virginia that the interests +of the nation are above those of the state, and that a state can only +then be true to itself and its duty when it remembers that there is a +lower and a higher, and knows well what that lower and that higher are. +Virginia and Massachusetts have no less genuine and worthy pride as +states, they do not put to smaller or less vital use their sacred +history and heritage, their great sons are no less their sons, because +they bowed their heads to the baptism of a nation which must measure its +powers and duties on a continental scale. They know that national life +into which they are incorporated as the nobler and more commanding life. +The nation is organized. Its logic was shaped finally in the fiery forge +of war. + +The nation is the largest thing we have yet got organized. We must +organize the world. Unending jealousies, commercial clash, friction of +law, paralysis of industry, financial disorder, the misdirection and +miscarriage of good energy, mischievous ignorance and prejudice, +incalculable waste, chronic alarm, and devastating wars are before us +until we do it. That is the lesson of the hour. The relations and +interdependence of the nations of Christendom have become, by the +amazing advance of civilization in the century, closer, complexer, and +more imperious far than the relations of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, +and Georgia, when Washington from the heights of the Alleghanies looked +into the West and thought of the continent. Yet France and Germany, +England and Russia, America and Spain, in their great burrs of guns, +jealous of each other, distrustful, envious, afraid, go on in their +separate, incooeperant, abortive ways, keeping God's earth in chaos, when +a great wisdom and great virtue like Washington's a hundred years ago +would convert them into a family of nations, into a federation and +fraternity, with a comprehensive law, an efficient police, and a +purposeful economy. + +In the Parliament House at Westminster, among the scenes from English +history painted on the walls, the American is most stirred when he comes +to the Departure of the Pilgrim Fathers to found New England. +England--the England descended from the England which "harried them +out"--will not let that scene go as a part of American history only, but +claims it now as one of the proudest scenes in her own history, too. So +the American will no more view Wyclif and Shakespeare and Cromwell and +Milton and Gladstone as chiefly Englishmen, but as fellow-citizens,--as +he views Victor Hugo and Kant and Tolstoi and Mazzini. The American is +to be pitied who does not feel himself native to Stratford and to +London, as to St. Louis or St. Paul,--native to Leyden and to Weimar and +Geneva. Each narrower circle only gains in richness and in sacredness +and power as it expands into the larger; each community and state and +nation, as it enters into a broader and completer organic life. This is +the divine message to the world. Let there be peace; let there be order; +and, that there may be, let us know what manner of men we are. "Peace on +earth!"--that was the first Christmas greeting; and the first Christian +argument upon the hill of Mars,--"God hath made of one blood all nations +of men." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[51] By permission of the author. + + + + +THE PERMANENCY OF EMPIRE[52] + +WENDELL PHILLIPS + + +I appeal to History! Tell me, thou reverend chronicler of the grave, can +all the wealth of a universal commerce, can all the achievements of this +world's wisdom, secure to empire the permanency of its possessions? +Alas! Troy thought so once; yet the land of Priam lives only in song! +Thebes thought so once; yet her hundred gates have crumbled, and her +very tombs are but as the dust they were vainly intended to commemorate. +So thought Palmyra--where is she? So thought the countries of +Demosthenes and the Spartan; yet Leonidas is trampled by the timid +slave, and Athens insulted by the servile, mindless, and enervate +Ottoman. In his hurried march, Time has but looked at their imagined +immortality; and all its vanities, from the palace to the tomb, have, +with their ruins, erased the very impression of his footsteps. The days +of their glory are as if they had never been; and the island that was +then a speck, rude and neglected in the barren ocean, now rivals the +ubiquity of their commerce, the glory of their arms, the fame of their +philosophy, the eloquence of their senate, and the inspiration of their +bards. Who shall say, then, contemplating the past, that England, proud +and potent as she appears, may not, one day, be what Athens is, and the +young America yet soar to be what Athens was! Who shall say, that, when +the European column shall have moldered, and the night of barbarism +obscured its very ruins, that mighty continent may not emerge from the +horizon to rule, for its time, sovereign of the ascendant! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[52] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. + + + + +THE PILGRIMS[53] + +WENDELL PHILLIPS + + +When we undertake to criticise the Pilgrims, we ought first to ask +ourselves the question, where would they be to-day? Indeed, to be as +good as our fathers, we must be better. Imitation is not discipleship. +Thee and thou, a stationary hat, bad grammar and worse manners, with an +ugly coat, are not George Fox to-day. You will recognize him in any one +who rises from the lap of artificial life, flings away its softness, and +startles you with the sight of a man. Neither do I acknowledge the right +of Plymouth to the whole rock. No, the rock underlies all America; it +only crops out here. It has cropped out a great many times in our +history. You may recognize it always. Old Putnam stood upon it at +Bunker Hill, when he said to the Yankee boys: "Don't fire till you see +the whites of their eyes." Ingraham had it for ballast when he put his +little sloop between two Austrian frigates, and threatened to blow them +out of the water if they did not respect the flag of the United States +in the case of Martin Koozta. Jefferson had it for a writing-desk when +he drafted the Declaration of Independence and the "Statute of Religious +Liberty" for Virginia. Lovejoy rested his musket upon it when they would +not let him print his paper at Alton, and he said: "Death or free +speech!" Ay! it cropped out again. Garrison had it for an imposing-stone +when he looked into the faces of seventeen millions of angry men, and +printed his sublime pledge, "I will not retreat a single inch, and I +will be heard." + +If I were going to raise a monument to the Pilgrims, I know where I +should place it. I should place one corner-stone on the rock, and the +other on that level spot where fifty of the one hundred were buried +before the winter was over; but the remainder closed up shoulder to +shoulder as firm, unflinching, hopeful as ever. Yes, death rather than +compromise of Elizabeth. I would write on their monument two mottoes: +One, "The Right is more than our Country!" and over the graves of the +fifty: "Death, rather than Compromise!" + +How true it is that the Pilgrims originated no new truth! How true it +is, also, that it is not truth which agitates the world! Plato in the +groves of the Academy sounded on and on to the utmost depth of +philosophy, but Athens was quiet. Calling around him the choicest minds +of Greece, he pointed out the worthlessness of their altars and shame of +public life, but Athens was quiet. It was all speculation. When Socrates +walked the streets of Athens, and, questioning every-day life, struck +the altar till the faith of the passer-by faltered, it came close to +action; and immediately they gave him hemlock, for the city was turned +upside down. What the Pilgrims gave the world was not thought, but +action. Men, calling themselves thinkers, had been creeping along the +Mediterranean, from headland to headland, in their timidity; the +Pilgrims launched boldly out into the Atlantic and trusted God. That is +the claim they have upon posterity. It was action that made them what +they were. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[53] By permission of the publishers, Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co. + + + + +PRINCIPLES OF THE FOUNDERS[54] + +EDWIN D. MEAD + + +The old Athenian life and our American life have much in common. The +resemblances between Greek character and ours are marked. Those little +Greek democracies were more like our great one than almost any +intervening states. They offer us more pertinent examples and warnings +than almost any other; and they are of peculiar value for us in this, +that their history is rounded and complete, and in it we can see the +various conflicting principles and tendencies working themselves out to +the end, and so learn the full lesson of their logic. Pericles and +Demosthenes speak to America as well as to Athens; and we may well +domesticate their admonitions here to-day and emphasize them to our +people and ourselves as the words of fellow-citizens, of Washington and +Jefferson, of Sumner and Emerson. If the life and burning eloquence of +Demosthenes teach anything, if the rounded period of history whose +darkness he lights up teaches anything, they teach the vitality and the +imperious moment of the appeal, in times of danger and temptation, to +the fathers and to the great past, to the history and the teachings +which in times of soberness have ever had the nation's highest honor. No +nation which is virtuous and vital will ever be slave to the past; at +the command of virtue and of vision it will snap precedent like a reed. +But every people of seriousness, stability, and character is a reverent +people; and when a people's reverence for its noble ancestors, its +sacred oracles and its venerable charters ceases to be sturdy and +becomes sentimental, much more when it ceases to exist at all, then the +hour of that people's decay and doom hast struck. On this anniversary of +the Declaration of Independence, let us remember and vow never to forget +that when it becomes general or popular among us, as it has become +common, to flout at the Declaration and its principles; whenever the +nation commits itself to courses which for the sake of consistency and +respectability invite and compel its disparagement; when our politics +does not match our poetry and cannot be sung; when Washington and +Jefferson and Sumner and Lincoln cease to be quoted in our cabinet and +at our helm, then it is not well with us, but ill, and it is time to +study the compass. + +It is right to say, and let us remember it on this sacred anniversary, +as an inspiration to duty, that Boston has been the center of the two +great movements in our history, the movement which gave us independence +and the movement which purged the land of slavery. If we could rear on +Boston Common a monument upon which, around the central form of Samuel +Adams, should be grouped the figures of James Otis and John Adams, John +Hancock and Joseph Warren and their associates, how much that monument +would represent of what was most dynamic in the days which led up to the +American Revolution! If we could rear beside it a monument upon which, +around the central figure of William Lloyd Garrison, should stand +Wendell Phillips, Parker and Channing, Lowell and Emerson, Sumner and +Andrew, how much would be represented by that group of what was most +potent in the anti-slavery struggle! When the final history is written +of the great social and industrial revolution into which we have already +far advanced, and which will continue until there exists throughout the +republic an industrial equality as great as the political equality which +we now enjoy or claim to enjoy, it will be seen that here, too, Boston +has done her conspicuous part. And when we survey the movement in behalf +of the overthrow of war, in behalf of the peace of nations and the +organization of the world, the preeminent task of our own time, we shall +find that in this great movement Boston has led America; I think it is +not too much to claim that she has led the world. As it was the glory of +Boston and of Massachusetts, proudest of cities and commonwealths, +strongest in patriotism, to lead the country in the assertion of +national sovereignty against every false emphasis of state rights, in +that long struggle which nearly cost the nation its life, and which made +it forever impossible for the American to say henceforth, "My state is +first," so it has been their glory to lead in the creation of the +sentiment which meets the peculiar problem and menace of our own age, +enabling and inspiring men to harmonize their politics and their +religion, and know that their first allegiance is not to their nation +but to humanity. + +In this our Commonwealth and city have but been true to the sublime +pointings and ideals of the leaders of the Revolution and the founders +of the Republic, whom we celebrate to-day. Independence for the sake of +independence, a new nation for the sake of a new nation,--that was not +the aim and motive of our fathers. Their dream was of a new nation of +juster institutions and more equal laws, a nation in which should dwell +righteousness, and which should mark a new era among men. It should be +especially an era of peace and brotherhood among the nations. They hated +war. They believed that the time had come when the bloody dispensation +of war, with all its terrible wickedness and waste, should cease; and +their ambition and high hope was that their new republic might lead in +the new dispensation of peace and order and mutual regard. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[54] From an oration delivered before the city government and citizens +of Boston, at Faneuil Hall, July 4, 1903. Used by permission of the +author. + + + + +THE RESPONSIBILITY OF WAR[55] + +WILLIAM E. CHANNING + + +Nothing in the whole compass of legislation is so solemn as a +declaration of war. By nothing do a people incur such tremendous +responsibility. Unless justly waged, war involves a people in the guilt +of murder. The state which, without the command of justice and God, +sends out fleets and armies to slaughter fellow-creatures, must answer +for the blood it sheds, as truly as the assassin for the death of his +victim. Oh, how loudly does the voice of blood cry to heaven from the +field of battle! Undoubtedly the men whose names have come down to us +with the loudest shouts of ages stand now before the tribunal of eternal +justice condemned as murderers; and the victories which have been +thought to encircle a nation with glory have fixed the same brand on +multitudes in the sight of the final and Almighty Judge. How essential +is it to a nation's honor that it should engage in war with a full +conviction of rectitude! + +But there is one more condition of an honorable war. A nation should +engage in it with unfeigned sorrow. It should beseech the throne of +grace with earnest supplication that the dreadful office of destroying +fellow-beings may not be imposed on it. War concentrates all the +varieties of human misery, and a nation which can inflict these without +sorrow contracts deeper infamy than from cowardice. It is essentially +barbarous, and will be looked back upon by enlightened and Christian +ages with the horror with which we recall the atrocities of savage +tribes. Let it be remembered that the calamities of war, its slaughter, +famine, and desolation, instead of being confined to its criminal +authors, fall chiefly on multitudes who have had no share in provoking +and no voice in proclaiming it; and let not a nation talk of its honor +which has no sympathy with woes, which is steeled to the most terrible +sufferings of humanity. + +When recently the suggestion of war was thrown out to this people, what +reception did it meet? Was it viewed at once in the light in which a +Christian nation should immediately and most earnestly consider it? Was +it received as a proposition to slaughter thousands of our +fellow-creatures? Did we feel as if threatened with a calamity more +fearful than earthquakes, famine, or pestilence? The blight which might +fall on our prosperity drew attention; but the thought of devoting as a +people, our power and resources to the destruction of mankind, of those +whom a common nature, whom reason, conscience, and Christianity command +us to love and save,--did this thrill us with horror? Did the solemn +inquiry break forth through our land, Is the dreadful necessity indeed +laid upon us to send abroad death and woe? No. There was little +manifestation of the sensibility with which men and Christians should +look such an evil in the face. + +As a people we are still seared and blinded to the crimes and miseries +of war. The principles of honor, to which the barbarism and infatuation +of dark ages gave birth, prevail among us. The generous, merciful spirit +of our religion is little understood. The law of love preached from the +cross and written in the blood of the Saviour is trampled upon by public +men. The true dignity of man, which consists in breathing and cherishing +God's spirit of justice and philanthropy towards every human being, is +counted folly in comparison with that spirit of vindictiveness and +self-aggrandizement which turns our earth into an image of the abodes of +the damned. How long will the friends of humanity, of religion, of +Christ, silently, passively, uncomplainingly, suffer the men of this +world, the ambitious, vindictive, and selfish, to array them against +their brethren in conflicts which they condemn and abhor? Shall not +truth, humanity, and the mild and holy spirit of Christianity find a +voice to rebuke and awe the wickedness which precipitates nations into +war, and to startle and awaken nations to their fearful responsibility +in taking arms against the children of their Father in heaven? Prince of +Peace! Saviour of men! speak in thine own voice of love, power, and +fearful warning; and redeem the world, for which thou hast died, from +lawless and cruel passions, from the spirit of rapine and murder, from +the powers of darkness and hell! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[55] From a speech delivered in Boston, January 25, 1835. + + + + +SCOTLAND + +EDMUND FLAGG + + +Scotland! There is magic in the sound. Statesmen, scholars, divines, +heroes, poets! Do you want exemplars worthy of study and imitation? +Where will you find them brighter than in Scotland? Where can you find +them purer than in Scotland? Here, no Solon, indulging imagination, has +pictured the perfectibility of man; no Lycurgus, viewing him through the +medium of human frailty alone, has left for his government an iron code, +graven on eternal adamant; no Plato, dreaming in the luxurious gardens +of the Academy, has fancied what he should be, and bequeathed a republic +of love; but sages, knowing his weakness, have appealed to his +understanding, cherished his virtues, and chastised his vices. + +Friends of learning! would you do homage at the shrine of literature? +would you visit her clearest founts? Go to Scotland! Are you +philosophers, seeking to explore the hidden mysteries of mind? Bend to +the genius of Stewart. Student, merchant, or mechanic! do you seek +usefulness? Consult the pages of Black and of Adam Smith. Grave +barrister! would you know the law, the true, sole expression of the +people's will? There stands the mighty Mansfield. + +Do we look for high examples of noble daring? Where shall we find them +brighter than in Scotland? From the "bonny highland heather" of her +lofty summits, to the modest lily of the vale, not a flower but has +blushed with patriot blood. From the proud foaming crest of the Solway, +to the calm, polished breast of Loch Katrine, not a river, not a lake, +but has swelled with the life tide of freedom. Would you witness +greatness? Contemplate a Wallace and a Bruce. They fought not for +honors, for party, for conquest; 'twas for their country and their +country's good, religion, law, and liberty. + + + + +SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + + +Fellow-countrymen: At this second appearing to take the oath of the +Presidential office, there is less occasion for extended address than +there was at first. Then a statement somewhat in detail of a course to +be pursued seemed fitting and proper. Now at the expiration of four +years, during which public declarations have been constantly called +forth on every point and phase of the great contest which absorbs the +attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new +could be presented. On the occasion corresponding to this, four years +ago, all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. All +dreaded it; all sought to avoid it. + +While the inaugural address was being delivered from this place, devoted +altogether to saving the Union without war, insurgent agents were in the +city seeking to destroy it with war, seeking to dissolve the Union and +divide the effects by negotiation. Both parties deprecated war, but one +of them would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other +would accept war rather than let it perish, and the war came. One eighth +of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally +over the Union, but localized in the Southern part of it. These slaves +constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this +interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, +and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would +rend the Union by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more +than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party +expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already +attained. Neither anticipated that the cause might cease with or even +before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier +triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. + +Both read the same Bible and prayed to the same God, and each invoked +His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare +to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of +other men's faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The +prayers of both could not be answered; that of neither has been answered +fully. The Almighty has His own purpose. + +Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war +may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the +wealth piled by the bondman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited +toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash +shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three +thousand years ago, so still must it be said that "the judgments of the +Lord are true and righteous altogether." + +With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the +right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the +work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who +shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans; to do +all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among +ourselves and with all nations. + + + + +SLAVERY AND THE UNION[56] + +ABRAHAM LINCOLN + + +We have made a good beginning here to-day. While extremists may find +some fault with our moderation they should recollect that "the battle is +not always to the strong nor the race to the swift." In grave +emergencies moderation is generally safer than radicalism; and as this +struggle is likely to be long and earnest we must not, by our action, +repel any who are in sympathy with us, but rather win all that we can to +our standard. Our friends who urge an appeal to arms with so much force +and eloquence should recollect that the government is arrayed against us +and that the numbers are now arrayed against us as well and we should +repel friends rather than gain them by anything savoring of +revolutionary methods. + +As it now stands we must appeal to the sober sense and patriotism of the +people. We will make converts day by day; we will grow strong by +calmness and moderation; we will grow strong by the violence and +injustice of our adversaries. And, unless truth be a mockery and justice +a hollow lie, we will be in the majority after a while, and then the +revolution which we will accomplish will be none the less radical from +being the result of pacific measures. The battle of freedom is to be +fought out on principle. Slavery is a violation of eternal right. We +have temporized with it from the necessities of our condition; but as +sure as God reigns and school children read, that foul lie can never be +consecrated into God's hallowed truth! + +One great trouble in the matter is that slavery is an insidious and +crafty power, and gains equally by open violence of the brutal as well +as by sly management of the peaceful. Once let slavery get planted in a +locality, by ever so weak or doubtful a title, and in ever so small +numbers, and it is like the Canada thistle, you can't root it out. You +yourself may detest slavery; but your neighbor has five or six slaves, +and he is an excellent neighbor, or your son has married his daughter, +and they beg you to help save their property, and you vote against your +interest and principles to accommodate a neighbor, hoping that your vote +will be on the losing side. And others do the same; and in those ways +slavery gets a sure foothold. And when that is done the whole mighty +Union--the force of the Nation--is committed to its support. + +It is a very strange thing, and not solvable by any moral law that I +know of, that if a man loses his horses the whole country will turn out +to help hang the thief; but if a man a shade or two darker than I am is +himself stolen the same crowd will hang one who aids in restoring him to +liberty. Such are the inconsistencies of slavery, where a horse is more +sacred than a man; and the essence of squatter or popular sovereignty--I +don't care how you call it--is that if one man chooses to make a slave +of another no third man shall be allowed to object. And if you can do +this in free Kansas, and it is allowed to stand, the next thing you will +see is shiploads of negroes from Africa at the wharf at Charleston; for +one thing is as truly lawful as the other; and these are the notions we +have got to stamp out, else they will stamp us out. But we cannot be +free men if this is, by our national choice, to be a land of slavery. +Those who deny freedom to others deserve it not for themselves; and, +under the rule of a just God, cannot long retain it. + +The conclusion of all this is that we must restore the Missouri +Compromise. We must highly resolve that Kansas must be free! We must +reinstate the birthday promise of the Republic; we must reaffirm the +Declaration of Independence; we must make good in essence as well as in +form Madison's avowal that "the word slave ought not to appear in the +Constitution"; and we must even go further, and decree that only local +law, and not that time-honored instrument, shall shelter a slaveholder. +We must make this a land of liberty in fact, as it is in name. But in +seeking to attain these results, so indispensable if the liberty which +is our pride and boast shall endure, we will be loyal to the +Constitution and to the "flag of our Union," and no matter what our +grievance, even though Kansas shall come in as a slave State; and no +matter what theirs, even if we shall restore the compromise, we will say +to the Southern disunionists, We won't go out of the Union, and you +shan't! + +But let us, meanwhile, appeal to the sense and patriotism of the people, +and not to their prejudices; let us spread the floods of enthusiasm here +aroused all over the vast prairies so suggestive of freedom. There is +both a power and a magic in popular opinion. To that let us now appeal; +and while, in all probability, no resort to force will be needed, our +moderation and forbearance will stand us in good stead when, if ever, we +must make an appeal to battle and to the God of hosts! + +FOOTNOTE: + +[56] From the celebrated "last speech," made at Bloomington, Ill., May +29, 1856. + + + + +SUBJUGATION OF THE FILIPINO[57] + +GEORGE F. HOAR + + +The American people have got this one question to answer. They may +answer it now; they can take ten years, or twenty years, or a +generation, or a century to think of it. But it will not down. They must +answer it in the end: Can you lawfully buy with money or get by brute +force of arms the right to hold in subjugation an unwilling people and +to impose on them such constitution as you, and not they, think best for +them? + +The question will be answered soberly and deliberately and quietly as +the American people are wont to answer great questions of duty. It will +be answered, not in any turbulent assembly, amid shouting and clapping +of hands and stamping of feet. It will be answered in the churches and +in the schools and in the colleges, it will be answered in fifteen +million American homes, and it will be answered as it has always been +answered. It will be answered right. + +I have sometimes fancied that we might erect here in the capital of the +country a column to American liberty which alone might rival in height +the beautiful and simple shaft which we have erected to the fame of the +father of the country. I can fancy each generation bringing its +inscription, which should recite its own contribution to the great +structure of which the column should be but the symbol. + +The generation of the Puritan and the Pilgrim and the Huguenot claims +the place of honor at the base. "I brought the torch of freedom across +the sea. I cleared the forest. I subdued the savage and the wild beast. +I laid in Christian liberty and law the foundations of empire. I left +the seashore to penetrate the wilderness. I planted schools and colleges +and courts and churches. I stood by the side of England on many a +hard-fought field. I helped humble the power of France. I saw the lilies +go down before the lion at Louisburg and Quebec. I carried the cross of +St. George in triumph in Martinique and Havana." + +Then comes the generation of the revolutionary time. "I encountered the +power of England. I declared and won the independence of my country. I +placed that declaration on the eternal principles of justice and +righteousness, which all mankind have read, and on which all mankind +will one day stand. I affirmed the dignity of human nature and the right +of the people to govern themselves. I created the Supreme Court and the +Senate. For the first time in history I made the right of the people to +govern themselves safe, and established institutions for that end which +will endure forever." + +The next generation says, "I encountered England again. I vindicated the +right of an American ship to sail the seas the wide world over without +molestation. I made the American sailor as safe at the ends of the +earth as my fathers had made the American farmer safe in his home. I +proclaimed the Monroe Doctrine in the face of the Holy Alliance, under +which sixteen republics have joined the family of nations. I filled the +western hemisphere with republics from the lakes to Cape Horn, each +controlling its own destiny in safety and in honor." + +Then comes the next generation: "I did the mighty deeds which in your +younger years you saw and which your fathers told. I saved the Union. I +put down the rebellion. I freed the slave. I made of every slave a free +man and of every free man a citizen and of every citizen a voter. I paid +the debt. I brought in conciliation and peace instead of war. I devised +the homestead system. I covered the prairie and the plain with happy +homes and with mighty states. I crossed the continent and joined +together the seas with my great railroads. I declared the manufacturing +independence of America, as my fathers affirmed its political +independence. I made my country the richest, freest, strongest, happiest +people on the face of the earth." + +And now what have we to say? Are we to have a place in that honorable +company? Must we engrave on that column, "We repealed the Declaration of +Independence. We changed the Monroe doctrine from a doctrine of eternal +righteousness and justice, resting on the consent of the governed, to a +doctrine of brutal selfishness, looking only to our own advantage. We +crushed the only republic in Asia. We made war on the only Christian +people in the East. We converted a war of glory to a war of shame. We +vulgarized the American flag. We introduced perfidy into the practice of +war. We inflicted torture on unarmed men to extort confession. We +established reconcentrado camps. We devastated provinces. We baffled the +aspirations of a people for liberty?" + +No, Mr. President, never! never! Other and better counsels will yet +prevail. The hours are long in the life of a great people. The +irrevocable step is not yet taken. Let us at least have this to say, +"We, too, have kept the faith of the fathers. We took Cuba by the hand. +We delivered her from her age-long bondage. We welcomed her to the +family of nations. We set mankind an example never beheld before of +moderation in victory. We led hesitating and halting Europe to the +deliverance of their beleaguered ambassadors in China. We marched +through a hostile country, a country cruel and barbarous, without anger +or revenge. We returned benefit for injury, and pity for cruelty. We +made the name of America beloved in the East as in the West. We kept +faith with the Filipino people. We kept faith with our own destiny. We +kept our national honor unsullied. The flag which we received without a +rent we handed down without a stain!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[57] United States Senate, May 22, 1902. + + + + +SUFFERINGS AND DESTINY OF THE PILGRIMS + +EDWARD EVERETT + + +Methinks I see it now, that one solitary, adventurous vessel, the +Mayflower of a forlorn hope, freighted with the prospects of a future +state, and bound across the unknown sea. I behold it pursuing, with a +thousand misgivings, the uncertain, the tedious voyage. Suns rise and +set, and weeks and months pass, and winter surprises them on the deep, +but brings them not the sight of the wished-for shore. I see them now, +scantily supplied with provisions, crowded almost to suffocation in +their ill-stored prison, delayed by calms, pursuing a circuitous route; +and now driven in fury before the raging tempest, on the high and giddy +wave. The awful voice of the storm howls through the rigging; the +laboring masts seem straining from their base; the dismal sound of the +pumps is heard; the ship leaps, as it were, madly, from billow to +billow; the ocean breaks and settles with ingulfing floods over the +floating deck, and beats with deadening, shivering weight against the +staggered vessel. I see them, escaped from these perils, pursuing their +all but desperate undertaking, and landed, at last, after a few months' +passage, on the ice-clad rocks of Plymouth,--weak and weary from the +voyage, poorly armed, scantily provisioned, without shelter, without +means, surrounded by hostile tribes. + +Shut now the volume of history and tell me, on any principle of human +probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell +me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off +by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New +England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on +which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the +distant coast? Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, +the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures, of other times, and +find the parallel of this! Was it the winter's storm, beating upon the +houseless heads of women and children? was it hard labor and spare +meals? was it disease? was it the tomahawk? was it the deep malady of a +blighted hope, a ruined enterprise, and a broken heart, aching, in its +last moments, at the recollection of the loved and left, beyond the +sea?--was it some or all of these united, that hurried this forsaken +company to their melancholy fate? And is it possible that neither of +these causes, that not all combined, were able to blast this bud of +hope? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so +worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a +progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, an expansion so ample, a +reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious? + + + + +TO ARMS + +LOUIS KOSSUTH + + +Our fatherland is in danger. Citizens, to arms! to arms! Unless the +whole nation rise up as one man to defend itself all the noble blood +already shed is in vain. People of Hungary, will you die under the +exterminating sword of the Russians? If not, defend yourselves. Will you +look on while the Kossacks of the far north tread under foot the bodies +of your fathers, mothers, wives and children? If not, defend yourselves. +Will you see a part of your fellow-citizens sent to the wilds of +Siberia, made to serve in the wars of tyrants, or bleed under the +murderous knout? If not, defend yourselves. Will you behold your +villages in flames, and your harvests destroyed? Will you die of hunger +on the land which your sweat has made fertile? If not, defend +yourselves. + + + + +TRUE AMERICAN PATRIOTISM[58] + +BOURKE COCKRAN + + +The American patriot is the soldier of civilization. One hundred years +ago the republic was first born, but the roots from which it sprung grew +and flourished for centuries. The beginning of republicanism is not of +American origin nor of any one country or nation of the world. The +beginning of republicanism was not upon this soil but upon the soil +trodden by the Lord. It was not first announced by the booming of the +cannon and the pealing of the liberty bell, but when the star of +Bethlehem shone over the place where the new-born babe was in the manger +and the songs of the angels told of "Peace on earth, good will toward +men." + +This right is the crowning glory of man's progress. It is the natural +attitude of Christian civilization. A government based upon the equality +of all men before the law is based upon the principle of equality of all +men in the sight of God. Democracy is Christianity applied to +civilization. From the very moment the Savior of mankind told his +disciples to go forth and preach his word it became unavoidable that the +triumphs of Christianity would mean the destruction of every form of +government based upon inequality of man. The first champions of freedom +were the apostles who preached the word of Christ. The advent of +feudalism in Europe seemed as if a dark night had set over the face of +the world. Man had conquered territory by the sword and was forced to +defend it by the torch. In the face of that condition of civilization +Christianity proceeded to teach the doctrine that the weak and strong +were equal in the sight of heaven. + +Columbus was the natural outcome of conditions which had been in course +of preparation for years. The Old World, with its prejudices and +barbarism, was unfit for the planting of the germ of freedom, and so +Providence guided the bark of Columbus to the shores of America. Here +the tree of liberty was planted under circumstances which encouraged its +growth and insured its life. Nowhere is the providence of God more +visible. Here was the virgin soil to be conquered. Here were forests to +be felled; a strong arm was of more use in cutting down a tree than the +lineage of a thousand years. The value of the settler was not the blood +which flowed in his veins, but the power of his muscles and the strength +of his will. Then the dignity of labor was raised to a pitch unknown to +this world. They did not come here to enrich themselves with gold. They +did not come here to plunder the soil and return to Spain to spend the +proceeds in riot. They were men in whose hearts liberty never died. They +sought this continent that they might create liberty, and they did it. +Their labor was fruitful. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[58] Auditorium, Chicago, April 30, 1894. By permission of the author. + + + + +A VISION OF WAR[59] + +ROBERT G. INGERSOLL + + +The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great +struggle for national life. We hear the sounds of preparation, the +music of boisterous drums, the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see +thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators. We see the +pale cheeks of women, and the flushed faces of men; and in those +assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. +We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the +great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are +walking for the last time in quiet, woody places, with the maidens they +adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as +they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles, kissing +babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some +are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts +again and again, and say nothing. Kisses and tears, tears and +kisses--divine mingling of agony and love! And some are talking with +wives, and endeavoring with brave words, spoken in the old tones, to +drive from their hearts the awful fear. We see them part. We see the +wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms--standing in the +sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves; she answers by +holding high in her loving arms the child. He is gone, and forever. + +We see them all as they march proudly away under the flaunting flags, +keeping time to the grand, wild music of war; marching down the streets +of the great cities, through the towns and across the prairies, down to +the fields of glory, to do and to die for the eternal right. We go with +them, one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all +the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with +them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in +ravines running with blood, in the furrows of old fields. We are with +them between contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the +life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierced +by balls and torn with shells, in the trenches, by forts, and in the +whirlwind of the charge, where men become iron, with nerves of steel. We +are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine; but human speech can +never tell what they endured. We are at home when the news comes that +they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her first sorrow. We +see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. + +The past rises before us, and we see four millions of human beings +governed by the lash; we see them bound hand and foot; we hear the +strokes of cruel whips; we see the hounds tracking women through tangled +swamps. We see babes sold from the breasts of mothers. Cruelty +unspeakable! Outrage infinite! Four million bodies in chains--four +million souls in fetters. All the sacred relations of wife, mother, +father and child trampled beneath the brutal feet of might. And all this +was done under our own beautiful banner of the free. The past rises +before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken +fetters fall. These heroes die. We look. Instead of slaves we see men +and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction-block, +the slave-pen, the whipping-post, and we see homes and firesides and +schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime and cruelty and +fear, we see the faces of the free. + +These heroes are dead. They died for liberty; they died for us. They are +at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they +rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the +tearful willows, and the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows +of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or of storm, each in the +windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars; they are +at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found +the serenity of death. I have one sentiment for the soldiers living and +dead: Cheers for the living and tears for the dead. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[59] By permission of the publisher, C. P. Farrell. + + + + +WAR IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY[60] + +EDWIN D. MEAD + + +It is a great mistake to think, as many are apt to do when some terrible +war overwhelms some part of the world, that war is on the increase among +men and that we are probably on the eve of a portentous new era of it. +The temptation to think so is strong when two or three such wars come at +the same time, waged by enlightened nations which we had fondly trusted +had got beyond such wickedness and folly. But there is no warrant for +the belief. There is seldom real warrant for any fear that the world +generally is going backward, although it would be stupid not to see that +there come many days which are far behind many yesterdays in insight, in +ideals, and in conduct. The long view is the encouraging view, the view +of progress. + +We have entered a new century. As one looks back over the nineteenth +century, which has closed, as one reads perhaps some brief historical +survey of the century, it is worth while to ask oneself whether one +would rather live in 1800 or in 1900, in the world pictured in the first +pages of the book or that pictured in the last pages. The serious man +can give but one answer. The England and France and Germany and Italy +and Spain of the end of the century were, when every deduction has been +made on particular points, vastly more habitable, better places to live +in, than the same countries at the beginning of the century. The +brilliant historian of the administration of Jefferson paints a masterly +picture of the life of our own people in 1800. Every aspect of the +social and intellectual life of the time is treated with marvelous +fullness of detail and in the most graphic and impressive way; and there +is an element of hope and buoyancy, of prophecy and promise, pervading +the pages, which is at once inspiring and sobering. Yes, surely one +would rather live in the United States at the beginning of the twentieth +century than at the beginning of the nineteenth. The century has been on +the whole emphatically a period of progress. The same was true of the +century before, and of the century before that. + +What has been true concerning progress in general during the last few +centuries has been especially true of progress out of the habit of war +toward the habit of peace. Events at the close of the nineteenth century +have been indeed deplorable; they were also deplored--and this is the +significant thing--more than such events were ever deplored before. The +body of protest against unnecessary and unrighteous wars becomes +steadily larger, bolder, and more outspoken; the public conscience is +more troubled by them; more and more men perceive their wastefulness and +wrong, and discern the more excellent way; and to-morrow the total of +protesting insight and morality shall be great enough to tip the balance +and hold the tempted, ruffling nation to self-restraint, respect for +others, and respect for civilization. There was much less war in +Christendom during the nineteenth century than during the eighteenth, +and there will be less during the twentieth century than during the +nineteenth. The steady and sure progress of the world is toward the +supplanting of the ways of greed and violence among nations by the +methods of reason, legality, and mutual regard. As one travels over +Europe, one is never far from some great battle-field. In Scotland one +remembers how half a dozen centuries ago one clan was continually +fighting with another, this group of clans warring with that, or all +were leagued together against one Edward or another advancing with his +archers from beyond the Tweed. The English armies fighting at Falkirk +and Bannockburn and Halidon were straightway--they or their +successors--in France fighting at Crecy and Poitiers and Agincourt. The +wars between England and France were interminable; and so were the wars +between France and other nations. There were civil wars and religious +wars and wars of succession; seven-years wars and thirty-years wars and +hundred-years wars. War was the regular vocation of nations, the +profession of arms the chief profession, peace merely an occasional +respite, in no sense to be reckoned on or presumed to endure as the +natural condition of things. + +All this has been fundamentally changed. Europe bends under the burden +of her great armies and multiplies her costly battleships, and we say +that it is wasteful and barbarous; but the soldiers and ships are almost +never used. We grieve and blush at the shameful wars of subjugation in +our own time; but these wars were anachronisms, sporadic survivals of +courses common and universally approved three hundred years ago, when +men did not blush for them, but not typical of the tendencies and +civilization of the present age. The true exponent of the world's best +judgment and increasing purpose and policy, as the twentieth century +begins, is not the warring in Luzon and the Transvaal, but the Hague +Tribunal. For a century the states in the United States, because we have +had a Supreme Court, have settled there, and not by combat, their +boundary disputes and other quarrels, graver often than many which have +plunged European nations into war, while most of us have not known even +of the fact of litigation. To-day, because an International Tribunal +exists, the Venezuelan imbroglio is referred to it, which else might +have gone on to the dread arbitrament of arms. Such references will +multiply; the legal way instead of the fighting way will become easy, +will become common, will become instinctive, will become universal; war +will hasten after the duel, to be loathed and to be laughed at, and to +cease to be at all; the cannon will follow the rack to the chamber of +horrors; and nations when they disagree will not go into battle, but +into court. This is the sure end of the process which the broad survey +of history reveals. The critical student of war becomes the sure prophet +of peace. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[60] By permission of the author. + + + + +GEORGE WASHINGTON[61] + +CHARLES PHILLIPS + + +It matters very little what immediate spot may be the birth-place of +such a man as Washington. No people can claim, no country can +appropriate him; the boon of providence to the human race, his fame is +eternity and his residence creation. Though it was the defeat of our +arms and the disgrace of our policy, I almost bless the convulsion in +which he had his origin. If the heavens thundered and the earth rocked, +yet when the storm passed how pure was the climate that it cleared; how +bright in the brow of the firmament was the planet which it revealed to +us! + +In the production of Washington, it does really appear as if nature were +endeavoring to improve upon herself, and that all the virtues of the +ancient world were but so many studies preparatory to the patriot of the +new. Individual instances no doubt there were; splendid exemplifications +of some single qualification. Caesar was merciful, Scipio was continent, +Hannibal was patient; but it was reserved for Washington to blend them +all in one, and like the lovely _chef d'oeuvre_ of the Grecian artist, +to exhibit in one glow of associated beauty the pride of every model and +the perfection of every master. As a general he marshaled the peasant +into a veteran, and supplied by discipline the absence of experience; as +a statesman he enlarged the policy of the cabinet into the most +comprehensive system of general advantage; and such was the wisdom of +his views and the philosophy of his counsels that to the soldier and the +statesman he almost added the character of the sage. A conqueror, he was +untainted with the crime of blood; a revolutionist, he was free from any +stain of treason; for aggression commenced the contest, and his country +called him to the command. Liberty unsheathed his sword, necessity +stained it, victory returned it. + +If he had paused here, history might have doubted what station to assign +him, whether at the head of her citizens or her soldiers, her heroes or +her patriots. But the last glorious act crowns his career and banishes +all hesitation. Who, like Washington, after having emancipated a +hemisphere, resigned his crown and preferred the retirement of domestic +life to the adoration of a land he might be almost said to have created? + + + "How shall we rank thee upon glory's page, + Thou more than soldier, and just less than sage? + All thou hast been reflects less fame on thee, + Far less than all thou hast forborne to be!" + + +Such, sir, is the testimony of one not to be accused of partiality in +his estimate of America. Happy, proud America! the lightnings of heaven +yielded to your philosophy! The temptations of earth could not seduce +your patriotism! + +I have the honor, sir, of proposing to you as a toast, + + + "The immortal memory of George Washington." + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[61] Delivered at a dinner on Dinas Island, Lake Killarney, Ireland, +given in honor of Mr. O. H. Payne (afterward Senator Payne) of Ohio. + + + + +IV + +GAY, HUMOROUS, COMIC + + + + +A BOY'S MOTHER[62] + +JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + + My mother she's so good to me + Ef I was good as I could be, + I couldn't be as good--no, sir! + Can't any boy be good as her! + + She loves me when I'm glad er mad; + She loves me when I'm good er bad; + An' what's a funniest thing, she says + She loves me when she punishes. + + I don't like her to punish me; + That don't hurt, but it hurts to see + Her cryin'--nen I cry; an' nen + We both cry--an' be good again. + + She loves me when she cuts and sews + My little cloak and Sunday clothes; + An' when my pa comes home to tea, + She loves him most as much as me. + + She laughs an' tells him all I said. + An' grabs me up an' pats my head; + An' I hug her, an' I hug my pa, + An' love him purt' nigh much es ma. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[62] Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill +Company. From "Rhymes of Childhood," copyright, 1900. + + + + +ALMOST BEYOND ENDURANCE[63] + +JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + + I ain't a-goin' to cry no more, no more! + I'm got ear-ache, an' ma can't make + It quit a-tall; + An' Carlo bite my rubber-ball + An' puncture it; an' Sis she take + An' poke my knife down through the stable-floor + An' loozed it--blame it all! + But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! + + An' Aunt Mame wrote she's a-comin', an' she can't-- + Folks is come there!--An' I don't care, + She is my Aunt! + An' my eyes stings; an' I'm + Ist coughin' all the time, + An' hurts me so, an' where my side's so sore + Granpa felt where, an' he + Says "maybe it's pleurasy!" + But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! + + An' I climbed up an' nen falled off the fence, + An' Herbert he ist laugh at me! + An' my fi'-cents + It sticked in my tin bank, an' I ist tore + Purt' nigh my thumbnail off, a-tryin' to git + It out--nen smash it!--An it's in there yit! + But I ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! + + Oo! I'm so wickud!--An' my breath's so hot-- + Ist like I run an' don't rest none + But ist run on when I ought to not; + Yes, an' my chin + An' lip's all warpy, an' my teeth's so fast, + An' 's a place in my throat I can't swaller past-- + An' they all hurt so!-- + An' oh, my--oh! + I'm a-startin' a'gin-- + I'm a-startin ag'in, but I won't, fer shore!-- + I ist ain't goin' to cry no more, no more! + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[63] Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill +Company. From "His Pa's Romance," copyright, 1903. + + + + +BREAKING THE CHARM[64] + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + + + Caught Susanner whistlin'; well, + It's most nigh too good to tell. + 'Twould 'a' b'en too good to see + Ef it hadn't b'en fur me, + Comin' up so soft an' sly + That she didn' hear me nigh. + I was pokin' round that day, + An' ez I come down the way, + First her whistle strikes my ears,-- + Then her gingham dress appears; + So with soft step up I slips. + Oh, them dewy, rosy lips! + Ripe ez cherries, red an' round, + Puckered up to make the sound. + She was lookin' in the spring, + Whistlin' to beat anything,-- + "Kitty Dale" er "In the sweet." + I was just so mortal beat + That I can't quite ricoleck + What the toon was, but I 'speck + 'Twas some hymn er other, fur + Hymny things is jest like her. + Well she went on fur awhile + With her face all in a smile, + An' I never moved, but stood + Stiller'n a piece o' wood-- + Wouldn't wink ner wouldn't stir, + But a-gazin' right at her, + Tell she turns an' sees me--my! + Thought at first she'd try to fly. + But she blushed an' stood her ground. + Then, a-slyly lookin' round, + She says: "Did you hear me, Ben?" + "Whistlin' woman, crowin' hen," + Says I, lookin' awful stern. + Then the red commenced to burn + In them cheeks o' hern. Why, la! + Reddest red you ever saw-- + Pineys wa'n't a circumstance. + You'd a' noticed in a glance + She was pow'rful shamed an' skeart; + But she looked so sweet an' peart, + That a idee struck my head; + So I up an' slowly said: + "Woman whistlin' brings shore harm, + Jest one thing'll break the charm." + "And what's that?" "Oh, my!" says I, + "I don't like to tell you." "Why?" + Says Susanner. "Well, you see + It would kinder fall on me." + Course I knowed that she'd insist,-- + So I says: "You must be kissed + By the man that heard you whistle; + Everybody says that this'll + Break the charm and set you free + From the threat'nin' penalty." + She was blushin' fit to kill, + But she answered, kinder still: + "I don't want to have no harm, + Please come, Ben, an' break the charm." + Did I break that charm?--oh, well, + There's some things I mustn't tell. + I remember, afterwhile, + Her a-sayin' with a smile: + "Oh, you quit,--you sassy dunce, + You jest caught me whistlin' once." + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[64] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co. + + + + +CANDLE-LIGHTIN' TIME[65] + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + + + When I come in f'om de co'n-fiel' aftah wukin' ha'd all day, + It's amazin' nice to fin' my suppah all erpon de way; + An' it's nice to smell de coffee bubblin' ovah in de pot, + An' it's fine to see de meat a-sizzlin' teasin'-lak an' hot. + + But when suppah time is ovah an' de things is cl'ared away, + Den de happy hours dat foller are de sweetes' ob de day. + When my co'n-cob pipe is sta'ted, an' de smoke is drawin' prime, + My ole 'ooman says, "I reckon, Ike, it's candle-lightin' time." + + Den de chillun snuggle up to me and all commence to call, + "Oh, say, daddy, now it's time to make de shadders on de wall." + So I puts my han's togethah--evah daddy knows de way-- + An' de chillun snuggle closer roun' es I begin to say, + + "Fus thing, hyeah come mistah Rabbit, don' you see him wuk his + eahs? + Huh uh! dis mus' be a donky; look how innercent he 'pears! + Dah's de ole black swan a-swimmin', ain't she got a' awfu' neck? + Who's dis feller dat's a-comin'? why, dat's ole dog Tray I 'spec!" + + Dat's de way I run on, tryin' fer to please 'em all I can; + Den I hollahs, "Now be keerful, dis hyeah las' 's de buga-man!" + An' dey runs an' hides dey faces; dey ain't skeered--dey's lettin' + on, + But de play ain't raaly ovah twell dat buga-man is gone. + + So I jes' takes up my banjo an' I plays a little chune, + An' you see dem hai'ds come peepin' out to listen mighty soon. + Den my wife say, "Sich a pappy fer to give you sich a fright! + Jes' you go to bed, an' leave him, say yo' prayers, an' say good + night." + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[65] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of +Lowly Life," 1896. + + + + +A BIRD IN THE HAND + +F. E. WEATHERLY + + + There were three young maids of Lee, + And they were fair as fair can be; + And they had lovers three times three, + For they were fair as fair can be, + These three young maids of Lee. + + But these young maids they cannot find + A lover each to suit her mind; + The plain-spoke lad is far too rough, + The rich young lord not rich enough, + And one's too poor, and one too tall, + And one an inch too short for them all. + "Others pick and choose, and why not we? + We can very well wait," said these maids of Lee. + + There were three young maids of Lee, + And they were fair as fair can be; + And they had lovers three times three, + For they were fair as fair can be, + These three young maids of Lee. + + + There are three old maids of Lee, + And they are old as old can be; + And one is deaf, and one can't see, + And they all are cross as a gallows tree, + These three old maids of Lee. + + Now, if any one chanced--'tis a chance remote-- + One single charm in these maids to note, + He need not a poet nor handsome be, + For one is deaf, and one can't see; + He need not woo on his bended knee, + For they all are willing as willing can be; + He may take the one or the two or the three, + If he'll only take them away from Lee. + + There are three old maids at Lee, + And they are cross as cross can be; + And there they are, and there they'll be, + To the end of the chapter, one, two, three, + These three old maids of Lee! + + + + +"THE DAY OF JUDGMENT"[66] + +ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS + + +I am thirteen years old and Jill is eleven and a quarter. Jill is my +brother. That isn't his name, you know; his name is Timothy and mine is +George Zacharias; but they call us Jack and Jill. + +Well, Jill and I had an invitation to Aunt John's this summer, and that +was how we happened to be there. + +I'd rather go to Aunt John's than any place in the world. When I was a +little fellow I used to think I'd rather go to Aunt John's than to +Heaven. But I never dared to tell. + +She invited us to come on the twelfth of August. It takes all day to get +there. She lives at Little River in New Hampshire, way up. You have to +wait at South Lawrence in a poky little depot, and you get some played +out--at least I don't, but Jill does. So we bought a paper and Jill sat +up and read it. When he'd sat a minute and read along-- + +"Look here!" said he. + +"Look where?" said I. + +"Why, there's going to be a comet," said Jill. + +"Who cares?" said I. + +Jill laid down the paper, and crunched a pop-corn all up before he +answered that, then said he, "I don't see why father didn't tell us. I +suppose he thought we'd be frightened, or something. Why, s'posing the +world did come to an end? That's what this paper says. 'It is pre--' +where is my place? Oh! I see--'predicted by learned men that a comet +will come into con-conjunction with our plant'--no--'our planet this +night. Whether we shall be plunged into a wild vortex of angry space, or +suffocated with n-o-x--noxious gases, or scorched to a helpless crisp, +or blasted at once, eternal an-ni-hi--'" A gust of wind grabbed the +paper out of Jill's hand just then, and took it out of the window; so I +never heard the rest. + +"Father isn't a goose," said I. "He didn't think it worth while +mentioning. He isn't going to be afraid of a comet at his time of life." +So we didn't think any more about the comet till we got to Aunt John's, +where we found company. It wasn't a relation, only an old school friend, +and her name was Miss Togy; she had come without an invitation, but had +to have the spare room because she was a lady. That was how Jill and I +came to be put in the little chimney bedroom. + +That little chimney bedroom is the funniest place you ever slept in. +There had been a chimney once, and it ran up by the window, and +grandfather had it taken away. It was a big, old-fashioned chimney, and +it left the funniest little gouge in the room, so the bed went in as +nice as could be. We couldn't see much but the ceiling when we got to +bed. + +"It's pretty dark," said Jill; "I shouldn't wonder if it did blow up a +storm a little--wouldn't it scare--Miss--Bogy!" + +"Togy," said I. + +"Well, T-o--" said Jill; and right in the middle of it he went off as +sound as a weasel. + +The next thing I can remember is a horrible noise. I can't think of but +one thing in this world it was like, and that isn't in this world so +much. I mean the last trumpet, with the angel blowing as he blows in my +old primer. The next thing I remember is hearing Jill sit up in bed--for +I couldn't see him, it was so dark--and his piping out the other half of +Miss Togy's name just as he had left it when he went to sleep. + +"Gy--Bogy!--Fogy!--Soaky!--Oh," said Jill, coming to at last, "I +thought--why, what's up?" + +I was up, but I couldn't tell what else was for a little while. I went +to the window. It was as dark as a great rat-hole out-of-doors, all but +a streak of lightning and an awful thunder, as if the world was cracking +all to pieces. + +"Come to bed!" shouted Jill, "you'll get struck, and then that will kill +me." + +I went back to bed, for I didn't know what else to do, and we crawled +down under the clothes and covered ourselves all up. + +"W-would--you--call--Aunt--John?" asked Jill. He was most choked. I came +up for air. + +"No," said I, "I don't think I'd call Aunt John." I should have liked to +call her by that time, but then I should have felt ashamed. + +"I s'pose she has got her hands full with Miss Croaky, anyway," +chattered Jill, bobbing up and under again. By that time the storm was +the worst storm I had ever seen in my life. It grew worse and +worse--thunder, lightning, and wind--wind, lightning, and thunder; rain +and roar and awfulness. I don't know how to tell how awful it was. + +In the middle of the biggest peal we'd had yet, up jumped Jill. "Jack!" +said he, "that comet!" I'd never thought of the comet till that minute; +I felt an ugly feeling and cold all over. "It is the comet!" said Jill. +"It is the day of judgment, Jack." + +Then it happened. It happened so fast I didn't even have time to get my +head under the clothes. First there was a creak, then a crash, then we +felt a shake as if a giant pushed his shoulder up through the floor and +shoved us. Then we doubled up. And then we began to fall. The floor +opened, and we went through. I heard the bed-post hit as we went by. +Then I felt another crash; then we began to fall again; then we bumped +down hard. After that we stopped falling. I lay still. My heels were +doubled up over my head. I thought my neck would break. But I never +dared to stir, for I thought I was dead. By and by I wondered if Jill +were dead too, so I undoubled my neck a little and found some air. It +seemed just as uncomfortable to breathe without air when you were dead +as when you weren't. + +I called out softly, "Jill!" no answer. "Jill!" not a sound. "O--Jill!" +But he did not speak, so then I knew Jill must be dead, at any rate. I +couldn't help wondering why he was so much deader than I that he +couldn't answer a fellow. Pretty soon I heard a rustling noise under my +feet, then a weak, sick kind of a voice, just the kind of a noise I +always supposed ghosts would make if they could talk. + +"Jack?" + +"Is that you, Jill?" + +"I--suppose--so. Is it you, Jack?" + +"Yes. Are you dead?" + +"I don't know. Are you?" + +"I guess I must be if you are. How awfully dark it is." + +"Awfully dark! It must have been the comet." + +"Yes; did you get much hurt?" + +"Not much--I say, Jack?" + +"What?" + +"It is the judgment day." + +Jill broke up, so did I; we lay as still as we could. If it were the +judgment day--"Jill!" said I. + +"Oh, dear me!" sobbed Jill. + +We were both crying by that time, and I don't feel ashamed to own up, +either. + +"If I'd known," said I, "that the day of judgment was coming on the +twelfth of August, I wouldn't have been so mean about that jack-knife of +yours with the notch in it." + +"And I wouldn't have eaten your luncheon that day last winter when I got +mad at you," said Jill. + +"Nor we wouldn't have cheated mother about smoking, vacations," said I. + +"I'd never have played with the Bailey boys out behind the barn," said +Jill. + +"I wonder where the comet went to?" said I. + +"'Whether we shall be plunged into,'" quoted Jill, in a horrible +whisper, from that dreadful newspaper, "'shall be plunged into a wild +vortex of angry space--or suffocated with noxious gases--or scorched to +a helpless crisp--or blasted--'" + +"When do you think they will come after us?" I interrupted Jill. + +That very minute somebody came. We heard a step and then another, then a +heavy bang. Jill howled out a little. I didn't, for I was thinking how +the cellar door banged like that. Then came a voice, an awful hoarse and +trembling voice as ever you heard. + +"George Zacharias!" + +Then I knew it must be the judgment day and that the angel had me in +court to answer him, for you couldn't expect an angel to call you Jack +after you was dead. + +"George Zacharias!" said the awful voice again. I didn't know what else +to do, I was so frightened, so I just hollered out "Here!" as I do at +school. + +"Timothy!" came the voice once more. + +Now Jill had a bright idea. Up he shouted, "Absent!" at the top of his +lungs. + +"George! Jack! Jill! where are you? Are you killed? Oh, wait a minute +and I'll bring a light." + +This did not sound so much like judgment day as it did like Aunt John. I +began to feel better. So did Jill. I sat up. So did he. It wasn't a +minute till the light came into sight, and something that looked like a +cellar door, the cellar steps, and Aunt John's spotted wrapper, and Miss +Togy in a night-gown, away behind as white as a ghost. Aunt John held +the light above her head and looked down. I don't believe I shall ever +see an angel that will make me feel any better to look at than Aunt John +did that night. + +"O you blessed boys!" said Aunt John--she was laughing and crying +together. "To think that you should have fallen through the old chimney +to the cellar floor and be sitting there alive in such a funny heap as +that!" + +And that was just what we had done. The old flooring (not very secure) +had given away in the storm; and we'd gone down through two stories, +where the chimney ought to have been, jam! into the cellar on the coal +heap, and all as good as ever excepting the bedstead. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[66] From "Trot's Wedding Journey." + + + + +DE APPILE TREE[67] + +JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS + + + Dat's a mighty quare tale, 'bout de appile tree + In de pah'dise gyardin, whar Adam runned free, + Whar de butter-flies drunk honey wid ole mammy bee. + Talk about yo good times, I bet you he had 'em--Adam-- + Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree. + + He woke one mawnin wid a pullin at he sleeve; + He open his eye, an' dar was Eve-- + He shook her han', wid a "Honey, don' grieve. + You's de only gal on earth for me + An' dats de truf, believe." + Talk about yo good times, I'll bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- + Adam en Eve, an' de appile tree. + + Den Eve took a bite er de appile fruit + En Adam he bit, en den dey scoot. + Dar's whar de niggah leahn de quick cally hoot, + Ben a runnin' ever since from somebody's boot. + En runned en hide behin' de fig tree--Adam-- + Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree. + + Dey had der frolics, en dey had dere flings, + Den arter dat, de fun tuck wings, + Honey's mighty sweet, but bees has stings + An' dey came into de shadder dat de storm cloud brings. + Talk about yo hahd times, u-h-m uhm, + I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- + Adam en Eve behin' de fig tree. + + Kase outer de gyardin dey had fur tuh skin. + Ter fin' de crack whar Satan crept in + Dey sarch fur and wide, dey sarch mighty well. + Eve, she knowed, but she 'fused fur ter tell. + Ole Satan's trail was all rubbed out + 'Ceppen a track er two, whar he walked about. + Talk about troubles, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- + Adam en Eve, en all dere kin. + + Well, when dey got back de gate wuz shut. + An' dat wuz de pay, what Adam got. + In dat gyardin he went no moh. + De ober-seer gib him a shobel en a hoe, + A mule, en a plow, en a swingle tree, + Talk about yo hahd times, I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- + En all uh his chillen bofe slave en free. + + En de chillen ob Adam, en de chillen's kin, + Dey all got smeared wid de pitch ob sin. + Dey shut dere eyes, to de great here-atter, + En flung sin aroun', wid a turrible splatter. + En cahooted wid Satan, en dat wat de matter-- + An' troubles, well. I bet you dey had 'em--Adam-- + De chillen ob Adam, what forgot ter pray, dey had 'em, + And dey keep on a hadden 'em down tuh dis day. + + But dat wa'n't de las' ob de appile tree, + Kase she scatter her seeds bofe fur en free, + And dat's whut de mattah wid you en me, + I knows de feelin's what brought on de fall, + Dat same ole appile, an' ole Satan's call, + Lor' bless yo chile, I knows 'em all. + + I'm kinder lop-sided en pigeon toed + But jes' you watch me keep in de middle ob de road. + Kase de troubles I'se got is a mighty heavy load. + Talk about troubles, I got 'em en had 'em, + Same as Adam. + + An' don' yo see I mighty well know + Dat I got 'em from Adam long ago, + From Adam en Eve en de appile tree, + When dey runned free + In de pahdise gyardin + Wid butter-flies en honey bee? + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[67] By permission of D. Appleton & Co. + + + + +MR. DOOLEY ON LA GRIPPE MICROBES + +FINLEY PETER DUNNE + + +Mr. Dooley was discovered making a seasonable beverage consisting of one +part syrup, two parts quinine and fifteen parts strong waters. + +"What's the matter?" asked Mr. McKenna. + +"I have th' lah gr-rip," said Mr. Dooley, blowing his nose and wiping +his eyes. "Bad cess to it! Oh, me poor back! It feels as if a dhray had +r-run over it. Did ye iver have it? Ye did not. Well, ye'er lucky. Ye'er +a lucky man. + +"I wint to McGuire's wake las' week. They give him a dacent sind-off. No +porther. An' himsilf looked natural--as fine a corpse as iver Gavin laid +out. Gavin tould me so himsilf. He was as pr-roud iv McGuire as if he +ownded him; fetched half th' town in to look at him an' give ivery wan +iv thim his ca-ards. He near frightened ol' man Dugan into a faint. +'Misther Dugan, how old a-are ye?' 'Sivinty-five, thanks be,' says +Dugan. 'Thin,' says Gavin, 'take wan iv me ca-ards,' he says. 'I hope +ye'll not forget me,' he says. + +"'Twas there I got th' lah grip. Lasteways 'tis me opinion iv it, though +th' docther says I swallowed a bug. It don't seem right, Jawn, f'r th' +McGuires is a clane fam'ly, but th' docther says a bug got into me +system. 'What sort iv bug?' says I. 'A lah grip bug,' he says. 'Yez have +Mickrobes in ye'er lung,'he says. 'What's thim?' says I. 'Thims th' lah +grip bugs,' says he. 'Ye took wan in an' warmed it,' he says, 'an' it +has growed an' multiplied till ye'er system does be full iv thim,' he +says, 'millions iv thim,' he says, 'ma-archin' an' counthermarchin' +through ye.' 'Glory be to th' saints,' says I. 'Had I betther swallow +some insect powdher?' I says. 'Some iv thim in me head has had a fallin' +out an' is throwin' bricks.' 'Foolish man,' says he. 'Go to bed,' he +says, 'an lave thim alone,' he says. 'Whin they find who they're in,' he +says, 'they'll quit ye.' + +"So I wint to bed an' waited, while th' Mickrobes had fun with me. +Monday all iv thim was quiet but thim in me stummick. They stayed up +late dhrinkin' an' carousin' an' dancin' jigs till wur-ruds come up +bechune th' Kerry Mickrobes an' thim fr'm Wixford an' th' whole pa-arty +wint over to me lift lung, where they could get th' air, an' had it out. +Th' nex' day th' little Mickrobes made a toboggan slide iv me spine an' +manetime some Mickrobes that was wur-r-kin' f'r th' tiliphone comp'ny +got it in their heads that me legs was poles, an' put on their spikes +an' climbed all night long. + +"They was tired out th' nex' day till about 5 o'clock, whin thim that +was in me head begin flushin' out th' rooms an' I knew they're was goin' +to be doings in th' top flat. What did thim Mickrobes in me head do but +invite all th' other Mickrobes in f'r th' avnin'. They all come. Oh, by +gar, they was not wan iv thim stayed away. At 6 o'clock they begun to +move fr'm me shins to me thrawt. They come in platoons an' squads an' +dhroves. Some iv thim brought along brass bands an' more thin wan +hundred thousand iv thim dhruv through me pipes in dhrays. A throlley +line was started up me back an ivry car r-run into a wagon load iv scrap +iron at th' base iv me skull. + +"Th' Mickrobes in me head must've done thimsilves proud. Ivery few +minutes some wan iv th' kids 'd be sint out with th' can an' I'd say to +mesilf: 'There they go, carryin' th' trade to Schwartzmeister's because +I'm sick an' can't wait on thim.' I was daffy, Jawn, d'ye mind? Th' +likes iv me fillin' a pitcher f'r a little boy-bug! Ho, ho! Such +dhreams. An' they had a game iv forty-fives, an' there was wan Mickrobe +there that larned to play th' game in th' County Tipp'rary, where 'tis +played on stone, an' iv'ry time he led thrumps he'd like to knock me +head off. 'Who's thrick is that?' says th' Tipp'rary Mickrobe. 'Tis +mine,' says a little red-headed Mickrobe fr'm th' County Roscommon. They +tipped over th' chairs an' tables, an' in less time thin it takes to +tell th' whole pa-arty was at it. They'd been a hurlin' game in th' back +iv me skull an' th' young folks was dancin' breakdowns an' havin' +leppin' matches in me forehead, but they all stopped to mix in. Oh, +'twas a grand shindig--tin millions iv thim min, women an' childher +rowlin' on th' flure, hands an' feet goin', icepicks an' hurlin' sticks, +clubs, brickbats an' beer kags flyin' in th' air. How manny iv thim was +kilt I'll niver know, f'r I wint as daft as a hen an' dhreamt iv +organizin' a Mickrobe Campaign club, that'd sweep th' prim'ries an' +maybe go acrost an' free Ireland. Whin I woke up me legs was as weak as +a day-old babby's an' me poor head impty as a cobbler's purse. I want no +more iv thim. Give me anny bug fr'm a cockroach to an aygle save an' +excipt thim wist iv Ireland fenians--th' Mickrobes." + + + + +A DOCTRINAL DISCUSSION + +HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS + + +Looking wearily over the far-stretching fields of corn, the leaves +twisting in the heat, and contemplating the discouraging cotton +prospect, old Uncle Henry, the plantation carpenter, said, half +jestingly to a negro passing, "Uncle Ben, why don't you pray for rain?" + +"Ef I had faith enough, I could fetch er rain, for don't de Book say, ef +you have faith as er mustard seed you can move mountains? I say you done +parted from de faith, Unc' Henry. Ef you was still en de faith, an' ask +anythin', you goin' ter git it." + +"Why don't you ask fer er million dollars; what you hoein' out dah en de +sun fer, when all you got ter do is ter ask de Lord fer money?" + +"Dat ain't de question, dat ain't hit. You dodgin' now!" + +"No, I ain't dodgin'--" + +"Yes, you is. De Lord don't sen' ter people what dey axes fer deyse'ves. +He only sen' blessin's. Ef I ax fer er million er money, hit 'u'd be +'cause I'd natch'ly want ter quit work, an' dat's erg'in' his law. By de +sweat er de brow de Book says, dat's how hit's got ter come ef hit come +lawful." + +"Well, why don't you git rain, then? Hyah's Mr. Ed'ards waitin' an' +waitin' fer rain, payin' you ter hoe, an' one good rain 'd do more fer +him 'n all the hoein' in the worl'." + +"I didn't say I could fetch rain, Unc' Henry, I didn't say hit!" + +"What did you say then?" + +"I said, ef I had faith." + +"You b'lieve ef you had faith you could fetch er rain?" + +"Yes, I do!" + +"Well, ain't dat faith? Ef you b'lieve hit, hit's faith. Trouble is, you +don't b'lieve hit yo'se'f." + +"Yes I do. You done parted from de faith, Unc' Henry, dat's what ails +you." + +"No, I ain't parted from no faith, but I got too much sense ter b'lieve +any man can git rain by asking fer hit." + +"Don't de Book say, 'Ask, an' you shall receive'?" + +"Not rain. Hit mean grace. When hit comes ter rain, de Lord don't let +nobody fool wid him; he look atter de rain, 'specially hisse'f. Why, +man, look at hit right! S'pose two men side by side pray diffunt--an' +wid faith--what happen? Yonder's Mr. Ed'ards's oats ter be cut nex' +week, an' on 'tother side de fence Unc' Jim's gyarden burnin' up. Mr. +Ed'ards wants dry weather, an' Jim want rain, an' dey bofe pray deir own +way! Bofe got faith, now, bofe got faith, an' one pray fer rain while +t'other pray fer dry weather; what de Lord goin' do? Is he goin' ter +split er rain on dat fence? Answer me! Don't turn yo' back ter me; +answer me, Ben!" + +"You want my answer?" + +"Yes, I want hit. Don't stan' dah a stammerin'! What de Lord goin' do?" + +"You want my answer? Well, hyah 'tis. De Lord 'u'd sen' 'nough rain to +help de gyarden, but not 'nough ter hurt de oats. Dat's my answer!" + +"You don't know what you all talkin' bout! Send 'nough rain ter help de +gyarden, an' not 'nough to hurt de oats! You reckon Mr. Ed'ards let er +nigger stay on dis place an' pray fer rain when he cuttin' oats? You +reckon er nigger goin' ter come hyah an' run er market-gyarden wid 'im +on sheers, an' him er prayin' fer dry wedder when cabbage oughter be +headin' up? No, sah! You c'n pray fer grace, an' when you gits grace +you're all right, rain er no rain; but you better not resk yo'se'f on +rain. Folks got ter have somebody ter settle when hit shall rain, an' +when hit sha'n't rain. Faith ain' got nothin' ter do 'ith hit. It takes +horse sense. Why, ef de Lord was ter tie er rope to de flood-gates, an' +let hit down hyah ter be pulled when dey need rain, somebody'd git +killed ev'y time dey pulled hit. Folks wid oats ter cut 'u'd lie out wid +dey guns an' gyard dat rope, an' folks wid cabbages 'd be sneakin' up in +de dyark tryin' ter git hold er hit. Fus' thing you know, er cem'tery +grow up roun' dyah an' nobody lef' ter pull de rope!" + +"Faith 'u'd fetch it. Yes, sah, hit'll fetch hit." + +"You got any?" + +"Not 'nough ter fetch rain." + +"Yo' fam'bly got any?" + +"Not 'nough fer rain." + +"Well den it look like faith es 'bout as scyarce an' hard ter git as +rain. Has Macedony Church got any?" + +"Plenty." + +"Got 'nough fer rain?" + +"Plenty." + +"Well den you go down dyah to prayer-meeting ter-night; an' take yo' +fambly, an' all de niggers in de settlement what' got faith,--don't get +none but faith niggers,--an' see ef you git er rain. You git rain, an' +I'll give up. I hyah you all been prayin' fer me ter come in +chu'ch--cause de ole roof wants patchin' I reckon. Git de rain an' you +gits me too. Go on, an' try hit. I ain't got no time ter waste. Fus' +thing you know, rain'll be pourin' down, an' dat dah chu'ch'll be +leakin' faster'n a sieve. You goin' ter git rain, Ben?" + +"Yes, I'm going' ter try. An' ef we have faith we'll git hit. Hit's a +dry moon; ain't narry drop of water dyah, but faith c'n do hit." + +The next morning a thin little cloud floated out of the brazen east, a +mere ghost of a cloud, and from it was sifted down for about two minutes +the poorest apology that nature ever made to injured verdure. Soon it +passed into nothingness, and the full sun blazed over the parched land +once more. A triumphant laugh was heard out where the hands were hoeing, +and Ben's voice was recognized above all the others. They were +congratulating him upon his success, when up came old Henry, his sack +of carpenter's tools on his back. Ben shouted, + +"Hello, Unc' Henry. I told you we'd fetch hit." + +"Ben, did you say hit only taks faith as er grain er mustard seed ter +move er mountain?" + +"Yes, sah." + +"Well now, hyah's de whole of Macedony Church, full of faith niggers, a +prayin' for rain, an' de whole pack o' 'em can't lay de dust!" + + + + +FINNIGIN TO FLANNIGAN[68] + +S. W. GILLILAN + + + Superintindint wuz Flannigan; + Boss of the siction wuz Finnigin; + Whiniver the kyars got offen the thrack + An' muddled up things t' th' divil an' back, + Finnigin writ it to Flannigan, + Afther the wrick wuz all on agin. + That is, this Finnigin + Repoorted to Flannigan. + + Whin Finnigin furst writ to Flannigan + He writ tin pages--did Finnigin. + An' he tould jist how the smash occurred-- + Full minny a tajus, blunderin' wurrd + Did Finnigin write to Flannigan + Afther the cars had gone on agin. + That wuz how Finnigin + Repoorted to Flannigan. + + Now Flannigan knowed more than Finnigin-- + Had more idjucation--had Flannigan; + An' it wore 'm clane an' complately out + To tell what Finnigin writ about + In his writin' to Muster Flannigan. + So he writed back to Finnigin: + "Don't do sich a sin agin! + Make 'em brief, Finnigin!" + + Whin Finnigin got this frum Flannigan, + He blushed rosy rid--did Finnigin; + An' he said: "I'll gamble a whole moonth's pa-ay + That it will be minny an' minny a da-ay + Befoore Sup'rintindint--that's Flannigan-- + Gits a whack at this very same sin agin. + From Finnigin to Flannigan + Repoorts won't be long agin." + + Wan da-ay on the siction of Finnigin, + On the road sup'rintinded by Flannigan, + A rail give way on a bit av a curve, + An' some kyears went off as they made the swerve. + "There's nobody hurted," sez Finnigin, + "But repoorts must be made to Flannigan," + An' he winked at McGorrigan + As married a Finnigin. + + He wus shantyin' thin, wuz Finnigin, + As minny a railroader's been agin, + An' the shmoky ol' lamp wuz burnin' bright + In Finnigin's shanty all that night-- + Bilin' down his repoort, wuz Finnigin. + An' he writed this here: "Muster Flannigan: + Off agin, on agin, + Gone agin.--Finnigin." + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[68] By permission of the author. + + + + +GAVROCHE AND THE ELEPHANT[69] + +VICTOR HUGO + + + [A story of how Gavroche, a street gamin of Paris, uses for a home + the monument built in the form of a huge elephant, which Napoleon + Bonaparte erected in 1823.] + + +The forest has a bird. Paris a child. The bird is called a sparrow. The +child--a gamin. This little being is joyous; he has not food every day; +no shoes on his feet; not much clothing on his body. He runs, he swears +like a convict, he haunts all the wine shops, knows all the thieves--but +he has no evil in his heart. Little Gavroche was one of these. He had +been dispatched into life with a kick and had simply taken flight. The +pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart. + +One evening, little Gavroche was skipping along an alley, hands in his +pockets and singing merrily, when he came upon a young man who had a +wild, happy look in his eye, but no hat on his head. + +"Whoa there, monsieur, where's your roof? You've got enough light in +them blinkers of yours to light up my apartments--say, monsieur, you're +either crazy or you've had an awful good time!" + +"Be off with you, imp." + +"Say, did you know there wus a goin' ter be war in this town in a few +days and I'm goin' to enlist as general of the +army--Forward--March--Say, monsieur, I believe I know you, yes, sir, +I've seen you down in that Napoleon meetin' way down there in that +cellar--" + +"Oh, be off with you, imp!" + +"Yes, sir, I'm goin' now. Sorry I can't walk with you further, but +business calls me in the other direction. + +"Good evenin', monsieur--Watch out there. Can't ye see where yer goin'? +Little more an' ye'd been eatin' the dandelions! Good evenin', +monsieur!" + +A little further down the street, Gavroche was standing scrutinizing a +shop window, when two little children came up to him crying. + +"What's the matter with you, brats?" + +"Boo-hoo--we--ain't got no place to sleep." + +"The idea a bawlin' about that. Come along with me, I'll give ye a place +to sleep. Say, hev ye got any shiners?" + +"Boo-hoo--no--sir!" + +"Well, come along with me. I'm rich. Ye can't hear 'em rattle, but all +is not gold that rattles." + +"Monsieur, we--boo-hoo--we asked that barber man over there to let us +get warm in his store and--and--he wouldn't do--it--boo-hoo!" + +"Well, now, don't bawl about that. He don't know no better. He's an +Englishman. But I'll jes' take a note of that insult. [Takes paper from +his pocket and writes.]--Get even with Barber at 63 Rue Saint Antoine. +Too mean to occupy space here below. There now! that'll fix 'em. Hurry +along here now or my hotel will be closed.--Say, brats, you stay here a +minute. There is a poor little girl what's cold and she ain't got +nothin' around her. You stay here till I gits back. + +"There, little girl, take my scarf and put around you. This kind of life +is alright fer boys but it's pretty tough on girls. Brr! it's rather +chilly. And I'll eat a piece out o' Hades if it ain't re-raining again." + +"Monsieur, boo-hoo--we--ain't had nothin' to eat--since--morning." + +"Well, now don't bawl about that. Let me see--oh, here's a shop. Shovel +in here. + +"Boy, give us five centimes worth o' bread." + +"For how many?" + +"Well, there seem to be two uv 'em. + +"Here--now take that--brat senior, and you take that, brat junior--now +grub away. Ram that into your muzzle. Don't you understand? Well, +classically speaking--eat. Well, I thought ye knew how to do that. +[Whistles Marseillaise until they have finished, then stops suddenly and +says to the boy behind the counter.]--Say, ain't them two nice specimens +to be bawlin' jes' 'cause they ain't got no home? + +"Hey there, are ye through? Well, shovel out, then. We've got to hurry +or the elephant will have closed down his ears. Hey there, Montparnasse! +See my two kids?" + +"Well, where did you get them, Gavroche?" + +"Oh, a gentleman made me a present of 'em, down the street--say, they've +got hides like linseed plasters, hain't they?" + +"Where are you taking them, Gavroche?" + +"To my lodging--the Elephant." + +"The Elephant!" + +"Yes--the El-e-phant. Any complaints?" + +"You don't mean Napoleon's monument?" + +"I mean Napoleon's monument--You see when Napoleon left for Elba, he put +me in charge of the Elephant. Forward, march, there, brats! Good +evenin', Montparnasse." + +On arriving at the Elephant, Gavroche climbed up and then invited his +friends to come up. + +"Hey, there, brat senior--see that ladder? Well, put your foot on--Now +ye ain't agoin' ter be afraid are ye? Here, give me your +hands--Now--up--There, you stand still now, till I git yer little +brother up--Here, brat junior. Oh, can't you reach that ladder? Well, +step on the Elephant's corn then--That's the way--Now--up--There! Now, +gentlemen, you're on the inside of the Elephant. Don't ye feel something +like Jonah? But stop yer talkin' now fer we're goin' straight ter bed. +This way to yer sleepin' apartments--Here, brat junior, we'll wrap you +up in this blanket." + +"O, thank you, sir. It's so nice and warm." + +"Well, that's what the monkeys thought. Here, senior, you take this +mattress. Ye see, I stole these from the Jardin de Plants. But I told +the animals over there that they were fer the Elephant and they said +that was all right. Are ye in bed? Now I am goin' ter suppress de +candelabra. [Blows out candle.] Whew! listen to it rain. How the rain do +be runnin' down the legs of this here house. That's first class thunder +too. Whew! that's no slouch uv a streak uv lightnin' nuther. Here, calm +down there, gentlemen, or ye'll topple over this edifice. Time ter sleep +now, good-night. Shut yer peepers!" + +"Oh, sir?" + +"Hey?" + +"What's that noise?" + +"Why--it's--rats." + +"Oh, sir." + +"Hey?" + +"What is rats?" + +"Oh--rats--is--mice." + +"Sir?" + +"Hey?" + +"Why don't you get a cat?" + +"Oh--I--I did have--a cat and--and the rats eat 'er up." + +"Boo-hoo. Will they eat us up too?" + +"Ah--no--they won't eat you. You ain't got enough meat on you. Besides I +got 'em all screened off with a wire. They can't get at ye. See here--Ef +yer goin' ter be afraid, take hold er my hand an' I'll lay down long +side o' yer and go ter sleep--Now I fergot ter tell you gentlemen that +when ye wake up--I'll be gone, fer business calls me early, but ye're to +make this yer home jes' as long as yer wants ter and come here jes' +whenever yer wants ter. Now fer the last time--good-night!" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[69] A dramatization from "Les Miserables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins. + + + + +THE HAZING OF VALIANT + +ANONYMOUS + + +She was a small girl, but her sense of the ridiculous was tremendous. +All summer long she sat on the sand and was nice to two boys, a +sub-freshman and a sophomore. The sub-freshman's name was Valiant; he +had a complexion that women envied, he was small and dainty and smelled +sweet. The other, whose name was Buckley, was bigger and much more +self-assertive. + +One day the girl decided it would be fun to make them hate each other, +and after that, when they were all three together, the sophomore would +tell her how hard his class would haze the freshman in the Fall, while +the sub-freshman only gazed out over the water and smiled. But one day +the sophomore made a remark about "pretty pink-cheeked boys," which had +better been left unsaid. Then arose the younger one and shaking +impressively a slender pink-nailed finger he spoke, "You had better not +try to haze me, Will Buckley." + +In the good old days you had only to casually drop a word to a freshman +on the way to recitation to wait for you when evening came, and he would +turn up promptly, take his little dose meekly and go back to bed a +better boy for it. But all that is changed now. + +Twice had Buckley waited near the house where Valiant ate his dinner. He +had tried several ways of getting into the house where Valiant lived, +but without success; then for three successive nights he waited in an +alley near by; on the third night Valiant came, but with him an upper +classman friend. Buckley kept in the shadow but Valiant called out, "Oh, +is that you, Mr. Buckley? How do you do? Aren't you coming in to see +me?" Which was decidedly fresh. + +"Not now, I'll drop in later. Which is your room?" + +"That room up there, see?" + +The next night Buckley got his gang together. They decided that a dip in +the canal would be excellent for Valiant's health; if he felt cold after +that he could climb a telephone pole for exercise. It was nearly two +o'clock when they carried a ladder into the alley way. This was a +particularly nervy go. A young professor and his young wife had a suite +of rooms in this house; it was moonlight, and a certain owl-eyed proctor +was pretty sure to pass not far away; but if they hurried they thought +they could send a man up and get away without being caught. + +Buckley was to get in the window, which was open, it being a warm night, +the others were to hustle away with the ladder, and wait for him at a +street several blocks distant. There was no doubt but that Valiant would +have to come with him. + +Buckley climbed up, got one foot over the sill, and was in the room. He +leaned out and raised his hand. Silently the ladder disappeared. He +turned and started across the room; when a soft voice said, "Is that +you, dear?" + +Then before all the blood in his body had time to freeze, he stepped out +of the moonlight into the shadow and whispered, "Shsss!" Instinct made +him do this. + +Across the silence the soft voice came again, "Oh, I'm not asleep. But +why did you stay so long, Guy dear?" + +Buckley heard the squeaking of a bed-spring and as his knees stiffened +he spied coming toward him something white with two black streaks +hanging half way down, which as the thing came into the moonlight, he +saw to be long braids of dark hair. It was a tall, slender figure +clothed in a white garment. The face was young and beautiful. Buckley +closed his eyes. But it came nearer and nearer. He stood up perfectly +rigid in the darkness as two soft arms reached up and met about his +neck. + +Buckley did not budge and the soft voice began, "You have not forgiven +me yet." It began to sob. "You know I did not mean it. Won't you forgive +me? Tell me you do forgive me. Say it with your own lips, Guy dear. +Speak to me, my husband!" Buckley didn't. A soft, fragrant hand came up +along his cheek, which tingled, and over his eyes, which quivered. For +fully a half minute he tried to think what to do, then he gritted his +teeth and placed one arm about her waist and threw the other around her +neck in such a way that he could draw it tight if necessary. Suddenly +she raised her head, gave one startled look into his face, and with a +shuddering gasp, she recoiled. + +"For Heaven's sake, don't scream--I can explain!" + +"Ugh, oh, let go! Who--let me go, or I'll screa-ch-ch-ch!" + +Buckley pressed on the windpipe, feeling like three or four murderers as +he did so. "Oh, please, if you scream it'll only make things awfully +awkward. I got in here by mistake. Oh, please keep quiet. Promise me +you'll not cry out, and I'll let you go." + +"Yes, yes, I promise," said the scared voice. Buckley released his +grasp. She fled across the room. He thought she was making for the door +and sprang to stop her, but she only snatched up an afghan or something +from the sofa, and holding it about her, retreated to the dark part of +the room, moaning, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" + +"I don't know who you are, but I wish you wouldn't cry. Please be calm. +It's all a big mistake, I thought I was coming to my own room--" + +"Your own room!" + +"I mean my classmate's room,--I mean I thought a freshman roomed here. +You aren't half so sorry as I am--oh, yes, you are--I mean I'm awfully +sorry, and wish to apologize. I didn't mean anything." + +"Mean anything!" + +"Really I didn't. If you'll only let me go down and promise not to wake +the house before I get out, why no one will ever know anything about it +and I'll promise not to do it again." + +"Just as soon as I get my breath I mean to wake up the whole house, and +the whole town if I can." Buckley started across the room. + +"Stop!" + +"You promised not to scream." + +"You forced me to promise. I am going to scream." + +The bold, bad sophomore went down on his knees with his hands clasped +toward the dark where the voice came from. "Oh, don't, please don't. +Have pity on me." + +"You stay right there in the moonlight." + +"Right here?" + +"Right there, and if you dare to move I'll scream with all my might." +Buckley shivered and froze stiff. + +And then he began to plead. "Please, oh, please, whoever you are, won't +you forgive me and let me go? I wouldn't harm a girl for the world. I'll +be fired--I mean expelled from college--I'll be disgraced for life. +I'll--" + +"Stop! While it may be true that you did not break into my room with +intent to rob or injure a defenseless woman, yet, by your own confession +you came to torment a weaker person. You came to haze a freshman. And +when my husband--" + +"Have mercy, have mercy. If I'm fired from college I'll be disgraced for +life. All my prospects will be blighted; my life will be ruined, and my +mother's heart broken." + +She gave a little hysterical sob:-- + +"For your poor mother's sake, go!" + +"Oh, thank you with all my heart. My mother would too if she could know. +I don't deserve to be treated so well. I shall always think of you as my +merciful benefactress. I can never forgive myself for causing you pain. +Oh, thank you," and Buckley the proud sophomore groveled out of the +room. + +Next morning he received a letter, which read as follows: + + + "Just as a tall woman looks short in a man's make-up, so does a + short man look tall in a woman's make-up, and you should know that + blondes are hard to recognize in brunette wigs. You ought to know + that a real girl wouldn't have behaved quite that way. You see you + still have a number of things to learn, even though you are a soph. + Hoping that you will learn to forgive yourself, I am, + + "Your merciful benefactress, + "H. G. VALIANT." + + + + +THE HINDOO'S PARADISE + +ANONYMOUS + + + A Hindoo died, a happy thing to do, + When twenty years united to a shrew. + Released, he hopefully for entrance cries + Before the gates of Brahma's paradise. + + "Hast thou been through purgatory?" Brahma said, + "No, but I've been married," and he hung his head. + "Come in, come in, and welcome too, my son, + Marriage and purgatory are as one." + + In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, + And knew the peace he ne'er had known before. + But scarce had he entered the garden fair, + When another Hindoo asked admission there. + + The self-same question, Brahma asked, + "Hast thou been through purgatory?" + "No, what then?" "Thou canst not enter," did the God reply. + "Why, he that entered first was there no more than I." + + "All that is true, but he has married been, + And so on earth, had suffered from all sin." + "Married, 'tis well, I've been married twice." + "Begone, we'll have no fools in Paradise." + + + + +IF I KNEW + +ANONYMOUS + + + If I knew the box where the smiles are kept, + No matter how large the key, + Or strong the bolt, I would try so hard, + 'Twould open, I know, for me. + Then over the land and sea broadcast, + I'd scatter the smiles to play, + That the children's faces might hold them fast + For many and many a day. + + If I knew a box that was large enough + To hold all the frowns I meet, + I would like to gather them, every one, + From the nursery, school and street, + Then, holding and folding I'd pack them in, + And turning the monster key + I'd hire a giant to drop the box, + Into the depths of the sea. + + + + +THE IMAGINARY INVALID[70] + +JEROME K. JEROME + + +I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment +for some slight ailment of which I had a touch--hay fever, I fancy it +was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an +unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently +study diseases generally. I forget which was the first distemper I +plunged into--some fearful, devastating scourge I know--and, before I +had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne +in upon me that I had fairly got it. + +I sat for a while, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of +despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever--read +the symptoms--discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for +months without knowing it--wondered what else I had got; turned up St. +Vitus's Dance--found, as I expected, that I had that too,--began to get +interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom and so +started alphabetically--read up ague, and learned that I was sickening +for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another +fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a +modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for +years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed +to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six +letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was +housemaid's knee. + +I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort +of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious +reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I +reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and +grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, +in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my +being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from +boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there +was nothing else the matter with me. + +I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a +medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! +Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I +was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk around me, +and, after that, take their diploma. + +Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I +felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of +a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I +made a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. +I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been +induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the +time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted +myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I +went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could +not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out +as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it +with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I +could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had +scarlet fever. + +I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, +and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, +when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going +to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have +me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of +your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases +each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said: + +"Well, what's the matter with you?" + +I said: + +"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the +matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had +finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have +not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot +tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, +however, I have got." + +And I told him how I came to discover it all. + +Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and +then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it--a cowardly +thing to do, I call it--and immediately afterward butted me with the +side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, +and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out. + +I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's and handed it in. +The man read it and then handed it back. He said he didn't keep it. + +I said: + +"You are a chemist?" + +"I am a chemist. If I was a cooeperative store and family hotel combined +I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me." + +I read the prescription. It ran: + + + "1 lb. beefsteak, every 6 hours, + 1 ten-mile walk every morning, + 1 bed at 11 sharp every night. + And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand." + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[70] From "Three Men in a Boat," published by Henry Holt & Co. + + + + +JANE JONES[71] + +BEN F. KING + + + Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time, + An' says you must make it a rule + To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn, + An' never be absent from school. + Remember the story of Elihu Burrit, + An' how he clum up to the top, + Got all the knowledge 'at ever he had + Down in a blacksmithing shop! + Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! + O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top, + Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop. + + She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, + But full of ambition an' brains; + An' studied philosophy all his hull life, + An' see what he got for his pains! + He brought electricity out of the sky, + With a kite an' a bottle an' key, + An' we're owing him more 'n any one else + For all the bright lights 'at we see. + Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! + O' course what's allers been hinderin' me + Is not havin' any kite, lightning, er key. + + Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all + An' used to split rails when a boy; + An' General Grant was a tanner by trade + An' lived way out in Ill'nois. + So when the great war in the South first broke out + He stood on the side o' the right, + An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things + He won nearly every blamed fight. + Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! + Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight, + For I ain't never had any battles to fight. + + She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees + When he first thought up his big scheme, + An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too, + An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream. + But Queen Isabella jest listened to him, + 'Nd pawned all her jewels o' worth, + 'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said, + "Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!" + Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! + Mebbe he did-- + I dunno! + O' course that may be, but then you must allow + They ain't no land to discover jest now! + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[71] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers. + + + + +KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE[72] + +JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + + Tell you what I like the best-- + 'Long about knee-deep in June, + 'Bout the time strawberries melt + On the vine,--some afternoon + Like to jes' git out and rest, + And not work at nothin' else! + + Orchard's where I'd ruther be-- + Needn't fence it in fer me! + Jes' the whole sky overhead, + And the whole airth underneath-- + Sorto' so's a man kin breathe + Like he ort, and kind o' has + Elbow-room to keerlessly + Sprawl out len'thways on the grass + Where the shadders thick and soft + As the kivvers on the bed + Mother fixes in the loft + Allus, when they's company! + + Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there-- + S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer + Through the wavin' leaves above + Like a feller 'at's in love + And don't know it, ner don't kere! + Ever'thing you hear and see + Got some sort o' interest-- + Maybe find a bluebird's nest + Tucked up there conveenently + Fer the boy 'at's apt to be + Up some other apple-tree! + Watch the swallers skootin' past + 'Bout as peert as you could ast; + Er the Bob-white raise and whiz + Where some other's whistle is. + + Ketch a shadder down below, + And look up to find the crow-- + Er a hawk,--away up there, + 'Pearantly froze in the air!-- + Hear the old hen squak, and squat + Over ever' chick she's got, + Suddent-like--And she knows where + That-air hawk is, well as you!-- + You jes' bet yer life she do!-- + Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, + Waitin' till he makes a pass! + + Pee-wees' singin', to express + My opinion, 's second class, + Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; + Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, + Weedin' out the lonesomeness; + Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, + In them base-ball clothes o' his, + Sportin' 'round the orchard jes' + Like he owned the premises! + Sun out in the fields kin sizz, + But flat on yer back, I guess, + In the shade's where glory is! + That's jes' what I'd like to do + Stiddy fer a year er two! + + Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in + Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in + My convictions!--'long about + Here in June especially!-- + Under some old apple-tree, + Jes' a-restin' through and through, + I could git along without + Nothin else at all to do + Only jes' a-wishin' you + Was a-gittin' there like me, + And June war eternity! + + Lay out there and try to see + Jes' how lazy you kin be!-- + Tumble round and souse yer head + In the clover-bloom, er pull + Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes, + And peek through it at the skies, + Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, + Maybe, smilin' back at you + In betwixt the beautiful + Clouds o' gold and white and blue!-- + Month a man kin railly love-- + June, you know, I'm talkin' of! + + March ain't never nothin' new! + Aprile's altogether too + Brash fer me! and May--I jes' + 'Bominate its promises,-- + Little hints o' sunshine and + Green around the timber-land-- + A few blossoms, and a few + Chip-birds, and a sprout er two-- + Drap asleep, and it turns in + 'Fore daylight and snows ag'in!-- + + But when June comes--Clear my th'oat + With wild honey!--Rench my hair + In the dew! and hold my coat! + Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!-- + June wants me, and I'm to spare! + Spread them shadders anywhere, + I'll git down and waller there, + And obleeged to you at that! + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[72] From "Afterwhiles," published by the Bobbs-Merrill Co., +Indianapolis, Ind. + + + + +LITTLE BREECHES[73] + +JOHN HAY + + + I don't go much on religion, + I never ain't had no show; + But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, + On the handful o' things I know. + I don't pan out on the prophets, + And free-will and that sort of thing, + But I believe in God and the angels, + Ever sence one night last spring. + + I come into town with some turnips, + And my little Gabe come along-- + No four-year-old in the country + Could beat him for pretty and strong, + Peart and chipper and sassy, + Always ready to swear and fight-- + And I'd larnt him to chew terbacker, + Jest to keep his milk teeth white. + + The snow come down like a blanket + As I passed by Taggart's store; + I went in for a jug of molasses + And left the team at the door. + They scared at something and started-- + I heard one little squall, + And hell-to-split over the prairie + Went team, Little Breeches and all. + + Hell-to-split over the prairie! + I was almost froze with skeer; + But we rousted up some torches, + And searched for 'em far and near. + At last we struck hosses and wagon, + Snowed under a soft white mound, + Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe + No hide nor hair was found. + + And here all hope soured on me, + Of my fellow-critters' aid-- + I jest flopped down on my marrow bones, + Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed. + By this the torches was played out, + And me and Isrul Parr + Went off for some wood to a sheepfold + That he said was somewhar thar. + + We found it at last, and a little shed + Where they shut up the lambs at night; + We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, + So warm and sleepy and white. + And thar sat Little Breeches and chirped, + As peart as ever you see, + "I want a chaw of terbacker, + And that's what's the matter with me." + + How did he get thar? Angels. + He could never have walked in that storm, + They just scooped down and toted him + To whar it was safe and warm; + And I think that saving a little child + And bringing him to his own, + Is a derned sight better business + Than loafing around the Throne. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[73] By permission of Mrs. Hay. + + + + +THE LOW-BACKED CAR + +SAMUEL LOVER + + + When first I saw sweet Peggy, + 'Twas on a market-day; + A low-backed car she drove, and sat + Upon a truss of hay; + But when that hay was blooming grass, + And decked with flowers of spring, + No flower was there that could compare + With the blooming girl I sing. + As she sat in the low-backed car, + The man at the turnpike bar + Never asked for the toll, + But just rubbed his owld poll, + And looked after the low-backed car. + + In battle's wild commotion, + The proud and mighty Mars + With hostile scythes demands his tithes + Of death--in warlike cars; + While Peggy, peaceful goddess, + Has darts in her bright eyes + That knock men down in the market-town, + As right and left they fly; + While she sits in her low-backed car: + Than battle more dangerous far-- + For the doctor's art + Cannot cure the heart + That is hit from that low-backed car. + + Sweet Peggy round her cart, sir, + Has strings of ducks and geese, + But the scores of hearts she slaughters + By far outnumber these; + While she among her poultry sits, + Just like a turtle-dove, + Well worth the cage, I do engage, + Of the blooming god of love; + While she sits in her low-backed car, + The lovers come near and far, + And envy the chicken + That Peggy is pickin' + As she sits in her low-backed car. + + Oh! I'd rather own that car, sir, + With Peggy by my side, + Than a coach and four, and gold galore, + And a lady for my bride; + For the lady would sit forninst me, + On a cushion made with taste, + While Peggy would sit beside me, + With my arm around her waist, + While we drove in the low-backed car + To be married by Father Maher; + Oh! my heart would beat high + At her glance and her sigh, + Though it beat in a low-backed car. + + + + +MAMMY'S PICKANIN' + +LUCY DEAN JENKINS + + + Now, whah d'ye s'pose dat chile is? + My, he's got a head! + He's a-hidin' frum his mammy + 'Case it's time to go to bed. + + Hyah, you, Petah Johnsing! + Come inside dat fence. + I done tole you yes'day + You didn't hab no sense. + + What's dat? A-waitin' fo' yo' daddy? + (Bress his little hea't!) + Why, chile! Yo' daddy won't be comin' + Froo dat woodsy pa't + + At dis time ob de ebenin'. + Don't you see dat moon? + Dat's de sign dat spooks + 'Ll be a-trablin' soon. + + I b'lieve I see 'em + Comin'--Massy me! + As sho' as you is breavin' + Dar's one behind dat tree! + + Ha! Ha! I t'ought dat 'd bring him. + Come hyah, sweety hon', + Come to yo' ole mammy, + An' if dose spookies come + + An' want my pickaninny, + I'll swat 'em in de face; + I'll take dar flowin' ga'ments, + An' jest wipe up de place. + + I'll take dat ar bu'nt hoe-cake, + An' hit 'em on de head, + Till dey'll be glad to go away, + An' let my baby go to bed. + + So, don't cry no mo', my honey, + Jes' close yo' little eye, + An' mammy'll rock ye in her a'ms, + An' sing de-- + "Lullaby, + Close yo' eye, + Mammy's little dusky baby; + Hush-a-bye, + Close yo' eye, + Mammy's little baby boy, + Den hush-a-bye." + + Now, what's de mattah, honey? + Ain't you neber gwine ter sleep? + Dose spookies ain't a-comin'; + Dey's gwine off down de street. + + Now shet yo' eyes up tight, + An' go right off to sleep; + An' to-morrow for yo' breakfus' + You'll hab' possum for to eat. + + So, don't cry no mo', my honey, + Jes' close yo' little eye, + While mammy rocks you in her a'ms + An' sings de-- + "Lullaby," etc. + + + + +MANDALAY + +RUDYARD KIPLING + + + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, + There's a Burma girl a-settin', an' I know she thinks o' me; + For the wind is in the palm-trees, an' the temple-bells they say: + "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" + Come you back to Mandalay, + Where the old Flotilla lay: + Can't you 'ear their paddles chuckin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the flyin'-fishes play, + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! + + 'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, + An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, + An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, + An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: + Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- + Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- + Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! + On the road to Mandalay-- + + When the mist was on the rice fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, + She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "_Kullalo-lo_!" + With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek + We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. + Elephints a-pilin' teak + In the sludgy, squdgy creek, + Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! + On the road to Mandalay-- + + But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, + An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; + An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year sodger tells: + "If you've 'eard the East a-callin,' why, you won't 'eed nothin' + else." + No! you won't 'eed nothin' else + But them spicy garlic smells + An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells! + On the road to Mandalay-- + + I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin'-stones, + An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; + Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, + An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? + Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- + Law! wot do they understand? + I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener, land! + On the road to Mandalay-- + + Ship me somewheres east of Suez where the best is like the worst, + Where there aren't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a + thirst; + For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea-- + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the old Flotilla lay, + With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the flyin'-fishes play, + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! + + + + +MISTER COON AND MISTER RABBIT[74] + +JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS + + +Well one time Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Coon live close ter one anudder in de +same neighborhoods. How dey does now I ain't a-tellin' you, but in dem +days dey wa'n't no hard feelin's 'twixt um. Dey jest went along like two +ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit he was a fisherman an' Mr. Coon he was a +fisherman. But Mr. Rabbit he kotch fish, an' Mr. Coon he fished for +frogs. Mr. Rabbit he had mighty good luck, and Mr. Coon he had mighty +bad luck. Mr. Rabbit he got fat an' slick an' Mr. Coon he got po' an' +sick. Hit went on dis-a-way tell one day Mr. Coon met Mr. Rabbit in de +big road. Dey shook han's dey did, an' den Mr. Coon he 'low: "Brer +Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance er fish?" Mr. Rabbit laugh an' +say, "I kotch 'em outen de river, Brer Coon. All I got to do is to bait +my hook," sezee. + +Den Mr. Coon he shake his head an' 'low, "Den how come I ain't ketch no +frogs?" Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an' scratched fer fleas an' den +he 'low, "It's kaze you done make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de +dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch an' kotch de ole king +frog, an' ever sence dat time, w'enever you er passin' by, you kin year +um sing out, fus' one an' den anudder, 'Yer he come! Dar he goes! Hit +'im in de eye! Hit 'im in de eye! Mash 'im an' smash 'im! Mash 'im an' +smash 'im!' Yasser, dat w'at dey say. I year um constant, Brer Coon, an' +dat des w'at dey say." + +Den Mr. Coon up an' say, "Ef dat de way dey gwine on, how de name er +goodness kin I ketch um, Brer Rabbit. I bleege ter have sumfin ter eat +fer me an' my fambly connection." + +Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de corner ob de mouf an' den he say, "Well, +Brer Coon, bein' ez you bin so sociable 'long wid me, an' ain't never +showed your toofies w'en I pull yo' tail, I'll des whirl in an' hep you +out." + +Mr. Coon he say, "Thanky, thanky, Brer Rabbit!" + +Mr. Rabbit hang his fish on a tree lim an' say, "Now, Brer Coon, you +bleege ter do dis lik' I tell you." Mr. Coon 'lowed dat he would ef de +good Lawd spared 'im. + +Den Mr. Rabbit say, "Now, Brer Coon, you des rack down yonder an' git on +de big san-bar 'twix' de river an' de branch. Wen you git dar you mus' +stagger like you sick, an' den you mus' whirl roun' an' roun' an' drap +down lak you dead. Arter you drap down, you mus' sorter jerk yo' legs +once er twice an' den you mus' lay right still. If fly light on yo' nose +let 'im stay dar. Don't move; don't wink yo' eye; don't switch yo' tail. +Des lay right dar an' 'twont' be long for yo' hear from me. Yit don't +yo' move till I give de word." + +Mr. Coon he paced off he did, an' done des like Mr. Rabbit told him. He +staggered roun' on de san'-bank, an' den he drapped down dead. Atter so +long a time, Mr. Rabbit come lopin' 'long, an' soon's he got dar he +squall out, "Coon dead!" Dis rousted de frogs, an' dey stuck dey heads +up fer ter see w'at all de rippet was about. One great big green frog up +an' holler, "W'at de matter? W'at de matter?" He talk like he got bad +cold. Mr. Rabbit he 'low, "Coon dead!" Frog say, "Don't believe it! +Don't believe it!" N'er frog say, "Yes, he is! Yes, he is!" Little bit +er one say, "No, he ain't! No, he ain't!" + +Dey keep on sputin till bimeby hit look like all de frogs in de +neighborhood wuz dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain't a-kearin' what dey +do er say. He sot down dar in de san' like he gwine in moanin' fer Mr. +Coon. De frogs kep' gittin' closer and closer. Mr. Coon he ain't move. +W'en a fly'd git on 'im, Mr. Rabbit he'd bresh 'im off. + +Bimeby he 'low, "Ef you want ter git 'im outin de way, now's you time, +cousin frogs. Des whirl in an' bury 'im, deep in de san'." + +Big old frog say, "How we gwine ter do it? How we gwine ter do it?" + +Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Dig de san' out from under 'im an' let 'im down in de +hole." Den de frogs dey went ter work sure enough. Dey mus' 'a' been a +hundred un um, an' dey make dat san' fly. + +Mr. Coon he ain't move. De frogs dey dig an' scratch in de san' tell +atter while dey had a right smaht hole an' Mr. Coon wuz down in dar. + +Bimeby Big Frog holler, "Dis deep nuff? Dis deep nuff?" + +Mr. Rabbit' low, "Kin you jump out?" + +Big Frog say, "Yes, I kin! Yes, I kin!" + +Mr. Rabbit say, "Den 'tain't deep nuff." + +Den de frogs dey dig an' dey dig tell bimeby Big Frog say, "Dis deep +nuff? Dis deep nuff?" Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, +"I des kin! I des kin!" Mr. Rabbit say, "Dig it deeper." All de frogs +keep on diggin' tell bimeby Big Frog holler out, "Dis deep nuff? Dis +deep nuff?" + +Mr. Rabbit 'low, "Kin you jump out?" Big Frog say, "No, I can't! No, I +can't! Come he'p me! Come he'p me!" + +Den Mr. Rabbit bust out laffin' an' holler out, "Rise up, sandy, an' git +yo' meat." An' Mr. Coon riz. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[74] By permission of D. Appleton & Co. + + + + +MONEY MUSK + +BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR + + + Ah, the buxom girls that helped the boys-- + The nobler Helens of humbler Troys-- + As they stripped the husks with rustling fold + From eight-rowed corn as yellow as gold, + + By the candle-light in pumpkin bowls, + And the gleams that showed fantastic holes + In the quaint old lantern's tattooed tin, + From the hermit glim set up within; + + By the rarer light in girlish eyes + As dark as wells, or as blue as skies. + I hear the laugh when the ear is red, + I see the blush with the forfeit paid, + + The cedar cakes with the ancient twist, + The cider cup that the girls have kissed. + And I see the fiddler through the dusk + As he twangs the ghost of "Money Musk!" + + The boys and girls in a double row + Wait face to face till the magic bow + Shall whip the tune from the violin, + And the merry pulse of the feet begin. + + In shirt of check, and tallowed hair, + The fiddler sits in the bulrush chair + Like Moses' basket stranded there + On the brink of Father Nile. + He feels the fiddle's slender neck, + Picks out the note, with thrum and check; + And times the tune with nod and beck, + And thinks it a weary while. + All ready! Now he gives the call, + Cries, "_Honor to the ladies_!" All + The jolly tides of laughter fall + And ebb in a happy smile. + + "_Begin_." D-o-w-n comes the bow on every string, + "_First couple join right hands and swing_!" + As light as any blue-bird's wing + "_Swing once and a half times round_." + Whirls Mary Martin all in blue-- + Calico gown and stockings new, + And tinted eyes that tell you true, + Dance all to the dancing sound. + + She flits about big Moses Brown, + Who holds her hands to keep her down + And thinks her hair a golden crown, + And his heart turns over once! + His cheek with Mary's breath is wet, + It gives a second somerset! + He means to win the maiden yet, + Alas, for the awkward dance! + + "Your stoga boot has crushed my toe!" + "I'd rather dance with one-legged Joe!" + "You clumsy fellow!" "_Pass below_!" + And the first pair dance apart. + Then "_Forward six_!" advance, retreat, + Like midges gay in sunbeam street. + 'Tis Money Musk by merry feet + And the Money Musk by heart! + + "_Three quarters round your partner swing! + Across the set_!" The rafters ring, + The girls and boys have taken wing + And have brought their roses out! + 'Tis "_Forward six_!" with rustic grace, + Ah, rarer far than--"_Swing to place_!" + Than golden clouds of old point-lace + They bring the dance about. + + Then clasping hands all--"_Right and left_!" + All swiftly weave the measure deft + Across the woof in loving weft, + And the Money Musk is done! + Oh, dancers of the rustling husk, + Good night, sweet hearts, 'tis growing dusk, + Good night for aye to Money Musk, + For the heavy march begun! + + + + +THE ONE-LEGGED GOOSE[75] + +F. HOPKINSON SMITH + + +The Colonel had been detained at his office, but had sent word that I +was to wait for him. Chad was serving the coffee. "My Marsa John," he +remarked, filling the cup with the smoking beverage, "never drank +nuffin' but tea, eben at de big dinners when all de gemmen had coffee in +de little cups--dat's one ob 'em you's drinkin' out ob now; dey ain't +mo' 'an fo' on 'em left. Old marsa would have his pot of tea. Henny +useter make it for him; makes it now for Miss Nancy. + +"Henny was a young gal den, long 'fo' we was married. Henny b'longed to +Colonel Lloyd Barbour, on de next plantation to ourn. + +"Mo' coffee, Major?" I handed Chad the empty cup. He refilled it, and +went straight on without drawing breath. + +"Wust scrape I eber got into wid old Marsa John was ober Henny. I tell +ye she was a harricane in dem days. She come into de kitchen one time +where I was helpin' git de dinner ready an' de cook had gone to de +spring-house, an' she says: + +"'Chad, what ye cookin' dat smells so nice?' + +"'Dat's a goose,' I says, 'cookin' for Marsa John's dinner. We got +quality,' says I, pintin' to de dinin'-room do'. + +"'Quality!' she says. 'Spec' I know what de quality is. Dat's for you +and de cook.' + +"Wid dat she grabs a caarvin' knife from de table, opens de do' ob de +big oven, cuts off a leg ob de goose, an' dis'pears round de kitchen +corner wid de leg in her mouf. + +"'Fo' I knowed whar I was Marsa John come to de kitchen do' an' says, +'Gittin' late, Chad; bring in de dinner.' You see, Major, dey ain't no +up an' down-stairs in de big house, like it is yer; kitchen an' +dinin'-room all on de same flo'. + +"Well, sah, I was scared to def, but I tuk dat goose an' laid him wid de +cut side down on de bottom of de pan 'fo' de cook got back, put some +dressin' an' stuffin' ober him, an' shet de stove do'. Den I tuk de +sweet potatoes an' de hominy an' put 'em on de table, an' den I went +back in de kitchen to git de baked ham. I put on de ham an' some mo' +dishes, an' marsa says, lookin' up: + +"'I t'ought dere was a roast goose, Chad?' + +"'I ain't yerd nothin' 'bout no goose,' I says. 'I'll ask de cook.' + +"Next minute I hyerd old marsa a-hollerin: + +"'Mammy Jane, ain't we got a goose?' + +"'Lord-a-massy! yes, marsa. Chad, you wu'thless nigger, ain't you tuk +dat goose out yit?' + +"'Is we got a goose?' said I. + +"'Is we got a goose? Didn't you help pick it?' + +"I see whar my hair was short, an' I snatched up a hot dish from de +hearth, opened de oven do', an' slide de goose in jes as he was, an' lay +him down befo' Marsa John. + +"'Now see what de ladies 'll have for dinner,' says ole marsa, pickin' +up his carvin' knife. + +"'What'll you take for dinner, Miss?' says I. 'Baked ham?' + +"'No,' says she, lookin' up to whar Marsa John sat. 'I think I'll take a +leg ob dat goose.' + +"Well, marsa cut off de leg an' put a little stuffin' an' gravy on wid a +spoon, an' says to me, 'Chad, see what dat gemman 'll have.' + +"'What'll you take for dinner, sah?' says I. 'Nice breast o' goose, or +slice o' ham?' + +"'No; I think I'll take a leg ob dat goose.' + +"I didn't say nuffin', but I knowed bery well he wa'n't a-gwine to git +it. But you oughter seen ole marsa lookin' for de udder leg ob dat +goose! He rolled him ober on de dish, dis way an' dat way, an' den he +jabbed dat ole bone-handled carvin' fork in him an' hel' him up ober de +dish, an' looked under him an' on top ob him, an' den he says, kinder +sad like: + +"'Chad, whar is de udder leg ob dat goose?' + +"'It didn't hab none,' says I. + +"'You mean to say dat de gooses on my plantation on'y got one leg?' + +"'Some ob 'em has an' some ob 'em ain't. You see, marsa, we got two +kinds in de pond, an' we was a little hurried to-day, so Mammy Jane +cooked dis one 'cause I cotched it fust.' + +"'Well,' said he, 'I'll settle wid ye after dinner.' + +"Well, dar I was shiverin' an' shakin' in my shoes, an' droppin' gravy, +an' spillin' de wine on de table-cloth, I was dat shuck up; an' when de +dinner was ober he calls all de ladies an' gemmen, an' says, 'Now come +down to de duck-pond. I'm gwine ter show dis nigger dat all de gooses on +my plantation got mo' den one leg.' + +"I followed 'long, trapesin' after de whole kit an' b'ilin', an' when we +got to de pond"--here Chad nearly went into a convulsion with suppressed +laughter--"dar was de gooses sittin' on a log in de middle of dat ole +green goose-pond wid one leg stuck down--so--an' de udder tucked under +de wing." + +Chad was now on one leg, balancing himself by my chair, the tears +running down his cheeks. + +"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's +de berry match ob de one we had to-day.' + +"Den de ladies all hollered an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey hyerd 'em +at de big house. + +"'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white +an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!' + +"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if +ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg! + +"'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll +show you.' + +"'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''tain't fair, 'tain't fair.' + +"'Why ain't it fair?' says he. + +"''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de +table.'" + +"And did he thrash you?" + +"Marsa John? No, sah! He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he +says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire, 'Chad, where did dat +leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about Henny, an' how I was +'fraid the gal would git whipped, an' how she was on'y a-foolin', +thinkin' it was my goose; an' den old marsa look in de fire a long time, +an' den he says: 'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?' + +"'Yes, marsa,' says I. + +"Well, de nex' mawnin' Marse John had his black hoss saddled, an' I held +de stir'up fur him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation +an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de +lantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mind all day; +but it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's. + +"'Chad,' he says, handin' me de bridle reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis +evenin' from Colonel Barbour, she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can +bofe git married next Sunday.'" + +FOOTNOTE: + +[75] Used by permission of and arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, +Mifflin & Co., Boston, Mass., publishers of the works of F. Hopkinson +Smith. + + + + +THE PESSIMIST[76] + +BEN F. KING + + + Nothing to do but work, + Nothing to eat but food, + Nothing to wear but clothes + To keep one from going nude. + + Nothing to breathe but air, + Quick as a flash 'tis gone; + Nowhere to fall but off, + Nowhere to stand but on. + + Nothing to comb but hair, + Nowhere to sleep but in bed, + Nothing to weep but tears, + Nothing to bury but dead. + + Nothing to sing but songs, + Ah, well, alas! alack! + Nowhere to go but out, + Nowhere to come but back. + + Nothing to see but sights, + Nothing to quench but thirst, + Nothing to have but what we've got, + Thus thro' life we are cursed. + + Nothing to strike but a gait; + Everything moves that goes. + Nothing at all but common sense + Can ever withstand these woes. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[76] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers. + + + + +SCHNEIDER SEES LEAH + +ANONYMOUS + + +I vant to dold you vat it is, dot's a putty nice play. De first dime dot +you see Leah, she runs cross a pridge, mit some fellers chasin' her mit +putty big shticks. Dey ketch her right in de middle of der edge, und der +leader (dot's de villen), he sez of her, "Dot it's better ven she dies, +und dot he coodent allow it dot she can lif." Und de oder fellers +hollers out, "So ve vill;" "Gife her some deth;" "Kill her putty quick;" +"Shmack her of der jaw," und such dings; und chust as dey vill kill her, +de priest says of dem, "Don'd you do dot," und dey shtop dot putty +quick. In der nexd seen, dot Leah meets Rudolph (dot's her feller) in de +voods. Before dot he comes in, she sits of de bottom of a cross, und she +don'd look pooty lifely, und she says, "Rudolph, how is dot, dot you +don'd come und see about me? You didn't shpeak of me for tree days +long. I vant to dold you vot it is, dot ain't some luf. I don'd like +dot." Vell, Rudolph he don'd was dere, so he coodent sed something. But +ven he comes in, she dells of him dot she lufs him orful, und he says +dot he guess he lufs her orful too, und vants to know vood she leef dot +place, and go oud in some oder country mit him. Und she says, "I told +you, I vill;" und he says, "Dot's all right," und he tells her he vill +meet her soon, und dey vill go vay dogedder. Den he kisses her und goes +oud, und she feels honkey dory bout dot. + +Vell, in der nexd seen, Rudolph's old man finds oud all about dot, und +he don'd feel putty goot; und he says of Rudolph, "Vood you leef me, und +go mit dot gal?" und Rudolph feels putty bad. He don'd know vot he shall +do. Und der old man he says, "I dold you vot I'll do. De skoolmaster +(dot's de villen) says dot she might dook some money to go vay. Now, +Rudolph, my poy, I'll gif de skoolmaster sum money to gif do her, und if +she don'd dook dot money, I'll let you marry dot gal." Ven Rudolph hears +dis, he chumps mit joyness, und says, "Fader, fader, dot's all righd. +Dot's pully. I baed you anydings she voodent dook dot money." Vell, de +old man gif de skoolmaster de money, und dells him dot he shall offer +dot of her. Vell, dot pluddy skoolmaster comes back und says dot Leah +dook dot gold right avay, ven she didn't do dot. Den de old man says, +"Didn't I told you so?" und Rudolph gits so vild dot he svears dot she +can't haf someding more to do mit him. So ven Leah vill meet him in de +voods, he don'd vas dere, und she feels orful, und goes avay. Bime-by +she comes up to Rudolph's house. She feels putty bad, und she knocks of +de door. De old man comes oud, und says, "Got out of dot, you orful +vooman. Don'd you come round after my boy again, else I put you in de +dooms." Und she says, "Chust let me see Rudolph vonce, und I vill vander +avay." So den Rudolph comes oud, und she vants to rush of his arms, but +dot pluddy fool voodent allow dot. He chucks her avay, und says, "Don'd +you touch me, uf you please, you deceitfulness gal." I dold you vot it +is, dot looks ruff for dot poor gal. Und she is extonished, und says, +"Vot is dis aboud dot?" Und Rudolph, orful mad, says, "Got oudsiedt, you +ignomonous vooman." Und she feels so orful she coodent said a vord, und +she goes oud. + +Afterwards, Rudolph gits married to anoder gal in a shurch. Vell, Leah, +who is vandering eferyveres, happens to go in dot shurchyard to cry, +chust at de same dime of Rudolph's marriage, vich she don'd know +someding aboud. Putty soon she hears de organ, und she says dere is some +beeples gitten married, und dot it vill do her unhappiness goot if she +sees dot. So she looks in de vinder, und ven she sees who dot is, my +graciousness, don'd she holler, und shvears vengeance. Putty soon +Rudolph chumps oud indo der shurchyard to got some air. He says he don't +feel putty good. Putty soon dey see each oder, und dey had a orful dime. +He says of her, "Leah, how is dot you been here?" Und she says mit big +scornfulness, "God oud of dot, you beat. How is dot, you got cheek to +talk of me afder dot vitch you hafe done?" Den he says, "Vell, vot for +you dook dot gold, you false-hearded leetle gal?" und she says, "Vot +gold is dot? I didn't dook some gold." Und he says, "Don'd you dold a +lie about dot!" She says slowfully, "I told you I didn't dook some gold. +Vot gold is dot?" Und den Rudolph tells her all aboud dot, und she says, +"Dot is a orful lie. I didn't seen some gold;" und she adds mit much +sarkasmness, "Und you beliefed I dook dot gold. Dot's de vorst I efer +heered. Now, on accound of dot, I vill gif you a few gurses." Und den +she swears mit orful voices dot Mister Kain's gurse should git on him, +und dot he coodent never git any happiness eferyvere, no matter vere he +is. Den she valks off. Vell, den a long dime passes avay, und den you +see Rudolph's farm. He has got a nice vife, und a putiful leetle child. +Putty soon Leah comes in, being shased, as ushual, by fellers mit +shticks. She looks like she didn't ead someding for two monds. Rudolph's +vife sends off dot mop, und Leah gits avay again. Den dat nice leedle +child comes oud, und Leah comes back; und ven she sees dot child, don'd +she feel orful aboud dot, und she says mit affectfulness, "Come here, +leedle child, I voodn'd harm you;" und dot nice leedle child goes righd +up, and Leah chumps on her, und grabs her in her arms, und gries, and +kisses her. Oh! my graciousness don'd she gry aboud dot. You got to blow +your noses righd avay. I vant to dold you vat it is, dot looks pully. + +Und den she says vile she gries, "Leedle childs, don'd you got some +names?" Und dot leedle child shpeaks oud so nice, pless her leedle hard, +und says, "Oh! yes. My name dot's Leah, und my papa tells me dot I shall +pray for you efery nighd." Oh! my goodnessness, don'd Leah gry orful ven +she hears dot. I dold you vat it is, dot's a shplaindid ding. Und quick +come dem tears in your eyes und you look up ad de vall, so dot nobody +can'd see dot, und you make oud you don'd care aboud it. But your eyes +gits fulled up so quick dot you couldn'd keep dem in, und de tears comes +down of your face like a shnow storm, und den you don'd care a tarn if +efery body sees dot. Und Leah kisses her und gries like dot her heart's +broke, und she dooks off dot gurse from Rudolph und goes avay. De child +den dell her fader and muder aboud dot, und dey pring her back. Den dot +mop comes back und vill kill her again, but she exposes dot skoolmaster, +dot villen, und dot fixes him. Den she falls down in Rudolph's arms, und +your eyes gits fulled up again, und you can'd see someding more. I like +to haf as many glasses of beer as dere is gryin' chust now. You couldn't +help dot any vay. Und if I see a gal vot don'd gry in dot piece, I +voodn't marry dot gal, efen if her fader owned a pig prewery. Und if I +see a feller vot don'd gry, I voodn't dook a trink of lager bier mit +him. Vell, afder de piece is oud, you feel so bad, und so goot, dot you +must ead a few pieces of hot stuff do drife avay der plues. But I told +you vat it is, dot's a pully piece, I baed you, don'd it? + + + + +THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN + +JOHN G. SAXE + + + I long have been puzzled to guess, + And so I have frequently said, + What the reason could really be + That I never have happened to wed; + But now it is perfectly clear + I am under a natural ban; + The girls are already assigned-- + And I'm a superfluous man! + + Those clever statistical chaps + Declare the numerical run + Of women and men in the world + Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one: + And hence in the pairing, you see, + Since wooing and wedding began, + For every connubial score + They've got a superfluous man! + + By twenties and twenties they go, + And giddily rush to their fate, + For none of the number, of course, + Can fail of the conjugal mate; + But while they are yielding in scores + To nature's inflexible plan, + There's never a woman for me-- + For I'm a superfluous man! + + It isn't that I am a churl, + To solitude over-inclined, + It isn't that I am at fault + In morals or manners or mind; + Then what is the reason, you ask, + I'm still with the bachelor clan? + I merely was numbered amiss-- + And I'm a superfluous man! + + It isn't that I am in want + Of personal beauty or grace, + For many a man with a wife + Is uglier far in the face. + Indeed, among elegant men + I fancy myself in the van; + But what is the value of that, + When I'm a superfluous man? + + Although I am fond of the girls, + For aught I could ever discern, + The tender emotion I feel + Is one that they never return; + 'Tis idle to quarrel with fate, + For, struggle as hard as I can, + They're mated already, you know, + And I'm a superfluous man! + + No wonder I grumble at times, + With women so pretty and plenty, + To know that I never was born + To figure as one of the Twenty; + But yet, when the average lot + With critical vision I scan, + I think it may be for the best + That I'm a superfluous man! + + + + +THE USUAL WAY + +ANONYMOUS + + + There was once a little man, and his rod and line he took, + For he said, "I'll go a-fishing in the neighboring brook." + And it chanced a little maiden was walking out that day, + And they met--in the usual way. + + Then he sat him down beside her, and an hour or two went by, + But still upon the grassy brink his rod and line did lie; + "I thought," she shyly whispered, "you'd be fishing all the day!" + And he was--in the usual way. + + So he gravely took his rod in hand and threw the line about, + But the fish perceived distinctly he was not looking out; + And he said, "Sweetheart, I love you," but she said she could not + stay, + But she did--in the usual way. + + Then the stars came out above them, and she gave a little sigh + As they watched the silver ripples like the moments running by; + "We must say good-by," she whispered by the alders old and gray, + And they did--in the usual way. + + And day by day beside the stream, they wandered to and fro, + And day by day the fishes swam securely down below, + Till this little story ended, as such little stories may, + Very much--in the usual way. + + And now that they are married, do they always bill and coo? + Do they never fret and quarrel, like other couples do? + Does he cherish her and love her? does she honor and obey? + Well, they do--in the usual way. + + + + +THE WEDDING FEE + +R. M. STREETER + + + One morning, fifty years ago,-- + When apple trees were white with snow + Of fragrant blossoms, and the air + Was spellbound with the perfume rare,-- + Upon a farm horse, large and lean, + And lazy with its double load, + A sun-browned youth and maid were seen + Jogging along the winding road. + + Blue were the arches of the skies; + But bluer were that maiden's eyes. + The dewdrops on the grass were bright; + But brighter was the loving light + That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid, + Where those bright eyes of blue were hid; + Adown the shoulders brown and bare + Rolled the soft waves of golden hair, + Where, almost strangled with the spray, + The sun, a willing sufferer, lay. + + It was the fairest sight, I ween, + That the young man had ever seen; + And with his features all aglow, + The happy fellow told her so! + And she without the least surprise + Looked on him with those heavenly eyes; + Saw underneath that shade of tan + The handsome features of a man; + And with a joy but rarely known + She drew that dear face to her own, + And by her bridal bonnet hid-- + I cannot tell you what she did! + + So, on they ride until among + The new-born leaves with dewdrops hung, + The parsonage, arrayed in white, + Peers out,--a more than welcome sight. + Then, with a cloud upon his face, + "What shall we do," he turned to say, + "Should he refuse to take his pay + From what is in the pillow-case?" + And glancing down his eye surveyed + The pillow-case before him laid, + Whose contents reaching to its hem, + Might purchase endless joy for them. + The maiden answers, "Let us wait, + To borrow trouble where's the need?" + Then, at the parson's squeaking gate + Halted the more than willing steed. + + Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung; + The latchless gate behind him swung. + The knocker of that startled door, + Struck as it never was before, + Brought the whole household pale with fright; + And there, with blushes on his cheek, + So bashful he could hardly speak, + The farmer met their wondering sight. + + The groom goes in, his errand tells, + And, as the parson nods, he leans + Far o'er the window-sill and yells, + "Come in! He says he'll take the beans!" + + Oh! how she jumped! With one glad bound, + She and the bean-bag reached the ground. + Then, clasping with each dimpled arm + The precious product of the farm, + She bears it through the open door; + And, down upon the parlor floor, + Dumps the best beans vines ever bore. + + Ah! happy were their songs that day, + When man and wife they rode away. + But happier this chorus still + Which echoed through those woodland scenes: + "God bless the priest of Whitinsville! + God bless the man who took the beans!" + + + + +WHEN MALINDY SINGS[77] + +PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR + + + G'way an' quit dat noise, Miss Lucy-- + Put dat music book away; + What's de use to keep on tryin'? + Ef you practice twell you're gray, + You cain't sta't no notes a-flyin' + Lak de ones dat rants and rings + F'om de kitchen to de big woods + When Malindy sings. + + You ain't got de nachel o'gans + Fu' to make de soun' come right, + You ain't got de tunes an' twistin's + Fu' to make it sweet an' light. + Tell you one thing now, Miss Lucy, + An' I'm tellin' you fu' true, + When hit comes to raal right singin' + 'Tain't no easy thing to do. + + Easy 'nough fu' folks to hollah, + Lookin' at de lines an' dots, + When dey ain't no one kin sense it, + An' de chune comes in, in spots; + But fu' real melojous music, + Dat jes' strikes yo' hea't and clings, + Jes' you stan' an' listen wif me + When Malindy sings. + + Ain't you nevah hyeahd Malindy? + Blessed soul, tek up de cross! + Look hyeah, ain't you jokin', honey? + Well, you don't know what you los'. + Y'ought to hyeah dat gal a-wa'blin', + Robins, la'ks, an' all dem things, + Hush dey moufs an' hides dey faces + When Malindy sings. + + Fiddlin' man jes' stop his fiddlin', + Lay his fiddle on de she'f; + Mockin' bird quit tryin' to whistle, + 'Cause he jes' so shamed hisse'f. + Folks a-playin' on de banjo + Draps dey fingahs on de strings-- + Bless yo' soul--fu'gits to move 'em, + When Malindy sings. + + She jes' spreads huh mouf and hollahs, + "Come to Jesus," twell you hyeah + Sinnahs' tremblin' steps an' voices, + Timid-lak, a-drawin' neah; + Den she tu'ns to "Rock of Ages," + Simply to de cross she clings, + An' you fin' yo' teahs a-drappin' + When Malindy sings. + + Who dat says dat humble praises + Wif de Master nevah counts? + Hush yo' mouf, I hyeah dat music, + Ez hit rises up an' mounts-- + Floatin' by de hills an' valleys, + Way above dis buryin' sod, + Ez hit makes its way to glory + To de very gates of God! + + Oh, hit's sweetah dan de music + Of an edicated band; + An' it's dearah dan de battle's + Song o' triumph in de lan'. + It seems holier dan evenin' + When de solemn chu'ch-bell rings, + Ez I sit an' calmly listen + While Malindy sings. + + Towsah, stop dat ba'kin', hyeah me! + Mandy, mek dat chile keep still; + Don't you hyeah de echoes callin', + F'om de valley to de hill? + Let me listen, I can hyeah it, + Th'oo de bresh of angel's wings, + Sof' an' sweet, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," + Ez Malindy sings. + + +FOOTNOTE: + +[77] By permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., publishers. From "Lyrics of the +Hearthside," 1899. + + + + +WHEN THE COWS COME HOME + +AGNES E. MITCHELL + + + With klingle, klangle, klingle, + Way down the dusty dingle, + The cows are coming home; + Now sweet and clear and faint and low, + The airy tinklings come and go, + Like chimings from some far off tower, + Or patterings of some April shower + That makes the daisies grow; + Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, + 'Way down the darkening dingle + The cows come slowly home; + And old-time friends and twilight plays, + And starry nights and sunny days, + Come trooping up the misty ways + When the cows come home. + + With jingle, jangle, jingle, + Soft tunes that sweetly mingle, + The cows are coming home. + Malvine and Pearl and Florimel, + Dekamp, Redrose and Gretchen Schnell, + Queen Bell and Sylph and Spangled Sue-- + Across the fields I hear her "loo-oo" + And clang her silver bell; + Goling, golang, golinglelingle, + With faint far sounds that mingle, + The cows come slowly home; + And mother-songs of long-gone years, + And baby joys and childish tears, + And youthful hopes and youthful fears, + When the cows come home. + + With ringle, rangle, ringle, + By twos and threes and single + The cows are coming home. + Through violet air we see the town + And the summer sun a slipping down, + And the maple in the hazel glade + Throws down the path a longer shade, + And the hills are growing brown; + To-ring, to-rang, to-ringleringle, + By threes and fours and single + The cows are coming home; + The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, + The same sweet June-day rest and calm, + The same sweet scent of bud and balm, + When the cows come home. + + With tinkle, tankle, tinkle, + Through fern and periwinkle + The cows are coming home; + A-loitering in the checkered stream + Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, + Clarine, Peachbloom and Phoebe Phillis + Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies + In a drowsy dream; + To-link, to-lank, to-linklelinkle, + O'er banks with butter cups a-twinkle, + The cows come slowly home; + And up through memory's deep ravine + Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, + And the crescent of the silver queen, + When the cows come home. + + With klingle, klangle, klingle, + With loo-oo and moo-oo and jingle + The cows are coming home; + And over there in Merlin hill, + Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will; + The dew drops lie on the tangled vines, + And over the poplars Venus shines, + And over the silent mill; + Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle + With ting-a-ling and jingle + The cows come slowly home; + Let down the bars, let in the train + Of long-gone songs, and flowers and rain, + For dear old times come back again, + When the cows come home. + + + + +V + +DRAMATIC NOT IN THE DRAMA + + +THE CONFESSIONAL + +ANONYMOUS + + + 'Twas twilight, and the early lighted lamps + Were flickering down into the Arno's tide + While yet the daylight lingered in the skies, + Silvering and paling, when I saw him first. + I was returning from my work, and paused + Upon the bridge of Santa Trinita + To rest, and think how fair our Florence is. + And I remember, o'er the hazy hills, + Far, far away, how exquisitely fair + The twilight seemed that night. My heart was soft + With tender longings, misted with a dim, + Sad pleasure as a mirror with the breath. + Ah, never will those feelings come again! + + I was in a mood to take a stamp + From any passing chance, even like those clouds + That caught the tenderest thrill of dying day, + When, by some inward sense, I know not what, + I felt that I was gazed at, drawn away + By eyes that had a strange magnetic will. + And so I turned from those far hills to see-- + A stranger? No; even then he did not seem + A stranger, but as one I once had known, + Not here in Florence, not in any place, + But somewhere in my spirit known and seen. + I felt his eyes were fixed upon me, + And a sweet, serious smile was on his lips: + Nor could I help but look and smile again. + + I know not what it was went to and fro + Between us in that swift smile and glance. + We neither spoke; + But something went that thrilled me through and through. + And that quick clash of souls + Had struck a spark that set my soul on fire. + + And I was happy, oh, so happy then! + It seemed as if this earth could never add + One little drop more to the joy I owned, + For all that passionate torrent pent within + My heart had found its utterance and response. + + He was Venetian, and that radiant hair + We black-haired girls so covet haloed round + His sunny northern face and soft blue eyes. + I know not why he loved me--me, so black, + With this black skin that every Roman has, + With this black hair, black eyes, that I so hate. + + Why loved he not Beata? she is fair, + But yet he often swore to me Beata's body + Was not worth one half my finger, + And then kissed me full upon the mouth as if to seal his oath; + Ah! glorious seal--I feel those lips there now! + And on my forehead, too, one kiss still glows + Like a great star. + Ah! well! those days are gone. No! no! + They are not gone; I love him madly now. + I love him madly as I loved him then. + + Ah, God! how blissfully those days went by! + You could not fill a golden cup more full + Of rubied wine than was my heart with joy. + Long mornings in his studio, there I sat + And heard his voice; or, when he did not speak, + I felt his presence like a rich perfume, + Fill all my thoughts. + I was his model. Hours and hours I posed + For him to paint his Cleopatra, fierce, + With her squared brows, and full Egyptian lips; + A great gold serpent on her rounded arm, + And a broad band of gold around her head. + + At last the autumn came, the stricken, bleeding autumn. + Something weighed upon his mind I could not understand. + I knew all was not right, yet dared not ask. + At last few words made all things plain; + "Love, I must go to Venice." "Must?" "Yes, must." + "Then I go, too." "No, no; ah, Nina, no. + Four weeks pass swiftly; one short month, and then + I shall return to Florence, and to you." + + Vain were my words. He went, alas! he went + With all the sunshine, and I wore alone + The weary weeks out of that hateful month. + Another month I waited, nervous, fierce + With love's impatience. When that month was gone + My heart was all afire; I could not stay. + Consumed with jealous fears that wore me down + Into a fever, necklace, earrings--all + I sold, and on to Venice rushed. How long + That dreary, never-ending journey seemed! + I cursed the hills up which we slowly dragged, + The long, flat plains of Lombardy I cursed, + That kept me back from Venice. + + But at last in a black gondola I swam along + The sea-built city, and my heart was big + With the glad thought that I was near to him. + Yes, gladness came upon me that soft night, + And jealousy was hushed, and hope led on + My dancing heart. In vain I strove to curb + My glad impatience--I must see him then, + At once, that very night; I could not wait + The tardy morning--'twas a year away. + I only gave the gondolier his name, + And said, "You know him?" "Yes." + "Then row me quick to where he is." + + He bowed and on he went, + And as we swept along, I leaned me out + And dragged my burning fingers in the wave, + My hurried heart forecasting to itself our meeting, + What he'd say and think, + How I should hang upon his neck and say: + "I could not longer live without you, dear." + + At last we paused. The gondolier said, + "This is the palace." I was struck aghast. + It flared with lights, that from the windows gleamed + And trickled down into the black canal. + "Stop! stop!" I cried; "'tis some mistake. + Why are these lights? This palace is not his. + He owns no palace." "Pardon," answered he, + "I fancied the signora wished to see + The marriage festa--and all Venice knows + The bride receives to-night." "What bride, whose bride?" + I asked, impatient. "Count Alberti's bride, + Whose else?" he answered, with a shrug. My heart, + From its glad, singing height, dropped like a lark + Shot dead, at these few words. The whole world reeled, + And for a moment I was crushed and stunned. + Then came the wild revulsion of despair; + Then, calm more dreadful than the fiercest pain. + "Row me to the steps," I said. I leaped + On their wet edge, and stared in at the door + Where all was hurry, rush, and flare of light. + + My eyes ran, lightning, zigzag, through the crowd + In search of him--he was not there. Ah, God! + I breathed. He was not there! I inly cursed + My unbelief, and turned me round to go. + There was a sudden murmur near the door, + And I beheld him--walking at her side. + Oh! cursed be the hour I saw that sight, + And cursed be the place! I saw those eyes + That used to look such passion into mine + Turned with the selfsame look to other eyes, + Yes, light blue eyes, that upward gazed at him. + I could not bear their bliss. + I scarcely knew what happened then; I knew + I felt for the stiletto in my vest + With purpose that was half mechanical, + As if a demon used my hand for his. + I felt the red blood singing through my brain, + I struck--before me, at my feet, she fell. + + Who was the queen then? Ah! your rank and wealth, + Your pearls and splendors--what did they avail + Against the sharp stiletto's little point? + You should have thought of that before you dared-- + You had all the world beside--to steal + The only treasure that the Roman girl e'er had. + You will not smile again as then you smiled. + Thank God, you'll never smile again for him! + I was avenged, avenged, until I saw + The dreadful look he gave me as he turned + From her dead face and looked in mine. Ah, God! + It haunts me, scares me, will not let me sleep. + + When will he come and tell me he forgives + And loves me still? Oh, bid him come, + Come quickly, come and let me die in peace. + I could not help it; I was mad; + But I repent, I suffer; he at least + Should pity and forgive. Oh, make him come + And say he loves me, and then let me die. + I shall be ready then to die; but now + I cannot think of God; my heart is hell, + Until I know he loves me still. + + + + +JEAN VALJEAN AND THE GOOD BISHOP[78] + +VICTOR HUGO + + +Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man +who was traveling on foot, entered the little town of Digne, France. + +It would be difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched +appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thick-set and robust. He +might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a +drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, which, burned and +tanned by the sun and wind, was dripping with perspiration. He wore a +cravat which was twisted into a long string; trousers of blue drilling +worn and threadbare, and an old gray tattered blouse, patched on one of +the elbows with a bit of green cotton cloth, sewed on with a twine +string. On his back, a soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly +new; in his hand, an enormous knotty stick. Iron-shod shoes enveloped +his stockingless feet. + +No one knew him. He was evidently a chance passer-by, but nevertheless +he directed his footsteps toward the village inn (the best in the +country-side), and entered the kitchen. The host, on hearing the door +open, addressed him without lifting his eyes from the stove. + +"What is it this morning?" + +"Food and lodging." + +"Nothing easier--by paying for it." + +"I have money, I can pay." + +"In that case we are at your service." + +"When will dinner be ready?" + +"Immediately." + +While the newcomer was depositing his knapsack upon the floor, the host +tore off the corner of an old newspaper, wrote a line or two on the +margin and handed it to a lad standing near. After whispering a few +words in his ear, the lad set off at a run toward the town hall. In a +few moments he returned, bringing the paper. The host read it +attentively, remained silent a moment and then took a step in the +direction of the traveler. + +"I cannot receive you, sir!" + +"What! Are you afraid I won't pay you? I have money--I can pay." + +"You have money, but I have no room." + +"Well, put me in the stable." + +"The horses occupy all the space there." + +"In the loft then--But come, we can settle that after dinner." + +"I cannot give you your dinner." + +"Bah! I'm hungry. I have been on foot since sunrise and I wish to eat." + +"Well, I have nothing." + +"Nothing--and all that?" + +"All that is engaged by messieurs and wagoners,--twelve of them." + +"There's enough food there for twenty." + +"I tell you, it is all engaged and paid for in advance." + +"Well, I'm at a public inn and hungry. I shall remain." + +"Stop! Do you want me to tell you who you are--you are Jean +Valjean--Go!" + +The man dropped his head, picked up his knapsack and took his +departure.... That evening the Bishop of the little town of Digne was +sitting with his sister and housekeeper, talking over his day's work +among his parishioners, when there came a violent knock at the door. + +"Come in--" + +The door opened; a man entered and without waiting for the Bishop to +speak, he cried out--"See here--My name is Jean Valjean. I have been +nineteen years in the galleys. Four days ago I was released and am now +on my way to Pontarlier. This evening when I came into these parts, I +went to an inn and they turned me out. I went to another and they said +"Be gone." I went to the prison; the jailer would not take me in. I went +to a dog's kennel; the dog bit me and drove me off as though he had been +a man. I went to the fields to sleep beneath the stars; there were no +stars. I returned to the city. Yonder, in the square, a good woman +tapped me on the shoulder and told me to knock here, and I have knocked. +What is this place? Do you keep an inn? Are you willing that I should +remain?" + +"Ah, Madam Magloire," said the Bishop, "you will set another place." + +"No, that's not it. I'm a galley-slave--a convict--Here's my yellow +passport, read that, but no--I can read, I learned in the galleys. +[Reads.] 'Jean Valjean, discharged convict, has been nineteen years in +the galleys. Five years for burglary and theft and fourteen years for +having attempted to escape on four different occasions. He--is--a +very--dangerous--man'--There, that's what bars me out. Will you give me +something to eat and a bed? Have you a stable?" + +"Madam Magloire, you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove--Now +sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We will sup in a few moments and your +bed will be prepared while we are supping." + +"What, you call me sir--You do not drive me out? A bed, with sheets, +like the rest of the world? It has been nineteen years since I slept in +a bed. Pardon me, monsieur inn-keeper,--what is your name?" + +"I am only an old priest who lives here." + +"Then you will not demand my money of me?" + +"No--keep your money. How much have you?" + +"One hundred and nine francs and fifteen sous." + +"How long did it take you to earn that?" + +"Nineteen years." + +"Nineteen years! Madam Magloire, you will place the silver fork and +spoon as near the fire as possible. The north wind blows harsh on the +Alps to-night. You must be cold, sir." + +"Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not despise me? You receive me into your +house? You light your candles for me? Yet I have not concealed from you +who I am." + +"You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house. This is the +house of Jesus Christ. That door does not ask of him who enters, whether +he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry, +you are welcome. But do not thank me; do not say that I receive you into +my house. You are more at home here than I am. Everything in this house +belongs to you. Besides, what need have I to know your name, for I knew +that before you told me." + +"What! You knew what I was called?" + +"Yes, you are called 'my brother.'" + +"Oh--stop! I--was very hungry when I came in here, but now--my--my +hunger is all gone. Oh--you are--so--good--to me." + +"You have suffered much. You have come from a very sad place--but +listen! There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of +one repentant sinner than over the white robes of a hundred just men. If +you emerge from that place with thoughts of evil and wrath against +mankind, you are to be pitied; but if you emerge with thoughts of peace +and good will, you are more deserving than any of us. But now, Monsieur, +since you have supped, I will conduct you to your room. This is your +room, sir. May you pass a good night, and to-morrow before you leave us +you must drink a cup of warm milk." + +"Ah, is this true? Do you lodge me close to yourself like this? How do +you know that I am not a murderer?" + +"That is the concern of the good God. Good night, brother. Good night." + +FOOTNOTE: + +[78] An adaptation from "Les Miserables," by Lucy Dean Jenkins. + + + + +LASCA + +ANONYMOUS + + + I want free life, and I want fresh air; + And I sigh for the canter after the cattle, + The crack of the whips like shots in a battle, + The mellay of horns and hoofs and heads + That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads; + The green beneath and the blue above, + And dash and danger, and life and love. + And Lasca! + + Lasca used to ride + On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side, + With blue _serape_ and bright-belled spur; + I laughed with joy as I looked at her. + Little knew she of books or of creeds; + An _Ave Maria_ sufficed her needs; + Little she cared, save to be by my side, + To ride with me, and ever to ride, + From San Saba's shore to Lavaca's tide. + She was as bold as the billows that beat, + She was as wild as the breezes that blow; + From her little head to her little feet + She was swayed in her suppleness to and fro + By each gust of passion; a sapling pine, + That grows on the edge of a Kansas bluff, + And wars with the wind when the weather is rough + Is like this Lasca, this love of mine. + She would hunger that I might eat, + Would take the bitter and leave me the sweet; + But once, when I made her jealous for fun, + At something I'd whispered, or looked, or done, + One Sunday in San Antonio, + To a glorious girl on the Alamo, + She drew from her belt a dear little dagger, + And--sting of a wasp!--it made me stagger! + An inch to the left, or an inch to the right, + And I shouldn't be maundering here to-night; + But she sobbed, and, sobbing, so swiftly bound + Her torn _rebosa_ about the wound, + That I quite forgave her. Scratches don't count + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. + + Her eye was brown--a deep, deep brown-- + Her hair was darker than her eye; + And something in her smile and frown, + Curled crimson lip and instep high, + Showed that there ran in each blue vein, + Mixed with the milder Aztec strain, + The vigorous vintage of old Spain. + She was alive in every limb + With feeling, to the finger tips; + And when the sun is like a fire, + And sky one shining, soft sapphire, + One does not drink in little sips. + The air was heavy, the night was hot, + I sat by her side, and forgot--forgot + The herd that were taking their rest, + Forgot that the air was close opprest, + That the Texas norther comes sudden and soon, + In the dead of night, or the blaze of noon-- + That once let the herd at its breath take fright, + Nothing on earth can stop the flight; + And woe to the rider, and woe to the steed, + Who falls in front of their mad stampede! + Was that thunder? I grasped the cord + Of my swift mustang without a word. + I sprang to the saddle, and she clung behind. + Away! on a hot chase down the wind! + But never was fox-hunt half so hard + And never was steed so little spared; + For we rode for our lives. You shall hear how we fared, + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. + + The mustang flew, and we urged him on; + There was one chance left, and you have but one, + Halt! jump to the ground, and shoot your horse; + Crouch under his carcase, and take your chance, + And if the steers in their frantic course + Don't batter you both to pieces at once, + You may thank your star; if not, good-by + To the quickening kiss and the long-drawn sigh, + And the open air and the open sky, + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande! + + The cattle gained on us, and, just as I felt + For my old six-shooter behind in my belt, + Down came the mustang, and down came we, + Clinging together, and--what was the rest? + A body that spread itself on my breast. + Two arms that shielded my dizzy head, + Two lips that hard on my lips were prest; + Then came thunder in my ears, + As over us surged the sea of steers, + Blows that beat blood into my eyes, + And when I could rise-- + Lasca was dead! + I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, + And there in Earth's arms I laid her to sleep; + And there she is lying, and no one knows; + And the summer shines and the winter snows; + For many a day the flowers have spread + A pall of petals over her head; + And the little gray hawk hangs aloft in the air, + And the sly coyote trots here and there, + And the black snake glides and glitters and slides + Into a rift in a cotton-wood tree; + And the buzzard sails on, + And comes and is gone, + Stately and still like a ship at sea; + And I wonder why I do not care + For the things that are like the things that were. + Does half my heart lie buried there + In Texas, down by the Rio Grande? + + + + +MICHAEL STROGOFF, COURIER OF THE CZAR + +JULES VERNE + + +Russia was threatened by a Tartar invasion. The commander of the Russian +troops was the Czar's brother, the Grand Duke, now stationed at Irkutsk. +Suddenly all communication between him and the Czar was cut off by the +enemy, under the leadership of Ivan Ogareff, a traitor, who had sworn to +betray Russia and to kill the Grand Duke. It became necessary to send a +messenger to the Grand Duke to warn him of his danger, and Michael +Strogoff was chosen for that purpose. He was brought before the Czar, +who looked this magnificent specimen of manhood full in the face. Then: +"Thy name?" + +"Michael Strogoff, sire." + +"Thy rank?" + +"Captain in the Corps of Couriers to the Czar." + +"Thou dost know Siberia?" + +"I am a Siberian." + +"A native of--?" + +"Omsk, sire." + +"Hast thou relations there?" + +"Yes, sire, my aged mother." + +The Czar suspended his questions for a moment; then pointed to a letter +which he held in his hand: "Here is a letter which I charge thee, +Michael Strogoff, to deliver into the hands of the Grand Duke, and to no +one but him." + +"I will deliver it, sire." + +"The Grand Duke is at Irkutsk. Thou wilt have to traverse a rebellious +country, invaded by Tartars, whose interest it will be to intercept this +letter." + +"I will traverse it." + +"Above all, beware of the traitor, Ivan Ogareff, who will perhaps meet +thee on the way." + +"I will beware of him." + +"Michael Strogoff, take this letter. On it depends the safety of all +Siberia, and perhaps the life of my brother, the Grand Duke." (Hands him +letter.) + +"This letter shall be delivered to His Highness, the Grand Duke." + +"Go, thou, for God, for the Czar, and for your native land." + +That very night Michael Strogoff started on his perilous journey. His +path was constantly beset with dangers, but not until he reached Omsk +did his greatest trial come. He had feared that he might see his mother +in passing through the town. They stopped only for dinner and the danger +was almost past, when, just as they were leaving the posting-house to +renew their journey, suddenly a cry made him tremble--a cry which +penetrated to the depths of his soul--and these two words rushed into +his ear, "My son!" His mother, the old woman Marfa, was before him! +Trembling she smiled upon him and stretched forth her arms to him. +Michael Strogoff stepped forward; he was about to throw himself--when +the thought of duty, the serious danger to himself and mother, in this +unfortunate meeting, stopped him, and so great was his self-command that +not a muscle of his face moved. There were twenty people in the public +room, and among them were perhaps spies, and was it not known that the +son of Marfa Strogoff belonged to the Corps of Couriers to the Czar? +Michael Strogoff did not move. + +"Michael!" cried his mother. + +"Who are you, my good woman?" + +"Who am I? Dost thou no longer know thy mother?" + +"You are mistaken; a resemblance deceives you." + +Marfa went up to him, and looking straight into his eyes, said, "Art +thou not the son of Peter and Marfa Strogoff?" + +Michael would have given his life to have locked his mother in his arms. +But if he yielded now, it was all over with him, with her, with his +mission, with his oath! Completely master of himself, he closed his +eyes that he might not see the inexpressible anguish of his mother. + +"I do not know, in truth, what it is you say, my good woman." + +"Michael!" + +"My name is not Michael. I never was your son! I am Nicholas Horparoff, +a merchant of Irkutsk," and suddenly he left the room, while for the +last time the words echoed in his ears. + +"My son! My son!" + +Michael Strogoff remembered--"For God, for the Czar, and for my native +land," and he had by a desperate effort gone. He did not see his old +mother, who had fallen back almost inanimate on a bench. But when the +Postmaster hastened to assist her, the aged woman raised herself. +Suddenly the thought occurred to her: She denied by her own son! It was +impossible! As for being herself deceived, it was equally impossible. It +was certainly her son whom she had just seen; and if he had not +recognized her, it was because he would not, because he ought not, +because he had some strong reason for acting thus. And then, her mother +feelings arising within her, she had only one thought: Can I unwittingly +have ruined him? + +"I am mad," she said to her interrogators. "This young man was not my +son; he had not his voice. Let us think no more of it. If we do, I shall +end in finding him everywhere." + +This occurrence, however, came to the knowledge of Ivan Ogareff, who was +stationed in the town. To obtain possession of any official message, +which, if delivered, would frustrate his plans, and to detain the +courier was his great desire. He succeeded in arresting Michael +Strogoff, and then sent for Marfa to appear before him. Marfa, standing +before Ivan Ogareff, drew herself up, crossed her arms on her breast, +and waited. + +"You are Marfa Strogoff?" asked Ogareff. + +"Yes." + +"Do you retract what you said a few hours ago?" + +"No." + +"Then you do not know that your son, Michael Strogoff, Courier to the +Czar, has passed through Omsk?" + +"I do not know." + +"And the man whom you thought you recognized as your son, was not your +son?" + +"He was not my son." + +"And since then, have you seen him among the prisoners?" + +"No." + +"If he were pointed out to you, would you recognize him?" + +"No." + +"Listen! Your son is here, and you shall immediately point him out to +me." + +"No." + +"All these men will file before you, and if you do not show me Michael +Strogoff, you shall receive as many blows from the knout as men shall +have passed before you." + +On an order from Ogareff, the prisoners filed one by one past Marfa, who +was immovable as a statue, and whose face expressed only perfect +indifference. Michael was to all appearances unmoved, but the palms of +his hands bled under the nails which were pressed into the flesh. + +Marfa, seized by two soldiers, was forced on her knees on the ground. +Her dress torn off, left her back bare. A saber was placed before her +breast at a few inches' distance. If she bent beneath her sufferings, +her breast would be pierced by the sharp steel. The Tartar drew himself +up and waited. + +"Begin," said Ogareff. + +The whip whistled through the air, but, before it fell, a powerful hand +stopped the Tartar's arm. Ivan Ogareff had succeeded. + +"Michael Strogoff!" + +"Ivan Ogareff!" and raising the knout, he struck Ogareff a blow across +the face. + +"Blow for blow." Twenty soldiers threw themselves on Michael and in +another instant he would have been slain, but Ogareff stopped them. + +"This man is reserved for the Emir's judgment. Search him." + +The letter bearing the imperial arms was bound in Michael's bosom; he +had not had time to destroy it. It was handed to Ogareff. + +"Your forehead to the ground!" exclaimed Ogareff. + +"No!" + +Two soldiers tried to make him bend, but were themselves laid on the +ground by a blow from Michael's fist. + +"Who is this prisoner?" asked the Emir. + +"A Russian spy," answered Ogareff. + +In asserting that Michael was a spy, he knew that the sentence would be +terrible. The Emir made a sign, at which all bowed low their heads. Then +he pointed to the Koran which was brought him. He opened the sacred +book, and placing his finger on one of its pages, read in loud voice, a +verse ending in these words: "And he shall no more see the things of +this earth." + +"Russian spy, you have come to see what is going on in the Tartar camp; +then look while you may!" + +Michael Strogoff's punishment was not death, but blindness. They drew a +red-hot saber across his eyes, and the courier was blind! After the +Emir's orders were executed, thinking they had robbed Michael Strogoff +of all power to do further harm, the Emir retired with his train, and +Michael was left alone. But his desire to reach the Grand Duke was not +quenched by this terrible calamity. He understood that Ivan Ogareff, +having obtained his seal and commission, would try to reach the Grand +Duke before he, himself, could possibly get there, carrying a false +message, which would betray all Siberia. Michael, after disheartening +trials in finding a trusty companion, finally succeeded and pushed on +towards Irkutsk, only hoping he might reach the place before Ogareff +should betray the city. At last, after a most painful fourteen days' +journey, he is at the very gate of the Governor's palace. Entrance is +easy, for confusion reigns everywhere. But Michael is in time. With his +trusty companion he goes distractedly through the passages. No one heeds +him. Michael opens one of the doors and enters a room flooded with +light, and there he stands face to face with the one whose villainous +hand would one instant later have betrayed all Siberia! "Ivan Ogareff!" +he cries. + +On hearing his name pronounced, the wretch starts. His real name known, +all his plans will be frustrated. There is but one thing to be done; to +kill the one who had just uttered it. Ogareff rises and sees the blind +courier! Thinking he has an immense advantage over the blind man, he +throws himself upon him. But with one hand Michael grasps the arm of his +enemy and hurls him to the ground. Ogareff gathers himself together like +a tiger about to spring, and utters not a word. The noise of his +footsteps, his very breathing, he tries to conceal from the blind man. +At last, with a spring, he drives his sword full blast at Michael's +breast. An imperceptible movement of the blind man's knife turns aside +the blow. Michael is not touched, and coolly waits a second attack. Cold +drops stand on Ogareff's brow; he draws back a step and again leaps +forward. But like the first, this attempt fails. Michael's knife has +parried the blow from the traitor's useless sword. Mad with rage and +terror, he gazes into the wide open eyes of the blind man. Those eyes +which seemed to pierce to the bottom of his soul, and which did not, +could not, see, exercise a sort of dreadful fascination over him. + +Suddenly Ogareff utters a cry: "He sees! He sees!" + +"Yes, I see. Thinking of my mother, the tears which sprang to my eyes +saved my sight. I see the mark of the knout which I gave you, traitor +and coward! I see the place where I am about to strike you! Defend your +life! It is a duel I offer you! My knife against your sword!" The +tears, which his pride in vain endeavored to subdue, welling up from his +heart, had gathered under his eyelids, and volatilized on the cornea, +and the vapor formed by his tears interposing between the glowing saber +and his eyeballs had been sufficient to annihilate the action of the +heat and save his sight. Ogareff now feels that he is lost, but +mustering up all his courage he springs forward. The two blades cross, +but at a touch from Michael's knife the sword flies in splinters, and +the wretch, stabbed to the heart, falls lifeless to the ground. The +crash of the steel attracting the attention of the ducal train, the door +is thrown open, and the Grand Duke, accompanied by some of his officers, +enters. The Grand Duke advances. In the body lying on the ground he +recognizes the man whom he believes to be the Czar's courier. Then in +threatening voice, "Who killed this man." + +"I," answered Michael. + +"Thy name? I know him! He is the Czar's courier." + +"That man, your highness, is not a courier of the Czar! He is Ivan +Ogareff!" + +"Ivan, the traitor?" + +"Yes." + +"But who are you, then?" + +"Michael Strogoff." + +"And you come?" + +"For God, for the Czar, and for my native land!" + + + + +MRS. TREE[79] + +LAURA E. RICHARDS + + +Mrs. Tree was over seventy, but apart from an amazing reticulation of +wrinkles netted close and fine like a woven veil, she showed little sign +of her great age. As she herself said, she had her wits and her teeth, +and she didn't see what any one wanted with more. In her afternoon gown +of plum-colored satin she was a pleasing and picturesque figure. On this +particular afternoon it was with very little ceremony that "Direxia +Hawkes," her life-long servitor, burst into the room. Direxia had been +to market and had brought all the news with her marketing. + +"Ithuriel Butters is a singular man, Mis' Tree--he give me a turn just +now, he did so. I says, 'How's Miss Butters now, Ithuriel?' I knew she'd +been real poorly, but I hadn't heard for a considerable time. + +"'I ain't no notion,' says he. + +"'What do you mean, Ithuriel Butters?' I says. + +"'Just what I say,' says he. + +"'Why, where is she?' I says. I thought she might be visitin', you know. +She has consid'able kin 'round here. + +"'I ain't no idee,' says he. 'I lef her in the burying ground, that's +all I know.' + +"Mis' Tree, that woman has been dead a month and I never knew a single +word about it. They're all singular people, them Butterses." + +Just then there was a ring at the door bell and Direxia shuffled away to +answer it; then a man's voice was heard asking some questions. Mrs. Tree +sat alive and alert and called: + +"Direxia!" + +"Yes'm. Jest a minit. I'm seein' to something." + +"Direxia Hawkes!" + +"How you do pester me, Mis' Tree; there's a man at the door and I don't +want to let him stay there alone." + +"What does he look like?" + +"I don't know, he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Most likely he's +stealing the umbrellas while here I stand!" + +"Show him in here!" + +"What say?" + +"Show him in here and don't pretend to be deaf when you hear as well as +I do." + +"You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree--he's a tramp, I tell ye, and the +toughest looking"-- + +"Will you show him in here or shall I come and fetch him?" + +"Well! of all the cantankerous,--here! come in, you! She wants to see +you," and a man appeared in the doorway--he was shabbily dressed, but it +was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean. Mrs. Tree looked +at him and then looked again. + +"What do you want here?" + +"I ask for food, I'm hungry." + +"Are you a tramp?" + +"Yes, Madam!" + +"Anything else?" + +Just here Direxia burst in with "That'll be enough--you come out in the +kitchen and I'll give you something to eat in a paper bag and you can +take it away with you." + +"I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir! Direxia, set a +place for this gentleman." + +"I--cannot, Madam!--I thank you, but you must excuse me." + +"Why can't you?" + +"You must excuse me! If your woman will give me a morsel to eat in the +kitchen, or perhaps I had better go at once." + +"Stop! Direxia, go and set another place for supper! Shut the door! Come +here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead +puppy on it. There! I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I +shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson +who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you +like tramping, now?" + +"Pretty well; it's all right in the summer, or when a man has his +health." + +"See things, hey, new folks, new faces, get ideas, is that it?" + +"That begins it, but after a while,--I really think I must go. Madam, +you are very kind but I prefer to go." + +"Cat's foot!" + +The shabby man laughed helplessly and just then Direxia stuck her head +in at the door and snapped out, "Supper's ready!" + +The shabby man seemed in a kind of dream--half unconsciously he put the +old lady into her chair--then at a sign from her he took the seat +opposite--he laid the damask napkin across his knees and winced at the +touch of it as at the touch of a long-forgotten hand. Mrs. Tree talked +on easily, asking questions about the roads he traveled and the people +he met. He answered briefly. Suddenly close at hand a voice spoke. + +"Old friends!" + +The man started to his feet, white as the napkin he held. + +"It's only a parrot! Sit down again. There he is at your elbow. Jocko is +his name. He does my swearing for me. My grandson and a friend of his +taught him that, and I have taught him a few other things besides. Good +Jocko! Speak up, boy!" + +"Old friends to talk; old books to read; old wine to drink! Zooks! +Hooray for Arthur and Will! they're the boys!" + +"That was my grandson and his friend. What's the matter? Feel faint, +hey?" + +"Yes, I am--faint. I must get out into the air." + +"Nothing of the sort! You'll come upstairs and lie down." + +"No! no! not in this house. Never! never!" + +"Cat's foot! Don't talk to me! Here! give me your arm! Do as I say! +There!" + +And as they passed up the stairway the parrot cried, "Old friends!" And +Direxia said, "I'm going to loose the bulldog, Mis' Tree, and Deacon +Weight says he'll be over in two minutes." + +"There isn't any dog in the house, and Deacon Weight is at Conference, +and won't be back till the last of the week. That will do, Direxia; you +mean well, but you are a ninny-hammer. This way! This is my grandson's +room--he died here--what's the matter--feel faint--hey?" + +"Yes!--I do--" + +"Come, Willie--come lie down and rest on Arthur's bed--you are tired, +boy." + +"Mrs. Tree, if you would not be so kind it would not be so hard--I +came--to--rob--you." + +"Why, so I supposed, or thought it likely. You can have all you want, +without that--there's plenty for you and me. Folks call me close, and I +like to do what I like with my own money. There's plenty, I tell you, +for you and me and the bird. Do you think he knew you, Willie? I believe +he did." + +"God knows! When--how did you know me, Mrs. Tree?" + +"Get up, Willie Jaquith, and I'll tell you. Sit down; there's the chair +you made together, when you were fifteen. Remember, hey? I knew your +voice at the door, or I thought I did. Then when you wouldn't look at +the bead puppy, I hadn't much doubt; and when I said 'Cat's foot!' and +you laughed, I knew for sure. You've had a hard time, Willie, but you +are the same boy." + +"If you would not be kind, I think it would be easier. You ought to give +me up, you know, and let me go to jail. I'm a drunkard and a vagrant, +and worse--but--you won't--do that--you won't do that." + +"No! I won't. Hark, there's some one at the door--it's 'Malviny Weight.' +Now you lie down and rest--yes, you will--that press there is full of +Arthur's clothes--then you come down and talk to me--You do as I tell +you, Willie Jaquith, or I'll set the parrot on you; remember when he +bit you for stealing his apple,--there's the scar still on your cheek. +Greatest wonder in the world he didn't put your eye out. Served you +right if he had, too--Yes, Malviny, I'm coming!" + +And as Mrs. Tree descended the stairs she was met by Mrs. Weight, who +broke out saying: + +"I've waited most an hour to see that tramp come out. Deacon's away, and +I was scairt to death, but I'm a mother and I had to come. How I had the +courage I don't know, when I thought you and Mis' Tree might meet my +eyes both layin' dead in this entry. Where is he? Don't you help or +harbor him now, Direxia Hawkes! I saw his evil eye as he stood on the +doorstep, and I knew by the way he peeked and peered that he was after +no good. Where is he? I know he didn't go out. Hush! Don't say a word! +I'll slip out and round and get Hiram Sawyer. My boys is to +singing-school, and it was a special ordering that I happened to look +out at the window just that moment of time. Where did you say he--" + +"Why, good evening, Malviny, what was it you were saying?" + +"I'm sure, Mis' Tree, it's not on my own account I come. I'm the last to +intrude, as any one in this village can tell you. But you are an ancient +woman, and your neighbors are bound to protect you when need is. I see +that tramp come in here with my own eyes, and he's here for no good." + +"What tramp?" + +"Good land, Mis' Tree, didn't you see him? He slipped right in past +Direxia. I see him with these eyes." + +"When?" + +"'Most an hour ago. I've been watching ever since. Don't tell me you +didn't know about him bein' here, Mis' Tree, now don't." + +"I won't." + +"He's hid away somewheres! Direxia Hawkes has hid him; he is an +accomplish of hers. You've always trusted that woman, Mis' Tree, but I +tell you I've had my eye on her these ten years, and now I have found +her out. She's hid him away somewheres, I tell you. There's cupboards +and closets enough in this house to hide a whole gang of cutthroats +in--and when you're abed and asleep they'll have your life, them two, +and run off with your worldly goods that you thought so much of. Would +have, that is, if I hadn't have had a special ordering to look out of +the winder. Oh, how thankful should I be that I kept the use of my +limbs, though I was scairt 'most to death, and am now." + +"Yes, they might be useful to you, to get home with, for instance. +There, that will do, Malvina Weight. There is no tramp here. Your +eyesight is failing; there were always weak eyes in your family. There's +no tramp here, and there has been none." + +"Mis' Tree! I tell you I see him with these--" + +"Bah! don't talk to me! There is no tramp here and there has been +none--what you took for a tramp is a gentleman that's come to stay over +night with me--he's upstairs now--did you lock your door, Malvina--There +are tramps about and if Ephraim's away--well, good-night, Malvina, if +you must go. [She goes out.] Now, Direxia, you shut that door and if +that woman calls again to-night you set the parrot on her." + +The next morning found Mrs. Tree an early riser and it was with +eagerness she greeted her visitor. + +"You are better this morning, Willie, yes, you are--now go on and tell +me--after all your bad luck you took to drink. That wasn't very +sensible, was it?" + +"I didn't care," said William Jaquith. "It helped me to forget a bit at +a time. I thought I could give it up any day, but I didn't. Then--I lost +my place, of course, and started to come East, and had my pocket picked +in Denver, of every cent I had. I tried for work there, but between +sickness and drink I wasn't good for much. I started tramping. I thought +I would tramp--it was last spring, and warm weather coming on--till I'd +got my health back, and then I'd steady down and get some work, and come +back to mother when I was fit to look her in the face. Then--in some +place, I forget--I came upon a King's County paper with mother's death +in it." + +"What!" + +"O! I know I wasn't fit to see her--but I lost all hope then." + +"Why don't you give up drink?" + +"Where's the use? I would if there were any use, but mother is dead." + +"Cat's foot--fiddlestick--folderol--fudge! She's no more dead than I am. +Don't talk to me! Hold on to yourself now, Willie Jaquith, and don't +make a scene; it is a thing I cannot abide. It was Maria Jaquith that +died, over at East Corners. Small loss she was, too. None of that family +was ever worth their salt. The fool who writes for the papers put her in +'Mary,' and gave out that she died here in Elmerton just because they +brought her here to bury. They've always buried here in the family lot, +as if they were of some account. I was afraid you might hear of it, +Willie, and wrote to the last place I heard of you in, but of course it +was of no use. Mary Jaquith is alive, I tell you. Now where are you +going?" + +"To mother!" + +"Yes, I would! Sit down, Willie Jaquith; do as I tell you! There! feel +pretty well, hey? Your mother is blind." + +"Oh, mother! mother! I have left her alone all this time." + +"Exactly! Now don't go into a caniption, because it won't do any good. +Here comes Direxia with your breakfast--you eat it and then we'll go and +see your mother." + +Out of doors the morning was bright and clear. Mrs. Malvina Weight, +sweeping her front chamber, with an anxious eye on the house opposite, +saw the door open and Mrs. Tree come out, followed by a tall young man. +The old lady wore the huge black velvet bonnet, surmounted by a bird of +paradise, which she had brought from Paris forty years before, and an +India shawl which had pointed a moral to the pious of Elmerton for more +than that length of time. Mrs. Weight's curiosity knew no bounds when +she saw them turn into the old Jaquith place. She would have been more +astounded if she could have heard Mrs. Tree begin at once with: + +"Well, Mary Jaquith, here you sit!" + +"Mrs. Tree! Is this you?" asked Mrs. Jaquith; "my dear soul, what brings +you out so early in the morning? Come in! come in! who is with you?" + +"I didn't say any one was with me! Don't you go to setting double-action +ears like mine, Mary, because you are not old enough to. How are you? +Obstinate as ever?" + +"Take this chair, it's the one you always like. How am I obstinate, dear +Mrs. Tree?" + +"If I've asked you once to come and live with me, I've asked you fifty +times," grumbled the old lady, sitting down with a good deal of flutter +and rustle. "There I must stay, left alone at my age, with nobody but +that old goose of a Direxia Hawkes to look after me. And all because you +like to be independent. Set you up! Well, I shan't ask you again, and so +I've come to tell you, Mary Jaquith." + +"Dear old friend, you forgive me, I know. You never can have thought for +a moment, seriously, that I could be a burden on your kind hands. There +surely is some one with you, Mrs. Tree! Is it Direxia? Please be seated, +whoever it is." + +There was a slight sound, as of a sob checked in the outbreak. Mrs. Tree +shook her head fiercely. The blind woman rose from her seat, very pale. + +"Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me." + +"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for +two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I +had a visitor last night, Mary--some one came to see me--an old +acquaintance--some one who had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if +you don't sit down,--well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!" + +The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of +appeal,--of welcome, of love unutterable,--and in a moment more her +son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again, +"Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[79] An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen. + + + + +THE PORTRAIT + +ROBERT BULWER LYTTON + + + Midnight past! Not a sound of aught + Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. + I sat by the dying fire, and thought + Of the dear dead woman upstairs. + + A night of tears! for the gusty rain + Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; + And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, + With her face all white and wet: + + Nobody with me, my watch to keep, + But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: + And grief had sent him fast to sleep + In the chamber up above. + + Nobody else, in the country place + All round, that knew of my loss beside, + But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, + Who confessed her when she died. + + The good young priest is of gentle nerve, + And my grief had moved him beyond control; + For his lips grew white, as I could observe, + When he speeded her parting soul. + + I sat by the dreary hearth alone; + I thought of the pleasant days of yore. + I said, "The staff of my life is gone; + The woman I loved is no more. + + "On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies + Which next to her heart she used to wear,-- + Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes + When my own face was not there. + + "It is set all round with rubies red, + And pearls which a Peri might have kept; + For each ruby there my heart hath bled; + For each pearl my eyes have wept." + + And I said, "The thing is precious to me, + They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay; + It lies on her heart, and lost must be, + If I do not take it away." + + I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, + And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright, + Till into the chamber of death I came, + Where she lay all in white. + + The moon shone over her winding-sheet. + There, stark she lay on her carven bed; + Seven burning tapers about her feet, + And seven about her head. + + As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; + I turned as I drew the curtains apart; + I dared not look on the face of death, + I knew where to find her heart. + + I thought, at first, as my touch fell there, + It had warmed that heart to life, with love; + For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, + And I could feel it move. + + 'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow + O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side; + And at once the sweat broke over my brow, + "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried. + + Opposite me, by the tapers' light, + The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, + Stood over the corpse, and all as white, + And neither of us moved. + + "What do you here, my friend?" ... The man + Looked first at me, and then at the dead. + "There is a portrait here," he began; + "There is. It is mine," I said. + + Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, + The portrait was, till a month ago, + When this suffering angel took that out, + And placed mine there, I know." + + "This woman, she loved me well," said I. + "A month ago," said my friend to me; + "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" + He answered ... "Let us see." + + "Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: + And whosesoever the portrait prove, + His shall it be, when the cause is tried, + Where Death is arraigned by Love." + + We found the portrait there in its place; + We opened it, by the tapers' shine; + The gems were all unchanged; the face + Was--neither his nor mine. + + "One nail drives out another, at least! + The face of the portrait there," I cried, + "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest, + Who confessed her when she died." + + The setting is all of rubies red, + And pearls which a Peri might have kept; + For each ruby there my heart hath bled; + For each pearl my eyes have wept. + + + + +THE TELL-TALE HEART + +A MURDERER'S CONFESSION + +EDGAR ALLAN POE + + +True!--nervous--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why +will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how +calmly I can tell you the whole story. + +It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once +conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Passion, +there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had +never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his +eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture--a +pale-blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood +ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take +the life of the old man, and thus rid my life of him forever. + +Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you +should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with +what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to +work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week +before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch +of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an +opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, +closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you +would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it +slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's +sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so +far that I could see him as he lay upon the bed. Ha!--would a madman +have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, +I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the +hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon +the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just +at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible +to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil +eye. + +Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the +door. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and +he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled +at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, +as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was +as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close +fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see +the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. + +I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb +slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed +crying out--"Who's there?" + +I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a +muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. + +Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal +terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief--oh, no!--it was the low, +stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged +with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew that he had been lying awake +ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His +fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy +them causeless, but could not. + +When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie +down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the +lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily, +stealthily--until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the +spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye. + +It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I +saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil +over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see +nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray +as if by instinct, precisely upon the spot. + +Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch +makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the +beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of +a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. + +But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed; I held the +lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon +the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew +quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's +terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every +moment! do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous; so I am. +And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that +old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable +terror. Yet for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the +beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. + +And now a new anxiety seized me--the sound could be heard by a neighbor! +The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell I threw open the lantern +and leaped into the room. He shrieked once--once only. In an instant I +dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then +smiled gayly to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the +heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it +would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man +was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. I placed my hand +upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. +He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. + +If you still think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe +the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night +waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered +the corpse. + +I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber and +deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so +cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye--not even his--could have +detected anything wrong. + +When I had made an end of these labors it was four o'clock--still dark +as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the +street door. I went down to open it with a light heart--for what had I +now to fear? Then entered three men who introduced themselves, with +perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by +a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; +information had been lodged at the police office, and the officers had +been deputed to search the premises. + +I smiled--for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The +shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was +absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade +them search--search well. I led them at length to his chamber. I showed +them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my +confidence I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest +from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect +triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the +corpse of the victim. + +The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was +singularly at ease. But ere long I felt myself getting pale and wished +them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still +they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct; it +continued and gained definitiveness--until at length I found that the +noise was not within my ears. + +No doubt I grew very pale; but I talked more fluently and with a +heightened voice. Yet the sound increased--and what could I do? It was a +low, dull, quick sound--much such a sound as a watch makes when +enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath--and yet the officers heard it +not. I talked more quickly--more vehemently; but the noise steadily +increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with +heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men--but +the noise steadily increased. O God! what could I do? I foamed--I +raved--I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and +grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually +increased. It grew louder--louder--louder. And still the men chatted +pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? + +They heard!--they suspected!--they knew!--they were making a mockery of +my horror! this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better +than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could +bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or +die!--and now--again!--hark! louder! louder! louder! louder! + +"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed--tear up +the planks! here! here! it is the beating of his hideous heart!" + + + + +THE UNCLE + +H. G. BELL + + + I had an uncle once--a man + Of threescore years and three, + And when my reason's dawn began, + He'd take me on his knee, + And often talk, whole winter nights, + Things that seemed strange to me. + + He was a man of gloomy mood, + And few his converse sought; + But, it was said, in solitude + His conscience with him wrought; + And then, before his mental eye, + Some hideous vision brought. + + There was not one in all the house + Who did not fear his frown, + Save I, a little, careless child, + Who gamboled up and down, + And often peeped into his room, + And plucked him by his gown. + + I was an orphan and alone-- + My father was his brother, + And all their lives I knew that they + Had fondly loved each other; + And in my uncle's room there hung + The picture of my mother. + + There was a curtain over it-- + 'Twas in a darkened place, + And few or none had ever looked + Upon my mother's face; + Or seen her pale, expressive smile + Of melancholy grace. + + One night--I do remember well, + The wind was howling high, + And through the ancient corridors + It sounded drearily; + I sat and read in that old hall; + My uncle sat close by. + + I read--but little understood + The words upon the book, + For with a sidelong glance I marked + My uncle's fearful look, + And saw how all his quivering frame + In strong convulsions shook. + + A silent terror o'er me stole, + A strange, unusual dread; + His lips were white as bone--his eyes + Sunk far down in his head; + He gazed on me, but 'twas the gaze + Of the unconscious dead. + + Then suddenly he turned him round, + And drew aside the veil + That hung before my mother's face; + Perchance my eyes might fail, + But ne'er before that face to me + Had seemed so ghastly pale. + + "Come hither, boy!" my uncle said-- + I started at the sound; + 'Twas choked and stifled, in his throat, + And hardly utterance found; + "Come hither, boy!" then fearfully + He cast his eyes around. + + "That lady was thy mother once-- + Thou wert her only child; + O God! I've seen her when she held + Thee in her arms and smiled-- + She smiled upon thy father, boy, + 'Twas that which drove me wild! + + "He was my brother, but his form + Was fairer far than mine; + I grudged not that;--he was the prop + Of our ancestral line, + And manly beauty was of him + A token and a sign. + + "Boy! I had loved her too--nay, more, + 'Twas I who loved her first; + For months--for years--the golden thought + Within my soul was nursed; + He came--he conquered--they were wed-- + My air-blown bubble burst! + + "Then on my mind a shadow fell, + And evil hopes grew rife; + The damning thought stuck in my heart, + And cut me like a knife, + That she, whom all my days I loved, + Should be another's wife! + + "I left my home--I left the land-- + I crossed the raging sea; + In vain--in vain--where'er I turned, + My memory went with me; + My whole existence, night and day, + In memory seemed to be. + + "I came again, I found them here-- + Thou'rt like thy father, boy-- + He doted on that pale face there, + I've seen them kiss and toy-- + I've seen him locked in her fond arms, + Wrapped in delirious joy! + + "By Heaven! it was a fearful thing, + To see my brother now, + And mark the placid calm that sat + Forever on his brow, + That seemed in bitter scorn to say, + I am more loved than thou! + + "He disappeared--draw nearer, child!-- + He died--no one knew how; + The murdered body ne'er was found, + The tale is hushed up now; + But there was one who rightly guessed + The hand that struck the blow. + + "It drove her mad--yet not his death-- + No--not his death alone; + For she had clung to hope, when all + Knew well that there was none; + No, boy! it was a sight she saw + That froze her into stone! + + "I am thy uncle, child--why stare + So frightfully aghast?-- + The arras waves, but know'st thou not + 'Tis nothing but the blast? + I, too, have had my fears like these, + But such vain fears are past. + + "I'll show thee what thy mother saw-- + I feel 'twill ease my breast, + And this wild tempest-laden night + Suits with the purpose best. + Come hither--thou hast often sought + To open this old chest. + + "It has a secret spring; the touch + Is known to me alone; + Slowly I raise the lid, and now-- + What see you, that you groan + So heavily? That thing is but + A bare-ribbed skeleton." + + A sudden crash--the lid fell down-- + Three strides he backward gave, + "Oh, God! it is my brother's self + Returning from the grave! + His grasp of lead is on my throat-- + Will no one help or save?" + + That night they laid him on his bed, + In raving madness tossed; + He gnashed his teeth, and with wild oaths + Blasphemed the Holy Ghost; + And, ere the light of morning broke, + A sinner's soul was lost. + + + + +VI + +SCENES FROM THE DRAMA + + + The selections in this division are cut, condensed, and adapted for + practical use as dramas or monologues. In some cases lines of the + text as well as explanations are written in to connect the scenes + for clearer unity. For scenes from Shakespeare and readings from + the Bible, already universally printed and accessible, see the + indexes and directions as to the omissions of lines in various + cuttings in Fulton and Trueblood's "Choice Readings," published by + Messrs. Ginn & Company. + + + + +THE BELLS + +HENRY L. WILLIAMS + + +ACT III, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz, + the magnetizer; the Judge. + + SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains; + Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous + burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew, + fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been + apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition + of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and + consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who assures him that he has power + to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis + isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the + night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and + as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among + the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that + he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him. + + +_Enter_ MATTHIS + +MAT. Happy fellow! happy fellows all of them! A man may play against +fate if he only prepares his cards--I hold none but good ones in my +hand. Ha, ha! They have their skins full of my best wine, and go home +happy as kings. Ha, ha! there'll be some funny flounderings in the snow +before they reach home. It's singular what magic is melted into +wine--one draught, and all the clouds are sunshine. It's dark! it's very +dark--and, though the wind has fallen, the fine snow sweeps down the +road like a train of phantoms. All is well! You may shake hands with +yourself, Hans Matthis! you have triumphed over both the world and +Heaven! I am so sleepy! If I rest here a--a moment? Ah! One is always +drowsy in cold weather. No one can hear me if I speak--in a dream--no +one--the Jew!--dreams, nonsense! [_Sleeps_.] + +_Enter_ DR. FRANTZ _and the_ JUDGE + +DR. F. My lord, it is the will of this tribunal which leads me here, not +mine. + +JUDGE. Can you place that man in the mesmeric sleep? + +DR. F. I can. But he is strong-willed, and the task may be hard. + +MAT. No, no! I have no fear. [_Shudders; aside_.] Matthis, if you fall +asleep you will be lost! + +DR. F. [_to_ MATTHIS]. I will that you should sleep! [_Makes magnetic +passes while looking at_ MATTHIS.] + +MAT. No, no! + +DR. F. It is my will. He sleeps. What must I ask? + +JUDGE. What he did on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago. + +DR. F. I command you to be on the night of December the +four-and-twentieth, year 1853. + +MAT. [_softly_]. Yes. + +DR. F. What is the hour? + +MAT. It is half-past eleven o'clock. + +DR. F. Speak! It is my will! + +MAT. The customers have left the inn. Catherine and little Annette have +gone to bed. Kaspar comes in and says--the fire in the lime-kiln is +drawing well. I answer: "Very good. Go to bed. I'll go have a look at +it." He goes up stairs. I am alone with the Polish Jew, who is warming +himself at the stove. All are asleep in the village. All I heard was the +sleigh-bell jingling on the Polander's horse in the shed. There was two +feet of snow on the ground. I thought of my want of money. If I did not +have three thousand francs by the end of the month, the inn would be +taken from me. I thought--no one is on the road--'tis night, and the +Polander will be all alone in the snow. He is well-built, and strong. +[_As if he saw the man before him._] I warrant he will hold out stoutly +if any one touches him. Ah! he looks at me with his little gray eyes. I +must do my work! Yes. I shall risk it! I go out. It is black as ink, +except for the falling snow. There would be no footsteps in the road. I +search his sledge--he might have had pistols! but there are none. I will +do it! Hark! no--not a sound, save a child crying--a goat bleating--and +the tramp overhead of the Polander in his chamber. I went in. He comes +down, and puts six francs on the table. I give him change. He looks a +long look at me, and asks how far to Mootzig? Four short leagues, say +I--and wish him a merry journey! He answers: "God bless you!" [_Pause._] +Ho, ho! the belt! the money-belt! He goes--he has gone! [MATTHIS +_stooping, goes a few steps as if following a trail._] The axe--where is +the axe? Ah! here--behind the door! How cold it is! Still falls the +snow, and far above, I see the shooting stars. Haste, Matthis, for the +prize--the money-belt! I follow--out of the village--to the open--how +cold it is! [_Shivers._] Yonder looms up the big bridge--there ripples +the rivulet out of sight under the snow. How the dogs bayed, on Daniel's +farm! and the blacksmith's forge glowed red on the hill-side like a +setting sun. Matthis, slay not the man! You are mad! You will be rich, +and your wife and child will want for nothing! The Polander had no +business to flaunt his money-belt in your face, when you owe money! The +bridge! I am already at the bridge! And no one! how still it is! how +cold! though I am warm--Hark! one o'clock by the village church! and the +moon is rising! Oh! the Jew has passed, and I am right glad of it! No! +what do I hear? the bell! the sleigh-bell. I shall be rich, I shall be +rich, rich, rich! [_The bell tinkles._] Down! I have you, dog of a Jew! +He has his score settled! Not a finger stirs. All is over! Ah! Away +rushes the horse with the sledge! but silently--the bell has been shaken +off! Hark, hark--a step! No! only the wind and a fall of snow. Quick, +quick, the money-belt! 'tis full! it bursts with my eager clutch! ah! +the coins have fallen! here, here and there! And now for home! no, +no--the body--it must not tell its story! [_Rolls up the mantle and puts +it on his shoulder._] Hush! the kiln, the lime-kiln. It is heavy! Into +the fire. Jew! fire and flames for the Jew! Oh! what eyes! with what +eyes does he regard me! Be a man, Matthis, look! look boldly! not even +his bones are left! Now, away with the belt--pocket the gold--that's +right! No one will ever know. The proofs are gone forever! + +DR. F. What more shall he be asked? + +JUDGE. No more. Wake him and let him see himself. [MATTHIS _sits in the +chair as at first_.] + +DR. F. Awake! I will it. + +MAT. Where am I? Ah, yes--what have I done? Wretch! I have confessed it +all! I am a lost man! + +JUDGE. You stand self-condemned! Inasmuch as Hans Matthis, on the +morning of the 25th of December, 1853, between the hours of midnight and +one o'clock, committed the crime of murder and highway robbery upon the +person of Baruch Koweski, with malice prepense, we condemn him to be +hanged by the neck till death shall ensue. And may Heaven have mercy on +his soul! Usher, let the executioner appear and take charge of the +condemned. [_Curtain._ + + + + +THE LADY OF LYONS + +ROBERT BULWER LYTTON + +ACT II, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and + heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, + the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline. + + Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or nobleman. + Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in + educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful + musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a + poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent + insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a + prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his + mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of + winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an untitled man + after he has revealed his identity, Melnotte enters into a binding + compact. + + Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons. + + +_Enter_ MELNOTTE _as the Prince of Como, leading_ PAULINE + +MEL. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position +to merit--not birth. + +PAULINE. Why, yes; but still-- + +MEL. Still what, Pauline? + +PAULINE. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man +who has ancestors is like a representative of the past. + +MEL. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is +a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks +true nobility, and finds its blazon in posterity. + +PAULINE. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, +prince, must be proud of so illustrious a race! + +MEL. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on +the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the +incentives to exertion, not the title-deeds to sloth! I honor the +laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers--it is our fathers I +emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted +my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes! + +PAULINE. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou +lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of +Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear +to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou +describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a noble scorn, as if +custom had made thee disdain greatness. + + + MEL. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint + The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers, + This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale + Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; + Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold + And whispering myrtles; glassing softest skies, + As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, + As I would have thy fate! + + PAULINE. My own dear love! + + MEL. A palace lifting to eternal summer + Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower + Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, + Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon + We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder + Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens + Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends + That were not lovers; no ambition, save + To excel them all in love; we'd read no books + That were not tales of love--that we might smile + To think how poorly eloquence of words + Translates the poetry of hearts like ours! + And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens + We'd guess what star should be our home when love + Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light + Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, + And every air was heavy with the sighs + Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, + And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth + I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture? + + PAULINE. Oh, as the bee upon the flower, I hang + Upon the honey of thy eloquent tongue! + Am I not blest? And if I love too wildly, + Who would not love thee like Pauline? + + MEL. Oh, false one! + It is the prince thou lovest, not the man; + If in the stead of luxury, pomp, and power, + I had painted poverty, and toil, and care, + Thou hadst found no honey on my tongue; Pauline, + That is not love. + + PAULINE. Thou wrong'st me, cruel Prince! + At first, in truth, I might not have been won, + Save through the weakness of a flatter'd pride; + But now--oh! trust me--couldst thou fall from power + And sink-- + + MEL. As low as that poor gardener's son + Who dared to lift his eyes to thee? + + PAULINE. Even then, + Methinks thou wouldst be only made more dear + By the sweet thought that I could prove how deep + Is woman's love! We are like the insects, caught + By the poor glittering of a garish flame; + But, oh, the wings once scorch'd, the brightest star + Lures us no more; and by the fatal light + We cling till death! + + MEL. Angel! [_Aside._] O conscience! conscience! + It must not be--her love hath grown a torture + Worse than her hate. I will at once to Beauseant, + And--ha! he comes. Sweet love, one moment leave me. + I have business with these gentlemen--I--I + Will forthwith join you. + + PAULINE. I obey, sweet Prince. [_Exit separately._ + + + + +ACT III, SCENE II + + + CHARACTERS: Pauline, Claude, and the Widow Melnotte, the mother of + Claude. + + SCENE: Melnotte's cottage, widow bustling about, a table spread for + supper. + + +WIDOW. So, I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted +that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. +She must have loved him well indeed to have forgotten his birth; for +though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to +have revealed to her the artifice; which her love only could forgive. +Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought +to be one, and that's almost as good. [_Knock at door._] Ah! here they +are. + +_Enter_ MELNOTTE _and_ PAULINE + +WIDOW. Oh, my boy--the pride of my heart!--welcome, welcome. I beg +pardon, ma'am, but I do love him so! + +PAULINE. Good woman, I really--why, Prince, what is this?--does the old +lady know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof +of your kind heart; is it not? + +MEL. Of my kind heart, ay! + +PAULINE. So you know the Prince? + +WIDOW. Know him, madam? Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not! + +PAULINE. Can we stay here, my lord? I think there's something very wild +about her. + +MEL. Madam, I--no, I cannot tell her; what a coward is a man who has +lost his honor! Speak to her--speak to her--[_to his mother_] tell her +that--O Heaven, that I were dead! + +PAULINE. How confused he looks!--this strange place!--this woman--what +can it mean?--I half suspect--who are you, madam?--who are you? can't +you speak? are you struck dumb? + +WIDOW. Claude, you have not deceived her? Ah, shame upon you! I thought +that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all. + +PAULINE. All! what! My blood freezes in my veins! + +WIDOW. Poor lady--dare I tell her, Claude? Know you not, then, madam, +that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that +you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte? + +PAULINE. Your son! hold--hold! do not speak to me. [_Approaches_ +MELNOTTE.] Is this a jest? is it? I know it is, only speak--one +word--one look--one smile. I cannot believe--I who loved thee so--I +cannot believe that thou art such a--no, I will not wrong thee by a +harsh word! Speak. + +MEL. Leave us. [_To_ WIDOW.] Have pity on her, on me; leave us! + +WIDOW. Oh, Claude, that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee +of whom I was so proud! [_Exit._ + +PAULINE. Her son--her son! + + MEL. Now, lady, hear me. + + + PAULINE. Hear thee! + Ay, speak--her son! have fiends a parent? speak, + That thou mayst silence curses--speak! + + MEL. No, curse me; + Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness. + + PAULINE [_laughing wildly_]. This is thy palace, where "the + perfumed light + Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps, + And every air is heavy with the sighs + Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, + And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth + I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?" + This is my bridal home, and thou my bridegroom! + O fool--O dupe--O wretch! I see it all. + The by-word and the jeer of every tongue + In Lyons. Hast thou in thy heart one touch + Of human kindness? if thou hast, why kill me, + And save thy wife from madness. No, it cannot-- + It cannot be; this is some horrid dream; + I shall wake soon. [_Touching him._] Art flesh? art man? or + but + The shadows seen in sleep? It is too real. + What have I done to thee? how sinn'd against thee, + That thou shouldst crush me thus? + + MEL. Pauline, by pride + Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride-- + That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold-- + The evil spirit of a bitter love, + And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. + From my first years my soul was fill'd with thee; + I saw thee midst the flow'rs the lowly boy + Tended, unmark'd by thee--a spirit of bloom, + And joy, and freshness, as if Spring itself + Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape! + I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man + Enter'd the breast of the wild-dreaming boy. + And from that hour I grew--what to the last + I shall be--thine adorer! Well, this love, + Vain, frantic, guilty, if thou wilt, became + A fountain of ambition and bright hope; + I thought of tales that by the winter hearth + Old gossips tell--how maidens, sprung from kings, + Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how love, like death, + Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook + Beside the scepter. + My father died; and I, the peasant born, + Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise + Out of the prison of my mean estate; + And, with such jewels as the exploring mind + Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom + From those twin jailers of the daring heart-- + Low birth and iron fortune. For thee I grew + A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages. + For thee I sought to borrow from each grace, + And every muse, such attributes as lend + Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, + And passion taught me poesy--of thee, + And on the painter's canvas grew the life + Of beauty! Art became the shadow + Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes! + Men call'd me vain--some mad--I heeded not; + But still toil'd on--hoped on--for it was sweet, + If not to win, to feel more worthy thee. + + PAULINE. Why do I cease to hate him! + + MEL. At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour + The thoughts that burst their channels into song, + And set them to thee--such a tribute, lady, + As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. + The name--appended by the burning heart + That long'd to show its idol what bright things + It had created--yea, the enthusiast's name, + That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn; + That very hour--when passion, turn'd to wrath, + Resembled hatred most--when thy disdain + Made my whole soul a chaos--in that hour + The tempters, found me a revengeful tool + For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-- + It turned and stung thee! + + PAULINE. Love, sir, hath no sting. + What was the slight of a poor powerless girl + To the deep wrong of this most vile revenge? + Oh, how I loved this man!--a serf--a slave! + + MEL. Hold, lady! No, not a slave! Despair is free. + I will not tell thee of the throes--the struggles-- + The anguish--the remorse. No, let it pass! + And let me come to such most poor atonement + Yet in my power. Pauline!-- + + PAULINE. No, touch me not! + I know my fate. You are, by law, my tyrant; + And I--O Heaven!--a peasant's wife! I'll work-- + Toil--drudge--do what thou wilt--but touch me not! + Let my wrongs make me sacred! + + MEL. Do not fear me. + Thou dost not know me, madam; at the altar + My vengeance ceased--my guilty oath expired! + Henceforth, no image of some marble saint, + Niched in cathedral aisles, is hallowed more + From the rude hand of sacrilegious wrong. + I am thy husband--nay, thou need'st not shudder!-- + Here, at thy feet, I lay a husband's rights. + A marriage thus unholy--unfulfill'd-- + A bond of fraud--is, by the laws of France, + Made void and null. To-night sleep--sleep in peace. + To-morrow, pure and virgin as this morn + I bore thee, bathed in blushes, from the shrine, + Thy father's arms shall take thee to thy home. + The law shall do thee justice, and restore + Thy right to bless another with thy love. + And when them art happy, and hast half forgot + Him who so loved--so wrong'd thee, think at least + Heaven left some remnant of the angel still + In that poor peasant's nature! Ho! my mother! + + _Enter_ WIDOW + + Conduct this lady (she is not my wife; + She is our guest--our honor'd guest, my mother) + To the poor chamber, where the sleep of virtue + Never, beneath my father's honest roof, + E'en villains dared to mar! Now, lady, now + I think thou wilt believe me. + Go, my mother! + + WIDOW. She is not thy wife! + + MEL. Hush, hush! for mercy's sake! + Speak not, but go. + + [_Exit_ WIDOW. PAULINE _follows, weeping--turns to look back_. + + All angels bless and guard her! + + + + +RIP VAN WINKLE[80] + +WASHINGTON IRVING + + +ACT I, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Derrick Von Beekman, the villain of the + play, who endeavors to get Rip drunk, in order to have him sign + away his property; Nick Vedder, the village innkeeper. + + SCENE: The village inn; present, Von Beekman, alone. + + +_Enter_ RIP, _shaking off the children, who cling about him_ + +RIP [_to the children_]. Say! hullo, dere, yu Yacob Stein! Let that dog +Schneider alone, will you? Dere, I tole you dat all de time, if you +don'd let him alone he's goin' to bide you! Why, hullo, Derrick! How you +was? Ach, my! Did you hear dem liddle fellers just now? Dey most plague +me crazy. Ha, ha, ha! I like to laugh my outsides in every time I tink +about it. Just now, as we was comin' along togedder, Schneider and me--I +don'd know if you know Schneider myself? Well, he's my dog. Well, dem +liddle fellers, dey took Schneider, und--ha, ha, ha!--dey--ha, ha, +ha!--dey tied a tin kettle mit his tail! Ha, ha, ha! My gracious! Of you +had seen dat dog run! My, how scared he was! Vell, he was a-runnin' an' +de kettle was a-bangin' an'--ha, ha, ha! you believe it, dat dog, he run +right betwixt me an' my legs! Ha, ha, ha! He spill me und all dem leddle +fellers down in de mud togedder. Ha, ha, ha! + +VON B. Ah, yes, that's all right, Rip, very funny, very funny; but what +do you say to a glass of liquor, Rip? + +RIP. Well, now, Derrick, what do I generally say to a glass? I generally +say it's a good ting, don'd I? Und I generally say a good deal more to +what is in it, dan to de glass. + +VON B. Certainly, certainly! Say, hallo, there! Nick Vedder, bring out a +bottle of your best! + +RIP. Dat's right--fill 'em up. You wouldn't believe, Derrick, but dat is +de first one I have had to-day. I guess maybe de reason is, I couldn't +got it before. Ah, Derrick, my score is too big! Well, here is your good +health und your family's--may dey all live long and prosper. [_They +drink._] Ach! you may well smack your lips, und go ah, ah! over dat +liquor. You don'd give me such liquor like dat every day, Nick Vedder. +Well, come on, fill 'em up again. Git out mit dat water, Nick Vedder, I +don'd want no water in my liquor. Good liquor und water, Nick Vedder, is +just like man and wife, dey don'd agree well togedder--dat's me und my +wife, any way. Well, come on again. Here is your good health und your +family's, und may dey all live long und prosper! + +NICK VEDDER. That's right, Rip; drink away, and "drown your sorrows in +the flowing bowl." + +RIP. Drown my sorrows? Ya, dat's all very well, but she don'd drown. My +wife is my sorrow und you can't drown her; she tried it once, but she +couldn't do it. What, didn't you hear about dat, de day what Gretchen +she like to got drownded? Ach, my; dat's de funniest ting in de world. +I'll tell you all about it. It was de same day what we got married. I +bet I don'd forget dat day so long what I live. You know dat Hudson +River what dey git dem boats over--well, dat's de same place. Well, you +know dat boat what Gretchen she was a-goin' to come over in, dat got +upsetted--ya, just went righd by der boddom. But she wasn't in de boat. +Oh, no; if she had been in de boat, well, den, maybe she might have got +drownded. You can't tell anyting at all about a ting like dat! + +VON B. Ah, no; but I'm sure, Rip, if Gretchen were to fall into the +water now, you would risk your life to save her. + +RIP. Would I? Well, I am not so sure about dat myself. When we was first +got married? Oh, ya; I know I would have done it den, but I don'd know +how it would be now. But it would be a good deal more my duty now as it +was den. Don'd you know, Derrick, when a man gits married a long +time--mit his wife, he gits a good deal attached mit her, und it would +be a good deal more my duty now as it was den. But I don'd know, +Derrick. I am afraid if Gretchen should fall in de water now und should +say, "Rip, Rip! help me oud"--I should say, "Mrs. Van Winkle, I will +just go home and tink about it." Oh, no, Derrick; if Gretchen fall in de +water now she's got to swim, I told you dat--ha, ha, ha, ha! Hullo! +dat's her a-comin' now; I guess it's bedder I go oud! [_Exit_ RIP. + + +ACT II, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Rip Van Winkle; Gretchen, his wife; Meenie, their + little daughter. + + SCENE: The dimly lighted kitchen of Rip's cottage. Shortly after + his conversation with Von Beekman, Rip's wife catches him carousing + and dancing upon the village green. She drives him away in no very + gentle fashion, and he runs away from her only to carouse the more. + Returning home after nightfall in a decidedly muddled condition, he + puts his head through the open window at the rear, not observing + his irate wife, who stands in ambush behind the clothes-bars with + her ever-ready broomstick, to give him a warm reception, but seeing + only his little daughter Meenie, of whom he is very fond, and who + also loves him very tenderly. + + +RIP. Meenie! Meenie, my darlin'! + +MEENIE. Hush-sh-h. [_Shaking finger, to indicate the presence of her +mother._] + +RIP. Eh! what's de matter? I don'd see not'ing, my darlin'. + +MEENIE. 'Sh-sh-sh! + +RIP. Eh! what? Say, Meenie, is de ole wild cat home? [GRETCHEN _catches +him quickly by the hair_.] Oh, oh! say, is dat you, Gretchen? Say, dere, +my darlin', my angel, don'd do dat. Let go my head, won'd you? Well, +den, hold on to it so long what you like. [GRETCHEN _releases him_.] +Dere, now, look at dat, see what you done--you gone pull out a whole +handful of hair. What you want to do a ting like dat for? You must want +a bald-headed husband, don'd you? + +GRETCHEN. Who was that you called a wild cat? + +RIP. Who was dat I called a wild cat? Well, now, let me see, who was dat +I called a wild cat? Dat must 'a' been de same time I come in de winder +dere, wasn't it? Yes, I know, it was de same time. Well, now, let me +see. _[Suddenly.]_ It was de dog Schneider dat I call it. + +GRETCHEN. The dog Schneider? That's a likely story. + +RIP. Why, of course it is a likely story--ain't he my dog? Well, den, I +call him a wild cat just so much what I like, so dere now. [_Gretchen +begins to weep_.] Oh, well; dere, now, don'd you cry, don'd you cry, +Gretchen; you hear what I said? Lisden now. If you don'd cry, I nefer +drink anoder drop of liquor in my life. + +GRETCHEN [_crying_]. Oh, Rip! you have said so many, many times, and you +never kept your word yet. + +RIP. Well, I say it dis time, and I mean it. + +GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip! if I could only trust you. + +RIP. You mustn't suspect me. Can't you see repentance in my eye? + +GRETCHEN. Rip, if you will only keep your word, I shall be the happiest +woman in the world. + +RIP. You can believe it. I nefer drink anoder drop so long what I live, +if you don'd cry. + +GRETCHEN. Oh, Rip, how happy we shall be! And you'll get back all the +village, Rip, just as you used to have it; and you'll fix up our little +house so nicely; and you and I, and our little darling Meenie, here--how +happy we shall be! + +RIP. Dere, now! you can be just so happy what you like. Go in de odder +room, go along mit you; I come in dere pooty quick. [_Exit_ GRETCHEN and +MEENIE.] My! I swore off from drinkin' so many, many times, and I never +kept my word yet. [_Taking out bottle._] I don'd believe dere is more as +one good drink in dat bottle, anyway. It's a pity to waste it! You goin' +to drink dat? Well, now, if you do, it is de last one, remember dat, old +feller. Well, here is your goot held, und-- + +_Enter_ GRETCHEN, _suddenly, who snatches the bottle from him_. + +GRETCHEN. Oh, you brute! you paltry thief! + +RIP. Hold on dere, my dear, you will spill de liquor. + +GRETCHEN. Yes, I will spill it, you drunken scoundrel. [_Throwing away +the bottle._] That's the last drop you ever drink under this roof. + +RIP [_slowly, after a moment's silence, as if stunned by her severity_]. +Eh! what? + +GRETCHEN. Out, I say! you drink no more here. + +RIP. What? Gretchen, are you goin' to drive me away? + +GRETCHEN. Yes! Acre by acre, foot by foot, you have sold everything that +ever belonged to you for liquor. Thank Heaven, this house is mine, and +you can't sell it. + +RIP [_rapidly sobering, as he begins to realize the gravity of the +situation_]. Yours? Yours? Ya, you are right--it is yours; I have got no +home. [_In broken tones, almost sobbing._] But where will I go? + +GRETCHEN. Anywhere! out into the storm, to the mountains. There's the +door--never let your face darken it again. + +RIP. What, Gretchen! are you goin' to drive me away like a dog on a +night like dis? + +GRETCHEN. Yes; out with you! You have no longer a share in me or mine. +[_Breaking down and sobbing with the intensity of her passion._] + +RIP [_very slowly and quietly, but with great intensity_]. Well, den, I +will go; you have drive me away like a dog, Gretchen, and I will go. But +remember, Gretchen, after what you have told me here to-night, I can +never come back. You have open de door for me to go; you will never open +it for me to return. But, Gretchen, you tell me dat I have no longer a +chare here. [_Points at the child, who kneels crying at his feet._] +Good-by [_with much emotion_], my darlin'. God bless you! Don'd you +nefer forgit your fader. Gretchen (_with a great sob_), I wipe de +disgrace from your door. Good-by, good-by! + +[_Exit_ RIP _into the storm_. + +FOOTNOTE: + +[80] Adapted by Mr. A. P. Burbank. + + + + +THE RIVALS + +RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN + +ACT I, SCENE II + + + CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop, with her bad grammar and ludicrous + diction; Lydia Languish, in love with Beverley; Sir Anthony + Absolute, choleric, but kind-hearted. + + SCENE: A dressing room in Mrs. Malaprop's lodgings. + + +_Enter_ MRS. MALAPROP, LYDIA, _and_ SIR ANTHONY + +MRS. MALAPROP. There, Sir Anthony, there stands the deliberate +simpleton, who wants to disgrace her family and lavish herself on a +fellow not worth a shilling. + +LYDIA. Madam, I thought you once-- + +MRS. M. You thought, miss! I don't know any business you have to think +at all: thought does not become a young woman. But the point we would +request of you is, that you will promise to forget this fellow--to +illiterate him, I say, from your memory. + +LYD. Ah, madam! our memories are independent of our wills. It is not so +easy to forget. + +MRS. M. But I say it is, miss! there is nothing on earth so easy as to +forget, if a person chooses to set about it. I'm sure I have as much +forgot your poor dear uncle, as if he had never existed; and I thought +it my duty so to do; and let me tell you, Lydia, these violent memories +don't become a young woman. + +LYD. What crime, madam, have I committed, to be treated thus? + +MRS. M. Now don't attempt to extirpate yourself from the matter; you +know I have proof controvertible of it. But tell me, will you promise me +to do as you are bid? Will you take a husband of your friend's choosing? + +LYD. Madam, I must tell you plainly, that, had I no preference for any +one else, the choice you have made would be my aversion. + +MRS. M. What business have you, miss, with preference and aversion? They +don't become a young woman. But, suppose we were going to give you +another choice, will you promise us to give up this Beverley? + +LYD. Could I belie my thoughts so far as to give that promise, my +actions would certainly as far belie my words. + +MRS. M. Take yourself to your room! You are fit company for nothing but +your own ill humors. + +LYD. Willingly, ma'am; I cannot change for the worse. + +MRS. M. There's a little intricate hussy for you! [_Exit._ + +SIR A. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am; all that is the natural +consequence of teaching girls to read. On my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, +I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library: +from that moment, I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress! + +MRS. M. Those are vile places, indeed! + +SIR A. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of +diabolical knowledge! + +MRS. M. Fie, fie, Sir Anthony! you surely speak laconically. + +SIR A. Why, Mrs. Malaprop, in moderation, now, what would you have a +woman know? + +MRS. M. Observe me, Sir Anthony--I would by no means wish a daughter of +mine to be a progeny of learning; I don't think so much learning becomes +a young woman; for instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or +Hebrew, or Algebra, or Simony, or Fluxions, or Paradoxes, or such +inflammatory branches of learning; nor will it be necessary for her to +handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments; +but, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a +boarding-school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. +Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and, as +she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might +know something of the contagious countries; above all, she would be +taught orthodoxy. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; +and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it. + +SIR A. Well, well, Mrs. Malaprop, I will dispute the point no further +with you; though I must confess, that you are a truly moderate and +polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the +question.--But to the more important point in debate--you say you have +no objection to my proposal? + +MRS. M. None, I assure you. We have never seen your son, Sir Anthony; +but I hope no objection on his side. + +SIR A. Objection!--let him object, if he dare!--No, no, Mrs. Malaprop; +Jack knows that the least demur puts me in a frenzy directly. My +process was always very simple--in his younger days, 'twas "Jack, do +this,"--if he demurred, I knocked him down; and, if he grumbled at that, +I always sent him out of the room. + +MRS. M. Aye, and the properest way, o' my conscience!--Nothing is so +conciliating to young people as severity. Well, Sir Anthony, I shall +give Mr. Acres his discharge, and prepare Lydia to receive your son's +invocations; and I hope you will represent her to the Captain as an +object not altogether illegible. + +SIR A. Madam, I will handle the subject prudently. I must leave you; and +let me beg you, Mrs. Malaprop, to enforce this matter roundly to the +girl--take my advice, keep a tight hand--if she rejects this proposal, +clap her under lock and key; and if you were just to let the servants +forget to bring her dinner for three or four days, you can't conceive +how she'd come about. + +MRS. M. Well, at any rate, I shall be glad to get her from under my +jurisprudence. [_Exit._ + + +ACT II, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute, his son. + + SCENE: Captain Absolute's lodgings. + + +_Enter_ SIR ANTHONY _and_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE + +CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE. Sir, I am delighted to see you here, and looking so +well! Your sudden arrival at Bath made me apprehensive for your health. + +SIR ANTHONY. Very apprehensive, I dare say, Jack. What, you are +recruiting here, hey? + +CAPT. A. Yes, sir; I am on duty. + +SIR A. Well, Jack, I am glad to see you, though I did not expect it; for +I was going to write to you on a little matter of business. Jack, I have +been considering that I grow old and infirm, and shall probably not +trouble you long. + +CAPT. A. Pardon me, sir, I never saw you look more strong and hearty; +and I pray fervently that you may continue so. + +SIR A. I hope your prayers may be heard, with all my heart. Well, then, +Jack, I have been considering that I am so strong and hearty, I may +continue to plague you a long time. Now, Jack, I am sensible that the +income of your commission, and what I have hitherto allowed you, is but +a small pittance for a lad of your spirit. + +CAPT. A. Sir, you are very good. + +SIR A. And it is my wish, while yet I live, to have my boy make some +figure in the world. I have resolved, therefore, to fix you at once in a +noble independence. + +CAPT. A. Sir, your kindness overpowers me. Such generosity makes the +gratitude of reason more lively than the sensations even of filial +affection. + +SIR A. I am glad you are so sensible of my attention; and you shall be +master of a large estate in a few weeks. + +CAPT. A. Let my future life, sir, speak my gratitude. I cannot express +the sense I have of your munificence. Yet, sir, I presume you would not +wish me to quit the army. + +SIR A. Oh, that shall be as your wife chooses. + +CAPT. A. My wife, sir! + +SIR A. Aye, aye, settle that between you--settle that between you. + +CAPT. A. A wife, sir, did you say? + +SIR A. Aye, a wife--why, did not I mention her before? + +CAPT. A. Not a word of her, sir. + +SIR A. Upon my word, I mustn't forget her, though! Yes, Jack, the +independence I was talking of is by a marriage,--the fortune is saddled +with a wife; but I suppose that makes no difference? + +CAPT. A. Sir, sir, you amaze me! + +SIR A. What's the matter? Just now you were all gratitude and duty. + +CAPT. A. I was, sir; you talked to me of independence and a fortune, but +not one word of a wife. + +SIR A. Why, what difference does that make? Sir, if you have the estate, +you must take it with the live stock on it, as it stands. + +CAPT. A. If my happiness is to be the price, I must beg leave to decline +the purchase. Pray, sir, who is the lady? + +SIR A. What's that to you, sir? Come, give me your promise to love, and +to marry her directly. + +CAPT. A. Sure, sir, that's not very reasonable, to summon my affections +for a lady I know nothing of! + +SIR A. I am sure, sir, 'tis more unreasonable in you to object to a lady +you know nothing of. + +CAPT. A. You must excuse me, sir, if I tell you, once for all, that on +this point I cannot obey you. + +SIR A. Hark you, Jack! I have heard you for some time with patience; I +have been cool--quite cool; but take care; you know I am compliance +itself, when I am not thwarted; no one more easily led--when I have my +own way; but don't put me in a frenzy. + +CAPT. A. Sir, I must repeat it; in this I cannot obey you. + +SIR A. Now, shoot me, if ever I call you Jack again while I live! + +CAPT. A. Nay, sir, but hear me. + +SIR A. Sir, I won't hear a word--not a word!--not one word! So, give me +your promise by a nod; and I'll tell you what, Jack,--I mean, you +dog,--if you don't-- + +CAPT. A. What, sir, promise to link myself to some mass of ugliness; +to-- + +SIR A. Sir, the lady shall be as ugly as I choose; she shall have a lump +on each shoulder; she shall be as crooked as the crescent; her one eye +shall roll like the bull's in Cox's mu-se-um; she shall have a skin like +a mummy, and the beard of a Jew; she shall be all this, sir! yet I'll +make you ogle her all day, and sit up all night to write sonnets on her +beauty! + +CAPT. A. This is reason and moderation, indeed! + +SIR A. None of your sneering, puppy!--no grinning, jackanapes! + +CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was in a worse humor for mirth in my life. + +SIR A. 'Tis false, sir! I know you are laughing in your sleeve; I know +you'll grin when I am gone, sir! + +CAPT. A. Sir, I hope I know my duty better. + +SIR A. None of your passion, sir! none of your violence, if you please! +It won't do with me, I promise you. + +CAPT. A. Indeed, sir, I never was cooler in my life. + +SIR A. I know you are in a passion in your heart; I know you are, you +hypocritical young dog! But it won't do! + +CAPT. A. Nay, sir, upon my word-- + +SIR A. So, you will fly out? Can't you be cool, like me? What good can +passion do? Passion is of no service, you impudent, insolent, +overbearing reprobate! There, you sneer again! Don't provoke me! But you +rely upon the mildness of my temper, you do, you dog! You play upon the +meekness of my disposition! Yet take care; the patience of a saint may +be overcome at last! But, mark! I give you six hours and a half to +consider of this: if you then agree, without any condition, to do +everything on earth that I choose, why, I may, in time, forgive you. If +not, don't enter the same hemisphere with me; don't dare to breathe the +same air, or use the same light, with me; but get an atmosphere and a +sun of your own! I'll strip you of your commission; I'll lodge a +five-and-threepence in the hands of trustees, and you shall live on the +interest! I'll disown you, I'll disinherit you! I'll never call you Jack +again! [_Exit_. + +CAPT. A. Mild, gentle, considerate father! I kiss your hand. + + +ACT III, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Sir Anthony Absolute; Captain Absolute. + + SCENE: The North Parade. Captain Absolute has discovered that the + lady whom his father so peremptorily commanded him to marry is none + other than Lydia Languish with whom he, under the name of Beverley, + was plotting an elopement. + + +_Enter_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE + +CAPT. A. 'Tis just as Fag told me, indeed!--Whimsical enough, 'faith! My +father wants to force me to marry the very girl I am plotting to run +away with! He must not know of my connection with her yet awhile. He has +too summary a method of proceeding in these matters; however, I'll read +my recantation instantly. My conversion is something sudden, indeed; but +I can assure him, it is very sincere.--So, so, here he comes. He looks +plaguy gruff! [_Steps aside_. + +_Enter_ SIR ANTHONY + +SIR A. No--I'll die sooner than forgive him! Die, did I say? I'll live +these fifty years to plague him. At our last meeting, his impudence had +almost put me out of temper--an obstinate, passionate, self-willed boy! +This is my return for putting him, at twelve years old, into a marching +regiment, and allowing him fifty pounds a year, besides his pay, ever +since! But I have done with him--he's anybody's son for me--I never will +see him more--never--never--never--never. + +CAPT. A. Now for a penitential face! [_Comes forward_. + +SIR A. Fellow, get out of my way! + +CAPT. A. Sir, you see a penitent before you. + +SIR A. I see an impudent scoundrel before me. + +CAPT. A. A sincere penitent. I am come, sir, to acknowledge my error, +and to submit entirely to your will. + +SIR A. What's that? + +CAPT. A. I have been revolving, and reflecting, and considering on your +past goodness, and kindness, and condescension to me. + +SIR A. Well, sir? + +CAPT. A. I have been likewise weighing and balancing, what you were +pleased to mention concerning duty, and obedience, and authority. + +SIR A. Why, now you talk sense, absolute sense; I never heard anything +more sensible in my life. Confound you, you shall be Jack again! + +CAPT. A. I am happy in the appellation. + +SIR A. Why then, Jack, my dear Jack, I will now inform you who the lady +really is. Nothing but your passion and violence, you silly fellow, +prevented me telling you at first. Prepare, Jack, for wonder and +rapture--prepare! What think you of Miss Lydia Languish? + +CAPT. A. Languish! What, the Languishes of Worcestershire? + +SIR A. Worcestershire! No! Did you never meet Mrs. Malaprop, and her +niece, Miss Languish, who came into our country just before you were +last ordered to your regiment? + +CAPT. A. Malaprop! Languish! I don't remember ever to have heard the +name before. Yet, stay: I think I do recollect something. Languish, +Languish! She squints, don't she? A little red-haired girl? + +SIR A. Squints! A red-haired girl! Zounds, no! + +CAPT. A. Then I must have forgot; it can't be the same person. + +SIR A. Jack, Jack! what think you of blooming, love-breathing seventeen? + +CAPT. A. As to that, sir, I am quite indifferent: if I can please you in +the matter, 'tis all I desire. + +SIR A. Nay, but, Jack, such eyes! such eyes! so innocently wild! so +bashfully irresolute! Not a glance but speaks and kindles some thought +of love! Then, Jack, her cheeks! her cheeks, Jack! so deeply blushing at +the insinuations of her tell-tale eyes! Then, Jack, her lips! Oh, Jack, +lips, smiling at their own discretion! and, if not smiling, more sweetly +pouting, more lovely in sullenness! Then, Jack, her neck! Oh! Jack! +Jack! + +CAPT. A. And which is to be mine, sir; the niece, or the aunt? + +SIR A. Why, you unfeeling, insensible puppy, I despise you! When I was +of your age, such a description would have made me fly like a rocket! +The aunt, indeed! Odds life! when I ran away with your mother, I would +not have touched anything old or ugly to gain an empire. + +CAPT. A. Not to please your father, sir? + +SIR A. To please my father--zounds! not to please--Oh! my father? Oddso! +yes, yes! if my father, indeed, had desired--that's quite another +matter. Though he wasn't the indulgent father that I am, Jack. + +CAPT. A. I dare say not, sir. + +SIR A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so +beautiful? + +CAPT. A. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I +desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, +if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or +two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind. Now, without being +very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual +number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back; and though one eye may +be very agreeable, yet, as the prejudice has always run in favor of two, +I would not wish to affect a singularity in that article. + +SIR A. What a phlegmatic sot it is! Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite! a +vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only +to dust the company's regimentals on! Odds life, I've a great mind to +marry the girl myself! + +CAPT. A. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of +addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the +aunt; or if you should change your mind, and take the old lady, 'tis the +same to me--I'll marry the niece. + +SIR A. Upon my word, Jack, thou art either a very great hypocrite, +or--but, come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a +lie--I'm sure it must. Come, now, off with your demure face; come, +confess, Jack, you have been lying, ha'nt you? You have been playing the +hypocrite, hey? I'll never forgive you, if you ha'nt been lying and +playing the hypocrite. + +CAPT. A. I am sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you, +should be so mistaken. + +SIR A. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me. I'll write a +note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes +shall be the Promethean torch to you; come along, I'll never forgive +you, if you don't come back stark mad with rapture and impatience; if +you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself! [_Exeunt._ + + +ACT IV, SCENE II + + + CHARACTERS: Mrs. Malaprop; Lydia; Captain Absolute known to Lydia + as "Beverley"; Sir Anthony; Servant. + + +_Enter_ MRS. MALAPROP _and_ LYDIA + +MRS M. Why, thou perverse one!--tell me what you can object to in +him?--Isn't he a handsome man?--tell me that. A genteel man? a pretty +figure of a man? + +LYD. She little thinks whom she is praising. [_Aside_.] So is Beverley, +ma'am. + +MRS. M. No caparisons, miss, if you please. Caparisons don't become a +young woman. No! Captain Absolute is indeed a fine gentleman. + +LYD. Ay, the Captain Absolute you have seen. [_Aside_. + +MRS. M. Then he's so well bred;--so full of alacrity and adulation!--He +has so much to say for himself, in such good language, too. His +physiognomy so grammatical; then his presence so noble! I protest, when +I saw him, I thought of what Hamlet says in the play:--"Hesperian +curls--the front of Job himself! an eye, like March, to threaten at +command! a station, like Harry Mercury, new"--Something about +kissing--on a hill--however, the similitude struck me directly. + +LYD. How enraged she'll be presently, when she discovers her mistake! +[_Aside_. + +_Enter_ SERVANT + +SERV. Sir Anthony and Captain Absolute are below, ma'am. + +MRS. M. Show them up here. [_Exit_ SERVANT.] Now, Lydia, I insist on +your behaving as becomes a young woman. Show your good breeding, at +least, though you have forgot your duty. + +LYD. Madam, I have told you my resolution; I shall not only give him no +encouragement, but I won't even speak to, or look at him. + +[_Flings herself into a chair, with her face from the door_. + +_Enter_ SIR ANTHONY _and_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE + +SIR A. Here we are, Mrs. Malaprop; come to mitigate the frowns of +unrelenting beauty,--and difficulty enough I had to bring this fellow. I +don't know what's the matter, but if I had not held him by force he'd +have given me the slip. + +MRS. M. You have infinite trouble, Sir Anthony, in the affair. I am +ashamed for the cause! Lydia, Lydia, rise, I beseech you!--pay your +respects! [_Aside to her_. + +SIR A. I hope, madam, that Miss Languish has reflected on the worth of +this gentleman, and the regard due to her aunt's choice, and my +alliance. Now, Jack, speak to her. + +[_Aside to him_. + +CAPT. A. What the devil shall I do? [_Aside_.]--You see, sir, she won't +even look at me while you are here. I knew she wouldn't!--I told you +so.--Let me entreat you, sir, to leave us together! + +MRS. M. I am sorry to say, Sir Anthony, that my affluence over my niece +is very small. Turn round, Lydia, I blush for you! [_Aside to her_. + +SIR A. Why don't you begin, Jack? Zounds! sirrah! why don't you speak? +[_Aside to him_. + +CAPT. A. Hem! hem! Madam--hem! [CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _attempts to speak, +then returns to_ SIR ANTHONY.] 'Faith! sir, I am so confounded!--and +so--so confused! I told you I should be so, sir,--I knew it. The--the +tremor of my passion entirely takes away my presence of mind. + +SIR A. But it don't take away your voice, does it? Go up, and speak to +her directly! + +CAPT. A. [_draws near_ LYDIA]. [_Aside_.] Now heaven send she may be too +sullen to look round! I must disguise my voice.--Will not Miss Languish +lend an ear to the mild accents of true love? Will not-- + +SIR A. Why don't you speak out?--not stand croaking like a frog in a +quinsey! + +CAPT. A. The--the--excess of my awe, and my--my modesty quite choke me! + +SIR A. Ah! your modesty again! Mrs. Malaprop, I wish the lady would +favor us with something more than a side-front. + +[MRS. MALAPROP _seems to chide_ LYDIA. + +CAPT. A. So! all will out, I see! [_Goes up to_ LYDIA, _speaks softly_.] +Be not surprised, my Lydia, suppress all surprise at present. + +LYD. [_aside_]. Heavens! 'tis Beverley's voice!--[_Looks round by +degrees, then starts up_.] Is this possible!--my Beverley! how can this +be?--my Beverley! + +CAPT. A. Ah! 'tis all over! [_Aside._ + +SIR A. Beverley!--the devil--Beverley! What can the girl mean? This is +my son, Jack Absolute. + +MRS. M. For shame! for shame!--your head runs so on that fellow, that +you have him always in your eyes! beg Captain Absolute's pardon, +directly. + +LYD. I see no Captain Absolute, but my loved Beverley! + +SIR A. Zounds, the girl's mad!--her brain's turned by reading! + +MRS. M. O' my conscience, I believe so!--what do you mean by +Beverley?--you saw Captain Absolute before to-day, there he is: your +husband that shall be. + +LYD. With all my soul, ma'am--when I refuse my Beverley-- + +SIR A. Oh! she's as mad as Bedlam!--or has this fellow been playing us a +rogue's trick? Come here, sirrah, who the devil are you? + +CAPT. A. 'Faith, sir, I am not quite clear myself; but I'll endeavor to +recollect. + +SIR A. Are you my son, or not?--answer for your mother, you dog, if you +won't for me. + +CAPT. A. Ye powers of impudence, befriend me!--[_Aside._]--Sir Anthony, +most assuredly I am your wife's son; Mrs. Malaprop, I am your most +respectful admirer, and shall be proud to add affectionate nephew. I +need not tell my Lydia that she sees her faithful Beverley, who, knowing +the singular generosity of her temper, assumed that name, and a station, +which has proved a test of the most disinterested love, which he now +hopes to enjoy, in a more elevated character. + +LYD. So!--there will be no elopement after all! + +SIR A. Upon my soul, Jack, thou art a very impudent fellow! To do you +justice, I think I never saw a piece of more consummate assurance! Well, +I am glad you are not the dull insensible varlet you pretend to be, +however! I'm glad you have made a fool of your father, you dog--I am. +So, this was your penitence, your duty, and obedience! Ah! you +dissembling villain! Come, we must leave them together, Mrs. Malaprop; +they long to fly into each other's arms. I warrant! Come, Mrs. Malaprop, +we'll not disturb their tenderness; theirs is the time of life for +happiness! [_Sings_.] _Youth's the season made for joy_--hey! odds life! +I'm in such spirits! Permit me, ma'am. + +[_Gives his hand to_ MRS. MALAPROP. _Exit singing, and handing her off. +Exit_ CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE _with_ LYDIA _in the opposite direction._ + + + + +BEAU BRUMMELL + +BLANCHARD JERROLD + + +ACT I, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Beau Brummell, a fastidious aristocrat with luxurious + tastes and a depleted fortune; Isidore, his valet; Mr. Fotherby, + his aspiring young protege. + + SCENE: A handsome apartment in Brummell's house, Calais, France. + Isidore discovered, in chair, looking over his master's toilette + table. + + +ISIDORE. Twenty shirts a week, twenty-four pocket-handkerchiefs, to say +nothing of thirty cravats and twelve waistcoats--indeed, for people that +cannot pay their servants! Well, he owes me just six thousand three +hundred and thirty-seven francs, ten sous. [_Picks up paper._] Ah, I +see, I'm in the list. It costs something to have the honor of serving +Mr. Brummell--to be chamberlain to His Majesty, the King of Calais! But +he is a wonderful man! People almost thank him for condescending to be +in their debt; still, much as I esteem the honor, I can't afford it any +longer, nor can the laundress, nor can the hairdresser. Eight hundred +francs a year for washing! Three clean shirts a day, three cravats! +Boots blacked, soles and all, and with such varnish! But then he has +such exquisite taste! why, he blackballed a friend of his who wanted to +enter his club, because the candidate's boots were polished with bad +blacking. I wonder whether the king will do anything for him? It is Mr. +Brummell's dressing hour, and here he comes. + +[_Enter_ BRUMMELL, _letter in hand_. ISIDORE _busies himself piling +cravats upon the side of dressing table, and wheels chair to the +mirror_. BRUMMELL _throws himself in the chair before the glass, +examines the cravats and throws two or three of them away_. + +BRUMMELL. Isidore, take those dusters away; the chambermaid has +forgotten them. [_Re-reads the letter_.] Strange girl this; the only +thing I know against her is that she takes soup twice. It's the old +story. Her father wants her to marry a fellow who can keep her, and she +wants to have a young fellow who can't. Well, the young fellow who can't +is the more interesting of the two. I must ask the father to dinner I +suppose--it's a deuced bore; but it will put him under a heavy +obligation. I must make excuses to Ballarat and Gill. Isidore, when I'm +dressed take my compliments to Mr. Davis, and tell him I shall be happy +to see him at dinner to-day. + +ISID. Very well, sir. [_Aside_.] To Davis, a retired fellow from the +city! This is a tumble!--I am sorry to trouble you, sir, but---- + +BRUM. I can't talk to you to-day, Isidore. Give me a cravat. + +ISID. [_handing one_]. I am a poor man, and six thousand francs---- + +BRUM. I understand, Isidore. We'll see--we'll see; don't disturb me. +Zounds! man, haven't you been long enough with me to know that these are +not moments when I can speak or listen? [_Bell rings_.] If that be Mr. +Fotherby, show him in. [_Exit_ ISIDORE.] I intend to form that young +fellow--there's stuff in him. I've noticed that he uses my blacking. +[_Enter_ FOTHERBY _followed by_ ISIDORE.] How d'e do, Fotherby? + +FOTHERBY. This admittance is an honor, indeed, sir! + +BRUM. My dear fellow, why, what do you call those things upon your feet? + +FOTHER. Things on my feet! Shoes, to be sure! + +BRUM. Shoes! I thought they were slippers! + +FOTHER. You prefer boots then, sir, doubtless? + +BRUM. Well, let me see. Humph! Isidore, which do I prefer, boots or +shoes? + +ISID. The Hessian was always your favorite, sir, in London. + +BRUM. Right, Isidore--so it was. By-the-bye, I have asked Davis here +to-day. It was a great sacrifice; but as you and the young lady want to +have the old gentleman melted, I resigned myself. I hope he'll keep his +knife out of his mouth. + +FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful to you, sir. He wanted Helen to +become old Armand's wife next week. + +BRUM. I think he's right; and but for one circumstance, I should be on +Armand's side of the question. + +FOTHER. And this circumstance? + +BRUM. The brute has a toothpick in his waistcoat pocket, or in the thing +that serves him for a waistcoat--an instrument that, he says, has been +in his family the last fifty years. Conceive, my dear Fotherby, an +hereditary toothpick! No, Mr. Davis does not deserve that fate. And now +let me give you a bit of advice. Never wear perfumes, but fine linen, +plenty of it, and country washing. Look at you now, my good fellow, you +are dressed in execrable taste--all black and white, like a magpie. +Still, never be remarkable. The severest mortification a gentleman can +incur, is to attract observation in the street by his dress. Everything +should fit without a fault. You can't tell what this has cost me--but +then it is a coat--while that thing you wear--I really don't know what +we can call it. + +FOTHER. Still, sir, under your guidance I shall improve. By the way, my +mother asked me to invite you to take tea with us in our humble way. + +BRUM. Really, my good young friend, you surprise me. Don't you know that +you take medicine--you take a walk--you take a liberty--but you drink +tea! My dear Fotherby, never be bearer of such a dreadful message again. +Isidore! has my Paris wig arrived? Any card or letter? + +ISID. No cards, sir. The wig arrived by the diligence. + +BRUN. Is the wig fit to put on? + +ISID. I have been examining it, and, as the times go, I think it will +do. There is one of the side locks not quite to my taste. + +BRUM. Ah! a mat, no doubt--a door-mat! [_Exit_ ISIDORE. _To_ FOTHERBY.] +You see what a gentleman may be reduced to! It's the most fortunate +thing in the world that I never fell in love! + +FOTHER. But were you never in love?--never engaged? + +BRUM. Engaged?--why, yes, something of the kind; but I discovered that +the lady positively ate cabbage, and so I broke it off. + +FOTHER. And so, sir, you will persuade the old gentleman to postpone +Helen's marriage with Armand--while I---- + +BRUM. My dear young friend, I will tell the old gentleman to do so--you +must see that I could not possibly think of persuading a person who +grows onions in his garden---- + +FOTHER. We shall be eternally grateful---- + +BRUM. For three weeks exactly--from which time you, at all events, will +begin to wish that I had confined my attention to my own particular +affairs. But the world is ungrateful. I once waved my hand to a +saddler's son from White's window. Well, sir, I owed him five hundred +pounds, and he had afterwards the assurance to ask me for it. + +FOTHER. You astonish me! + +BRUM. Positive fact. So be cautious, young man, and in your way through +life--if you wave your hand to such a fellow, let it be over a stamped +receipt. + +FOTHER. I shall follow your counsel most scrupulously. + +BRUM. There, sir, never let me see you again in those gloves! These, +sir, [_showing his_] are the only gloves for a gentleman. Pray leave +me--I can't bear the sight of them. Meantime, tell your betrothed that I +shall do everything in my power to secure your unhappiness. I have +already spoken to Lord Ballarat about you. I told him you were the +laziest fellow and the best dresser in the town--in fact, cut out by +nature to serve the government. Good-bye--I shall ask you to dine with +me some of these days--but not yet awhile--you must work up to that. And +now, Fotherby, to show you how deep an interest I take in your welfare, +you shall give me your arm to the ramparts. [_Exeunt._ + + +ACT II, SCENE III + + + CHARACTERS: Brummell; Isidore; Fotherby; Nurse; another Old Woman; + Landlord; Waiter. + + SCENE: Brummell's lodgings in a miserable apartment house at Caen, + France. Eight years have elapsed. With no means of livelihood and + pursued by creditors, Brummell is now reduced to abject poverty, + broken health, and a deranged mind. He is thrown among people of + low rank and is subjected to many indignities; but to the last he + clings to his fastidious tastes and is a gentleman among imaginary + aristocrats. + + +OLD NURSE. _in high Norman cap, discovered seated in arm chair, mending +stockings; another_ WOMAN _near her._ + +NURSE. Yes, my dear, clean out of his mind--that's what he's gone. + +OLD WOMAN. Deary me! + +NURSE. Aye, and there be folks as says he was once as neat and tidy as a +new sixpence. Now he's as dirty as a George the First halfpenny! + +OLD W. Deary me! + +NURSE. Aye, child, and he knew lords and dooks--and such like--now it's +anybody as'll give him a dinner. It's time they did something with +him--for put up with his going's on any longer, I cannot! A nuss's is a +horrid life, ain't it, child? + +OLD W. 'Orrid--deary me! So this very afternoon that's comin', he's to +go? + +NURSE. Aye, child--the landlord's goin' to offer to take him for a walk, +which'll please him--and then take him off to see if the nuns'll have +charity upon him--if not, there's nothing but the street. He wouldn't go +if he know'd it--still he hasn't a copper coin--he's as cunning as any +fox. Have a little drop of somethin' comfortable, child! + +OLD W. Deary me!--at this time of day--but I do feel a sinking! + +NURSE. It'll do you a world of good. [_Getting bottle_--_a knock._] +Lawk! what an awkward hour for people to call! [_Knock again._] + +OLD W. Deary me! Perhaps it's Mr. Brummell. + +NURSE. Not it! It's more than he dare do, to knock twice like that. It's +his old man-servant, come to take off that there dirty screen. [_Opens +door._] + +_Enter_ BRUMMELL--_muddy_--_supported by_ ISIDORE + +BRUM. Isidore, give me my dressing gown! + +ISID. Dressing gown! that's good--why I never put my own on nowadays! + +BRUM. [_talking to himself_]. That screen mustn't go--nor the duchess's +armchair. [_Turning to_ NURSE.] Mind that, nurse, whatever happens to +me, this chair and the screen remain. Ha! ha! what would Ballarat say, +if---- + +NURSE. There, never mind them folks. Pull your coat off, and put your +dressing gown on, do! + +BRUM. Dear me! I hope the ices will be better--the punch I've seen to! +The duchess shall sit here. + +NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. That's how he goes on nearly every day. The high +folks he knew have turned his head. Sometimes he makes one of the +waiters announce a lot of folks, as never come, while he, like an old +fool, bows to nobody, and hands nothing to that old chair. + +OLD W. What work it must give you. + +NURSE [_to_ BRUMMELL]. There, take that muddy coat off, nobody's coming +to-day. + +BRUM. Leave the room and see that everything is ready. + +NURSE. Drat it. [_Rings the bell._] I must have the waiter up. He'll +soon manage him. + +BRUM. [_rising, totters forward, and arranges his shabby dress_]. Well, +now I'm ready! Hark! I think I hear the first carriage. Sir Harry, no +doubt. + +_Enter_ WAITER + +NURSE. Just see to this old man--make him change his coat, for I can't. + +WAITER. Well, this is the last of it. Master says he may sleep in the +streets, but he doesn't stay here another night if he knows it. They +won't have him at the asylum without money, and he hasn't a rap. + +NURSE. Nor a stick; for there's little enough left to pay my poor wages. + +WAITER [_to_ BRUMMELL]. Come, off with the coat! + +BRUM. My good fellow, leave it me to-night. I've a few friends coming. +Hush! there's the first arrival. Pray, my good sir, see to my guests. + +WAITER. Well, let's humor the old blade once more--he'll be in the +streets to-morrow. + +NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Just notice this tomfoolery, child. + +OLD W. Deary me! it almost frightens me. See how pleased he is. + +WAITER. Sir Harry Gill! + +BRUM. [_advancing ceremoniously, and holding out his hand, and coming +down, as though talking to somebody at his side_]. My dear Harry, I'm +delighted to see you. Were you at the opera last night? + +NURSE [_to_ OLD WOMAN]. Did you ever hear the like of it? + +WAITER. Here goes again! [_Goes as before to door, and throws it open._] +Lord Ballarat! + +BRUM. [_advancing as before, and receiving imaginary visitor_]. My good +fellow, I'm sorry I missed you at the club the other night; but I went +into the duchess's box, and---- + +WAITER. I must stop this. The duchess always comes last, and then he's +satisfied. [_Throwing open the door, and calling pompously._] Her +Highness the Duchess of Canterbury. + +BRUM. [_totters to door, bowing very profoundly, and handing the +imaginary duchess to his armchair--leans over the chair, and bows +frequently as he talks_]. Your highness is too good! This is indeed an +honor. Permit me the satisfaction of handing you to your seat. And is +the duke well? And little Nutmeg--is his ear better? Poor little fellow! +I hope you will allow me to give him a charming little collar I have for +him. + +WAITER. There, that'll do! [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Come, now, they're all +gone--take your coat off. + +BRUM. [_starting, and falling into chair_]. Yes, +gone--gone--true--they're gone! [WAITER _helps him to take his coat +off._] Give me my cap! [NURSE _puts his old velvet cap on._] + +WAITER. [_going_]. Call me up again, nurse, if he won't mind you. Do you +hear what I say, Mr. Brummell? + +BRUM. Yes--yes--I'll be very good, nurse--I'll be very good. + +WAITER. Well, it will be a lucky day when we get rid of this business! +[_Exit._ + +OLD W. But think of the poor creature turned into the streets! He'd die +upon the nighest door-step! + +NURSE. Can't be helped--out he goes to-night and no mistake! I'll nuss +him no longer--and the landlord wants the room. The men are comin' to +whitewash it at sunrise to-morrow. + +OLD W. Deary me! Well--good-day! + +NURSE. Good-day, child. You'll find me at home to-morrow. Good-bye! +[_Exit_ OLD WOMAN. + +BRUM. [_tottering to an old bureau, sits before it_]. Dinner at four. +Nurse, nurse! my glass and razors--come! + +NURSE. Drat the old man! [_Gives him glass, etc._] + +_Enter_ LANDLORD, _followed by_ WAITER + +Now he's completely done up! + +BRUM. [_politely to_ LANDLORD]. Good morning, monsieur, delighted to +see---- + +LANDLORD. Hang your compliments--I want no more of them. + +BRUM. My good sir, you surprise me! + +LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Get his rubbish together--for out he goes, and no +mistake. [_To_ BRUMMELL.] Now, Mr. Brummell, can you pay me--or can't +you--or won't you? + +BRUM. Dear, dear me! We'll talk about it. + +LAND. No, we won't. I'll have it--or out you bundle this minute. + +BRUM. [_rising_]. Sir, I am a gentleman--a poor one, it is true; and +this hand, fleshless as it is--is strong enough to chastise a man who +forgets it! [BRUMMELL _falls back in chair exhausted._] + +LAND. [_to_ WAITER]. Now for it--out with him! [LANDLORD _and_ WAITER +_rush forward, and are about to seize_ BRUMMELL.] + +_Enter_ FOTHERBY + +FOTHER. [_pushing back_ LANDLORD _and_ WAITER]. Put your hands on the +old man at your peril. + +LAND. Do you know that you are in my house, sir?--stand back! + +FOTHER. Do you know that you are in my rooms, sir? [_Throws paper to +him_.] I think you will find that regular. Leave the room. + +NURSE [_aside_]. Wonders'll never cease. But the old fool'll spile all +again--you'll see. + +LAND. [_aside to Waiter_]. He's paid missus the rent--there's luck! +[_Exit_. + +WAITER. A pretty bit of business I've done for myself. Not a sou for the +waiter, I'll bet. [_Exit_. + +FOTHER. [_advancing to_ BRUMMELL]. My dear Mr. Brummell. + +BRUM. Really, you have the advantage of me. + +FOTHER. You surely remember me, Mr. Brummell. [_To_ NURSE.] The good +sisters will take care of him for the rest of his days. I must take him +to them. Is he always so, my good woman? + +NURSE. Poor dear, good, kind old gentleman, not allays. He takes on so +at times. + +BRUM. Don't know you in the least. [_Imagines he sees Ballarat_.] +Ballarat! dear old boy! Tut! tut! Ballarat! Well, this is kind. But I +can't be seen in this state. + +FOTHER. No. Here you are among friends, my good sir. [_Leading him +out_.] This way, Mr. Brummell, I come from Lord Ballarat. + +BRUM. Well--be it so. Ballarat--mind--when you return to England let +them know that, even in this squalor--to his last hour in the +world--Brummell--poor Brummell was a gentleman still. I am ready--I am +ready. + +[_Exit_ FOTHERBY, _leading_ BRUMMELL, _the_ NURSE _following_. + + + + +THE SET OF TURQUOISE + +THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH + +ACT I, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Count of Lara, a poor nobleman; Beatrice, his wife + Miriam, a maid, who personates a page. + + SCENE: Count of Lara's villa. A balcony overlooking the garden. + + + LARA. The third moon of our marriage, Beatrice! + It hangs in the still twilight, large and full, + Like a ripe orange. + + BEATRICE. Like an orange? yes, + But not so red, Count. Then it has no stem. + Now, as 'tis hidden by those drifts of cloud, + With one thin edge just glimmering through the dark, + 'Tis like some strange, rich jewel of the east, + In the cleft side of a mountain. + And that reminds me--speaking of jewels--love, + There is a set of turquoise at Malan's, + Ear-drops and bracelets and a necklace--ah! + If they were mine. + + LARA. And so they should be, dear, + Were I Aladdin, and had slaves o' the lamp + To fetch me ingots. Why, then, Beatrice, + All Persia's turquoise-quarries should be yours, + Although your hand is heavy now with gems + That tear my lips when I would kiss its whiteness. + Oh! so you pout! Why make that full-blown rose + Into a bud again? + + BEATRICE. You love me not. + + LARA. A coquette's song. + + BEATRICE. I sing it. + + LARA. A poor song. + + BEATRICE. You love me not, or love me over-much, + Which makes you jealous of the gems I wear! + You do not deck me as becomes our state, + For fear my grandeur should besiege the eyes + Of Monte, Clari, Marcus, and the rest-- + A precious set! You're jealous, sir! + + LARA. Not I. + I love you. + + BEATRICE. Why, that is as easy said + As any three short words; takes no more breath + To say, "I hate you." What, sir, have I lived + Three times four weeks your wedded loyal wife, + And do not know your follies? I will wager + (If I could trap his countship into this!) + The rarest kisses I know how to give + Against the turquoise, that within a month + You'll grow so jealous--and without a cause, + Or with a reason thin as window glass-- + That you will ache to kill me! + + LARA. Will you so? + And I--let us clasp hands and kiss on it. + + BEATRICE. Clasp hands, Sir Trustful; but not kiss--nay, nay! + I will not pay my forfeit till I lose. + + LARA. And I'll not lose the forfeit. + + BEATRICE. We shall see. + + [_Exit_ BEATRICE. + + LARA. She has as many fancies as the wind + Which now, like slumber, lies 'mong spicy isles, + Then suddenly blows white furrows in the sea! + Lovely and dangerous is my leopardess. + To-day, low-lying at my feet; to-morrow, + With great eyes flashing, threatening doleful death-- + With strokes like velvet! She's no common clay, + But fire and dew and marble. I'll not throw + So rare a wonder in the lap o' the world! + Jealous? I am not jealous--though they say + Some sorts of love breed jealousy. And yet, + I would I had not wagered; it implies + Doubt. If I doubted? Pshaw! I'll walk awhile + And let the cool air fan me. 'Twas not wise. + 'Tis only Folly with its cap and bells + Can jest with sad things. She seemed earnest, too. + What if, to pique me, she should overstep + The pale of modesty, and give bold eyes + (I could not bear that, nay, not even that!) + To Marc or Claudian? Why, such things have been + And no sin dreamed of. I will watch her close. + There, now, I wrong her. + + Yet if she, + To win the turquoise of me, if she should-- + O cursed jewels! Would that they were hung + About the glistening neck of some mermaid + A thousand fathoms underneath the sea! + + [A PAGE _crosses the garden_. + + That page again! 'Tis twice within the week + The supple-waisted, pretty-ankled knave + Has crossed my garden at this self-same hour, + Trolling a canzonetta with an air + As if he owned the villa. Why, the fop! + He might have doffed his bonnet as he passed. + I'll teach him better if he comes again. + What does he at the villa? O! perchance + He comes in the evening when his master's out, + To lisp soft romance in the ready ear + Of Beatrice's dressing-maid; but then + She has one lover. Now I think she's two: + This gaudy popinjay would make the third, + And that's too many for an honest girl! + I'll ask the Countess--no, I'll not do that; + She'd laugh at me; and vow by the Madonna + This varlet was some noble in disguise, + Seeking her favor. Then I'd let the light + Of heaven through his doublet--I would--yes, + That is, I would, were I a jealous man: + But then I'm not. + + When he comes out again + I'll stop him, question him, and know the truth. + I cannot sit in the garden of a night + But he glides by me in his jaunty dress, + Like a fantastic phantom!--never looks + To the right nor left, but passes gayly on, + As if I were a statue. Soft, he comes! + I'll make him speak, or kill him; then, indeed, + It were unreasonable to ask it. Soh! + I'll speak him gently at the first, and then-- + +_The_ PAGE _enters by a gate in the villa-garden, and walks past the_ +COUNT. + + Ho! pretty page, who owns you? + + PAGE. No one now. + Once Signor Juan, but I am his no more. + + LARA. What, then, you stole from him? + + PAGE. O! no, sir, no. + He had so many intrigues on his hands, + There was no sleep for me nor night nor day. + Such carrying of love-favors and pink notes! + He's gone abroad now, to break other hearts + And so I left him. + + LARA. A frank knave. + + PAGE. To-night + I've done his latest bidding-- + + LARA. As you should-- + + PAGE. A duty wed with pleasure--'twas to take + A message to a countess all forlorn, + In yonder villa. + + LARA. [_aside_]. Why! that villa's mine! + A message to a countess all forlorn? + In yonder villa? + + PAGE. Ay, sir. You can see + The portico among the mulberries, + Just to the left, there. + + LARA. Ay, I see, I see. + A pretty villa. And the lady's name? + + PAGE. The lady's name, sir? + + LARA. Ay, the lady's name. + + PAGE. O! that's a secret which I cannot tell. + + LARA. No? but you shall, though, or I'll strangle you! + In my strong hands your slender neck would snap + Like a fragile pipe-stem. + + PAGE. You are choking me! + O! loose your grasp, sir! + + LARA. Then the name! the name! + + PAGE. Countess of Lara. + + LARA. Not her dressing-maid? + + PAGE. No, no, I said the mistress, not the maid. + + LARA. And then you lied. I never saw two eyes + So wide and frank but they'd a pliant tongue + To shape a lie for them. Say you are false! + Tell me you lie, and I will make you rich, + I'll stuff your cap with ducats twice a year. + + PAGE. Well, then--I lie. + + LARA. Ay, now you lie, indeed! + I see it in the cunning of your eyes; + Night cannot hide the Satan leering there. + Only a little lingering fear of heaven + Holds me from dirking you between the ribs! + + PAGE. What would you have? I will say nothing, then. + + LARA. Say everything, and end it! Here is gold. + You brought a billet to the Countess--well? + What said the billet? + + PAGE. Take away your hand. + And, by St. Mary, I will tell you all. + There, now, I breathe. You will not harm me, sir? + Stand six yards off, or I will not a word. + It seems the Countess promised Signor Juan + A set of turquoise-- + + LARA. Turquoise? Ha! that's well. + + PAGE. Just so--wherewith my master was to pay + Some gaming debts; but yester-night the cards + Tumbled a golden mountain at his feet; + And ere he sailed, this morning, Signor Juan + Gave me a perfumed, amber-tinted note, + For Countess Lara, which, with some adieus, + Craved her remembrance morning, noon, and night; + Her prayers while gone, her smiles when he returned; + Then told his sudden fortune with the cards, + And bade her keep the jewels. That is all. + + LARA. All? Is that all? 'T has only cracked my heart! + A heart, I know, of little, little worth-- + An ill-cut ruby, scarred and scratched before, + But now quite broken! I have no heart, then; + Men should not have, when they are wronged like this. + Out of my sight, thou demon of bad news! + + [_Exit_ LARA. + + PAGE. I did not think 't would work on him like that. + How pale he grew! Alack! I fear some ill + Will come of this. I'll to the Countess now, + And warn her of his madness. + [_Exit_ PAGE. + + +ACT I, SCENE II + + + SCENE: Beatrice's chamber. Beatrice sits on a fauteuil in the + attitude of listening. + + + BEATRICE. Hist! that's his step. Miriam, place the lights + Farther away; keep you behind the screen, + Breathing no louder than a lily does; + For if you stir or laugh 'twill ruin all. + + MIRIAM. Laugh! I am faint with terror. + + BEATRICE. Then be still. + Move not for worlds until I touch the bell, + Then do the thing I told you. Hush! his step + Sounds in the corridor, and I'm asleep! + +LARA _enters. He approaches within a few yards of_ BEATRICE, _pauses, +and looks at her._ + + LARA. Asleep!--and guilt can slumber! Guilt can lie + Down-lidded and soft-breathed like innocence! + Hath dreams as sweet as childhood's--who can tell? + Were I an artist, and did wish to paint + A devil to perfection, I'd not limn + A horned monster, with a leprous skin, + Red-hot from Pandemonium--not I. + But with my delicatest tints, I'd paint + A woman in the glamour of her youth, + All garmented with loveliness and mystery! + How fair she is! Her beauty glides between + Me and my purpose, like a pleading angel. + + [BEATRICE _sighs_. + + Her dream's broke, like a bubble, in a sigh. + She'll waken soon, and that--that must not be! + I could not kill her if she looked at me. + I loved her, loved her, by the saints, I did-- + I trust she prayed before she fell asleep! + + BEATRICE [_springing up_]. So, you are come--your dagger in + your hand? + Your lips compressed and blanched, and your hair + Tumbled wildly all about your eyes, + Like a river-god's? O love, you frighten me! + And you are trembling. Tell me what this means. + + LARA. Oh! nothing, nothing--I did think to write + A note to Juan, to Signor Juan, my friend + (Your cousin and my honorable friend); + But finding neither ink nor paper here, + I thought to scratch it with my dagger's point + Upon your bosom, Madam! That is all. + + BEATRICE. You've lost your senses! + + LARA. Madam, no, I've found 'em! + + BEATRICE. Then lose them quickly, and be what you were. + + LARA. I was a fool, a dupe--a happy dupe. + You should have kept me in my ignorance; + For wisdom makes us wretched, king and clown. + Countess of Lara, you are false to me! + + BEATRICE. Now, by the saints-- + + LARA. Now, by the saints, you are! + + BEATRICE. Upon my honor-- + + LARA. On your honor? fie! + Swear by the ocean's feathery froth, for that + Is not so light a substance. + + BEATRICE. Hear me, love! + + LARA. Lie to that marble Io! I am sick + To the heart with lying. + + BEATRICE. You've the ear-ache, sir, + Got with too much believing. + + LARA. Beatrice, + I came to kill you. + + BEATRICE. Kiss me, Count, you mean! + + LARA. If killing you be kissing you, why yes. + + BEATRICE. Ho! come not near me with such threatening looks, + Stand back there, if you love me, or have loved! + +[_As_ LARA _advances_, BEATRICE _retreats to the table and rings a small +hand-bell._ MIRIAM, _in the dress of a page, enters from behind the +screen and steps between them_. + + LARA [_starting back_]. The Page? now, curse him! What? no! Miriam? + Hold! 'twas at twilight, in the villa-garden, + At dusk, too, on the road to Mantua; + But here the light falls on you, man or maid! + Stop now; my brain's bewildered. Stand you there, + And let me touch you with incredulous hands! + Wait till I come, nor vanish like a ghost. + If this be Juan's page, why, where is Miriam? + If this be Miriam, where's--by all the saints, + I have been tricked! + + MIRIAM [_laughing_]. By two saints, with your leave! + + LARA. The happiest fool in Italy, for my age! + And all the damning tales you fed me with, + You Sprite of Twilight, Imp of the old Moon!-- + + MIRIAM [_bowing_]. Were arrant lies as ever woman told; + And though not mine, I claim the price for them-- + This cap stuffed full of ducats twice a year! + + LARA. A trap! a trap that only caught a fool! + So thin a plot, I might have seen through it. + I've lost my reason! + + MIRIAM. And your ducats! + + BEATRICE. And + A certain set of turquoise at Malan's! + + + + +SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER + +OLIVER GOLDSMITH + + +ACT II, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Hardcastle, hospitable and urbane, with a touch of + humor in his nature; Marlow and Hastings who come from London to + visit the Hardcastles; servants. + + SCENE: Hardcastle's house. Young Marlow and Hastings have journeyed + from London to the home of Mr. Hardcastle, an old family friend + whom they have never seen. They are deceived into believing they + are many miles from their destination when they really have + arrived. They are told that Mr. Hardcastle's house is a public inn. + This leads to much confusion. The genial Hardcastle is drilling his + servants. + + +_Enter_ HARDCASTLE, _followed by_ DIGGORY _and three or four awkward_ +SERVANTS + +MR. H. Well, I hope you're perfect in the table exercise I have been +teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your places, +and can show that you have been used to good company, without stirring +from home? + +ALL. Ay! ay! + +MR. H. When company comes, you are not to pop out and stare, and then +run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren. + +ALL. No! no! + +MR. H. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make a show +at the side table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, +are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand so, with +your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your pockets, Roger; +and from your head, you blockhead you! See how Diggory carries his +hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no great matter. + +DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this way, +when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill---- + +MR. H. You must not be so talkative, Diggory; you must be all attention +to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of talking; you must +see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see us eat, and not +think of eating. + +DIG. By the laws, your worship, that's perfectly unpossible. + + [_Exeunt._ + +_Enter_ SERVANTS, _showing in_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS + +SERV. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome. This way. + +HAST. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more, Charles, +to the comforts of a clean room, and a good fire. Upon my word, a very +well-looking house; antique, but creditable. + +MAR. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the master +by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as an inn. + +HAST. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these +fineries. I have often seen a good side-board, or a marble +chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame the bill +confoundedly. + +MAR. Travelers, George, must pay in all places. The only difference is, +that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad inns you are +fleeced and starved. + +_Enter_ HARDCASTLE + +MR. H. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is Mr. +Marlow? Sir, you're heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see, to +receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a +hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their horses +and trunks taken care of. + +MAR. [_aside_]. He has got our names from the servants already. [_To_ +HARDCASTLE.] We approve your caution and hospitality. [_To_ HASTINGS.] I +have been thinking, George, of changing our traveling dresses in the +morning, I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. + +MR. H. [_putting chairs and tables in order in background_]. I beg, Mr. +Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. + +HAST. I fancy, George, you're right; the first blow is half the battle. +I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold. + +MR. H. Mr. Marlow--Mr. Hastings--gentlemen--pray be under no restraint +in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you +please here. + +MAR. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we may +want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the embroidery to +secure a retreat. + +MR. H. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of the +Duke of Marlborough, when he went to besiege Denain. He first summoned +the garrison-- + +MAR. Aye, and we'll summon your garrison, old boy. + +MR. H. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of about five +thousand men-- + +HAST. What a strange fellow is this! + +MR. H. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, he summoned the garrison, +which might consist of about five thousand men-- + +MAR. Well, but suppose-- + +MR. H. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well appointed +with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke +of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him--you must have +heard of George Brooks--I'll pawn my dukedom, says he, but I take that +garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So-- + +MAR. What, my good friend, if you give us a glass of punch in the +meantime, it would help us to carry on the siege with vigor. + +MR. H. Punch, sir? + +MAR. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey, will be +comfortable. This is Liberty Hall, you know. + +MR. H. Here's a cup, sir. + +MAR. [_aside_]. So this fellow, in his Liberty Hall, will only let us +have just what he pleases. + +MR. H. I hope you'll find it to your mind. I have prepared it with my +own hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tolerable. Will +you be so good as to pledge me, sir? Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our +better acquaintance. [_Drinks_.] + +MAR. [_aside_]. A very impudent fellow, this! but he's a character, and +I'll humor him a little. [_Aloud_.] Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks_.] + +HAST. [_aside_]. I see this fellow wants to give us his company, and +forgets that he's an inn-keeper before he has learned to be a +gentleman. + +MAR. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have +a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and +then, at elections, I suppose? + +MR. H. No, sir; I have long given that work over. + +HAST. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find? + +MR. H. Why, no, sir; there was a time, indeed, when I fretted myself +about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding myself +every day grow more angry, and the government no better, I left it to +mend itself. Sir, my service to you. [_Drinks._] + +HAST. So that, with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with +receiving your friends within, amusing them without, you lead a good, +pleasant, bustling life of it. + +MR. H. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the +differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlor. + +MAR. And you have an argument in your cup, old gentleman, better than +any in Westminster Hall. + +MR. H. Aye, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy. + +MAR. [_aside_]. Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an +inn-keeper's philosophy. + +HAST. So, then, like an experienced general, you attack them on every +quarter. If you find their reason manageable you attack it with your +philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with this. +Here's your health, my philosopher. + +MR. H. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts me in +mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of +Belgrade. You shall hear. + +MAR. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I think it's almost time to talk +about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for supper? + +MR. H. For supper, sir? Was ever such a request made to a man in his own +house? + +MAR. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall make +devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you. + +MR. H. Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld. Why, really, sir, as +for supper, I can't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these +things between them. I leave these kind of things entirely to them. + +MAR. You do, do you? + +MR. H. Entirely. By-the-bye, I believe they are in actual consultation +upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen. + +MAR. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council. It's a +way I have got. When I travel, I always choose to regulate my own +supper. Let the cook be called. No offense, I hope, sir. + +MR. H. O, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how; our Bridget, +the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these occasions. Should we +send for her she might scold us all out of the house. + +HAST. Let's see the list of the larder, then. I ask it as a favor. I +always match my appetite to my bill of fare. + +MAR. Sir, he's very right, and it's my way too. + +MR. H. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger, bring us the +bill of fare for to-night's supper--I believe it's drawn out. Your +manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Gunthorp. It +was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper till he had +eaten it. + +_Enter_ ROGER, _with a bill of fare_ + +HAST. [_aside_]. All upon the high ropes! His uncle a colonel--we shall +soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's hear the +bill of fare. [_Exit_ ROGER. + +MAR. What's here? For the first course, for the second course, for the +dessert! The devil, sir! do you think we have brought down the whole +joiner's company, or the corporation of Bedford? two or three little +things, clean and comfortable, will do. + +HAST. But let's hear it. + +MAR. "For the first course at the top, a pig's face and prune sauce." + +HAST. Out with your pig, I say. + +MAR. Out with your prune sauce, say I. + +MR. H. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig, with prune +sauce, is very good eating. But, gentlemen, you are my guests, make what +alterations you please. Is there anything else you wish to retrench or +alter, gentlemen? + +MAR. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any one +part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please. So much +for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and luggage properly +taken care of. + +MR. H. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. You shall not stir a step. + +MAR. Leave that to you? I protest, sir. You must excuse me, I always +look to these things myself. + +MR. H. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that head. + +MAR. You see I'm resolved on it. [_Aside_.] A very troublesome fellow +this as ever I met with. + +MR. H. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. + + [_Exeunt_ MARLOW _and_ HASTINGS. + +[_Aside_.] This may be modern modesty, but I never saw anything look so +like old-fashioned impudence. What could my old friend Sir Charles +Marlow mean by recommending his son as the modestest young man in town! +To me he appears the most impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a +tongue! + + [_Exit_ HARDCASTLE. + + + + +PYGMALION AND GALATEA + +W. S. GILBERT + + +ACT I, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Pygmalion, an Athenian sculptor; Cynisca, his wife; + Galatea, an animated statue. + + SCENE: Pygmalion's studio; several classical statues are placed + about the room; at the back a cabinet containing a statue of + Galatea, before which curtains are drawn concealing the statue. + + + PYG. It all but breathes--therefore it talks aloud! + It all but moves--therefore it walks and runs! + It all but lives, and therefore it is life! + No, no, my love, the thing is cold, dull stone, + Shaped to a certain form, but still dull stone, + The lifeless, senseless mockery of life. + The gods make life, I can make only death! + Why, my Cynisca, though I stand so well, + The merest cut-throat, when he plies his trade, + Makes better death than I with all my skill! + + CYN. Hush, my Pygmalion! the gods are good, + And they have made thee nearer unto them + Than other men; this is ingratitude! + + PYG. Not so; has not a monarch's second son + More cause for anger that he lacks a throne + Than he whose lot is cast in slavery? + + CYN. Not much more cause, perhaps, but more excuse. + Now I must go. + + PYG. So soon, and for so long? + + CYN. One day, 'twill quickly pass away! + + PYG. With those who measure time, by almanacs, no doubt, + But not with him who knows no days save those + Born of the sunlight of Cynisca's eyes; + It will be night with me till she returns. + + CYN. Then sleep it through, Pygmalion! But stay, + Thou shalt not pass the weary hours alone; + Now mark thou this--while I'm away from thee, + There stands my only representative; [_Withdrawing curtains._ + She is my proxy, and I charge you, sir, + Be faithful unto her as unto me! + Into her quietly attentive ear + Pour all thy treasures of hyperbole, + And give thy nimble tongue full license, lest + Disuse should rust its glib machinery; [_Advancing._ + If thoughts of love should haply crowd on thee, + There stands my other self, tell them to her, + She'll listen well; nay, that's ungenerous, + For she is I, yet lovelier than I, + And hath no temper, sir, and hath no tongue; + Thou hast thy license--make good use of it. + Already I'm half jealous--there! + + [_Draws curtain concealing statue._ + + It's gone. + The thing is but a statue after all, + And I am safe in leaving thee with her; + Farewell, Pygmalion, till I return. [_Exit._ + + PYG. "The thing is but a statue after all!" + Cynisca little thought that in those words + She touched the key-note of my discontent. + True, I have powers denied to other men; + Give me a block of senseless marble--Well, + I'm a magician, and it rests with me + To say what kernel lies within its shell; + It shall contain a man, a woman, a child, + A dozen men and women if I will. + So far the gods and I run neck and neck, + Nay, so far I can beat them at their trade; + I am no bungler--all the men I make + Are straight limbed fellows, each magnificent + In the perfection of his manly grace; + I make no crook-backs; all my men are gods, + My women, goddesses, in outward form. + But there's my tether--I can go so far, + And go no farther--at that point I stop, + To curse the bonds that hold me sternly back. + To curse the arrogance of those proud gods, + Who say, "Thou shalt be greatest among men, + And yet infinitesimally small!" + + GALATEA [_from behind curtain_]. Pygmalion! + + PYG. Who called? + + GAL. Pygmalion! + + [PYGMALION _tears away curtain and, discovers_ GALATEA _alive_. + + PYG. Ye gods! It lives! + + GAL. Pygmalion! + + PYG. It speaks! + I have my prayer! my Galatea breathes! + + GAL. Where am I? Let me speak, Pygmalion; + Give me thy hand--both hands--how soft and warm! + Whence came I? [_Descends._ + + PYG. Why, from yonder pedestal. + + GAL. That pedestal! Ah, yes, I recollect. + There was a time when it was part of me. + + PYG. That time has passed forever, thou art now + A living, breathing woman, excellent + In every attribute of womankind. + + GAL. Where am I, then? + + PYG. Why, born into the world + By miracle. + + GAL. Is this the world? + + PYG. It is. + + GAL. This room? + + PYG. This room is portion of a house; + The house stands in a grove, the grove itself + Is one of many, many thousand groves + In Athens. + + GAL. And is Athens then the world? + + PYG. To an Athenian--Yes-- + + GAL. And I am one? + + PYG. By birth and parentage, not by descent. + + GAL. But how came I to be? + + PYG. Well--let me see. + Oh--you were quarried in Pentelicus; + I modeled you in clay--my artisans + Then roughed you out in marble--I, in turn, + Brought my artistic skill to bear on you, + And made you what you are--in all but life-- + The gods completed what I had begun, + And gave the only gift I could not give. + + GAL. Then is this life? + + PYG. It is. + + GAL. And not long since + I was a cold, dull stone. I recollect + That by some means I knew that I was stone, + That was the first dull gleam of conscience; + I became conscious of a chilly self, + A cold immovable identity, + I knew that I was stone, and knew no more; + Then, by an imperceptible advance, + Came the dim evidence of outer things, + Seen--darkly and imperfectly--yet seen-- + The walls surrounded me, and I, alone, + That pedestal--that curtain--then a voice + That called on Galatea! At that word, + Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, + That which was dim before, came evident. + Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, + Vague, meaningless--seemed to resolve themselves + Into a language I could understand; + I felt my frame pervaded with a glow + That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; + Its cold hard substance throbbed with active life, + My limbs grew supple, and I moved--I lived! + Lived in the ecstasy of new born life; + Lived in the love of him that fashioned me; + Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope, + Love, gratitude, thoughts that resolved themselves + Into one word, that word, Pygmalion! [_Kneels._ + + PYG. I have no words to tell thee of my joy, + O woman--perfect in thy loveliness. + + GAL. What is that word? Am I a woman? + + PYG. Yes. + + GAL. Art thou a woman? + + PYG. No, I am a man. + + GAL. What is a man? + + PYG. A being strongly framed, + To wait on woman, and protect her from + All ills that strength and courage can avert; + To work and toil for her, that she may rest; + To weep and mourn for her, that she may laugh; + To fight and die for her, that she might live! + + GAL. I'm glad I am a woman. [_He leads her down._ + + PYG. So am I. + + GAL. That I escape the pains thou hast to bear? + + PYG. That I may undergo those pains for thee. + + GAL. With whom then wouldst thou fight? + + PYG. With any man + Whose word or deed gave Galatea pain. + + GAL. Then there are other men in this strange world? + + PYG. There are indeed. + + GAL. And other women? + + PYG. Yes; + Though for the moment I'd forgotten it; + Yes, other women. + + GAL. And for all of these + Men work, and toil, and mourn, and weep and fight? + + PYG. It is man's duty, if he's called upon, + To fight for all; he works for those he loves. + + GAL. Then by thy works I know thou lovest me. + + PYG. Indeed, I love thee! + + GAL. With what kind of love? + + PYG. I love thee as a sculptor does his work! + [_Aside._] There is diplomacy in that reply. + + GAL. My love is different in kind to thine; + I am no sculptor, and I've done no work, + Yet I do love thee; say--what love is mine? + + PYG. Tell me its symptoms--then I'll answer thee. + + GAL. Its symptoms? Let me call them as they come. + A sense that I am made by thee for thee, + That I've no will that is not wholly thine, + That I've no thought, no hope, no enterprise, + That does not own thee as its sovereign; + That I have life, that I may live for thee, + That I am thine--that thou and I are one! + What kind of love is that? + + PYG. A kind of love + That I shall run some risk in dealing with. + + GAL. And why, Pygmalion? + + PYG. Such love as thine + A man may not receive, except indeed + From one who is, or is to be, his wife. + + GAL. Then I will be thy wife. + + PYG. That may not be; + I have a wife--the gods allow but one. + + GAL. Why did the gods then send me here to thee? + + PYG. I cannot say--unless to punish me + For unreflecting and presumptuous prayer! + I prayed that thou shouldst live. I have my prayer, + And now I see the fearful consequence + That must attend it! + + GAL. Yet thou lovest me? + + PYG. Who could look on that face and stifle love? + + GAL. Then I am beautiful? + + PYG. Indeed thou art. + + GAL. I wish that I could look upon myself, + But that's impossible. + + PYG. Not so indeed, + This mirror will reflect thy face. Behold! + + GAL. How beautiful! I am very glad to know + That both our tastes agree so perfectly; + Why, my Pygmalion, I did not think + That aught could be more beautiful than thou, + Till I behold myself. Believe me, love, + I could look in this mirror all day long. + So I'm a woman. + + PYG. There's no doubt of that! + + GAL. Oh happy maid to be so passing fair! + And happier still Pygmalion, who can gaze, + At will, upon so beautiful a face. + + PYG. Hush! Galatea--in thine innocence + Thou sayest things that others would reprove. + + GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion; then it is wrong + To think that one is exquisitely fair? + + PYG. Well, Galatea, it's a sentiment + That every woman shares with thee; + They think it--but they keep it to themselves. + + GAL. And is thy wife as beautiful as I? + + PYG. No, Galatea, for in forming thee + I took her features--lovely in themselves-- + And in the marble made them lovelier still. + + GAL. Oh! then I'm not original? + + PYG. Well--no-- + That is--thou hast indeed a prototype, + But though in stone thou didst resemble her, + In life, the difference is manifest. + + GAL. I'm very glad that I am lovelier than she. + And am I better? + + PYG. That I do not know. + + GAL. Then she has faults. + + PYG. Very few indeed; + Mere trivial blemishes, that serve to show + That she and I are of one common kin. + I love her all the better for such faults. + + GAL. Tell me some faults and I'll commit them now. + + PYG. There is no hurry; they will come in time; + Though for that matter, it's a grievous sin + To sit as lovingly as we sit now. + + GAL. Is sin so pleasant? If to sit and talk + As we are sitting, be indeed a sin, + Why I could sin all day. But tell me, love, + Is this great fault that I'm committing now + The kind of fault that only serves to show + That thou and I are of one common kin? + + PYG. Indeed, I'm very much afraid it is. + + GAL. And dost thou love me better for such fault? + + PYG. Where is the mortal that could answer "no"? + + GAL. Why, then I'm satisfied, Pygmalion; + Thy wife and I can start on equal terms. + She loves thee? + + PYG. Very much. + + GAL. I'm glad of that. + I like thy wife. + + PYG. And why? + + GAL. Our tastes agree. + We love Pygmalion well, and what is more, + Pygmalion loves us both. I like thy wife; + I'm sure we shall agree. + + PYG. [_aside._] I doubt it much. + + GAL. Is she within? + + PYG. No, she is not within. + + GAL. But she'll come back? + + PYG. Oh, yes, she will come back. + + GAL. How pleased she'll be to know when she returns, + That there was some one here to fill her place. + + PYG. Yes, I should say she'd be extremely pleased. + + GAL. Why, there is something in thy voice which says + That thou art jesting. Is it possible + To say one thing and mean another? + + PYG. Yes, + It's sometimes done. + + GAL. How very wonderful! + So clever! + + PYG. And so very useful. + + GAL. Yes. + Teach me the art. + + PYG. The art will come in time. + My wife will not be pleased; there--that's the truth. + + GAL. I do not think that I shall like thy wife. + Tell me more of her. + + PYG. Well-- + + GAL. What did she say + When last she left thee? + + PYG. Humph! Well, let me see; + Oh! true, she gave thee to me as my wife,-- + Her solitary representative; + She feared I should be lonely till she came. + And counseled me, if thoughts of love should come, + To speak those thoughts to thee, as I am wont + To speak to her. + + GAL. That's right. + + PYG. But when she spoke + Thou wast a stone, now thou art flesh and blood, + Which makes a difference. + + GAL. It's a strange world; + A woman loves her husband very much, + And cannot brook that I should love him too; + She fears he will be lonely till she comes, + And will not let me cheer his loneliness; + She bids him breathe his love to senseless stone, + And when that stone is brought to life--be dumb! + It's a strange world, I cannot fathom it. + + PYG. [_aside_]. Let me be brave and put an end to this. + Come Galatea--till my wife returns, + My sister shall provide thee with a home; + Her house is close at hand. + + GAL. Send me not hence + Pygmalion; let me stay. + + PYG. It may not be. + Come, Galatea, we shall meet again. + + GAL. Do with me as thou wilt, Pygmalion! + But we shall meet again?--and very soon? + + PYG. Yes, very soon. + + GAL. And when thy wife returns, + She'll let me stay with thee? + + PYG. I do not know. + [_Aside_]. Why should I hide the truth from her [_aloud_] alas! + I may not see thee then. + + GAL. Pygmalion! + What fearful words are these? + + PYG. The bitter truth. + I may not love thee; I must send thee hence. + + GAL. Recall those words, Pygmalion, my love! + Was it for this that heaven gave me life? + Pygmalion, have mercy on me; see, + I am thy work, thou hast created me; + The gods have sent me to thee. I am thine! + Thine! only, and unalterably thine! + This is the thought with which my soul is charged. + Thou tellest me of one who claims thy love, + That thou hast love for her alone. Alas! + I do not know these things; I only know + That heaven has sent me here to be with thee. + Thou tellest me of duty to thy wife, + Of vows that thou wilt love but her. Alas! + I do not know these things; I only know + That heaven, who sent me here, has given me + One all absorbing duty to discharge-- + To love thee, and to make thee love again. + +[PYGMALION _takes her in his arms, and embraces her passionately._] + + +ACT III, SCENE I + + + CHARACTERS: Pygmalion; Myrine, his sister; Cynisca, his wife; + Galatea. + + SCENE: Pygmalion's studio. + + +_Enter_ MYRINE + + MYR. Pygmalion's heard that he must lose his wife, + And swears, by all the gods that reign above, + He will not live if she deserts him now! + What--what is to be done? + +_Enter_ GALATEA + + GAL. Myrine here! + Where is Pygmalion? + + MYR. Oh, wretched girl! + Art thou not satisfied with all the ill + Thy heedlessness has worked, that thou art come + To gaze upon thy victim's misery? + Well, thou hast come in time! + + GAL. What dost thou mean? + + MYR. Why, this is what I mean; he will not live, + Now that Cynisca has deserted him. + O, girl, his blood will be upon thy head! + + GAL. Pygmalion will not live! Pygmalion die! + And I, alas, the miserable cause! + Oh, what is to be done? + + MYR. I do not know. + And yet there is one chance, but one alone; + I'll see Cynisca, and prevail on her + To meet Pygmalion but once again. + + GAL. But should she come too late? He may not live + Till she returns. + + MYR. I'll send him now to thee, + And tell him that his wife awaits him here. + He'll take thee for Cynisca; when he speaks + Answer thou him as if thou wast his wife. + + GAL. Yes, yes, I understand. + + MYR. Then I'll be gone. + The gods assist thee in this artifice! [_Exit_ MYRINE. + + GAL. The gods will help me, for the gods are good. + [_Kneels._] Oh, heaven, in this great grief I turn to thee, + Teach me to speak to him, as, ere I lived, + Cynisca spake to him. Oh, let my voice + Be to Pygmalion as Cynisca's voice, + And he will live--for her and not for me-- + Yet he will live. I am the fountain head + +_Enter_ PYGMALION, _unobserved, led in by_ MYRINE + + Of all the horrors that surround him now, + And it is fit that I should suffer this; + Grant this, my first appeal--I do not ask + Pygmalion's love; I ask Pygmalion's life. + +[PYGMALION _utters an exclamation of joy. She rushes to him and seizes +his hand_. + + Pygmalion! + + PYG. I have no words in which + To tell the joy with which I heard that prayer. + Oh, take me to thine arms, my dearly loved! + And teach me once again how much I risked + In risking such a heaven-sent love as thine. + + GAL. [_believing that he refers to her_]. Pygmalion! my love! + Pygmalion! + Once more those words! again! say them again! + Tell me that thou forgivest me the ill + That I unwittingly have worked on thee! + + PYG. Forgive thee? Why, my wife, I did not dare + To ask thy pardon, and thou askest mine. + The compact with thy mistress, Artemis, + Gave thee a heaven-sent right to punish me. + I've learnt to take whate'er the gods may send. + +[GALATEA, _at first delighted, learns in the course of this speech that_ +PYGMALION _takes her for_ CYNISCA, _and expresses extreme horror_. + + GAL. [_with an effort_]. But then, this woman, Galatea-- + + PYG. Well? + + GAL. Thy love for her is dead? + + PYG. I had no love. A miracle + Did crown my handiwork, and brought to life + The fair creation of my sculptor's skill, + I yielded to her god-sent influence, + For I had worshiped her before she lived + Because she called Cynisca's face to me; + But when she lived--that love died--word by word. + + GAL. That is well said; thou dost not love her then? + She is no more to thee than senseless stone? + + PYG. Speak not of her, Cynisca, for I swear + +_Enter_ CYNISCA, _unobserved_ + + The unhewn marble of Pentelicus + Hath charms for me, which she, in all her glow + Of womanly perfection, could not match. + + GAL. I'm very glad to hear that this is so. + Thou art forgiven! + + PYG. Thou hast pardoned me, + And though the law of Artemis declared + Thy pardon should restore to me the light + Thine anger took away, I would be blind, + I would not have mine eyes lest they should rest + On her who caused me all this bitterness! + + GAL. Indeed, Pygmalion, 'twere better thus; + If thou couldst look on Galatea now, + Thy love for her, perchance, might come again. + + PYG. No, no. + + GAL. They say that she endureth pains + That mock the power of words. + + PYG. It should be so. + + GAL. Hast thou no pity for her? [CYNISCA _comes down_. + + PYG. No, not I. + The ill that she hath worked on thee, on me, + And on Myrine, surely were enough + To make us curse the hour that gave her life. + She is not fit to live upon this world! + + GAL. Upon this worthy world, thou sayest well. + The woman shall be seen of thee no more. + +[_Takes_ CYNISCA'S _hand and leads her to_ PYGMALION.] + + What wouldst thou with her now? Thou hast thy wife! + +[_She substitutes_ CYNISCA _in her place, and retires, weeping_. CYNISCA +_takes him to her arms and kisses him. He recovers his sight_. + + PYG. Cynisca! see! the light of day is mine! + Once more I look upon thy well loved face! + +_Enter_ GALATEA + + MYR. Pygmalion! + See--Galatea's here! [GALATEA _kneels_. + + PYG. Away from me, + Woman or statue! Thou the only blight + That ever fell upon my love--begone, + + [CYNISCA _comforts her_. + + For thou hast been the curse of all who fell + Within the compass of thy waywardness! + + CYN. No, no; recall those words, Pygmalion, + Thou knowest not all. + + GAL. Nay, let me go from him; + That curse--his curse still ringing in mine ears, + For life is bitterer to me than death. [_She mounts the pedestal_. + Farewell, Pygmalion, I am not fit + To live upon this world--this worthy world. + Farewell, Pygmalion. Farewell, farewell! + + [_The curtains conceal her_. + + CYN. Thou art unjust to her as I to thee! + Hers was the voice that pardoned thee--not mine. + I knew no pity till she taught it me. + I heard the words she spoke, and little thought + That they would find an echo in my heart; + But so it was. I took them for mine own, + And asking for thy pardon, pardoned thee! + + PYG. Cynisca! Is this so? + + CYN. In truth it is. + + GAL. [_behind curtain_]: Farewell, Pygmalion! Farewell--farewell! + +[PYGMALION _tears away the curtain, discovering_ GALATEA _as a statue._ + + + + +INDEX OF AUTHORS + + +Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, 478. + +Angell, James B., 220. + +Anonymous, 89, 92, 349, 353, 354, 380, 386, 395, 404. + +Arnold, Edwin, 110. + + +Barham, R. H., 54. + +Beecher, Henry Ward, 208, 215. + +Bell, H. G., 431. + +Beveridge, Albert J., 217. + +Blaine, James Gillespie, 237. + +Bossuet, Jacques Benigne, 169. + +Bright, John, 218, 222. + +Brooks, Katherine R., 125. + +Browning, Robert, 21. + +Bryan, William Jennings, 231. + +Bryant, William Cullen, 132. + +Burke, Edmund, 175, 178, 182. + +Burns, Robert, 129. + +Burroughs, John, 53. + +Byron, Lord, 147. + + +Cable, George W., 77. + +Campbell, Thomas, 157. + +Carlyle, Thomas, 156. + +Castelar, Emilio, 258. + +Channing, William E., 302. + +Chatham, William Pitt, Earl of, 171, 173. + +Chrysostom, Saint-John, 165, 167. + +Cicero, Marcus Tullius, 162. + +Cockran, Bourke, 314. + +Cooke, Edmund Vance, 52. + +Coolidge, Susan, 42. + +Corwin, Thomas, 278. + +Crawford, F. Marion, 139. + +Curtis, George William, 273, 275. + + +Delano, Myra S., 37. + +Demosthenes, 159. + +Dickens, Charles, 15, 103. + +Dunbar, Paul Laurence, 325, 327, 389. + +Dunne, Finley Peter, 337. + + +Edwards, Harry Stillwell, 340. + +Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 148. + +Everett, Edward, 312. + + +Field, Eugene, 76. + +Flagg, Edmund, 304. + + +Garfield, James A., 260. + +Gilbert, W. S., 493. + +Gillilan, S. W., 137, 343. + +Gladstone, William E., 222, 255. + +Goldsmith, Oliver, 486. + +Grady, Henry W., 249, 283, 284. + +Graves, John Temple, 246. + + +Hamilton, Alexander, 196. + +Harris, Joel Chandler, 335, 370. + +Hay, John, 59, 124, 261, 362. + +Hemans, Felicia, 151. + +Henry, Daniel, 12, 130. + +Henry, Patrick, 193, 292. + +Hoar, George F., 309. + +Holmes, Oliver W., 145. + +Howe, Julia Ward, 225. + +Hugo, Victor, 345, 400. + +Hunt, Leigh, 57. + + +Ingalls, John J., 235. + +Ingelow, Jean, 47, 101. + +Ingersoll, Robert G., 279, 315. + +Irving, Washington, 449. + + +Jenkins, Lucy Dean, 366. + +Jerome, Jerome K., 354. + +Jerrold, Blanchard, 468. + + +King, Ben F., 357, 379. + +Kingsley, Charles, 102. + +Kipling, Rudyard, 155, 368. + +Kossuth, Louis, 250, 313. + + +Le Fanu, Joseph S., 113. + +Lincoln, Abraham, 206, 241, 305, 307. + +Lippard, George, 98. + +Lodge, Henry Cabot, 226. + +Longfellow, H. W., 8, 61. + +Lover, Samuel, 364. + +Lowell, James Russell, 152. + +Lytton, Edward Bulwer, 25, 80. + +Lytton, Robert Bulwer, 8, 423, 441. + + +McKinley, William, 251. + +Mead, Edwin D., 294, 299, 318. + +Mitchell, Agnes E., 391. + +Moore, Thomas, 41. + + +Nadaud, Gustav, 13. + + +Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart, 330. + +Phillips, Charles, 321. + +Phillips, Wendell, 202, 239, 290, 296, 297. + +Pierce, Etta W., 133. + +Poe, Edgar Allan, 426. + + +Quincy, Josiah, 284. + + +Richards, Laura E., 414. + +Riley, James Whitcomb, 323, 324, 359. + +Robbins, R. D. C., 118. + +Roosevelt, Theodore, 264, 280. + + +Savonarola, Girolamo, 228. + +Saxe, John G., 384. + +Scott, Walter, 123. + +Sheridan, Richard Brinsley, 454. + +Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 1. + +Smith, F. Hopkinson, 375. + +Stephens, Alexander H., 243. + +Streeter, R. M., 387. + +Sumner, Charles, 212, 248. + + +Taylor, Benjamin F., 373. + +Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 32, 67, 94, 146. + +Thompson, Maurice, 138. + +Togo, Admiral Heihaichiro, 242, 271. + + +Van Dyke, Henry, 72. + +Verne, Jules, 408. + + +Weatherly, F. E., 328. + +Webster, Daniel, 185, 188, 191, 199. + +Whitman, Walt, 88. + +Whittier, John G., 144, 149. + +Wilcox, Ella Wheeler, 117. + +Williams, Henry L., 437. + + + + +ANNOUNCEMENTS + + +BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING + +By ROBERT I. FULTON, late of Ohio Wesleyan University, and THOMAS C. +TRUEBLOOD, University of Michigan + + +ESSENTIALS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING + +(Second Edition) + +This book shows the relation of intellect, feeling, and gesture to the +elements of effective expression in oratorical and dramatic art. It +treats the elements of expression in their simplest and most natural +order, showing their application to the various sentiments and emotions, +and provides exercises in the technic of voice and action. In +illustration of the principles full selections as well as illustrative +passages are given, together with the necessary explanation, _xiv_ + +_250 pages_ + + +BRITISH AND AMERICAN ELOQUENCE + +Accounts of the lives and public careers of twenty-two noted British and +American orators together with selections from their greatest speeches. +The purpose is to point out by concrete example the abstract principles +of public speaking which should guide the beginner. The book aims to +select, adapt, and utilize in a single volume such helpful material as +the student of public speaking can find elsewhere only in many separate +volumes. _403 pages, illustrated_ + + +CHOICE READINGS FROM POPULAR AND STANDARD AUTHORS + +The number, variety, and interest of the selections are noteworthy. They +include prose and verse from a wide range of writers. Selections are +grouped in fourteen divisions, according to the nature of the subject +matter, _xix_ + _729 pages_ + + +STANDARD SELECTIONS + +Edited by ROBERT I. FULTON, THOMAS C. TRUEBLOOD, and EDWIN P. TRUEBLOOD + +The purpose of the book is to provide material in poetry and oratory +that has never before appeared in books of this character, and to +stimulate interest in the authors represented. Nearly two hundred +selections of varying character are included. _510 pages_ + + +GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS + + +EXTEMPORE SPEAKING + +By EDWIN DUBOIS SHURTER, Associate Professor of Public Speaking in the +University of Texas + +12mo, cloth, 178 pages + +This manual provides an analysis of the art of extempore speaking, +together with specific examples and exercises. It is distinctly modern +in treatment, although drawing also from the rich fund of material in +classical and modern literature. + + +MASTERPIECES OF MODERN ORATORY + +By EDWIN DUBOIS SHURTER + +12mo, cloth, 369 pages + +These fifteen orations, edited with introductions and notes, are +intended to furnish models for students of oratory, argumentation, and +debate. The orators represented are Burke, Webster, Lincoln, Phillips, +Curtis, Grady, Watterson, Daniel, Porter, Reed, Beveridge, Cockran, +Schurz, Spalding, and Van Dyke. + + +VOCAL EXPRESSION IN SPEECH + +By HENRY EVARTS GORDON, late Professor of Public Speaking in the +University of Iowa + +12mo, cloth, viii + 315 pages + +A fresh and stimulating treatise on the fundamentals of public speaking +from its cultural side, intended primarily for college classes but +easily adaptable to high-school use. A thorough program of study is +provided for speech melody, speech quality, speech rhythm, and speech +dynamics, accompanied by several hundred illustrative selections. + + +GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS + + +BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING + + +THE MAKING OF ARGUMENTS + +By JOHN HAYS GARDINER, late of Harvard University + +A brief course in argumentation to meet the needs of the future average +citizen rather than of the few who go on to law or political life. The +examples used throughout the book and the exercises and questions +suggested for argument are drawn from matters in which young people from +eighteen to twenty-two have a natural, lively interest and which they +argue about in real life. The aim of the book is to develop habits of +analysis and effective presentation of facts which will serve the +student in the practical concerns of later life. _290 pages_ + + +THE PRINCIPLES OF ARGUMENTATION + +(Revised and Enlarged Edition) + +By GEORGE P. BAKER, Harvard University, and H. B. HUNTINGTON, Brown +University + +This book holds an established place as one of the standard textbooks in +the subject. Fundamental matters of analytical investigation, sifting of +evidence, brief-drawing, and persuasive adaptation are clearly +illustrated by numerous extracts and are made teachable by varied +practical exercises. The book as a whole develops intellectual power and +avoids that "predigested" argumentative material which enables a student +easily to remember--and surely to forget--"how to argue." _677 pages_ + + +ORAL ENGLISH + +By JOHN M. BREWER, Los Angeles State Normal School + +This textbook treats oral English as a subject independent both of +literature and of written composition. It furnishes the student brief +directions, detailed exercises, and suggestive lists of topics of +every-day interest which will provide material for doing with conscious +direction of thought the things which unconsciously are done in the +pursuit of every other study--arguing, explaining, and telling. It +embodies the latest ideas in the teaching of this subject by +substituting for imitation of masterpieces of eloquence a direct and +effective way of speaking without unnecessary adornment, more fitted to +be of practical use to men and women of to-day. _396 pages_ + + +GINN AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS + + +BOOKS IN PUBLIC SPEAKING + + +ELEMENTS OF PUBLIC SPEAKING + +By HARRY GARFIELD HOUGHTON, University of Wisconsin xi + 333 pages + +This textbook aims to teach the student, + + + First, how to organize his subject matter into clear and logical + form for purposes of public utterance. + + Second, how to cultivate his powers of expression so as to enable + him to convey his ideas most effectively. + + +The book combines a definite amount of accurately expressed theory with +a maximum of practice. Special emphasis has been laid upon clear and +accurate thinking as the foundation for all expression, and each +principle has been treated in its relation thereto. + +The book, while intended primarily for college courses, will also prove +valuable in classes in practical speaking in preparatory schools, as an +aid in declamatory work (for this purpose Chapter II, The Conversational +Mode, and Appendix II, Declamation, are particularly useful), and as a +reference book. + + +THE BRIEF-MAKER'S NOTEBOOK + +By WARREN C. SHAW, Dartmouth College vii + 240 pages, in Biflex Binder + +"The Brief-Maker's Notebook" presents a logical system for analyzing +debaters' propositions and supplies a blank form of brief based upon +this system. It is devised to accomplish several aims: + + + 1. To enable the debater to use a loose-leaf system of note-taking. + + 2. To help him to investigate details of his case without losing + his grip upon the problem as a whole. + + 3. 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