The Universal Reciter
by Various · English · Gutenberg #29477 · 400,412 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Universal Reciter
Author: Various
Release date: July 21, 2009 [eBook #29477]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/29477
Credits: Produced by Lesley Halamek, Jason Isbell, Afra Ullah and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNIVERSAL RECITER ***
Produced by Lesley Halamek, Jason Isbell, Afra Ullah and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
There are a few pieces which contain some dialect. All dialect, period
spelling, etc., has been preserved.
The remainder of the TN is at the end of the book.
* * * * *
When the voice is weak, it should be strengthened by frequent
practice, by exercising it in the open air, and upon all convenient
occasions.
* * * * *
The Universal Reciter,
CONTAINING
81 Choice Pieces.
* * * * *
It is necessary not only to practise a little, but to practise a great
deal. In this way ease, grace, and fluency are acquired.
[Illustration:
OH! TELL ME, I SAID, RAPID STREAM OF THE VALLEY,
THAT BEAR'ST IN THY COURSE THE BLUE WATERS AWAY,
CAN THE JOYS OF LIFE'S MORNING AWAKE BUT TO VANISH,
CAN THE FEELINGS OF LOVE BE ALL DOOM'D TO DECAY?
AN ECHO REPEATED--"ALL DOOM'D TO DECAY."
]
THE
UNIVERSAL RECITER,
A
LITERARY BOUQUET,
CONTAINING
81 CHOICE PIECES
OF RARE POETICAL GEMS, FINE SPECIMENS OF
ORATORY, THRILLING SENTIMENT,
ELOQUENCE, TENDER PATHOS, AND SPARKLING
HUMOR.
* * * * *
LONDON:
WILLIAM NICHOLSON AND SONS,
20, WARWICK SQUARE PATERNOSTER ROW, AND
ALBION WORKS, WAKEFIELD.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
A Horse Car Incident 194
A love of a Bonnet 87
An Eruption of Mount Vesuvius 100
A Plea for the Ox 103
A Pleasure Exertion 203
A Precious Pickle 125
A Psalm of Life 231
Bell of the "Atlantic" 243
Big Oyster, The 122
Black Regiment, The 162
Boy Archer, The 72
David and Goliath 109
David's lament over Absalom 71
Drafted 98
Dying Hebrew, The 41
Enlisting as Army Nurse 139
Falstaff's Boasting 64
Forging of the Anchor 148
Flowers, The 246
Give me back my Husband 44
Graves of a Household 249
Green Goose, The 175
Gridiron, The 144
Here she goes, and there she goes 105
How we hunted a Mouse 38
Hypochondriac, The 247
Ignorance is bliss 58
Injured Mother, The 50
Juvenile Pugilists 221
Knife Grinder, The 191
Last Man, The 232
Lord Dundreary at Brighton 151
Mantle of St. John De Matha, The 234
Mariner's Wife, The 11
Menagerie, The 56
Migratory Bones 177
Mills of God, The 55
Miser's Fate, The 16
Miss Maloney on the Chinese Question 119
Murdered Traveller, The 70
My Mother's Bible 138
My Friend's Secret 156
One Hoss Shay, The 46
Only Sixteen 143
On to Freedom 68
On the Shores of Tennessee 159
Owl, The 245
Pat and the Fox 22
Pat-ent Gun 229
Patrick's Colt 34
Paul Revere's Ride 200
Pauper's Death Bed 193
Pledge with Wine 250
Polish Boy, The 237
Preaching to the Poor 192
Rain Drops, The 172
Red Chignon 180
Sambo's Dilemma 20
San Francisco Auctioneer 227
Satan's Address to the Sun 32
Scolding Old Dame 174
Shamus O'Brien 214
She would be a Mason 18
Snyder's Nose 13
Socrates Snooks 198
That Hired Girl 241
There's but one pair of Stockings to mend to night 85
Thief of Time, The 164
The Old Man in the Stylish Church 223
The Old Man in the Model Church 225
The World for Sale 37
To my Mother 27
Two Weavers, The 117
Vain Regrets 158
Ventriloquist on a Stage Coach 76
Voices at the Throne 155
Vulture of the Alps, The 62
What ailed "Ugly Sam" 29
Which am de Mightiest 219
Widow Bedott's Poetry 112
Wilkins on Accomplishments
7
[Illustration]
THE
UNIVERSAL RECITER.
WILKINS ON ACCOMPLISHMENTS.
A DUOLOGUE.
JOHN QUILL.
MR. WILKINS. Mrs. Wilkins, of all the aggravating women I ever came
across, you are the worst. I believe you'd raise a riot in the cemetry
if you were dead, you would. Don't you ever go prowling around any
Quaker meeting, or you'll break it up in a plug muss. You? Why you'd
put any other man's back up until he broke his spine. Oh! you're too
annoying to live; I don't want to bother with you. Go to sleep.
MRS. WILKINS. But, Wilkins dear, just listen a minute. We must have
that piano, and--
MR. W. Oh! don't "dear" me; I won't have it. You're the only dear
thing around here--you're dear at any price. I tell you once for
all that I don't get any new piano, and Mary Jane don't take singing
lessons as long as I'm her father. There! If you don't understand that
I'll say it over again. And now stop your clatter and go to sleep; I'm
tired of hearing you cackle.
MRS. W. But, Wilk--
MR. W. Now don't aggravate me. I say Mary Jane shan't learn to sing
and plant another instrument of torture in this house, while I'm boss
of the family. Her voice is just like yours; it's got a twang to it
like blowing on the edge of a piece of paper.
MRS. W. Ain't you ashamed, Wilk--
MR. W. It's disgrace enough to have _you_ sitting down and pretending
to sing, and trying to deafen people, without having the children
do it. The first time I heard you sing I started round to the
station-house and got six policemen, because I thought there was a
murder in your house, and they were cutting you up by inches. I wish
somebody would! I wouldn't go for any policeman now, not much!
MRS. W. I declare, you are a perfect brute!
MR. W. Not much, I wouldn't! But Smith, he told me yesterday that his
family were kept awake half the night by the noise you made; and he
said if I didn't stop those dogs from yowling in my cellar, he'd be
obliged to complain to the board of health.
MRS. W. What an awful story, Mr. Wilk--
MR. W. Then I told him it was you, and you thought you could sing;
and he advised me as a friend to get a divorce, because he said no
man could live happily with any woman who had a voice like a cross-cut
saw. He said I might as well have a machine-shop with a lot of files
at work in my house as that, and he'd rather any time.
MRS. W. Phugh! I don't care what Smith says.
MR. W. And you a-talking about a new piano! Why, haven't we got
musical instruments enough in the house? There's Holofernes Montgomery
been blowing away in the garret for ten days with that old key bugle,
until he got so black in the face that he won't get his colour back
for a month, and then he only gets a spurt out of her every now and
then. He's blown enough wind in her to get up a hurricane, and I
expect nothing else but he'll get the old machine so chock full that
she'll blow back at him some day and burst his brains out, and all
along of your tomfoolery. You're a pretty mother, you are! You'd
better go and join some asylum for feeble-minded idiots, you had.
MRS. W. Wilkins! I declare you're too bad, for--
MR. W. Yes--and there's Bucephalus Alexander, he's got his head full
of your sentimental nonsense, and he thinks he's in love with a girl
round the corner, and he meanders about and tries to sigh, and won't
eat his victuals, and he's got to going down into the cellar and
trying to sing "No one to love" in the coal-bin; and he like to scared
the hired girl out of her senses, so that she went upstairs and had a
fit on the kitchen door-mat, and came near dying on my hands.
MRS. W. That's not true, Mr. Wil--
MR. W. And never came to until I put her head under the hydrant. And
then what does Bucephalus Alexander do but go round, night before
last, and try to serenade the girl, until the old man histed up the
sash and cracked away at Bucephalus Alexander with an old boot, and
hit him in the face and blacked his eye, because he thought it was two
cats a-yelping. Hang such a mother as you are! You go right to work to
ruin your offspring.
MRS. W. You're talking nonsense, Wilk--
MR. W. You're about as fit to bring up children as a tadpole is to run
a ferry boat, you are! But while I'm alive Mary Jane takes no singing
lessons. Do you understand? It's bad enough to have her battering away
at that piano like she had some grudge against it, and to have her
visitors wriggle around and fidget and look miserable, as if they had
cramp colic, while you make her play for them and have them get up and
lie, and ask what it was, and say how beautiful it is, and steep their
souls in falsehood and hypocrisy all on account of you. You'll have
enough sins to answer for, old woman, without that.
MRS. W. I never did such a thing, and you--
MR. W. Yes--and you think Mary Jane can play, don't you? You think she
can sit down and jerk more music than a whole orchestra, don't you?
But she can't. You might about as well set a crowbar to opening
oysters as set her to playing on that piano. You might, indeed!
MRS. W. You talk like a fool, Wilkins!
MR. W. Play! She play? Pshaw! Why, she's drummed away at that polka
for six months and she can't get her grip on it yet. You might as well
try to sing a long-metre hymn to "Fisher's Hornpipe," as to undertake
to dance to that polka. It would jerk your legs out at the sockets,
certain, or else it would give you St. Vitus' dance, and cripple you
for life.
MRS. W. Mr. Wilkins, I'm going to tell you a secret.
MR. W. Oh! I don't want to hear your secrets--keep them to yourself.
MRS. W. It's about Mary Jane's singing.
MR. W. What?
MRS. W. Mary Jane, you know--her singing.
MR. W. I don't know, and I don't want to; she shan't take lessons, so
dry up.
MRS. W. But she shall take them!
MR. W. I say she shan't!
MRS. W. She shall, and you can't help it.
MR. W. By George! What do you mean? I'm master in this house I'd like
you to know.
MRS. W. Yes--but she's been taking lessons for a whole quarter, while
you were down town, and I paid the bill out of the market money.
MR. W. Well! I hope I may be shot! You don't mean to say that? Well,
if you ain't a perfectly abandoned wretch, hang me! Farewell, Mrs.
Wilkins, farewell! I'm off by the first express-train for the
West! I'll stop at Chicago, where the cars wait fifteen minutes for
refreshments and a divorce--I'll take the divorce, that will be
indeed refreshing! Farewell! F-a-r-e-well! Fare-r-r-r-r-r-r-well! Mrs.
Wil-l-l-l-l-l-l-kins!
THE MARINERS WIFE.
WM. JULIUS MICKLE.
THIS WAS A FAVOURITE RECITATION OF THE LATE CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.
And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Make haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this a time to spin a thread,
When Colin's at the door?
Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.
And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife,
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on,
My stockings pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the mukle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my own gudeman,
For he's been long awa.
There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And mak our table neat and clean,
Let everything look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And shall I see his face again?
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!
The cold blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirléd through my heart,
They're a' blown by, I hae him safe,
'Till death we'll never part;
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa!
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.
Since Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae nae mair to crave;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboov the lave.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae lack at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.
SNYDER'S NOSE.
"OUR FAT CONTRIBUTOR."
Snyder kept a beer saloon some years ago "over the Rhine." Snyder
was a ponderous Teuton of very irascible temper--"sudden and quick
in quarrel"--get mad in a minute. Nevertheless his saloon was a great
resort for "the boys"--partly because of the excellence of his beer,
and partly because they liked to chafe "Old Snyder," as they called
him; for, although his bark was terrific, experience had taught them
that he wouldn't bite.
One day Snyder was missing; and it was explained by his "frau," who
"jerked" the beer that day, that he had "gone out fishing mit der
poys." The next day one of the boys, who was particularly fond
of "roasting" old Snyder, dropped in to get a glass of beer, and
discovered Snyder's nose, which was a big one at any time, swollen and
blistered by the sun, until it looked like a dead-ripe tomato.
"Why, Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?" said the caller.
"I peen out fishing mit der poys," replied Snyder, laying his finger
tenderly against his proboscis; "the sun it pese hot like ash never
vas, und I purns my nose. Nice nose, don't it?" And Snyder viewed it
with a look of comical sadness in the little mirror back of his bar.
It entered at once into the head of the mischievous fellow in front of
the bar to play a joke upon Snyder; so he went out and collected half
a dozen of his comrades, with whom he arranged that they should drop
in at the saloon one after another, and ask Snyder, "What's the matter
with that nose?" to see how long he would stand it. The man who put
up the job went in first with a companion, and seating themselves at
a table called for beer. Snyder brought it to them, and the new-comer
exclaimed as he saw him, "Snyder, what's the matter with your nose?"
"I yust dell your friend here I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de
sun he purnt 'em--zwi lager--den cents--all right."
Another boy rushes in. "Halloo, boys, you're ahead of me this time;
s'pose I'm in, though. Here, Snyder, bring me a glass of lager and
a pret"--(appears to catch a sudden glimpse of Snyder's nose, looks
wonderingly a moment and then bursts out laughing)--"ha! ha! ha! Why,
Snyder--ha!--ha!--what's the matter with that nose?"
Snyder, of course, can't see any fun in having a burnt nose or having
it laughed at; and he says, in a tone sternly emphatic:
"I peen out fishin' mit der poys, unt de sun it yust ash hot ash
blazes, unt I purnt my nose; dat ish all right."
Another tormentor comes in, and insists on "setting 'em up" for the
whole house. "Snyder," says he, "fill up the boys' glasses, and take
a drink yourse----ho! ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha! Snyder, wha--ha!
ha!--what's the matter with that nose?"
Snyder's brow darkens with wrath by this time, and his voice grows
deeper and sterner:
"I peen out fishin' mit der poys on the Leedle Miami. De sun pese hot
like ash--vel, I burn my pugle. Now that is more vot I don't got to
say. Vot gind o' peseness? Dat ish all right; I purn my _own_ nose,
don't it?"
"Burn your nose--burn all the hair off your head for what I care; you
needn't get mad about it."
It was evident that Snyder wouldn't stand more than one tweak at that
nose; for he was tramping about behind his bar, and growling like an
exasperated old bear in his cage. Another one of his tormentors walks
in. Some one sings out to him, "Have a glass of beer, Billy?"
"Don't care about any beer," says Billy, "but, Snyder, you may give
me one of your best ciga--Ha-a-a! ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho! he! he! he!
ah-h-h-ha! ha! ha! ha! Why--why--Snyder--who who--ha-ha! ha! what's
the matter with that nose?"
Snyder was absolutely fearful to behold by this time; his face was
purple with rage, all except his nose, which glowed like a ball of
fire. Leaning his ponderous figure far over the bar, and raising his
arm aloft to emphasize his words with it, he fairly roared:
"I peen out fishin' mit ter poys. The sun it pese hot like ash never
was. I purnt my nose. Now you no like dose nose, you yust take dose
nose unt wr-wr-wr-wring your mean American finger mit 'em. That's the
kind of man vot I am!" And Snyder was right.
THE MISER'S FATE.
OSBORNE.
In the year 1762 a miser, of the name of Foscue, in France,
having amassed enormous wealth by habits of extortion and
the most sordid parsimony, was requested by the government
to advance a sum of money as a loan. The miser demurred,
pretending that he was poor. In order to hide his gold
effectually, he dug a deep cave in his cellar, the descent
to which was by a ladder, and which was entered by means of a
trap-door, to which was attached a spring-lock.
He entered this cave one day to gloat over his gold, when the
door fell upon him, and the spring-lock, the key to which he
had left on the outside, snapped, and held him a prisoner in
the cave, where he perished miserably. Some months afterwards
a search was made, and his body was found in the midst of his
money-bags, with a candlestick lying beside it on the floor.
In the following lines the miser is supposed to have just
entered his cave, and to be soliloquizing.
So, so! all safe! Come forth, my pretty sparklers--
Come forth, and feast my eyes! Be not afraid!
No keen-eyed agent of the government
Can see you here. They wanted me, forsooth,
To lend you, at the lawful rate of usance,
For the state's needs. Ha, ha! my shining pets,
My yellow darlings, my sweet golden circlets!
Too well I loved you to do that--and so
I pleaded poverty, and none could prove
My story was not true.
Ha! could they see
These bags of ducats, and that precious pile
Of ingots, and those bars of solid gold,
Their eyes, methinks, would water. What a comfort
Is it to see my moneys in a heap
All safely lodged under my very roof!
Here's a fat bag--let me untie the mouth of it.
What eloquence! What beauty! What expression!
Could Cicero so plead? Could Helen look
One-half so charming? [_The trap-door falls._]
Ah! what sound was that?
The Trap-door fallen--and the spring-lock caught!
Well, have I not the key? Of course I have.
'Tis in this pocket. No. In this? No. Then
I left it at the bottom of the ladder.
Ha! 'tis not there. Where then? Ah! mercy, Heaven!
'Tis in the lock outside!
What's to be done?
Help, help! Will no one hear? Oh, would that I
Had not discharged old Simon! but he begged
Each week for wages--would not give me credit.
I'll try my strength upon the door. Despair!
I might as soon uproot the eternal rocks
As force it open. Am I here a prisoner,
And no one in the house? no one at hand,
Or likely soon to be, to hear my cries?
Am I entombed alive? Horrible fate!
I sink--I faint beneath the bare conception!
[_Awakes._] Darkness? Where am I? I remember, now,
This is a bag of ducats--'tis no dream--
No dream! The trap-door fell, and here am I
Immured with my dear gold--my candle out--
All gloom--all silence--all despair! What, ho!
Friends! Friends? I have no friends. What right have I
To use the name? These money-bags have been
The only friends I've cared for--and for these
I've toiled, and pinched, and screwed--shutting my heart
To charity, humanity and love!
Detested traitors! Since I gave you all--
Aye, gave my very soul--can ye do naught
For me in this extremity? Ho! Without there!
A thousand ducats for a loaf of bread!
Ten thousand ducats for a glass of water!
A pile of ingots for a helping hand!
Was that a laugh? Aye, 'twas a fiend that laughed
To see a miser in the grip of death.
Offended Heaven, have mercy! I will give
In alms all this vile rubbish; aid me thou
In this most dreadful strait! I'll build a church--
A hospital! Vain, vain! Too late, too late!
Heaven knows the miser's heart too well to trust him!
Heaven will not hear! Why should it? What have I
Done to enlist Heaven's favor--to help on
Heaven's cause on earth, in human hearts and homes?
Nothing! God's kingdom will not come the sooner
For any work or any prayer of mine.
But must I die here--in my own trap caught?
Die--die? and then! Oh, mercy! Grant me time--
Thou who canst save--grant me a little time,
And I'll redeem the past--undo the evil
That I have done--make thousands happy with
This hoarded treasure--do Thy will on earth
As it is done in Heaven--grant me but time!
Nor man nor God will heed my shrieks! All's lost!
SHE WOULD BE A MASON.
ANONYMOUS.
The funniest story I ever heard,
The funniest thing that ever occurred,
Is the story of Mrs. Mehitable Byrde,
Who wanted to be a Mason.
Her husband, Tom Byrde, is a Mason true,
As good a Mason as any of you;
He is tyler of lodge Cerulian Blue,
And tyles and delivers the summons due,
And she wanted to be a Mason too--
This ridiculous Mrs. Byrde.
She followed him round, this inquisitive wife,
And nabbed and teased him half out of his life;
So to terminate this unhallowed strife,
He consented at last to admit her.
And first to disguise her from bonnet to shoon,
The ridiculous lady agreed to put on
His breech--ah! forgive me--I meant pantaloon;
And miraculously did they fit her.
The Lodge was at work on the Master's Degree;
The light was ablaze on the letter G;
High soared the pillars J. and B.;
The officers sat like Solomon, wise;
The brimstone burned amid horrid cries;
The goat roamed wildly through the room;
The candidate begged 'em to let him go home;
And the devil himself stood up in the east,
As proud as an alderman at a feast;--
When in came Mrs. Byrde.
Oh, horrible sounds! oh, horrible sight!
Can it be that Masons take delight
In spending thus the hours of night?
Ah! could their wives and daughters know
The unutterable things they say and do,
Their feminine hearts would burst with woe;
But this is not all my story,
For those Masons joined in a hideous ring,
The candidate howling like everything,
And thus in tones of death they sing
(The Candidate's name was Morey):
"Blood to drink and bones to crack,
Skulls to smash and lives to take,
Hearts to crush and souls to burn--
Give old Morey another turn,
And make him all grim and gory."
Trembling with horror stood Mrs. Byrde,
Unable to speak a single word;
She staggered and fell in the nearest chair,
On the left of the Junior Warden there,
And scarcely noticed, so loud the groans,
That the chair was made of human bones.
Of human bones! on grinning skulls
That ghastly throne of horror rolls--
Those skulls, the skulls that Morgan bore!
Those bones the bones that Morgan wore!
His scalp across the top was flung,
His teeth around the arms were strung--
Never in all romance was known
Such uses made of human bone.
The brimstone gleamed in lurid flame,
Just like a place we will not name;
Good angels, that inquiring came
From blissful courts, looked on with shame
And tearful melancholy.
Again they dance, but twice as bad,
They jump and sing like demons mad;
The tune is Hunkey Dorey--
"Blood to drink," etc., etc.
Then came a pause--a pair of paws
Reached through the floor, up sliding doors,
And grabbed the unhappy candidate!
How can I without tears relate
The lost and ruined Morey's fate?
She saw him sink in a fiery hole,
She heard him scream, "My soul! my soul!"
While roars of fiendish laughter roll,
And drown the yells of mercy!
"Blood to drink," etc., etc.
The ridiculous woman could stand no more--
She fainted and fell on the checkered floor,
'Midst all the diabolical roar.
What then, you ask me, did befall
Mehitable Byrde? Why, nothing at all--
_She had dreamed_ she'd been in the Masons' hall.
SAMBO'S DILEMMA.
"Midas, I want to s'posen a case to you, an' I want you to gim me the
gospel truth on your 'pinion 'bout de matter."
That's the manner in which one of Washington's dusky damsels put it to
her adorer last evening.
"Now, Midas, you knows you'se tole me more times 'an you'se got
fingers an' toes, as you lubbed me harder 'an a marble-top washstand,
an' 'at I'se sweeter to you 'an buckwheat cakes and 'lassas foreber.
Midas, this am only s'posen case, but I wants you to s'posen jus' as
if'n 'twas a shunuff one.
"S'posen me an' you was goin' on a scursion down de riber!"
"Yas," broke in Midas, "down to Mount Vernon."
"Anywha's 'tall, down the riber. Midas, can you swim?"
"No, Luce, I's sorry to 'form you dat de only d'reckshon what I kin
circumstanshiate fru de water am de bottom."
"Well, den, as I was 'latin'. S'posen we was on de boat, glidin'
lubingly an' harmunly down de bussum ob der riber's stream, de moon
was lookin' shiningly down pon de smoke-stack, an' you wos sottin'
rite up to me (jus' slide up here closer, an' lem me show you how),
dats de way."
"Yah, yah! but wouldn't dat be scrumptuous?" interrupted Midas.
"S'posen," continued Lucy, "you had jest put your arm roun' my wai'
(dat's it), der wasn't nobody 'bout, you was a squeezin' me up, an'
was jest gwine to gimme de lubinest kind ob a kiss, an'--an'--an' de
biler would bust!"
"Oh, de debbil!" said the disappointed Midas.
"Now, Midas, I is s'posen dis case, an' I wants you to mind de words
what I am a speakin'. S'posen when dat biler busted we bof went up
in de air, come down in de ribber, an' when we arrive in de water we
found de only thing lef' of dat boat was one piece ob board dat wasn't
big enough to hole us bof, but we bof grab at it; now, Midas, wud
you let go dat board, or would you put me off an' took it all y'self?
Dat's de question what I'm s'posen."
"Luce, can you swim?" he asked, after hesitating a few moments.
"No, Midas, ob course not. You know I can't swim."
"Well den, Luce, my conchenshus 'pinion ob de whole matter am dat we
won't go on no scursions."
PAT AND THE FOX.
SAMUEL LOVER.
"Paddy," said the squire, "perhaps you would favor the gentleman with
that story you told me once about a fox?"
"Indeed and I will, plaze yer honor," said Paddy, "though I know full
well the divil a one word iv it you b'lieve, nor the gintlemen won't
either, though you're axin' me for it--but only want to laugh at me,
and call me a big liar when my back's turned."
"Maybe we wouldn't wait for your back being turned, Paddy, to honor
you with that title."
"Oh, indeed, I'm not sayin' that you wouldn't do it as soon foreninst
my face, yer honor, as you often did before, and will agin, plaze God,
and welkim."
"Well, Paddy, say no more about that, but let's have the story."
"Sure I'm losing no time, only telling the gintlemen beforehand that
it's what they'll be callin' it, a lie--and indeed it's ancommon, sure
enough; but you see, gintlemen, you must remimber that the fox is the
cunnin'est baste in the world, barrin' the wran----"
Here Paddy was questioned why he considered the wren as cunning a
_baste_ as the fox.
"Why, sir, bekase all the birds build their nest wid one hole to it
only, excep'n the wran; but the wran builds two holes to the nest, and
so that if any inimy comes to disturb it upon one door it can go out
an the other. But the fox is cute to that degree that there's many
mortial a fool to him--and, by dad, the fox could by and sell many a
Christian, as you'll soon see by-and-by, when I tell you what happened
to a wood-ranger that I knew wanst, and a dacent man he was, and
wouldn't say the thing in a lie.
"Well, you see, he kem home one night mighty tired--for he was out wid
a party in the domain cock-shootin' that day; and whin he got back
to his lodge he threw a few logs o' wood an the fire to make himself
comfortable, and he tuk whatever little matther he had for his
supper--and afther that he felt himself so tired that he wint to bed.
But you're to understand that, though he wint to bed, it was more for
to rest himself like, than to sleep, for it was airly; and so he jist
wint into bed, and there he divarted himself lookin' at the fire, that
was blazin' as merry as a bonfire an the hearth.
"Well, as he was lyin' that-a-way, jist thinkin' o' nothin' at all,
what should come into the place but a fox. But I must tell you, what
I forgot to tell you, before, that the ranger's house was on the
bordhers o' the wood, and he had no one to live wid him but
himself, barrin' the dogs that he had the care iv, that was his only
companions, and he had a hole cut an the door, with a swingin' boord
to it, that the dogs might go in or out accordin' as it plazed thim;
and, by dad, the fox kem in as I told you, through the hole in the
door, as bould as a ram, and walked over to the fire, and sat down
foreninst it.
"Now it was mighty provokin' that all the dogs was out; they wor
rovin' about the wood, you see, lookin for to catch rabbits to ate, or
some other mischief, and so it happened that there wasn't as much as
one individual dog in the place; and, by gor, I'll go bail the fox
knew that right well before he put his nose inside the ranger's lodge.
"Well, the ranger was in hopes some o' the dogs id come home and ketch
the chap, and he was loath to stir hand or fut himself, afeared o'
frightenin' away the fox, but by gor, he could hardly keep his timper
at all at all, whin he seen the fox take his pipe aff o' the hob where
he left it afore he wint to bed, and puttin' the bowl o' the pipe into
the fire to kindle it (it's as thrue as I'm here), he began to smoke
foreninst the fire, as nath'ral as any other man you ever seen.
"'Musha, bad luck to your impidence, you long-tailed blackguard,' says
the ranger, 'and is it smokin' my pipe you are? Oh, thin, by this and
by that, iv I had my gun convaynient to me, it's fire and smoke of
another sort, and what you wouldn't bargain for, I'd give you,' says
he. But still he was loath to stir, hopin the dogs id come home; and
'By gor, my fine fellow,' says he to the fox, 'if one o' the dogs
comes home, saltpethre wouldn't save you, and that's a sthrong
pickle.'
"So with that he watched antil the fox wasn't mindin' him, but was
busy shakin' the cindhers out o' the pipe whin he was done wid it, and
so the ranger thought he was goin' to go immediately afther gettin an
air o' the fire and a shough o' the pipe; and so, says he, 'Faix, my
lad, I won't let you go so aisy as all that, as cunnin' as you think
yourself;' and with that he made a dart out o' bed, and run over to
the door, and got betune it and the fox, 'And now,' says he, 'your
bread's baked, my buck, and maybe my lord won't have a fine run out
o' you, and the dogs at your brish every yard, you morodin' thief, and
the divil mind you,' says he, 'for your impidence--for sure, if you
hadn't the impidence of a highwayman's horse it's not into my very
house, undher my nose, you'd daar for to come:' and with that he began
to whistle for the dogs; and the fox, that stood eyein' him all the
time while he was spakin', began to think it was time to be joggin'
whin he heard the whistle--and says the fox to himself, 'Troth,
indeed, you think yourself a mighty great ranger now,' says he, 'and
you think you're very cute, but upon my tail, and that's a big oath,
I'd be long sorry to let such a mallet-headed bog-throtter as yourself
take a dirty advantage o' me, and I'll engage,' says the fox, 'I'll
make you lave the door soon and suddint,'--and with that he turned
to where the ranger's brogues was lyin' hard by beside the fire, and,
what would you think, but the fox tuk one o' the brogues, and wint
over to the fire, and threw it into it.
"'I think that'll make you start,' says the fox.
"'Divil resave the start,' says the ranger--'that won't do, my buck,'
says he, 'the brogue may burn to cindhers,' says he, 'but out o' this
I won't stir;' and thin, puttin' his fingers into his mouth, he gev a
blast of a whistle you'd hear a mile off, and shouted for the dogs.
"'So that won't do,' says the fox--'well, I must thry another offer,'
says he, and with that he tuk up the other brogue, and threw it into
the fire too.
"'There, now,' says he, 'you may keep the other company,' says
he; 'and there's a pair o' you now, as the divil said to his
knee-buckles.'
"'Oh, you thievin' varment,' says the ranger, 'you won't lave me a
tack to my feet; but no matter,' says he, 'your head's worth more
nor a pair o' brogues to me any day, and by the Piper of Blessintown,
you're money in my pocket this minit,' says he: and with that, the
fingers was in his mouth agin, and he was goin' to whistle, whin, what
would you think, but up sets the fox on his hunkers, and puts his two
fore-paws into his mouth, makin' game o' the ranger--(bad luck to the
lie I tell you.)
"'Well, the ranger, and no wondher, although in a rage as he was,
couldn't help laughin' at the thought o' the fox mockin' him, and, by
dad, he tuk sitch a fit o' laughin' that he couldn't whistle--and that
was the 'cuteness o' the fox to gain time; but whin his first laugh
was over, the ranger recovered himself, and gev another whistle; and
so says the fox, 'By my soul,' says he, 'I think it wouldn't be good
for my health to stay here much longer, and I mustn't be triflin'
with that blackguard ranger any more,' says he, 'and I must make
him sensible that it is time to let me go, and though he hasn't
understandin' to be sorry for his brogues, I'll go bail I'll make him
lave that,' says he, 'before he'd say _sparables_'--and with that what
do you think the fox done? By all that's good--and the ranger himself
told me out iv his own mouth, and said he would never have b'lieved
it, ownly he seen it--the fox tuk a lighted piece iv a log out o' the
blazin' fire, and run over wid it to the ranger's bed, and was goin'
to throw it into the sthraw, and burn him out of house and home; so
when the ranger seen that he gev a shout out iv him--
"'Hillo! hillo! you murtherin' villain,' says he, 'you're worse nor
Captain Rock; is it goin' to burn me out you are, you red rogue iv
a Ribbonman?" and he made a dart betune him and the bed, to save
the house from bein' burnt,--but, my jew'l, that was all the fox
wanted--and as soon as the ranger quitted the hole in the door that
he was standin' foreninst, the fox let go the blazin' faggit, and made
one jump through the door and escaped.
"But before he wint, the ranger gev me his oath that the fox turned
round and gev him the most contemptible look he ever got in his life,
and showed every tooth in his head with laughin', and at last he put
out his tongue at him, as much as to say--'You've missed me like your
mammy's blessin',' and off wid him, like a flash o' lightnin'."
TO MY MOTHER.
FORRESTER.
[It is hardly necessary to say that too much tenderness cannot
be imparted to the voice while reading these beautiful lines.
The heart that recalls a departed mother's memory will be the
best monitor.]
Give me my old seat, mother,
With my head upon thy knee;
I've passed through many a changing scene,
Since thus I sat by thee.
Oh! let me look into thine eyes;
Their meek, soft, loving light
Falls like a gleam of holiness,
Upon my heart, to-night.
I've not been long away, mother;
Few suns have risen and set,
Since last the tear-drop on thy cheek,
My lips in kisses met.
'Tis but a little time, I know,
But very long it seems;
Though every night I came to thee,
Dear mother, in my dreams.
The world has kindly dealt, mother,
By the child thou lov'st so well;
The prayers have circled round her path;
And 'twas their holy spell
Which made that path so dearly bright;
Which strewed the roses there;
Which gave the light, and cast the balm
On every breath of air.
I bear a happy heart, mother;
A happier never beat;
And, even now, new buds of hope
Are bursting at my feet.
Oh! mother! life may be a dream;
But if such _dreams_ are given,
While at the portals thus we stand,
What are the _truths_ of Heaven?
I bear a happy heart, mother!
Yet, when fond eyes I see,
And hear soft tones and winning words,
I ever think of thee.
And then, the tears my spirit weeps
Unbidden fill my eye;
And, like a houseless dove, I long
Unto thy breast to fly.
_Then_ I am very sad, mother,
I'm very sad and lone:
O! there's no heart whose inmost fold
Opes to me like thine own!
Though sunny smiles wreath blooming lips,
While love-tones meet my ear;
My mother, one fond glance of thine
Were thousand times more dear.
Then with a closer clasp, mother,
Now hold me to thy heart:
I'll feel it beating 'gainst my own,
Once more before we part.
And mother, to this love-lit spot,
When I am far away,
Come oft--_too oft_ thou canst not come!
And for thy darling pray.
WHAT AILED "UGLY SAM."
DETROIT FREE PRESS.
He had been missing from the "Potomac" for several days, and Cleveland
Tom, Port Huron Bill, Tall Chicago, and the rest of the boys who were
wont to get drunk with him, couldn't make out what had happened. They
hadn't heard that there was a warrant out for him, had never known of
his being sick for a day, and his absence from the old haunts puzzled
them. They were in the Hole-in-the-Wall saloon yesterday morning,
nearly a dozen of them, drinking, smoking, and playing cards, when in
walked Ugly Sam.
There was a deep silence for a moment as they looked at him. Sam had
a new hat, had been shaved clean, had on a clean collar and a white
shirt, and they didn't know him at first. When they saw that it was
Ugly Sam, they uttered a shout and leaped up.
"Cave in that hat!" cried one.
"Yank that collar off!" shouted another.
"Let's roll him on the floor!" screamed a third.
There was something in his look and bearing which made them hesitate.
The whiskey-red had almost faded from his face, and he looked sober
and dignified. His features expressed disgust and contempt as he
looked around the room, and then revealed pity as his eyes fell upon
the red eyes and bloated faces of the crowd before him.
"Why, what ails ye, Sam?" inquired Tall Chicago, as they all stood
there.
"I've come down to bid ye good-bye, boys!" he replied, removing his
hat and drawing a clean handkerchief from his pocket.
"What! Hev ye turned preacher?" they shouted in chorus.
"Boys, ye know I can lick any two of ye; but I hain't on the fight any
more, an' I've put down the last drop of whiskey which is ever to go
into my mouth! I've switched off. I've taken an oath. I'm going to be
decent!"
"Sam, be you crazy?" asked Port Huron Bill, coming nearer to him.
"I've come down here to tell ye all about it," answered Sam. "Move the
cha'rs back a little and give me room. Ye all know I've been rough,
and more too. I've been a drinker, a fighter, a gambler, and a loafer.
I can't look back and remember when I've earned an honest dollar. The
police hez chased me around like a wolf, and I've been in jail and the
work-house, and the papers has said that Ugly Sam was the terror of
the Potomac. Ye all know this, boys, but ye didn't know I had an old
mother."
The faces of the crowd expressed amazement.
"I never mentioned it to any of ye, for I was neglecting her," he went
on. "She was a poor old body living up here in the alley, and if the
neighbours hadn't helped her to fuel and food, she'd have been found
dead long ago. I never helped her to a cent--didn't see her for weeks
and weeks, and I used to feel mean about it. When a feller goes back
on his old mother, he's a-gittin' purty low, and I know it. Well,
she's dead--buried yesterday! I was up there afore she died. She sent
for me by Pete, and when I got there I seen it was all day with her."
"Did she say anything?" asked one of the boys, as Sam hesitated.
"That's what ails me now," he went on. "When I went she reached out
her hand to me, and says she, 'Samuel, I'm going to die, and I know'd
you'd want to see me afore I passed away!' I sat down, feeling
queer like. She didn't go on and say as how I was a loafer, and had
neglected her, and all that, but says she, 'Samuel, you'll be all
alone when I'm gone. I've tried to be a good mother to you, and have
prayed for you hundreds o' nights and cried about you till my old
heart was sore!' Some o' the neighbours had dropped in, and the women
were crying, and I tell you, boys, I felt weak."
He paused for a moment, and then continued:
"And the old woman said she'd like to kiss me afore death came, and
that broke me right down. She kept hold of my hand, and by-and-by she
whispered; 'Samuel, you are throwing your life away. You've got it in
you to be a man if you will only make up your mind, I hate to die
and feel that my only son and the last of our family may go to the
gallows. If I had your promise that you'd turn over a new leaf and try
and be good, it seems as if I'd die easier. Won't you promise me,
my son?' And I promised her, boys, and that's what ails me! She died
holding my hand, and I promised to quit this low business and go to
work. I came down to tell ye, and now you won't see me on the Potomac
again. I've bought an axe, and am going up in Canada to Winter."
There was a dead silence for a moment, and then he said:
"Well, boys, I'll shake hands with ye all around afore I go. Good-by,
Pete--good-by, Jack--Tom--Jim. I hope you won't fling any bricks at
me, and I shan't never fling any at any of ye. It's a dying promise,
ye see, and I'll keep it if it takes a right arm!"
The men looked reflectively at each other after he had passed out, and
it was a long time before any one spoke. Then Tall Chicago flung his
clay pipe into a corner, and said:
"I'll lick the man who says Ugly Sam's head isn't level!"
"So'll I!" repeated the others.
SATAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
MILTON.
This famous speech affords opportunity for the grandest
declamation. It is studded with points--anger, hate, scorn,
admiration and defiance. The student should read, and re-read
and ponder over every line, until he catches the exact meaning
intended to be conveyed--then, following the examples already
given, he should declaim it repeatedly:
O thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd,
Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God
Of this new world; at whose sight all the stars
Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call,
But with no friendly voice, and add thy name,
O Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere;
Till pride and worse ambition threw me down
Warring in Heaven against Heaven's matchless king:
Ah, wherefore! he deserved no such return
From me, whom he created what I was
In that bright eminence, and with his good
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise,
The easiest recompense, and pay him thanks,
How due! yet all his good proved ill in me,
And wrought but malice; lifted up so high
I 'sdain'd subjection, and thought one step higher
Would set me highest, and in a moment quit
The debt immense of endless gratitude
So burdensome still paying, still to owe:
Forgetful what from him I still received,
And understood not that a grateful mind
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once
Indebted and discharged; what burden then?
O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd
Me some inferior angel, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not? some other Power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,
Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse
But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
O then at last relent: Is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell.
With diadem and sceptre high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery! Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What faint submission swore? Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world,
So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.
PATRICK'S COLT.
ANONYMOUS.
Patrick O'Flanigan, from Erin's isle
Just fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while,
With open mouth and widely staring eyes,
Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise.
He saw some labourers in a field of corn;
The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory;
Of all that he had heard since being born,
Nothing had equaled this in song or story.
"The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaise
To be a tellin' me what might be these?
An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees,
But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase."
"Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand,
Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill;
"Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse;
Take one and try it; it will pay you well."
"Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould Ireland
I always had my Christmas pig so nate,
Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate;
But only gintlemen can own a horse.
Ameriky's a great counthry indade,
I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse,
Have me own land, and shanty without rent,
An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint;
But sure I niver thought to own a baste.
An' won't the wife and childer now be glad?
A thousand blissings on your honor's head!
But could ye tell by lookin' at the egg
What colour it will hatch? It's to me taste
To have a dapple gray, with a long tail,
High in the neck, and slinder in the leg,
To jump a twel' feet bog, and niver fail,
Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races--"
Just then the merry look on all their faces
Checked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blush
That swept his face as milk goes over mush,
He added, "Sure, I know it is no use
To try to tell by peering at an egg
If it will hatch a gander or a goose;"
Then looked around to make judicious choice.
"Pick out the largest one that you can hide
Out of the owner's sight there by the river;
Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone;
Carry it gently to your little farm,
Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm."
Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one,
"Faith, sure, an' I'll do every bit of that
The whole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed,
An' kape it warrum, as your honour said;
Long life to yees, and may you niver walk,
Not even to your grave, but ride foriver;
Good luck to yees," and without more of talk
He pulled the forelock 'neath his tattered hat,
And started off; but plans of mice and men
Gang oft agley, again and yet again.
Full half a mile upon his homeward road
Poor Patrick toiled beneath his heavy load.
A hilltop gained, he stopped to rest, alas!
He laid his mare's egg on some treacherous grass;
When down the steep hillside it rolled away,
And at poor Patrick's call made no delay.
Gaining momentum, with a heavy thump,
It struck and split upon a hollow stump,
In which a rabbit lived with child and wife,
Frightened, the timid creature ran for life.
"Shtop, shtop my colt!" cried Patrick, as he ran
After his straying colt, but all in vain.
With ears erect poor Bunny faster fled
As "Shtop my colt!" in mournful, eager tones
Struck on those organs, till with fright half dead
He hid away among some grass and stones.
Here Patrick searched till rose the harvest moon,
Braying and whinnying till he was hoarse,
Hoping to lure the colt by this fond cheat;
"For won't the young thing want his mither soon,
And come to take a bit of something t'eat?"
But vain the tender accents of his call--
No colt responded from the broken wall;
And 'neath the twinkling stars he plodded on,
To tell how he had got and lost his horse.
"As swate a gray as iver eyes sat on,"
He said to Bridget and the children eight,
After thrice telling the whole story o'er,
"The way he run it would be hard to bate;
So little, too, with jist a whisk o' tail,
Not a pin-feather on it as I could see,
For it was hatched out just sax weeks too soon!
An' such long ears were niver grown before
On any donkey in grane Ireland!
So little, too, you'd hold it in your hand;
Och hone! he would have made a gray donkey."
So all the sad O'Flanigans that night
Held a loud wake over the donkey gone,
Eating their "pratees" without milk or salt,
Howling between whiles, "Och! my little colt!"
While Bunny, trembling from his dreadful fright,
Skipped home to Mrs. B. by light of moon,
And told the story of his scare and flight;
And all the neighbouring rabbits played around
The broken mare's egg scattered on the ground.
THE WORLD FOR SALE.
REV. RALPH HOYT.
The world for sale! Hang out the sign; call every traveler here to me:
who'll buy this brave estate of mine, and set this weary spirit free?
'Tis going! yes, I mean to fling the bauble from my soul away; I'll
sell it, whatsoe'er it bring: the world's at auction here to-day! It
is a glorious sight to see--but, ah! it has deceived me sore; it is
not what it seems to be. For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come,
turn it o'er and view it well; I would not have you purchase dear.
'Tis going! going! I must sell! Who bids! who'll buy this splendid
Tear? Here's Wealth, in glittering heaps of gold; who bids? But let me
tell you fair, a baser lot was never sold! Who'll buy the heavy heaps
of Care? and, here, spread out in broad domain, a goodly landscape
all may trace; hall, cottage, tree, field, hill and plain:--who'll
buy himself a burial place? Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell that
Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas! too well; 'tis
going! Love and I must part! Must part? What can I more with Love? all
o'er is the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove--a
breath of bliss, a storm of pain? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth;
who e'er has found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little
worth! who bids for Friendship--as it is? 'Tis going! going! hear the
call; once, twice and thrice, 'tis very low! 'Twas once my hope,
my stay, my all, but now the broken staff must go! Fame! hold the
brilliant meteor high; how dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions!
now's the time to buy. How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear
how it thunders! Would you stand on high Olympus, far renowned, now
purchase, and a world command!--and be with a world's curses crowned.
Sweet star of Hope! with ray to shine in every sad foreboding breast,
save this desponding one of mine--who bids for man's last friend, and
best? Ah, were not mine a bankrupt life, this treasure should my
soul sustain! But Hope and Care are now at strife, nor ever may unite
again. Ambition, Fashion, Show and Pride, I part from all forever now;
Grief, in an overwhelming tide, has taught my haughty heart to bow. By
Death, stern sheriff! all bereft, I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; the
best of all I still have left--my Faith, My Bible, and my GOD.
HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE.
JOSHUA JENKINS.
I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dreaming of the good
times which I hope are coming, when there fell upon my ears a most
startling scream. It was the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice
came from the kitchen and to the kitchen I rushed. The idolized form
of my Maria was perched on a chair, and she was flourishing an iron
spoon in all directions, and shouting "shoo," in a general manner,
at everything in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was
the matter, she screamed, "O Joshua! a mouse, shoo--wha--shoo--a
great--ya, shoo--horrid mouse, and--she--ew--it ran right out of the
cupboard--shoo--go away--O Lord--Joshua--shoo--kill it, oh, my--shoo."
All that fuss, you see, about one little harmless mouse. Some women
are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the poker and set myself to
poke that mouse, and my wife jumped down, and ran off into another
room. I found the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time
I hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker all
tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink; and I did not hit it any
more because the mouse would not stay still. It ran right toward me,
and I naturally jumped, as anybody would; but I am not afraid of mice,
and when the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons,
I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a hole in my
garment. There is something real disagreeable about having a mouse
inside the leg of one's pantaloons, especially if there is nothing
between you and the mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are
scratchy, and its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is
nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid it will try
to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on the cloth. That mouse
was next to me. I could feel its every motion with startling and
suggestive distinctness. For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as
the case seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain degree
of vigor; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I catch the boy who
thought that I did, I shall inflict punishment on his person.
I did not loose my presence of mind for an instant. I caught the mouse
just as it was clambering over my knee, and by pressing firmly on the
outside of the cloth, I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I
kept jumping around with all my might to confuse it, so that it would
not think about biting, and I yelled so that the mice would not hear
its squeaks and come to its assistance. A man can't handle many mice
at once to advantage.
Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the kitchen and asked
what she should do--as though I could hold the mouse and plan a
campaign at the same time. I told her to think of something, and she
thought she would throw things at the intruder; but as there was no
earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot took effect
on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried two flat-irons and
the coal-scuttle. She paused for breath; but I kept bobbing around.
Somehow I felt no inclination to sit down anywhere. "O Joshua," she
cried, "I wish you had not killed the cat." Now I submit that the wish
was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. How on earth did she
suppose a cat could get where that mouse was?--rather have the mouse
there alone, anyway, than to have a cat prowling around after it.
I reminded Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the
tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to that process,
except as a last resort. Then she got some cheese to coax the mouse
down, but I did not dare to let go, for fear it would run up. Matters
were getting desperate. I told her to think of something else, and I
kept jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, I tripped
over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell to the floor, very
dead. I had no idea a mouse could be squeezed to death so easy.
That was not the end of the trouble, for before I had recovered
my breath a fireman broke in one of the front windows, and a whole
company followed him through, and they dradged hose around, and mussed
things all over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash me
because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly got him pacified
before a policeman came in and arrested me. Some one had run down and
told him I was drunk and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I
could do, by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from marching
me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted and the house
clear.
Now when mice run out of the cupboard I go outdoors, and let Maria
"shoo" them back again. I can kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for
the trouble.
THE DYING HEBREW.
KIMBIE.
The following poem, a favourite with the late Mr. Edwin
Forrest, was composed by a young law student, and first
published in Boston in 1858.
A Hebrew knelt in the dying light,
His eye was dim and cold;
The hairs on his brow were silver white,
And his blood was thin and old!
He lifted his look to his latest sun,
For he knew that his pilgrimage was done;
And as he saw God's shadow there,
His spirit poured itself in prayer!
"I come unto death's second birth
Beneath a stranger air,
A pilgrim on a dull, cold earth,
As all my fathers were!
And men have stamped me with a curse,
I feel it is not Thine;
Thy mercy, like yon sun, was made
On me, as them, to shine;
And therefore dare I lift mine eye
Through that to Thee before I die!
In this great temple, built by Thee,
Whose pillars are divine,
Beneath yon lamp, that ceaselessly
Lights up Thine own true shrine,
Oh take my latest sacrifice--
Look down and make this sod
Holy as that where, long ago,
The Hebrew met his God.
I have not caused the widow's tears,
Nor dimmed the orphan's eye;
I have not stained the virgin's years,
Nor mocked the mourner's cry.
The songs of Zion in mine ear
Have ever been most sweet,
And always, when I felt Thee near,
My shoes were off my feet.
I have known Thee in the whirlwind,
I have known Thee on the hill,
I have loved Thee in the voice of birds,
Or the music of the rill;
I dreamt Thee in the shadow,
I saw Thee in the light;
I blessed Thee in the radiant day,
And worshiped Thee at night.
All beauty, while it spoke of Thee,
Still made my soul rejoice,
And my spirit bowed within itself
To hear Thy still, small voice!
I have not felt myself a thing,
Far from Thy presence driven,
By flaming sword or waving wing
Shut off from Thee and heaven.
Must I the whirlwind reap because
My fathers sowed the storm?
Or shrink, because another sinned,
Beneath Thy red, right arm?
Oh much of this we dimly scan,
And much is all unknown;
But I will not take my curse from man--
I turn to Thee alone!
Oh bid my fainting spirit live,
And what is dark reveal,
And what is evil, oh forgive,
And what is broken heal.
And cleanse my nature from above,
In the dark Jordan of Thy love!
I know not if the Christian's heaven
Shall be the same as mine;
I only ask to be forgiven,
And taken home to Thine.
I weary on a far, dim strand,
Whose mansions are as tombs,
And long to find the Fatherland,
Where there are many homes.
Oh grant of all yon starry thrones,
Some dim and distant star,
Where Judah's lost and scattered sons
May love Thee from afar.
Where all earth's myriad harps shall meet
In choral praise and prayer,
Shall Zion's harp, of old so sweet,
Alone be wanting there?
Yet place me in Thy lowest seat,
Though I, as now, be there,
The Christian's scorn, the Christian's jest;
But let me see and hear,
From some dim mansion in the sky,
Thy bright ones and their melody."
The sun goes down with sudden gleam,
And--beautiful as a lovely dream
And silently as air--
The vision of a dark-eyed girl,
With long and raven hair,
Glides in--as guardian spirits glide--
And lo! is kneeling by his side,
As if her sudden presence there
Were sent in answer to his prayer.
(Oh say they not that angels tread
Around the good man's dying bed?)
His child--his sweet and sinless child--
And as he gazed on her
He knew his God was reconciled,
And this the messenger,
As sure as God had hung on high
The promise bow before his eye--
Earth's purest hopes thus o'er him flung,
To point his heavenward faith,
And life's most holy feeling strung
To sing him into death;
And on his daughter's stainless breast
The dying Hebrew found his rest!
GIVE ME BACK MY HUSBAND.
Not many years since, a young married couple from the far
"fast-anchored isle" sought our shores with the most sanguine
anticipations of happiness and prosperity. They had begun to realize
more than they had seen in the visions of hope, when, in an evil hour,
the husband was tempted "to look upon the wine when it is red," and
to taste of it, "when it giveth its colour in the cup." The charmer
fastened round its victim all the serpent-spells of its sorcery, and
he fell; and at every step of his degradation from the man to
the brute, and downward, a heartstring broke in the bosom of his
companion.
Finally, with the last spark of hope flickering on the altar of her
heart, she threaded her way into one of those shambles where man is
made such a thing as the beasts of the field would bellow at. She
pressed her way through the bacchanalian crowd who were revelling
there in their own ruin. With her bosom full of "that perilous stuff
that preys upon the heart," she stood before the plunderer of her
husband's destiny, and exclaimed in tones of startling anguish, "_Give
me back my husband!_"
"There's your husband," said the man, as he pointed toward the
prostrate wretch.
"_That my husband?_ What have you done to him? _That my husband?_ What
have you done to that noble form that once, like the great oak,
held its protecting shade over the fragile vine that clung to it for
support and shelter? _That my husband?_ With what torpedo chill have
you touched the sinews of that manly arm? What have you done to that
once noble brow, which he wore high among his fellows, as if it bore
the superscription of the Godhead? _That my husband?_ What have you
done to that eye, with which he was wont to look erect on heaven, and
see in his mirror the image of his God? What Egyptian drug have you
poured into his veins, and turned the ambling fountains of the heart
into black and burning pitch? Give me back my husband! Undo your
basilisk spells, and give me back the _man_ that stood with me by the
altar!"
The ears of the rumseller, ever since the first demijohn of that
burning liquid was opened upon our shores, have been saluted, at every
stage of the traffic, with just such appeals as this. Such wives, such
widows, and mothers, such fatherless children, as never mourned in
Israel at the massacre of Bethlehem or at the burning of the temple,
have cried in his ears, morning, night, and evening, "_Give me back my
husband! Give me back my boy! Give me back my brother! Give me back my
sister! Give me back my wife!_"
But has the rumseller been confounded or speechless at these appeals?
No! not he. He could show his credentials at a moment's notice with
proud defiance. He always carried in his pocket a written absolution
for all he had done and could do in his work of destruction. _He
had bought a letter of indulgence_--I mean a _license!_--a precious
instrument, signed and sealed by an authority stronger and more
respectable than the pope's. _He_ confounded? Why, the whole artillery
of civil power was ready to open in his defence and support. Thus
shielded by the law, he had nothing to fear from the enemies of
his traffic. He had the image and superscription of Cæsar on his
credentials, and unto Cæsar he appealed; and unto Cæsar, too, his
_victims_ appealed, and _appealed in vain_.
THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE.
A LOGICAL STORY.
O.W. HOLMES.
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,--
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
_Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,--
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
And left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,--
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,--
Above or below, or within or without,--
And that's the reason beyond a doubt,
A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't _wear out_.
But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
--"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,--
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees;
The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"--
Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."--
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren,--where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day,--
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local as one may say.
There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub _encore_.
And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be _worn out!_
First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text,--
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the--Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
--First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill,--
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,--
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
--What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,--
All at once, and nothing first,--
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
THE INJURED MOTHER.
From the Rev. JOHN BROWN'S tragedy of BARBAROSSA.
CHARACTERS:
BARBAROSSA, _an Usurper_,
OTHMAN, _an officer_,
ZAPHIRA, _the Widowed Queen_.
[This play has many passages of splendid diction, well
calculated for bold declamation. The plot of the piece runs
thus: _Barbarossa_ having killed, and then usurped the throne
of his friend and master, tries to obtain the hand of Zaphira,
the late monarch's widow--having previously destroyed, (as is
supposed) her son, _Selim_. The following scene represents the
interviews between the unhappy queen and her faithful Othman,
and of the queen with Barbarossa.
COSTUMES.--_Barbarossa_ green velvet robe, scarlet satin
shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban. _Othman_,
scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white,
scarlet cashmere vest. _Zaphira_, white dress, embroidered
with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes.
NOTE.--A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make
up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery
may be of tinsel--while cheap velveteen looks as well as the
best velvet on the stage.]
SCENE I.--_An apartment, with sofa._
_Enter_ ZAPHIRA, R.
ZAP. (C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven
Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise
To confidence in thee! But woes on woes
O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son--
Both dead--both slaughter'd by the bloody hand
Of Barbarossa! What infernal power
Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell,
To stalk the earth with thy destructive train,
Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace,
And every heart-felt joy!
_Enter_ OTHMAN, L.
O, faithful Othman!
Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!
OTH. Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!
ZAP. Strike him, heav'n with thunder,
Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!
OTH. 'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will,
Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate,
That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield,
And wait the happier hour, when innocence
Shall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope,
And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen.
The king----
ZAP. Whom stylest thou king?
OTH. 'Tis Barbarossa.
ZAP. Does he assume the name of king?
OTH. He does.
ZAP. O, title vilely purchas'd!--by the blood
Of innocence--by treachery and murder!
May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him,
Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror
Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour
That gave his crimes their birth!--My faithful Othman,
My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise
No secret means, by which I may escape
This hated palace?
OTH. That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate;
Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee.
Rouse not, then, his anger:
Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence
Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke
Would rob thee of for ever.
ZAP. An injur'd queen
To kneel for liberty!--And, oh! to whom!
E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son!
O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die!
For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord--
My hapless child--yes, I will follow you!
OTH. Wilt thou not see him, then?
ZAP. I will not, Othman;
Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation
More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues,
I'll pour my curses on him.
OTH. Will Zaphira
Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage,
When she should wake revenge?
ZAP. Revenge!--O, tell me--
Tell, me but how?--What can a helpless woman?
OTH. (C.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father;
Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs
Kindle his indignation to pursue
This vile usurper, till unceasing war
Blast his ill-gotten pow'r.
ZAP. (L.C.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman?
Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame,
And all my soul's on fire!--thou faithful friend!
Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride;
Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents;
There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage
Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance;
The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa,
And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft
In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (_crosses to_ R.)
OTH. (C.). There spoke the queen.--But, as thou lov'st thy freedom,
Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle,
And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.
ZAP. (R.). My murder'd son!--Yes, to revenge thy death,
I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.
OTH. Peace, peace,!--the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen,
Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge,
And check each rising passion. [_Exit_ OTHMAN, R.
_Enter_ BARBAROSSA, L.
BAR. (L.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom
Beauty and majesty conspire to charm:
Behold the conqu'ror.
ZAP. (R.C.) O, Barbarossa,
No more the pride of conquest e'er can charm
My widow'd heart. With my departed lord
My love lies buried!
Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heart
May crown thy growing love with love sincere;
For I have none to give.
BAR. Love ne'er should die:
'Tis the soul's cordial--'tis the font of life;
Therefore should spring eternal in the breast.
One object lost, another should succeed,
And all our life be love.
ZAP. Urge me no more.--Thou mightst with equal hope
Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb,
To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (_approaches him._)
Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere:
Give me safe convoy to the native vales
Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns.
BAR. O, blind to proffer'd bliss!--What! fondly quit
This pomp
Of empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent,
Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribes
From plain to plain, and faintly shadows out
The majesty of kings!--Far other joys
Here shall attend thy call:
Submissive realms
Shall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens,
From the far-distant Niger and the Nile,
Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels,
Shall kneel before thee.
ZAP. Pomp and pow'r are toys,
Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain:
But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride
Of splendour, when the mind
Lies desolate within!--Such, such is mine!
O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy;
Envy me not this last request, to die
In my dear father's tents.
BAR. Thy suit is vain.
ZAP. Thus, kneeling at thy feet--(_kneels._)
BAR. Thou thankless fair! (_raises_ ZAPHIRA.)
Thus to repay the labours of my love!
Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died,
Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin.
I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace,
Make thee but mine,
I will descend the throne, and call thy son
From banishment to empire.
ZAP. O, my heart!
Can I bear this?
Inhuman tyrant!--curses on thy head!
May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne,
And gender in thy bosom fell despair,--
Despair as deep as mine! (_crosses to_ L.)
BAR. (R.C.). What means Zaphira?
What means this burst of grief?
ZAP. (L.). Thou fell destroyer!
Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscience
Would flash conviction on thee, and each look,
Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors,
To turn thee into stone!--Relentless man!
Who did the bloody deeds--O, tremble, guilt,
Where'er thou art!--Look on me; tell me, tyrant,
Who slew my blameless son?
BAR. What envious tongue
Hath dar'd to taint my name with slander?
Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign,
If thou consent to bless me.
ZAP. Never, O, never!--Sooner would I roam
An unknown exile through the torrid climes
Of Afric--sooner dwell with wolves and tigers,
Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!
BAR. Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state,
Remember, that within these palace walls
I am omnipotent. Yield thee, then;
Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee,
And dread my pow'r incens'd.
ZAP. Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine ear
With that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou not
Th' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder,
And all the red'ning vengeance which it stores
For crimes like thine?--Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee.
[_crosses to_ R.
Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support,
No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul,
That greatly dares to die. [_Exit_ ZAPHIRA, R.
BAR. (C.). Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death?
Could Othman dare to tell it?--If he did,
My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind,
To instant death! [_Exit._
(R.) Right. (L.) Left. (C.) Centre. (R.C.) Right Centre. (L.C.) Left
Centre.
THE MILLS OF GOD.
DUGANNE.
Apart from the noble sentiments of these verses, and their
exquisite diction--in which every word is the best that could
possibly be used--as in a piece of faultless mosaic every
minute stone is so placed as to impart strength, brilliancy,
and harmony--they afford an excellent example of lofty,
dignified recitation:
Those mills of God! those tireless mills!
I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills:
I see their dreadful stones go round,
And all the realms beneath them ground;
And lives of men and souls of states,
Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates.
And we, O God! with impious will,
Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill!
Their human limbs with chains we bound,
And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round;
With branded brow and fettered wrist,
We bade them grind this Nation's grist!
And so, like Samson--blind and bound--
Our Nation's grist this Negro ground;
And all the strength of Freedom's toil,
And all the fruits of Freedom's soil,
And all her hopes and all her trust,
From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.
With servile souls this mill we fed,
That ground the grain for Slavery's bread;
With cringing men, and grovelling deeds,
We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs;
Till all the scornful nations hissed,
To see us ground with Slavery's grist.
The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain,
We reap great crops of blood-red grain;
And still the Negro's strength we urge,
With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge;
And still we crave--on Freedom's sod--
That Slaves shall turn the mills of God!
The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind!
We sow the seed--the sheaves we bind:
The mill-stones whirl as we ordain;
Our children's bread shall test the grain!
While Samson still in chains we bind,
The mill grinds on! God lets it grind!
THE MENAGERIE.
J. HONEYWELL.
Did you ever! No, I never!
Mercy on us, what a smell!
Don't be frightened, Johnny, dear!
Gracious! how the jackals yell!
Mother, tell me, what's the man
Doing with that pole of his?
Bless your little precious heart,
He's stirring up the beastesses!
Children! don't you go so near!
Hevings! there's the Afric cowses!
What's the matter with the child?
Why, the monkey's tore his trowses!
Here's the monstrous elephant,--
I'm all a tremble at the sight;
See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys!
Wonder if he's fastened tight?
There's the lion!--see his tail!
How he drags it on the floor!
'Sakes alive! I'm awful scared
To hear the horrid creatures roar!
Here's the monkeys in their cage,
Wide awake you are to see 'em;
Funny, ain't it? How would you
Like to have a tail and be 'em?
Johnny, darling, that's the bear
That tore the naughty boys to pieces;
Horned cattle!--only hear
How the dreadful camel wheezes!
That's the tall giraffe, my boy,
Who stoops to hear the morning lark;
'Twas him who waded Noah's flood,
And scorned the refuge of the ark.
Here's the crane,--the awkward bird!
Strong his neck is as a whaler's,
And his bill is full as long
As ever met one from the tailor's.
Look!--just see the zebra there,
Standing safe behind the bars;
Goodness me! how like a flag,
All except the corner stars!
There's the bell! the birds and beasts
Now are going to be fed;
So my little darlings, come,
It 's time for you to be abed.
"Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock!
You said we need n't go before;
Let us stay a little while,--
Want to see the monkeys more!"
Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out!
Dim the lights!--there, that will do;
Come again to-morrow, boys;
Bring your little sisters, too."
Exit mother, half distraught,
Exit father, muttering "bore?"
Exit children, blubbering still,
"Want to see the monkeys more!"
IGNORANCE IS BLISS
CHARACTERS.
FRED BROWN.
JOHNNY GRAY.
NED WHITE.
SCENE.--_Recitation-Room at a Public School._
_Enter_ FRED.
_Fred._ A pretty task Master Green has given me this time! He calls me
to his desk, and says, "Brown, those boys, Gray and White, have
been very inattentive during the music lesson: take them into the
recitation-room, and keep them there until they can sing four stanzas
of 'The Battle-cry of Freedom.'" A nice music-master I am! I can't
read, sing, or growl a note, and I don't know a single line of "The
Battle-cry of Freedom." But I must not let them know that. Here they
are. (_Enter_ GRAY _and_ WHITE; _they get in a corner of the stage, and
whisper together._) Now, what conspiracy is hatching? Hem! Here, you
fellows, do you know what you came here for?
_Gray._ To take a music lesson, I suppose.
_Fred._ Well, you had better commence.
_White._ Certainly, after you.
_Fred._ After me! What do you mean?
_White._ I believe it's the custom of all music-masters to first sing
the song they wish to teach. (_Aside to_ GRAY.) He can't sing a note.
_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) He can't? good! Let's plague him.
(_Aloud._) Come, singing-master, proceed.
_Fred._ No matter about me. You two can sing, and when you make a
mistake I will correct it.
_Gray._ You'll correct it! That's good. With what, pray?
_Fred._ With this. (_Producing a ratten from under his jacket._)
_White._ O, dear, I don't like that sort of tuning-fork.
_Fred._ You'll get it if you don't hurry. Come, boys, "The Battle-cry
of Freedom."
_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) Ned, do you know the song?
_White._ (_Aside._) I know just one line.
_Gray._ (_Aside._) O, dear, we're in a scrape. (_Aloud._) Master Fred,
will you please give me the first line? I've forgotten it.
_Fred._ Certainly. Let me see. "Rock me to sleep, mother." No, that
isn't it.
_White._ (_Aside._) He's split on that rock.
_Fred._ Hem! ah! "Dear father, dear father, come home." O, bother!
_Gray._ (_Aside._) It'll bother him to "come home" with that line.
_Fred._ "Give me a cot."--O, pshaw! I tell you what, boys, I didn't
come here to talk, but to listen: now you two sing away at once, or
down comes the ratten.
_Gray._ (_Aside._) I say, Ned, Brown doesn't know it? here's fun. Now
you just keep quiet, and ring in your line when I snap my fingers.
_White._ (_Aside._) All right. I understand. When you snap, I sing.
_Fred._ Come, come! Strike up, or I shall strike down.
_Gray._ (_Sings to the tune of the Battle-cry of Freedom_,)--
"Mary had a little lamb;
Its fleece was white as snow."
(_Snaps his fingers._)
_White._ (_Very loud._)
"Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"And everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ Capital! Perfectly correct, perfectly correct. Sing again.
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"It followed her to school one day;
It was against the rule." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"It made the children laugh and play
To see a lamb at school." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ Beautiful! beautiful! I couldn't do it better myself.
_Gray._ (_Aside._) I should think not.
_White._ Come, Mr. Singing-master, you try a stanza.
_Fred._ What, sir! do you want to shirk your task? Sing away.
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"And so the teacher turned him out;
Yet still he lingered near." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._
"And waited patiently about,
Till Mary did appear." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ Glorious! Why, boys, it's a perfect uproar.
_White._ There's enough, isn't there?
_Fred._ No, sir, four stanzas. Come, be quick.
_Gray._ I don't know any more.
_White._ I'm sure I don't.
_Fred._ Yes you do, you're trying to shirk; but I won't have it. You
want a taste of the rattan. Come, be lively.
_Gray._ (_Sings._)
"'What makes the lamb love Mary so?'
The eager children cry." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Gray._
"'Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,'
The teacher did reply." (_Snaps._)
_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."
_Fred._ There, boys, I knew you could sing. Now come in, and I will
tell Master Green how capitally you have done--that I couldn't do
better myself.
[_Exit._
_White._ Well, Johnny, we got out of that scrape pretty well.
_Gray._ Yes, Ned; but it's a poor way. I must pay a little more
attention to my singing.
_White._ And so must I, for we may not always have a teacher on whom
the old saying fits so well.
_Gray._ Old saying? What's that?
_White._ "Where ignorance is bliss--"
_Gray._ O, yes, "'Twere folly to be wise."
[_Exeunt._
THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.
ANONYMOUS.
[The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader
should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the
shepherd-parent as he sees "the youngest of his babes" borne
in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his
golgotha of a nest. Much force of attitude and gesture is not
only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans
forward following the flight of the vulture.]
I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales,
And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales,
As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er
They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.
And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear,
A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear:
The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous.
But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:--
"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells,
Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells;
But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock,
He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.
"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high,
When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry,
As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain,
A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.
"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright,
The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight
I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care,
But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the
air.
"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry!
And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!
"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me,
And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free,
At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed:
Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.
"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew,
A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view:
But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight;
'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.
"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er
forgot,
When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot,
From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached,
He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!
"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away;
I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay;
A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred,
The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."
That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by,
Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh.
And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way,
The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.
FALSTAFF'S BOASTING
SHAKESPEARE.
This scene will give a good chance to practise _variety_ of
expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself
into all the attitudes, and elevates and depresses his
voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he
describes--preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he
finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat
rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off
the honors, after all:
_P. Henry._ What's the matter?
_Fal._ What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a
thousand pound this morning.
_P. Hen._ Where is it, Jack? where is it?
_Fal._ Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of
us.
_P. Hen._ What, a hundred, man?
_Fal._ I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them
two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust
through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through
and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw _ecce signum_. I never
dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all
cowards!--Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they
are villains, and the sons of darkness.
_P. Hen._ Speak, sirs: how was it?
_Gads._ We four set upon some dozen,--
_Fal._ Sixteen at least, my lord.
_Gads._ And bound them.
_Peto._ No, no, they were not bound.
_Fal._ You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew
else, an Ebrew Jew.
_Gads._ As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.
_Fal._ And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
_P. Hen._ What, fought ye with them all?
_Fal._ All! I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with
fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three
and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature.
_Poins._ Pray God, you have not murdered some of them.
_Fal._ Nay, that's past praying for, for I have peppered two of them:
two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee
what, Hal,--if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.
Thou knowest my old ward;--here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four
rogues in buckram let drive at me.--
_P. Hen._ What, four? thou said'st but two, even now.
_Fal._ Four, Hal; I told thee four.
_Poins._ Ay, ay, he said four.
_Fal._ These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no
more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
_P. Hen._ Seven? why, there were but four, even now.
_Fal._ In buckram.
_Poins._ Ay, four in buckram suits.
_Fal._ Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
_P. Hen._ Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.
_Fal._ Dost thou hear me, Hal?
_P. Hen._ Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
_Fal._ Do, so, for it is worth the listening to. The nine in buckram
that I told thee of,----
_P. Hen._ So, two more already.
_Fal._ Their points being broken,----
_Poins._ Down fell their hose.
_Fal._ Began to give me ground: But I followed me close, came in foot
and hand: and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.
_P. Hen._ O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!
_Fal._ But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves,
in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so
dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.
_P. Hen._ These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as
a mountain, open palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts; thou
knotty-pated fool! thou whoreson, obscene, greasy, tallow-keech,--
_Fal._ What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?
_P. Hen._ Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green,
when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us thy
reason; what sayest thou to this?
_Poins._ Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.
_Fal._ What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the
racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a
reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries I
would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.
_P. Hen._ I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward,
this bed-presser, this horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh;--
_Fal._ Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue,
bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish,--O for breath to utter what is like
thee!--you tailor's yard, you sheathe, you bow-case, you vile standing
tuck;--
_P. Hen._ Well, breathe a while and then to it again; and when thou
hast tired thyself in base comparisons hear me speak but this.
_Poins._ Mark, Jack.
_P. Hen._ We two saw you four set on four: you bound them, and were
masters of their wealth.--Mark now how plain a tale shall put you
down.--Then did we two set on you four: and, with a word, out-faced
you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the
house:--and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as
quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as
ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword, as
thou hast done; and then say, it was a fight! What trick, what device,
what starting-hole, canst now find out, to hide thee from this open
and apparent shame?
_Poins._ Come, let's hear, Jack: What trick hast thou now?
_Fal._ By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear
ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn
upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules;
but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct
is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the
better of myself and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant lion, and
thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have
the money.--Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray
to-morrow.--Gallant, lads, boys, hearts of gold. All the titles of
good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a
play extempore?
ON TO FREEDOM.
DUGANNE.
This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing
eye, swelling breast, and free action--as though the speaker's
heart was full of the nobility of the theme:
"There has been the cry--'On to Richmond!' And still another
cry--On to England!' Better than either is the cry--'On to
Freedom!'"
CHARLES SUMNER.
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
'Tis the everlasting cry
Of the floods that strive with ocean--
Of the storms that smite the sky;
Of the atoms in the whirlwind,
Of the seed beneath the ground--
Of each living thing in Nature
That is bound!
'Twas the cry that led from Egypt,
Through the desert wilds of Edom:
Out of darkness--out of bondage--
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh!
Vainly warrest thou with God!
Moveless, at thy palace portals,
Moses waits, with lifted rod!
O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes!
Vainly o'er the Pontic main
Flingest thou, to curb its utterance,
Scourge or chain!
For, the cry that led from Egypt,
Over desert wilds of Edom,
Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew;
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
In the Roman streets, with Gracchus,
Hark! I hear that cry outswell;
In the German woods with Hermann,
And on Switzer hills, with Tell;
Up from Spartacus, the Bondman,
When his tyrants yoke he clave,
And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler--
Saxon slave!
Still the old, old cry of Egypt,
Struggling up from wilds of Edom--
Sounding still through all the ages:
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
Gospel cry of laboring Time:
Uttering still, through seers and sages,
Words of hope and faith sublime!
From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens,
And our Washingtons they come:
And we cannot, and we dare not
Make them dumb!
Out of all the shames of Egypt--
Out of all the snares of Edom;
Out of darkness--out of bondage--
On to Freedom! On to Freedom!
THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded, careless, by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And, fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset.
Nor how, when round the frosty pole,
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole,
To banquet on the dead;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared and wept,
Within his distant home;
And dreamt and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.
So long they looked--but never spied
His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died,
Far down that narrow glen.
DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM.
N.P. WILLIS.
This admirable composition gives ample scope for gentle,
mournful, tear-stricken recitation. The thoughts prompt the
speaker to natural expression:
The king stood still
Till the last echo died: then throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:--
"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die
Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair!
That death should settle in thy glorious eye,
And leave his stillness in this clustering hair.
How could he mark _thee_ for the silent tomb,
My proud boy, Absalom!
"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill,
As to my bosom I have tried to press thee;
How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,
Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,
And hear thy sweet '_my father_' from these dumb
And cold lips, Absalom!
"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush
Of music, and the voices of the young;
And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come
To meet me, Absalom!
"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,
Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:--
And thy dark sin!--Oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home,
My erring Absalom!"
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then, giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
THE BOY ARCHER.
SHERIDAN KNOWLES.
The fire and energy of Tell contrasts nobly with the youthful
ambition of his son's young and noble heart. It is a charming
exercise, and exceedingly effective when well delivered:
SCENE.--_Exterior of_ TELL'S _cottage. Enter_ ALBERT (TELL'S _son_)
_with bow and arrows, and_ VERNER.
_Verner._ Ah! Albert! What have you there?
_Albert._ My bow and arrows, Verner.
_Ver._ When will you use them like your father, boy?
_Alb._ Some time, I hope.
_Ver._ You brag! There's not an archer
In all Helvetia can compare with him.
_Alb._ But I'm his son; and when I am a man
I may be like him. Verner, do I brag,
To think I some time may be like my father?
If so, then is it he that teaches me;
For, ever as I wonder at his skill,
He calls me boy, and says I must do more
Ere I become a man.
_Ver._ May you be such
A man as he--if heaven wills, better--I'll
Not quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content me
If you are only such a man.
_Alb._ I'll show you
How I can shoot (_goes out to fix the mark._)
_Ver._ Nestling as he is, he is the making of a bird
Will own no cowering wing.
_Re-enter_ ALBERT.
_Alb._ Now, Verner, look! (_shoots_) There's within
An inch!
_Ver._ Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [_Exit_ VERNER.
_Alb._ A hand's
An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.
_While_ ALBERT _continues to shoot,_ TELL _enters and watches
him some time, in silence._
_Tell._ That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark?
Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends
The bow. To see those sinews, who'd believe
Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm,
His mother's palm can span, may help, anon,
To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat,
And from their chains a prostrate people lift
To liberty. I'd be content to die,
Living to see that day! What, Albert!
_Alb._ Ah!
My father!
_Tell._ You raise the bow
Too fast. (ALBERT _continues shooting._)
Bring it slowly to the eye.--You've missed.
How often have you hit the mark to-day?
_Alb._ Not once, yet.
_Tell._ You're not steady. I perceive
You wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limb
Be braced as marble, and as motionless.
Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate
Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes
Nor stirs. (ALBERT _shoots_) That's better!
See well the mark. Rivet your eye to it
There let it stick, fast as the arrow would,
Could you but send it there. (ALBERT _shoots_)
You've missed again! How would you fare,
Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you
Alone, with but your bow, and only time
To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do
To miss the wolf! You said the other day,
Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live--
'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now,
Your life or his depended on that shot!--
Take care! That's Gesler!--Now for liberty!
Right to the tyrant's heart! (_hits the mark_) Well done, my boy!
Come here. How early were you up?
_Alb._ Before the sun.
_Tell._ Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed
When it is time to rise. Be like the sun.
_Alb._ What you would have me like, I'll be like,
As far as will to labor joined can make me.
_Tell._ Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?
_Alb._ I did; and do so every day.
_Tell._ I know you do! And think you, when you kneel,
To whom you kneel?
_Alb._ To Him who made me, father.
_Tell._ And in whose name?
_Alb._ The name of Him who died
For me and all men, that all men and I
Should live
_Tell._ That's right. Remember that my son:
Forget all things but that--remember that!
'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food;
All things on earth; yea, life itself!--It is
To live, when these are gone, when they are naught--
With God! My son remember that!
_Alb._ I will.
_Tell._ I'm glad you value what you're taught.
That is the lesson of content, my son;
He who finds which has all--who misses, nothing.
_Alb._ Content is a good thing.
_Tell._ A thing, the good
Alone can profit by. But go, Albert,
Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff.
Don't keep me waiting. [_Exit_ ALBERT.
TELL. _paces the stage in thought. Re-enter_ ALBERT.
_Alb._ I am ready, father.
_Tell._ (_taking_ ALBERT _by the hand_). Now mark me, Albert
Dost thou fear the snow,
The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for
The mountain mist that settles on the peak,
When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at
The torrent roaring from the deep ravine,
Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie?
Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on
The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud,
And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel
All night.
_Alb._ I'm ready; say all night again.
_Tell._ The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach
Mount Faigel by the dawn.
_Alb._ Not sooner shall
The dawn be there than I.
_Tell._ Heaven speeding thee.
_Alb._ Heaven speeding me.
_Tell._ Show me thy staff. Art sure
Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No--stay! 'Twill do.
Caution is speed when danger's to be passed.
Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow!
'Tis well there is a moon to-night.
You're sure of the track?
_Alb._ Quite sure.
_Tell._ The buskin of
That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it.
You know the point where you must round the cliff?
_Alb._ I do.
_Tell._ Thy belt is slack--draw it tight.
Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger
And give it him! you know its caverns well.
In one of them you will find him. Farewell.
A VENTRILOQUIST ON A STAGE-COACH.
HENRY COCKTON.
"Now then, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the
booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have
yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor'ble, Simon!"
"All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so,
while the luggage was being secured.
"Jimp up, genelmen!" cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office
with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the
passengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various
parts of the coach,--Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle
John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the
coachman.
"If you please," said an old lady, who had been standing in the
gateway upwards of an hour, "will you be good enow, please, to take
care of my darter?"
"All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take
no harm. Is she going all the way?"
"Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "God bless her! She's got a place in
Lunnun, an' I'm told--"
"Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the
coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.--Now, all right there?"
"Good by, my dear," sobbed the old lady, "do write to me soon, be sure
you do,--I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself."
"Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the
cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they
pranced, as merrily as if they had known that _their_ load was nothing
when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle
John, as he cried "Good by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the
last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks.
The salute was returned, and the coach passed on.
The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to
be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure
bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt
a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to
commence for his own amusement, the coach stopped to change horses. In
less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt
ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his
power as a ventriloquist.
"Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a
whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill.
"Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, assuming a voice, the sound of which
appeared to have travelled some distance.
"You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who
had secured the box seat.
"Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up
this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was
to wait for every passenger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git
over the ground in a fortnit."
"Hoa! stop! stop! stop!" reiterated Valentine, in the voice of a man
pretty well out of breath.
Tooler, without deigning to look behind, retickled the haunches of his
leaders, and gleefully chuckled at the idea of _how_ he was making a
passenger sweat.
The voice was heard no more, and Tooler, on reaching the top of the
hill, pulled up and looked round, but could see no man running.
"Where is he?" inquired Tooler.
"In the ditch!" replied Valentine, throwing his voice behind.
"In the ditch!" exclaimed Tooler. "Blarm me, whereabouts?"
"There," said Valentine.
"Bless my soul!" cried the gentleman in black, who was an exceedingly
nervous village clergyman. "The poor person no doubt is fallen down
in an absolute state of exhaustion. How very, very wrong of you,
coachman, not to stop!"
Tooler, apprehensive of some serious occurrence, got down with
the view of dragging the exhausted passenger out of the ditch; but
although he ran several hundred yards down the hill, no such person of
course could be found.
"Who saw un?" shouted Tooler, as he panted up the hill again.
"I saw nothing," said a passenger behind, "but a boy jumping over the
hedge."
Tooler looked at his way-bill, counted the passengers, found them all
right, and, remounting the box, got the horses again into a gallop, in
the perfect conviction that some villanous young scarecrow had raised
the false alarm.
"Whit! blarm them 'ere boys!" said Tooler, "'stead o' mindin' their
crows, they are allus up to suffen. I only wish I had un here, I'd pay
_on_ to their blarmed bodies; if I would n't--" At this interesting
moment, and as if to give a practical illustration of what he would
have done in the case, he gave the off-wheeler so telling a cut round
the loins that the animal without any ceremony kicked over the trace.
Of course Tooler was compelled to pull up again immediately; and after
having adjusted the trace, and asking the animal seriously what he
meant, at the same time enforcing the question by giving him a blow on
the bony part of the nose, he prepared to remount; but just as he had
got his left foot upon the nave of the wheel, Valentine so admirably
imitated the sharp snapping growl of a dog in the front boot, that
Tooler started back as quickly as if he had been shot, while the
gentleman in black dropped the reins and almost jumped into the road.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, trembling with
great energy; "How wrong, how very horribly wrong, of you, coachman,
not to tell me that a dog had been placed beneath my feet."
"Blarm their carcases!" cried Tooler, "they never told _me_ a dog was
shoved there. Lay _down_! We'll soon have yow out there together!"
"Not for the world!" cried the gentleman in black, as Tooler
approached the foot-board in order to open it. "Not for the world!
un-un-un-less you le-le-let me get down first. I have no desire to
pe-pe-perish of hydropho-phobia."
"Kip yar fut on the board then, sir, please," said Tooler, "we'll soon
have the varmint out o' that." So saying, he gathered up the reins,
remounted the box, and started off the horses again at full gallop.
The gentleman in black then began to explain to Tooler how utterly
inconceivable was the number of persons who had died of hydrophobia
within an almost unspeakable short space of time, in the immediate
vicinity of the residence of a friend of his in London; and just as
he had got into the marrow of a most excruciating description of the
intense mental and physical agony of which the disease in its worst
stage was productive, both he and Tooler suddenly sprang back, with
their feet in the air, and their heads between the knees of the
passengers behind them, on Valentine giving a loud growling snap, more
bitingly indicative of anger than before.
As Tooler had tightly hold of the reins when he made this involuntary
spring, the horses stopped on the instant, and allowed him time to
scramble up again without rendering the slow process dangerous.
"I cannot, I-I-I positively cannot," said the gentleman in black, who
had been thrown again into a dreadful state of excitement, "I cannot
sit here,--my nerves cannot endure it; it's perfectly shocking."
"Blister their bowls!" exclaimed Tooler, whose first impulse was to
drag the dog out of the boot at all hazards, but who, on seeing the
horses waiting in the road a short distance ahead for the next stage,
thought it better to wait till he had reached them. "I'll make un
remember this the longest day o' thar blessed lives,--blarm un! Phih!
I'll let un know when I get back, I warrant. I'll larn un to--"
"Hoa, coachman! hoa! my hat's off!" cried Valentine, throwing his
voice to the back of the coach.
"Well, _may_ I be--phit!" said Tooler. "I'll make yow run for't
anyhow--phit!"
In less than a minute the coach drew up opposite the stable, when the
gentleman in black at once proceeded to alight. Just, however, as
his foot reached the plate of the roller-bolt, another growl from
Valentine frightened him backwards, when falling upon one of the
old horse-keepers, he knocked him fairly down, and rolled over him
heavily.
"Darng your cloomsy carkus," cried the horse-keeper, gathering himself
up, "carn't you git oof ar cooarch aroat knocking o' pipple darn?"
"I-I-I beg pardon," tremblingly observed the gentleman in black; "I
hope I-I--"
"Whoap! pardon!" contemptuously echoed the horse-keeper as he limped
towards the bars to unhook the leaders' traces.
"Now then, yow warmint, let's see who yow belong to," said Tooler,
approaching the mouth of the boot; but just as he was in the act of
raising the foot-board, another angry snap made him close it again
with the utmost rapidity.
"Lay down! blarm your body!" cried Tooler, shrinking back. "Here, yow
Jim, kim here, bor, and take this 'ere devil of a dog out o' that."
Jim approached, and the growling was louder than before, while the
gentleman in black implored Jim to take care that the animal didn't
get hold of his hand.
"Here, yow Harry!" shouted Jim, "yare noot afeared o' doogs
together,--darng un, _I_ doont like un."
Accordingly Harry came, and then Sam, and then Bob, and then Bill; but
as the dog could not be seen, and as the snarling continued, neither
of them dared to put his hand in to drag the monster forth. Bob
therefore ran off for Tom Titus the blacksmith, who was supposed to
care for nothing, and in less than two minutes Tom Titus arrived with
about three feet of rod-iron red hot.
"Darng un!" cried Tom, "this ere 'll maake un _quit_ together!"
"Dear me! my good man," said the gentleman in black, "don't use that
unchristian implement! don't put the dumb thing to such horrible
torture!"
"It don't siggerfy a button," cried Tooler, "I marn't go to stop here
all day. Out he must come."
Upon this Tom Titus introduced his professional weapon, and commenced
poking about with considerable energy, while the snapping and growling
increased with each poke.
"I'll tell you what it is," said Tom Titus, turning round and wiping
the sweat off his brow with his naked arm, "this here cretur here's
stark raavin' mad."
"I knew that he was," cried the gentleman in black, getting into an
empty wagon which stood without horses just out of the road; "I felt
perfectly sure that he was rabid."
"He 's a bull-terrier too," said Tom Titus, "I knows it by 's growl.
It 's the worsest and dargdest to go maad as is."
"Well, what shall us do wi' th' warment?" said Tooler.
"Shoot him! shoot him!" cried the gentleman in black.
"O, I 've goot a blunderbus, Bob!" said Tom Titus, "yow run for 't
together, it 's top o' the forge."
Bob started at once, and Tom kept on the bar, while Tooler, Sam, and
Harry, and Bob held the heads of the horses.
"He 's got un; all right!" cried Tom Titus, as Bob neared the coach
with the weapon on his shoulder. "Yow 'll be doon in noo time," he
added as he felt with his rod to ascertain in which corner of the boot
the bull-terrier lay.
"Is she loarded?" asked Bob, as he handed Tom Titus the instrument of
death.
"Mind you make the shot come out at bottom," shouted Tooler.
"I hool," said Tom Titus, putting the weapon to his shoulder. "Noo the
Loord ha' marcy on yar, as joodge says sizes," and instantly let fly.
The horses of course plunged considerably, but still did no mischief;
and before the smoke had evaporated, Valentine introduced into the
boot a low melancholy howl, which convinced Tom Titus that the shot
had taken effect.
"He 's giv oop the ghost; darng his carkus!" cried Tom, as he poked
the dead body in the corner.
"Well, let 's have a look at un," said Tooler, "let 's see what the
warment is like."
The gentleman in black at once leaped out of the wagon, and every one
present drew near, when Tom, guided by the rod which he had kept upon
the body, put his hand into the boot, and drew forth a fine hare that
had been shattered by the shot all to pieces.
"He arn't a bull-terrier," cried Bob.
"But that arn't he," said Tom Titus. "He 's some'er aboot here as dead
as a darng'd nail. I know he 's a corpse."
"Are you sure on 't?" asked Tooler.
"There arn't any barn door deader," cried Tom. "Here, I'll lug um out
an' show yar."
"No, no!" shouted Tooler, as Tom proceeded to pull out the luggage.
"I marn't stay for that. I 'm an hour behind now, blarm un! jimp up,
genelmen!"
Tom Titus and his companions, who wanted the bull-terrier as a trophy,
entreated Tooler to allow them to have it, and, having at length
gained his consent, Tom proceeded to empty the boot. Every eye was, of
course, directed to everything drawn out, and when Tom made a solemn
declaration that the boot was empty, they were all, at once, struck
with amazement. Each looked at the other with astounding incredulity,
and overhauled the luggage again and again.
"Do you mean to say," said Tooler, "that there arn't nuffin else in
the boot?"
"Darnged a thing!" cried Tom Titus, "coom and look." And Tooler did
look, and the gentleman in black looked, and Bob looked, and Harry
looked, and Bill looked, and Sam looked, and all looked, but found the
boot empty.
"Well, blarm me!" cried Tooler. "But darng it all, he must be
somewhere!"
"I' ll taake my solum davy," said Bill, "that he _was_ there."
"I seed um myself," exclaimed Bob, "wi' my oarn eyes, an' didn't loike
the looks on um a bit."
"There cannot," said the gentleman in black, "be the smallest possible
doubt about his having been there; but the question for our mature
consideration is, where is he now?"
"I 'll bet a pint," said Harry, "you blowed um away?"
"Blowed um away, you fool!--how could I ha' blowed um away?"
"Why, he _was_ there," said Bob, "and he baint there noo, and he baint
here nayther, so you mus ha' blowed um out o' th' boot; 'sides, look
at the muzzle o' this ere blunderbust!"
"Well, of all the rummest goes as ever happened," said Tooler,
thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets, "this ere flogs
'em all into nuffin!"
"It is perfectly astounding!" exclaimed the gentleman in black,
looking again into the boot, while the men stood and stared at each
other with their mouths as wide open as human mouths could be.
"Well, in wi' 'em agin," cried Tooler, "in wi' 'em!--Blarm me if this
here arn't a queer un to get over."
The luggage was accordingly replaced, and Tooler, on mounting the
box, told the men to get a gallon of beer, when the gentleman in black
generously gave them half a crown, and the horses started off, leaving
Tom with his blunderbuss, Harry, Bill, Sam, and their companions,
bewildered with the mystery which the whole day spent in the alehouse
by no means enabled them to solve.
THERE'S BUT ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS TO MEND TO-NIGHT.
Recite this in a simple unaffected manner; carefully
avoiding anything like _rant_. At times the voice should sink
tremulously low, as the good dame recalls memories of her
departed children:
An old wife sat by her bright fireside,
Swaying thoughtfully to and fro,
In an ancient chair whose creaky frame
Told a tale of long ago;
While down by her side, on the kitchen floor,
Stood a basket of worsted balls--a score.
The old man dozed o'er the latest news,
Till the light of his pipe went out,
And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws,
Rolled and tangled the balls about;
Yet still sat the wife in the ancient chair,
Swaying to and fro, in the firelight glare.
But anon a misty tear-drop came
In her eye of faded blue,
Then trickled down in a furrow deep,
Like a single drop of dew;
So deep was the channel--so silent the stream--
The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye-beam.
Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light
Of her eye had weary grown,
And marvelled he more at the tangled balls;
So he said in a gentle tone,
"I have shared thy joys since our marriage vow,
Conceal not from me thy sorrows now."
Then she spoke of the time when the basket there
Was filled to the very brim,
And how there remained of the goodly pile
But a single pair--for him.
"Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light,
There's but one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"I cannot but think of the busy feet,
Whose wrappings were wont to lie
In the basket, awaiting the needle's time,
Now wandered so far away;
How the sprightly steps to a mother dear,
Unheeded fell on the careless ear.
"For each empty nook in the basket old,
By the hearth there's a vacant seat;
And I miss the shadows from off the wall,
And the patter of many feet;
'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight
At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night.
"'Twas said that far through the forest wild,
And over the mountains bold,
Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves
Were gemmed with the rarest gold;
Then my first-born turned from the oaken door,
And I knew the shadows were only four.
"Another went forth on the foaming waves
And diminished the basket's store--
But his feet grew cold--so weary and cold--
They'll never be warm any more--
And this nook in its emptiness, seemeth to me
To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea.
"Two others have gone towards the setting sun,
And made them a home in its light,
And fairy fingers have taken their share
To mend by the fireside bright;
Some other baskets their garments fill--
But mine! Oh, mine is emptier still.
"Another--the dearest--the fairest--the best--
Was ta'en by the angels away,
And clad in a garment that waxeth not old,
In a land of continual day.
Oh! wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light,
While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night."
A LOVE OF A BONNET
(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)
CHARACTERS.
MRS. CLIPPER, a Widow.
KITTY, her Daughter.
AUNT JEMIMA HOPKINS, a leetle inquisitive.
MRS. HORTENSIA FASTONE, very genteel.
DORA, her Daughter.
KATY DOOLAN, Irish Help.
SCENE.--_Room in_ MRS. CLIPPER'S _House. Lounge_, L.; _Chairs_, C.;
_Table and Rocking-chair, Looking-glass_, R.
_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER _and_ KITTY, R.
_Mrs. C._ But really, Kitty, I cannot afford it.
_Kitty._ O, yes, you can, mother; just this once. It's such a love of
a bonnet! it's so becoming! and it only costs fifteen dollars.
_Mrs. C._ Fifteen dollars! Why, child, you are crazy! We cannot afford
to be so extravagant. The income derived from the property your dear
father left will only allow us to dress in the most economical manner.
_Kitty._ But this bonnet is not extravagant. Dora Fastone wears a
bonnet which cost twenty-five-dollars, and her father has failed five
or six times. I don't see why I can't have a new bonnet as well as
that proud, stuck-up--
_Mrs. C._ Hush, my child! never speak ill of our neighbors because
they dress better than we do. If they spend money foolishly, we should
endeavor to use ours to better purpose. I am sure I should be glad to
gratify you, but we have so many expenses. Your music lessons cost a
great deal of money; and your brother Harry, off at school, is really
suffering for a new suit of clothes. I must send him some money
to-day.
_Kitty._ O, he can wait; he's only a boy; and no one cares how he
looks; but young ladies must dress, or they are thought nothing of. O,
you must let me have the bonnet, mamma!
_Mrs. C._ If you have this bonnet, Kitty, Harry must go without his
new suit.
_Kitty._ If you could just see it! It's such a love of a bonnet! Do
let me run down and ask Miss Thompson to send it up for you to look
at.
_Mrs. C._ I've no objection to that; and if you think you need it more
than Harry does his new suit, why--
_Kitty._ You'll let me have it. That's a good, dear mother. I know you
wouldn't refuse. I'll run to Miss Thompson's. I won't be gone long. I
suppose I am selfish; but then, mother, it's such a love of a bonnet.
[_Exit_, L.
_Mrs. C._ (_Sits in a rocking-chair._) Dear child, it is hard to
refuse her! But one should be made of money to keep up with the
extravagant fashions of the day.
_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R.
_Aunt H._ Angelina, what on airth have them air Joneses got for
dinner? I've sot and sot at that air front winder till I've got a
crick in my back a tryin' to find out whether it's lamb or mutton.
It's something roasted, anyhow.
_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins, you are very inquisitive!
_Aunt H._ Inquisitive! Law sakes, do hear the child talk! Neow, what
harm kin there be in tryin' to find eout what your neighbors have got
for dinner? I mean to put on my bunnet and run acrost and see. I know
they've got apple dumplin's, for I see the hired gal throw the parin's
out into the yard.
_Mrs. C._ Run across! Don't dream of such a thing!
_Aunt H._ Well, I'm goin' up stairs to git my specs and have another
good look, anyhow; for I'm jest dyin' to know whether it's lamb or
mutton. Land sakes! what's the use of livin', ef you can't know how
other folks live? [_Exit_, R.
_Mrs. C._ Aunt Hopkins!--She's gone! Dear me, she does worry me
terribly! What will our neighbors think of us?
_Enter_ KATY DOOLAN, L.
_Katy._ If you plase, mam, may I coome in?
_Mrs. C._ Certainly, Katy. What's the matter?
_Katy._ If you plase, mam, I have a letther; and would you plase rade
it for me?
_Mrs. C._ (_Takes letter._) Certainly, Katy. From your lover?
_Katy._ Indeed, mam, I have no lover. It's my cousin, mam.
_Mrs. C._ O, your cousin. (_Opens letter._) "Light ov my sowl!" Why,
this cannot be your cousin.
_Katy._ Indade, indade, it be, sure! It's only the insinivatin' way he
has, mam!
_Mrs. C._ (_Reads._) "Bewitchin' Katy! and how are ye's onyhow? I take
my pin in hand to till ye's I am yurs, in good hilth and sphirits;
and it's hopin' ye's the same, truly! The pulsitations uv my heart
are batin' wid the love I bears ye's, darlin' Katy! the fairest
flower--niver mind the blot--that iver bloomed an the family tree uv
Phil Doolan uv Tipperary, dead and gone this siven years, bliss his
sowl,--and how are ye's? An' by the same token that I loves ye's much,
I sind by the ixpriss, freight paid, a new bunnit, which my cousin
Biddy Ryan, for my dear love, have made for ye's charmin' Katy Doolan!
Wear it nixt ye's heart! And if ye git it before this letther coomes
to hand, ye's may know it is from
Your ever sighin',
Wid love for ye's dyin',
CORNALIUS RYAN.
P.S. If ye's don't resave this letther, sind me word uv mouth by the
man who fetches the bunnit."
_Mrs. C._ That's a very loving epistle.
_Katy._ Pistol, it is? Faith, I thought it was a letther.
_Mrs. C._ And so it is; and a very loving one! Your _cousin_ has sent
you a new bonnet.
_Katy._ Is it in the letther, mam!
_Mrs. C._ It is coming by express.
_Katy._ Sure, he might sind it in the letther, and save expinse. What
will I do?
_Mrs. C._ Wait patiently until the bonnet arrives.
_Katy._ Will Cornalius coome wid it?
_Mrs. C._ I think not. The expressman will bring it.
_Katy._ Sure, I don't want the ixpressman. It's Cornalius I want.
_Mrs. C._ This cousin of yours seems very affectionate. Are you going
to marry him some day?
_Katy._ Some day?--yis, mam. He tould me, Would I? and I axed him,
Yes. What will I do with the letther, mam?
_Mrs. C._ Keep it with your treasures. It should be precious to you.
_Katy._ Faith, thin I'll put it in the savings bank with my money. I'm
obliged, to ye's Mrs. Clipper, mam. If you plase, what was that last
in the letther?
_Mrs. C._
"Your ever sighin',
Wid love for ye's dyin',
Cornalius Ryan."
_Katy._ O, don't, ma'am! Ye's make me blush wid the shame I fail. Och!
it's a quare darlin', wid all his sighin', is Cornalius Ryan! Och,
musha! it's an illigant lad he is, onyhow! [_Exit_, L.
_Mrs. C._ So we are to have another new bonnet in the family! Well,
Katy is a good girl, and I hope will get a good husband, as well as a
new bonnet.
[_Exit_, L.
_Enter_ AUNT HOPKINS, R., _with a bandbox._
_Aunt H._ It's mutton! I was determined to find eout, and I have! I
saw that air Jones boy a playin' in the street, and I asked him
what his folks had got for dinner, and he said mutton, and neow I'm
satisfied on that air p'int. I wonder what's in this 'ere bandbox!
I saw that express cart stop here, and the man said it was for Miss
Kitty somebody; of course, Angelina's darter. I do wonder what it is!
(_Opens box._) Well I declare! A spic span new bunnet! (_Takes out a
very large, gaudily-trimmed bonnet._) And sich a bunnet! Ribbons
and lace, flowers and feathers! Now that's jest what I call a tasty
bunnet! I mean to try it on. It'll jest suit my complexion. Law sakes!
here comes Kitty! 'Twon't do to let her know I've been at her things!
(_Puts bonnet back into box, and places it behind the table._)
_Enter_ KITTY, L.,
_Kitty._ O, aunt Hopkins! Where's mother?
_Aunt H._ Land sakes! I don't know no more than the child unborn!
_Kitty._ Dear me! Here are Mrs. Fastone and Dora coming up the steps!
What shall I do?
_Aunt H._ Why, let 'em in, of course!
_Kitty._ Has my new bonnet come yet?
_Aunt H._ Indeed it has! And sich a beauty!
_Kitty._ O, I'm so glad! But where is it?
_Aunt H._ Down there behind the table. I hain't teched it; only jest
took a peep.
_Kitty._ I'll let Miss Dora see that some people can dress as well as
some other people. Aunt Hopkins, you must manage to draw attention to
my new bonnet while the visitors are here, to give me an opportunity
to show it.
_Aunt H._ Why, I'll take it right eout the fust hing.
_Kitty._ No, no! that would be too abrupt. Manage to speak of bonnets;
but do not show it until they ask to see it.
_Aunt H._ Well, I guess I know heow to do it genteelly.
_Enter_ KATY, L.
_Katy._ Two ladies to see you, miss. (_Crosses to_ R.)
_Kitty._ Where's mother, Katy?
_Katy._ Gone to the butcher's, miss. [_Exit_ R.
_Aunt H._ Butcher's? Wal, I do hope she'll git some mutton, for the
Joneses has it; and we ought to be as genteel as our neighbours.
_Enter_ MRS. FASTONE _and_ DORA, L., _very elegantly attired_.
_Mrs. F._ My dear child, how do you do?
_Kitty._ (_Shaking hands with her, and afterwards with_ DORA.) I'm
delighted to see you! Hope you are quite well, and Dora.
_Mrs. F._ Quite well--aren't you, Dora?
_Dora._ Quite, mamma.
_Kitty._ Pray be seated, ladies. (_They sit on lounge._) Mrs. Hopkins,
Mrs. Fastone.
_Aunt H._ (_Steps over and shakes hands._) Hope you are pretty well,
ma'am, and you, too, miss, though you do look awful delicate! And
how's your husband? He's a broker--ain't he? (_Sits in rocking-chair,
and keeps it in motion._)
_Mrs. F._ Yes, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Fastone is a broker, engaged day
after day in the busy vortex of fluctuating enterprises.
_Aunt H._ Well, I never hearn tell of that business afore; but I
s'pose it's profitable, or you couldn't afford to dress so. Is that a
silk or a poplin you've got on?
_Kitty._ (_Brings her chair; sits_, C.) Aunt Hopkins!--Mother has
stepped out to make a call.
_Aunt H._ No, she hain't; she's only gone to the butcher's.
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, what is the news?
_Mrs. F._ Well, really nothing. I am dying of _ennui_, the world is
so quiet; no excitement to move the placid waters of fashionable
society--is there, Dora?
_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.
_Mrs. F._ Nothing to see, nothing to hear, nothing to wear,--is there,
Dora?
_Dora._ Nothing, mamma.
_Aunt H._ Nothing to wear! Yes, there's bunnets.
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--Mrs. Fastone, you are quite correct.
_Mrs. F._ Mrs. Hopkins spoke of bonnets. I have been so disappointed!
Thompson had a perfect love of a bonnet that I had quite set my
heart upon for Dora; but it is gone, and the poor child is almost
broken-hearted--ain't you, Dora?
_Dora._ Quite, mamma.
_Kitty._ I am very sorry, for bonnets are so hard to find. I have been
very much perplexed about them myself. They are so very commonplace;
no air of refinement about them.
_Mrs. F._ None, whatever--is there, Dora?
_Dora._ None, mamma.
_Kitty._ I've just had a new one sent home, but it doesn't suit me.
_Aunt H._ Why, Kitty, how you talk! It's a regular beauty!
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!--It is not what I wanted, but Thompson said it
was the most stylish she had.
_Mrs. F._ Thompson! Did you get it of Thompson?
_Kitty._ Yes, all my bonnets come from Thompson.
_Mrs. F._ Do let me see it!
_Aunt H._ (_Jumps up._) I'll show it to you right off. It's an eligunt
bunnet. (_Gets bandbox._)
_Kitty._ Aunt Hopkins!
_Aunt H._ Neow don't aunt Hopkins me! for I'm going to show 'em jest
how it looks on yer; set still; for if there's anything I pride myself
on, it's showin' off a bunnet. (_Stands behind_ KITTY, _puts the
bonnet on her head, and ties it._) There! ain't that a beauty?
_Mrs. F._ Why! what a hor--a handsome bonnet! Did you ever see
anything like it, Dora?
_Dora._ Never, mamma!
_Aunt H._ That's the style, marm.
_Mrs. F._ Really! I want to know! And this is Thompson's most stylish
bonnet! Really, how the fashions do change! Did you ever, Dora!
_Dora._ Never, mamma!
_Kitty._ (_Aside._) I do believe they are laughing! Aunt Hopkins, I
cannot get it off! You've tied it in a hard knot!
_Mrs. F._ It's very becoming--isn't it, Dora?
_Dora._ O, very, mamma.
_Mrs. F._ (_Aside to_ DORA.)--What a horrid fright!
_Dora._ Frightful, mamma!
_Mrs. F._ I believe we must be moving, for I must hurry to Thompson's
and order just such a bonnet for Dora. Good day. You have such a
charming taste--hasn't she, Dora?
_Dora._ Charming, mamma! (_They bow, and exeunt_, L., _with their
handkerchiefs to their mouths, endeavouring to conceal their
laughter._)
_Kitty._ Good day. Call again.--The hateful things! They are laughing
at me. What ails this bonnet. (_Goes to glass._) Goodness gracious;
what a fright! This is not my bonnet. Aunt Hopkins, you've ruined me!
I shall be the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. (_Tears off
the bonnet._)
_Enter_ MRS. CLIPPER, R.
_Mrs. C._ Have the Fastones gone?
_Kitty._ I hope so. O, mother, send aunt Hopkins home; she's made me
look ridiculous!
_Aunt H._ Well, I declare! this comes of trying to please folks!
_Mrs. C._ Is _that_ your love of a bonnet, Kitty?
_Kitty._ No, indeed! Aunt Hopkins, where did you get this hateful
thing?
_Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox.
_Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan."
You've made a pretty mess of it!
_Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!
_Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?
_Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!
_Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._)
The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that
I'll niver git on my head at all at all!
_Kitty._ That's my bonnet!
_Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther
Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.
_Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your
bonnet.
_Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church
to-morrow, sure.
_Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as
you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I
have decided not to keep it.
_Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.
_Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after
the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My
conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry
the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.
_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up
for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing
up old bunnets.
_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins.
Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance
with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will
make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more
humble in my demeanor and in my dress.
_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your
decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of
fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display.
And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far
more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."
DRAFTED.
MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.
The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an
agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not
fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end
the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of
resignation fills the mother's heart:
My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books;
No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his
looks.
Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my
kitchen at tasks;
He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he
asks?
He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the
best;
Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been
at rest.
Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day
Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child
at his play!
"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his
gun,
And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of
Bull Run?
Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall,
"There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert,
"if I am to fall."
"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day
When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot
for Clay.
Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame
We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with
his name.
Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with
harm,
(Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough
little farm,)
That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my
eyes,
That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?
Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there
is no appeal,
But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel?
Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one;
Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is
done?
Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his
rest,
With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his
breast?
Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled
or scarred?
My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!
* * * * *
Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack
to-night,
Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in
flight;
Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is
higher than mine,
And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly
camp-fires shine.
Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide
down in the yard;
That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket
on guard.
Spirits of loving and lost ones--watch softly with Harry to-night,
For to-morrow he goes forth to battle--to arm him for Freedom and
Right!
AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.
BULWER.
The following magnificent description of perhaps the most
awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every
tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the
natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted,
pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize
the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of
desolation, and he cannot go amiss:
The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour
shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic
pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, 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.
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 theatre trembled;
and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs. An
instant more, and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark
and rapid like a torrent; at the same time it cast forth from its
bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with fragments of burning stone! Over
the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre
itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea,
fell that awful shower!
The cloud advanced, darker, disgorging showers of ashes and pumice
stones; and, amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast
up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning
ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets, in
frequent intervals.
The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, at
length settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion
as the blackness gathered did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase
in their vivid and scorching glare.
Nor was their horrible beauty confined to their hues of fire. Now
brightly blue, as the most azure depth of a southern sky; now of a
livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro, as the
folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid and intolerable crimson,
gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting
up all Pompeii; then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the
ghost of its own life!
In the pauses of the showers were heard the rumbling of the earth
beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still,
and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and
hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant
mountain.
The ashes, in many places, were already knee-deep; and in some places
immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs, bore down
along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more,
with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the
motion of the earth was more sensibly felt; the footing seemed to
slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on
the most level ground.
Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell,
broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught
whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains
beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several
houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various
intervals the fire rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid gloom.
The citizens had endeavoured to place rows of torches in the most
frequented spots; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the
wind extinguished them.
Suddenly arose an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through
the darkness which closed around it, the mountain shone, a pile of
fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface,
there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as
demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue
of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere; but below, the nether
part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three
places, adown which flowed serpentine, and irregular rivers of molten
lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they
flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. And through the still
air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon
another, as they were borne down the fiery cataracts, darkening for
one instant the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the
burnished hues of the flood along which they floated!
Suddenly a duller shade fell over the air; and one of the two gigantic
crests into which the summit had been divided, rocked and waved to and
fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can
describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of
fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed
forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea and earth.
Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far more profuse
than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets, and
darkness once more wrapped them as a veil.
The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If in the darkness,
wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the
hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing was
left save the law of self-preservation.
A PLEA FOR THE OX.
DUGANNE.
This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even devout
dignity; occasionally rising into energetic expression as the
poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden:
Of all my Father's herds and flocks,
I love the Ox--the large-eyed Ox!
I think no Christian man would wrong
The Ox--so patient, calm, and strong!
How huge his strength! and yet, with flowers
A child can lead this Ox of ours;
And yoke his ponderous neck, with cords
Made only of the gentlest words.
By fruitful Nile the Ox was Lord;
By Jordan's stream his blood was poured;
In every age--with every clan--
He loves, he serves, he dies for MAN!
And, through the long, long years of God,
Since labouring ADAM delved the sod,
I hear no human voice that mocks
The _hue_ which God hath given His Ox!
While burdening toils bow down his back,
Who asks if he be _white_ or _black?_
And when his generous blood is shed,
Who shall deny its common _red?_
"Ye shall not muzzle"--God hath sworn--
"The Ox, that treadeth out the corn!"
I think no Christian law ordains
That _Ox_ or _Man_ should toil in chains.
So, haply, for an Ox I pray.
That kneels and toils for us this day;
A huge, calm, patient, large-eyed Ox,
Black-skinned, among our herds and flocks.
So long, O righteous Lord! so long
Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong--
I think no Christian, just and true,
Can spurn this poor Ox for his _hue!_
I know not why he shall not toil,
Black-skinned, upon our broad, free soil;
And lift aloft his dusky frame,
Unbranded by a bondman's name!
And struggling still, for nobler goal,
With wakening will and soaring soul,
I know not why his great free strength
May not be our best wealth at length:
That strength which, in the limbs of _slaves_--
Like Egypt's--only piles up graves!
But in the hands of _freemen_ now
May build up states, by axe and plough!--
And rear up souls, as purely white
As angels, clothed with heavenly light;
And yield forth life-blood, richly red
As patriot hearts have ever shed.
God help us! we are veiled within--
Or white or black--with shrouds of skin;
And, at the last, we all shall crave
Small difference in the breadth of grave!
But--when the grass grows, green and calm,
And smells above our dust, like balm--
I think our rest will sweeter be,
If over us the Ox be--_free!_
HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES.
JAMES NACK.
Two Yankee wags, one summer day,
Stopped at a tavern on their way,
Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest,
And woke, to breakfast on the best.
The breakfast over, Tom and Will
Sent for the landlord and the bill;
Will looked it over:--"Very right--
But hold! what wonder meets my sight?
Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!"
"What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!"
Tom and the landlord in amaze
Stared at the clock with stupid gaze,
And for a moment neither spoke;
At last the landlord silence broke,--
"You mean the clock that's ticking there?
I see no wonder, I declare!
Though maybe, if the truth were told,
'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old;
Yet time it keeps to half a minute;
But, if you please, what wonder in it?"
"Tom, don't you recollect," said Will,
"The clock at Jersey, near the mill,
The very image of this present,
With which I won the wager pleasant?"
Will ended with a knowing wink;
Tom scratched his head and tried to think.
"Sir, begging your pardon for inquiring,"
The landlord said with grin admiring,
"What wager was it?"
"You remember
It happened, Tom, in last December:
In sport I bet a Jersey Blue
That it was more than he could do
To make his finger go and come
In keeping with the pendulum,
Repeating, till the hour should close,
Still--'_Here she goes, and there she goes._'
He lost the bet in half a minute."
"Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!"
Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet,
And fifty dollars to be bet."
"Agreed, but we will play some trick,
To make you of the bargain sick!"
"I'm up to that!"
"Don't make us wait,--
Begin,--the clock is striking eight."
He seats himself, and left and right
His finger wags with all its might,
And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows,
With--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
"Hold!" said the Yankee, "plank the ready!"
The landlord wagged his finger steady,
While his left hand, as well as able,
Conveyed a purse upon the table,
"Tom! with the money let's be off!"
This made the landlord only scoff.
He heard them running down the stair,
But was not tempted from his chair;
Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet!
So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet."
And loud and long the chorus rose
Of--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
While right and left his finger swung,
In keeping to his clock and tongue.
His mother happened in to see
Her daughter: "Where is Mrs. B----?"
"When will she come, do you suppose?"
Son!--"
"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
"Here!--where?"--the lady in surprise
His finger followed with her eyes;
"Son! why that steady gaze and sad?
Those words,--that motion,--are you mad?
But here's your wife, perhaps she knows,
And--"
"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
His wife surveyed him with alarm,
And rushed to him and seized his arm;
He shook her off, and to and fro
His finger persevered to go,
While curled his very nose with ire
That _she_ against him should conspire;
And with more furious tone arose
The--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
"Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl!
Run down and bring the little girl;
She is his darling, and who knows
But--"
"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
"Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus?
Good Lord! what will become of us?
Run for a doctor,--run, run, run,--
For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun,
And Doctor Black and Doctor White,
And Doctor Grey with all your might!"
The doctors came, and looked, and wondered,
And shook their heads, and paused and pondered.
Then one proposed he should be bled,--
"No, leeched you mean," the other said,--
"Clap on a blister!" roared another,--
"No! cup him,"--"No! trepan him, brother."
A sixth would recommend a purge,
The next would an emetic urge;
The eighth, just come from a dissection,
His verdict gave for an injection.
The last produced a box of pills,
A certain cure for earthly ills:
"I had a patient yesternight,"
Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight,
And as the only means to save her,
Three dozen patent pills I gave her;
And by to-morrow I suppose
That--"
"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
"You are all fools!" the lady said,--
"The way is, just to shave his head.
Run! bid the barber come anon."
"Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son;
"You help the knaves that would have bit me,
But all creation sha'n't outwit me!"
Thus to himself, while to and fro
His fingers perseveres to go,
And from his lips no accent flows
But--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"
The barber came--"Lord help him! what
A queerish customer I've got;
But we must do our best to save him,--
So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!"
But here the doctors interpose,--
"A woman never--"
"There she goes!"
"A woman is no judge of physic,
No even when her baby is sick.
He must be bled,"--"No, no, a blister,"--
"A purge, you mean,"--"I say a clyster,"--
"No, cup him,"--"Leech him,"--"Pills! pills! pills!"
And all the house the uproar fills.
What means that smile? what means that shiver?
The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver,
And triumph brightens up his face,
His finger yet shall win the race;
The clock is on the stroke of nine,
And up he starts,--"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the fifty;
I never spent an hour so thrifty.
But you who tried to make me lose,
Go, burst with envy, if you choose!
But how is this? where are they?"
"Who?"
"The gentlemen,--I mean the two
Came yesterday,--are they below?"
"They galloped off an hour ago."
"O, purge me! blister! shave and bleed!
For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!"
DAVID AND GOLIATH.
Goliath gives vent to his arrogance in a bombastic style. This
should be borne in mind by the speaker. David, on the other
hand, expresses himself with modesty, but in a tone of
confident courage:
_Goliath._ Where is the mighty man of war, who dares
Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief?
What victor-king, what general drenched in blood,
Claims this high privilege? What are his rights?
What proud credentials does the boaster bring
To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes,
What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms,
What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings,
In battle killed, or at his altars slain,
Has he to boast? Is his bright armory
Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail,
Of vanquished nations, by his single arm
Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold,
So much a wretch, so out of love with life,
To dare the weight of this uplifted spear?
Come, advance!
Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald,
Sound for the battle straight!
_David._ Behold thy foe.
_Gol._ I see him not.
_Dav._ Behold him here.
_Gol._ Say, where?
Direct my sight. I do not war with boys.
_Dav._ I stand prepared; thy single arm to mine.
_Gol._ Why, this is mockery, minion; it may chance
To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee:
But tell me who, of all this numerous host,
Expects his death from me? Which is the man
Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance?
_Dav._ The election of my sovereign falls on me.
_Gol._ On thee! on thee! by Dagon, 'tis too much!
Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion!
'Twould move my mirth at any other time;
But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy!
And tempt me not too far.
_Dav._ I do defy thee,
Thou foul idolator! Hast thou not scorned
The armies of the living God I serve!
By me he will avenge upon thy head
Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name,
Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe
That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood.
_Gol._ Indeed! 'tis wondrous well! Now, by my gods!
The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy!
Keep close to that same bloodless war of words,
And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant warrior!
Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung,
Of idle field-flowers? Where thy wanton harp,
Thou dainty-fingered hero?
Now will I meet thee,
Thou insect warrior; since thou dar'st me thus,
Already I behold thy mangled limbs,
Dissevered each from each, ere long to feed
The fierce, blood-snuffing vulture. Mark me well,
Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks
And toss in air thy head all gashed with wounds.
_Dav._ Ha, say'st thou so? Come on, then; Mark us well.
Thou com'st to me with sword and spear, and shield;
In the dread name of Israel's God, I come;
The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defi'st;
Yet though no shield I bring; no arms, except
These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook
With such a simple sling as shepherds use;
Yet all exposed, defenceless as I am,
The God I serve shall give thee up a prey
To my victorious arm. This day, I mean
To make the uncircumcised tribes confess
There is a God in Israel. I will give thee,
Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk,
To glut the carrion-kites. Nor thee alone;
The mangled carcasses of your thick hosts
Shall spread the plains of Elah; till Philistia,
Through all her trembling tents and flying bands,
Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed!
I dare thee to the trial!
_Gol._ Follow me.
In this good spear I trust.
_Dav._ I trust in Heaven!
The God of battles stimulates my arm,
And fires my soul with ardor not its own.
In this dialogue, the first speech of Goliath is simple
vaunt. Confident in his huge bulk and strength, he strides
occasionally from side to side while speaking, elevating his
arms and throwing his limbs about as if anxious to display his
powerful sinews and muscular proportions. He speaks very loud,
as if willing to terrify all Israel with his voice.
In this second speech, Goliath partly stoops, half shuts his
eyes like a person endeavouring to discern some diminutive
object, and, after looking intently a short time, suddenly
straightens himself up to his full height, and says
arrogantly: "I see him not."
In his third speech, Goliath maintains the same ground, till,
in the conclusion, he seems, at last, to have perceived David,
and, turning away contemptuously, adds: "I do not war with
boys."
In the latter part of the dialogue, Goliath becomes really
furious, and is in haste to transfix David with his spear;
while David, on the other hand, becomes more calm, collected,
and observant as the critical moment approaches, thus denoting
his firm and unwavering trust in the God of Israel. David
makes but few gestures, but always assumes a reverential
attitude when he mentions the name of God--not puritanical
by any means, but expressive of humble hope and smiling
confidence.
THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.
FRANCES M. WHITCHER.
Yes,--he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband
was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 't was Poll Bingham), _she_ says,
I never found it out till after he died, but that 's the consarndest
lie, that ever was told, though it 's jest a piece with everything
else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I
writ to his memory, nobody wouldn 't think I dident set store by him.
Want to hear it? Well, I 'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects
me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident
know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on 't; hain't
so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee,
I sent him an amazin' great cheese, and writ a piece o' poitry, and
pasted on top on 't. It says:--
Teach him for to proclaim
Salvation to the folks;
No occasion give for any blame,
Nor wicked people's jokes.
And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on now,
seein' there's seven and forty verses.
Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to
sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made
in relation to husband; it begins as follers:--
He never jawed in all his life,
He never was unkind,--
And (tho' I say it that was his wife)
Such men you seldom find.
(That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh
word.)
I never changed my single lot,--
I thought 't would be a sin--
(though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 't
ain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or
not, but there 's them livin' that _might_ tell if they wos a mind to;
why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon,
three year after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows
what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife
and Miss Jinkins _does_ say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss
Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her
"Jack at a pinch,"--seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took
such as he could get,--but I goes on to say--
I never changed my single lot,
I thought 't would be a sin,--
For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott,
I never got married agin.
If ever a hasty word he spoke,
His anger dident last,
But vanished like tobacker smoke
Afore the wintry blast.
And since it was my lot to be
The wife of such a man,
Tell the men that's after me
To ketch me if they can.
If I was sick a single jot,
He called the doctor in--
That's a fact,--he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me.
Now only jest think,--widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she
'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great
store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was
down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him
no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he
wa' n't there, who was ther, pray tell, that knowed enough to take the
lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and
Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come on Deacon
Bedott,--and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know;
as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to
confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent
scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had
a wonderful gift, and he wa' n't a man to keep his talents hid up in
a napkin,--so you see 't was from a sense o' duty he went when I was
sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I?
Oh!--
If I was sick a single jot,
He called the doctor in--
I sot so much by Deacon Bedott
I never got married agin.
A wonderful tender heart he had,
That felt for all mankind,--
It made him feel amazin bad
To see the world so blind.
Whiskey and rum he tasted not--
That's as true as the Scripturs,--but if you'll believe it, Betsy Ann
Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house,
how 't she 'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever!
Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything _she_ says. I've
knowed Poll Bingham from a gall, and she never knowed how to speak the
truth--besides she always had a pertikkler spite against husband and
me, and between us tew I 'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for
I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well she was
a ravin'-distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story. I
'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder
Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See,--where had I got to? Oh, I
remember now,--
Whiskey and rum he tasted not,--
He thought it was a sin,--
I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott
I never got married agin.
But now he's dead! the thought is killin',
My grief I can't control--
He never left a single shillin'
His widder to console.
But that wa' n't his fault--he was so out o' health for a number
o' year afore he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up
nothin'--however, it dident give him no great oneasiness,--he never
cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she
heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his
back,--begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did
you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born
days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue
about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git
drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,--used to
swear like all posset when he got mad,--and I've heard my husband
say, (and he wa' n't a man that ever said anything that wa' n't
true),--I've heard _him_ say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father
out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder
to console,"--ther ain't but one more verse, 't ain't a very lengthy
poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,--What
did you stop so soon for?"--but Miss Jinkins told the Crosbys _she_
thought I'd better a' stopt afore I 'd begun,--she 's a purty critter
to talk so, I must say. I 'd like to see some poitry o' hern,--I guess
it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'
n't a word o' truth in the hull on 't,--said I never cared two cents
for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie!! Why, when he died, I took it
so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell, they was afraid
they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a
painful subject, I won't dwell on 't. I conclude as follers:--
I'll never change my single lot,--
I think 't would be a sin,--
The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott
Don't intend to get married agin.
Excuse me cryin'--my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that
poitry--O-o-o-o-o-o!
THE TWO WEAVERS.
HANNAH MORE.
This piece should be spoken in a simple, unaffected
conversational manner; still it admits of much quiet emphasis,
and subdued irony:
As at their work two weavers sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touched upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.
"What with my brats and sickly wife,"
Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life;
So hard my work, so poor my fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear.
"How glorious is the rich man's state
His house so fine, his wealth so great!
Heaven is unjust, you must agree;
Why all to him? Why none to me?
"In spite of what the Scripture teaches
In spite of all the parson preaches,
This world (indeed I've thought so long)
Is ruled methinks extremely wrong.
"Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
'Tis all confused and hard and strange;
The good are troubled and oppressed,
And all the wicked are the blest."
Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;
_Parts of his ways_ alone we know;
'Tis all that man can see below.
"See'st thou that carpet, not half done,
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
Behold the wild confusion there,
So rude the mass it makes one stare!
"A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle? where's the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder."
Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits,
But still in every part it fits;
Besides, you reason like a lout--
Why, man, that _carpet's inside out_."
Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt
_Is but a carpet inside out_.
"As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look but odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.
"No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.
"But when we reach that world of light,
And view those works of God aright,
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the workman is divine.
"What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;
Then shall we praise what here we spurned,
For then the _carpet shall be turned_."
"Thou'rt right," quoth Dick; "no more I'll grumble
That this sad world's so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right."
MISS MALONEY ON THE CHINESE QUESTION.
MARY MAPES DODGE.
Och! don't be talkin'. Is it howld on, ye say? An' did n't I howld
on till the heart o' me was clane broke entirely, and me wastin' that
thin you could clutch me wid yer two hands? To think o' me toilin'
like a nager for the six year I 've been in Ameriky,--bad luck to the
day I iver left the owld counthry! to be bate by the likes o' them
(faix an' I'll sit down when I 'm ready, so I will, Aunt Ryan, an' yed
better be listnin' than drawin' yer remarks)! an' is it mysel, with
five good characters from respectable places, would be herdin' wid the
haythens? The saints forgive me, but I 'd be buried alive sooner 'n
put up wid it a day longer. Sure an' I was the granehorn not to be
lavin' at onct when the missus kim into me kitchen wid her perlaver
about the new waiter man which was brought out from Californy.
"He 'll be here the night," says she, "and, Kitty, it 's meself looks
to you to be kind and patient wid him, for he 's a furriner," says
she, a kind o' lookin' off.
"Sure an it 's little I 'll hinder nor interfare wid him nor any
other, mum," says I, a kind o' stiff, for I minded me how these French
waiters, wid their paper collars and brass rings on their fingers,
isn 't company for no gurril brought up dacint and honest.
Och! sorra a bit I knew what was comin' till the missus walked into me
kitchen smilin', and says kind o' shcared: "Here 's Fing Wing, Kitty,
an' you 'll have too much sinse to mind his bein' a little strange."
Wid that she shoots the door, and I, misthrusting if I was tidied up
sufficient for me fine buy wid his paper collar, looks up, and--Howly
fathers! may I niver brathe another breath, but there stud a rale
haythen Chineser a grinnin' like he'd just come off a tay-box. If
you'll belave me, the crayture was that yeller it ud sicken you to
see him; and sorra stitch was on him but a black nightgown over his
trousers, and the front of his head shaved claner nor a copper biler,
and a black tail a-hangin' down from behind, wid his two feet stook
into the heathenestest shoes you ever set eyes on.
Och! but I was up stairs afore you could turn about, a givin' the
missus warnin', an' only stopt wid her by her raisin' me wages two
dollars, and playdin' wid me how it was a Christian's duty to bear wid
haythins and taitch 'em all in our power,--the saints have us!
Well, the ways and trials I had wid that Chineser, Ann Ryan, I
couldn't be tellin'. Not a blissed thing cud I do but he'd be lookin'
on wid his eyes cocked up'ard like two poomp-handles, an' he widdout
a speck or smitch o' whiskers on him, an' his finger-nails full a yard
long. But it 's dyin' you'd be to see the missus a' larnin' him, and
he grinnin' an' waggin' his pig-tail (which was pieced out long
wid some black stoof, the haythen chate), and gettin' into her
ways wonderful quick, I don't deny, imitatin' that sharp you'd be
shurprised, and ketchin' an' copyin' things the best of us will do
a-hurried wid work, yet don't want comin' to the knowledge of the
family,--bad luck to him!
Is it ate wid him? Arrah, an' would I be sittin' wid a haythen an' he
a-atin' wid drum-sticks,--yes, an' atin' dogs an' cats unknownst to
me, I warrant you, which it is the custom of them Chinesers, till
the thought made me that sick I could die. An' did n't the crayture
proffer to help me a wake ago come Toosday, an' me a foldin' down me
clane clothes for the ironin', an' fill his haythin mouth wid water,
an' afore I could hinder squirrit it through his teeth stret over the
best linen table-cloth, and fold it up tight, as innercent now as a
baby, the dirrity baste! But the worrest of all was the copyin' he'd
be doin' till ye'd be dishtracted. It's yersel' knows the tinder feet
that's on me since ever I 've bin in this counthry. Well, owin' to
that, I fell into a way o' slippin' me shoes off when I 'd be settin'
down to pale the praities or the likes o' that, and, do ye mind! that
haythin would do the same thing after me whiniver the missus set him
to parin' apples or tomaterses. The saints in heaven could n't have
made him belave he cud kape the shoes on him when he'd be palin'
anything.
Did I lave for that? Faix an' I did n't. Did n't he get me into
trouble wid my missus, the haythin? You're aware yersel' how the
boondles comin' in from the grocery often contains more 'n 'll go into
anything dacently. So, for that matter, I'd now and then take out a
sup o' sugar, or flour, or tay, an' wrap it in paper and put it in me
bit of a box tucked under the ironin' blankit the how it cuddent be
bodderin' any one. Well, what shud it be, but this blessed Sathurday
morn the missus wos a spakin' pleasant and respec'ful wid me in me
kitchen when the grocer boy comes in an' stands fornenst her wid his
boondles, an' she motions like to Fing Wing (which I never would call
him by that name ner any other but just haythin), she motions to him,
she does, for to take the boondles an' empty out the sugar an' what
not, where they belongs. If you'll belave me, Ann Ryan, what did that
blatherin' Chineser do but take out a sup o' sugar, an' a handful o'
tay, an' a bit o' chaze right afore the missus, wrap them into bits o'
paper, an' I spacheless wid shurprise, an' he the next minute up wid
the ironin' blankit and pullin' out me box wid a show o' bein' sly to
put them in.
Och, the Lord forgive me, but I clutched it, and missus sayin', "O
Kitty!" in a way that 'ud cruddle your blood.
"He 's a haythin nager," says I.
"I 've found you out," says she.
"I 'll arrist him," says I.
"It 's you ought to be arristed," says she.
"You won't," says I.
"I will," says she; and so it went till she give me such sass as
I cuddent take from no lady,--an' I give her warnin' an' left that
instant, an' she a-pointin' to the doore.
THE BIG OYSTER.
A LEGEND OF RARITAN BAY.
GEORGE ARNOLD.
'Twas a hazy, mazy, lazy day,
And the good smack _Emily_ idly lay
Off Staten Island, in Raritan Bay,
With her canvas loosely flapping,
The sunshine slept on the briny deep,
Nor wave nor zephyr could vigils keep,
The oysterman lay on the deck asleep,
And even the cap'n was napping.
The smack went drifting down the tide,--
The waters gurgling along her side,--
Down where the bay glows vast and wide,--
A beautiful sheet of water;
With scarce a ripple about her prow,
The oyster-smack floated, silent and slow,
With Keyport far on her starboard bow,
And South Amboy on her quarter.
But, all at once, a grating sound
Made the cap'n awake and glance around;
"Hold hard!" cried he, "we've run aground,
As sure as all tarnation!"
The men jumped up, and grumbled and swore;
They also looked, and plainly saw
That the _Emily_ lay two miles from shore,
At the smallest calculation.
Then, gazing over the side, to see
What kind of a bottom this shoal might be,
They saw, in the shadow that lay to the lee,
A sight that filled them with horror!
The water was clear, and beneath it, there,
An oyster lay in its slimy lair,
So big, that to tell its dimensions fair
Would take from now till to-morrow.
And this it was made the grating sound;
On this the _Emily_ ran aground;
And this was the shoal the cap'n found,--
Alack! the more is the pity.
For straight an idea entered his head:
He'd drag it out of its watery bed,
And give it a resting-place, instead,
In some saloon in the city.
So, with crow, and lever, and gaff, and sling,
And tongs, and tackle, and roller, and ring,
They made a mighty effort to bring
This hermit out of his cloister.
They labored earnestly, day and night,
Working by torch and lantern light,
Till they had to acknowledge that, do what they might,
They never could budge the oyster!
The cap'n fretted, and fumed, and fussed,--
He swore he'd "have that 'yster, or bust!"
But, for all his oaths, he was quite nonplussed;
So by way of variation,
He sat him quietly down, for a while,
To cool his anger and settle his bile,
And to give himself up, in his usual style,
To a season of meditation.
Now, the cap'n was quite a wonderful man;
He could do almost anything any man can,
And a good deal more, when he once began
To act from a clear deduction.
But his wonderful power,--his greatest pride,--
The feat that shadowed all else beside,--
The talent on which he most relied,--
Was his awful power of suction!
At suction he never had known defeat!
The stoutest suckers had given in, beat,
When he sucked up a quart of apple-jack, neat,
By touching his lips to the measure!
He'd suck an oyster out of its shell,
Suck shrimps or lobsters equally well;
Suck cider till inward the barrel-heads fell,--
And seemed to find it a pleasure.
Well, after thinking a day or two,
This doughty sucker imagined he knew
About the best thing he could possibly do,
To secure the bivalvular hermit.
"I'll bore through his shell, as they bore for coal,
With an auger fixed on the end of a pole,
And then, through a tube, I'll suck him out whole,--
A neat little swallow, I term it!"
The very next day, he returned to the place
Where his failure had thrown him into disgrace;
And there, with a ghastly grin on his face,
Began his submarine boring.
He worked for a week, for the shell was tough,
But reached the interior soon enough
For the oyster, who found such surgery rough,--
Such grating, and scraping, and scoring!
The shell-fish started, the water flew,
The cap'n turned decidedly blue,
But thrust his auger still further through,
To quiet the wounded creature.
Alas! I fear my tale grows sad,
The oyster naturally felt quite bad
In spite of its peaceful nature.
It arose, and, turning itself on edge,
Exposed a ponderous shelly wedge,
All covered with slime, and sea-weed, and sedge,--
A conchological wonder!
This wedge flew open, as quick as a flash,
Into two great jaws, with a mighty splash
One scraunching, crunching, crackling crash,--
And the smack was gone to thunder.
A PRECIOUS PICKLE.
(FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY.)
CHARACTERS.
MISS REBECCA PEASE.
MRS. GABBLE.
JENNY FROST, } City girls on a vacation
BESSY SNOW, } in the country.
SADIE BEAN, }
SISSY GABBLE.
JUNO, Miss Pease's coloured help.
SCENE.--MISS PEASE'S _best room. Table_, C., _back. Chairs_, R. _and_
L. _Rocking-chair_, C. _Chair directly in front of the table._
_Enter_, L., JUNO; _costume, calico dress, handkerchief about her head
in shape of a turban, broom in her hand._
_Juno._ Bress my soul! Nebber see, in de whole co'se ob my life, sich
a galloping set as dem are city gals--nebber! For all de worl', jes
like a flock ob sheep. Shoo! away dey go, from de cellar to de top
ob de house--pell-mell inter de barn. Skipterty shoo, ober de fields;
skersplash into de brook; don't keer for nuffin nor nobody. Can't keep
de chairs straight, nor de flo' clean nor nuffin. (_Looks off_, R.)
Now, now, now, jes look a dar! jes look a dar! See 'em scootin' round,
chasin' dat are poor orphanless calf, what ain't got no mudder. Never
did see nuffin like it, nebber. (_Sweeps violently._)
_Jenny._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! If you don't stop, girls, I shall
die.
_Bessie._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! O, dear, there goes my hat!
_Sadie._ (_Outside_, R.) Ha, ha, ha! Do see him jump! [_All three
enter_, R, _laughing._
_Jenny._ O, isn't this splendid! A country life for me.
_Bessie._ It's glorious! I could live here forever.
_Sadie._ So could I. No more city life for me.
_Juno._ Bress my soul! Goin' fur to stay here forebber! I'll jes' pack
up my jewelry, and slope, for sartin'.
_Jenny._ Ah, there's Juno. O, Juno, isn't it most dinner-time? I'm so
hungry!
_Bessie._ So am I--ravenous.
_Sadie._ I'm starving; slowly, but surely, starving.
_Juno._ Dinner! Why, bress my soul! yer hain't got yer breakfast
digesticated yet. Well, I nebber, in de whole co'se ob my life,
seed sich eaters--nebber. Six biscuit, four b'iled eggs apiece, and
chicken; chicken by de dozen for dar breakfast; and now want dar
dinner! Bress my soul! Doesn't yer git nuffin to eat in de city?
_Sadie._ O, yes, plenty; but not such biscuits as Juno makes.
_Jenny and Bessie._ Never, never!
_Jenny._ And eggs, girls! None cooked as Juno cooks them.
_Bessie and Sadie._ Never, never!
_Bessie._ And chickens! never so nice as those broiled by Juno.
_Jenny and Sadie._ Never, never!
_Juno._ Doesn't yers, honies? (_Grinning._) Dat's mean; dat's raal
mean. Well, poor dears, I s'pose yers is hungry. Now you jes' wait and
see what Juno can find for a lunch. [_Exit_, L.
_Jenny._ "A little _flattery_, now and then, is relished by the wisest
men."
_Bessie._ And the darkest of our sex, Jenny.
_Sadie._ Yes; and "a _soft_ answer turneth away wrath." O, ain't we
having a splendid time, girls?
_Jenny._ How kind of our parents, after eight months' hard study, to
send us to this delightful place!
_Sadie._ O, it's splendid. We want nothing here.
_Bessie._ No, indeed. There's nothing left in that dry, hot city to be
regretted.
_Jenny._ Stop. There is one thing I _should_ like.
_Sadie and Bessie._ What is that?
_Jenny._ One of mother's pickles.
_Sadie and Bessie._ What! a pickle?
_Jenny._ Yes. I'm dying for one of mother's sour, peppery pickles.
_Sadie._ O, don't, Jenny. Do you want to make me homesick?
_Bessie._ My mouth puckers at the thought. I want to go home.
_Enter_, R., SISSY GABBLE, _a very small girl, with a very large cape
bonnet on her head, and a tin pail in her hand._
_Sissy._ If yer pleath, Mith Peath, if, if--Mith Peath, if you
pleath--
_Jenny._ Why, who in the world is this?
_Sadie._ What do you want, little girl?
_Sissy._ Mith Peath, if you pleath, if, if--Mith Peath, to home, my
mother thed--my mother thed. What did my mother thed? O, my mother
thed, if Mith Peath is to home, to give Mith Peath her com--her
com--to give Mith Peath her com--
_Jenny._ Her compliments?
_Sissy._ Yith ma'am, I geth tho; and tell Mith Peath, the thent her
thome of her pickleth.
_Sadie and Bessie._ Pickles! O, you dear little thing!
_Jenny._ O, isn't she a darling! (_They all crowd round_ SISSY, _take
off her bonnet, kiss and hug her._) Isn't she splendid?
_Bessie._ I'll take the pail, little girl.
_Sissy._ (_Putting pail behind her._) Yith marm; I geth not. My mother
thed I muthn't give it to nobody but Mith Peath.
_Bessie._ Well, take off the cover, little girl. The pickles will
spoil.
_Sissy._ I geth not. _My_ mother's pickleth _never_ thpoil.
_Jenny._ The little plague! Say, Sissy; do you like candy?
_Sissy._ Candy? Merlatheth candy?
_Jenny._ Yes.
_Sissy._ Ith it pulled?
_Jenny._ Yes, indeed; pulled white as snow. Give me the pail, and I'll
find you a long stick of it.
_Sissy._ You ain't Mith Peath; and I don't like merlatheth candy white
ath thnow. Where ith Mith Peath?
_Sadie._ Little girl, don't you want some red and white peppermints?
_Sissy._ No, I don't. I want Mith Peath.
_Bessie._ Or some splendid gum drops?
_Sissy._ No. I want Mith Peath.
_Enter_ MISS PEASE, L.
_Miss P._ And here she is, Sissy Gabble. What have you for me? (_The
girls fall back in confusion, and whisper together._)
_Sissy._ Thome pickleth, Mith Peath, my mother thent you, with her
com--her com--her com--
_Miss P._ Her compliments, Sissy. I understand. I'm very much obliged
to her for sending them, and to you, Sissy, for bringing them so
carefully. Here, Juno!
_Enter_, JUNO, L.
_Juno._ Yes, missis. Why, bress my soul! if dar ain't Sissy Gabble!
Come right here, yer dear chile.
_Miss P._ Take her to the kitchen, Juno. Perhaps you can find a cake
for her.
_Juno._ Guess I can, missis, sure for sartin. Come, Sissy Gabble, come
right along wid Juno.
_Sissy._ Thay, Juno, who ith them? (_Pointing to girls._)
_Juno._ Why, bress yer soul, dem ar's de young ladies from de city, on
dar vex--vex--on dar vexation. O, Sissy, dar drefful sweet.
_Sissy._ Thweet, Juno? I thpothe tho; they've got thuch loth of candy.
But they didn't git my pail, tho!
_Juno._ Come along to de kitchen. Come.
[_Exeunt_ JUNO _and_ SISSY, L. _The girls gather about_ MISS PEASE.
_Jenny._ O, Miss Pease, I'm so glad Mrs. Gabble sent you those
pickles, I'm so fond of them!
_Bessie._ Yes, Miss Pease; they're so nice!
_Sadie._ O, they're splendid! Do give us a taste.
_Miss P._ Stop, stop young ladies. While I cannot but be grateful to
Mrs. Gabble for her kindness, I wish it had taken some other shape. I
have long been of the opinion that pickles are unwholesome, and have
never allowed them to be placed upon my table. And I am sure I should
be disobeying the instructions I received from your parents--to
provide you only wholesome food--did I permit you to taste them. For
the present, I shall leave them here. (_Places pail on the table._)
If you believe I have your interest at heart, you will not touch that
which I have condemned. I know I can trust you. _Exit_, L.
_Bessie._ Well, I declare! The mean old thing!
_Jenny._ It's too bad! Nothing but blasted hopes in this world!
_Sadie._ Well, I don't care, I'm a going to have one of those pickles,
if I die for it.
_Jenny._ Why, Sadie Bean, you don't mean it!
_Sadie._ Yes, I do. I know they _are_ wholesome, and my mother always
allows me to eat them.
_Bessie._ I wouldn't touch one for the world. How impolite it would
be, after Miss Pease has forbidden it!
_Sadie._ No; she didn't forbid it. She said, if we thought she had our
interest at heart, we wouldn't touch the pail. Now I don't believe she
has, when she wants to deprive us of such a luxury. I'm determined to
have a pickle.
_Jenny._ You are wrong, Sadie, to think of such a thing. A Precious
Pickle you'll make. (_Sits on sofa._)
_Bessie._ Nothing would tempt me. (_Sits on sofa._) How can you,
Sadie?
_Sadie._ Pooh! Cowards! It's just as easy as croquet, when you make up
your mind. (_Lifts cover, and takes out pickle._) A Precious Pickle.
I'll taste, Jenny. Ain't they beauties?
_Jenny._ Quick, quick, Sadie; somebody's coming!
_Sadie._ Dear me! (_Claps on cover, runs and sits on sofa between_
JENNY _and_ BESSIE.)
_Enter_ JUNO, L.
_Juno._ Bress my soul! dars Missis Gabble a runnin up de walk like all
possessed. Speck her house afire, sure for sartin. _Exit_, R.
_Sadie._ (_Tasting pickle._) O, ain't it nice! Bessie, run and get
one.
_Bessie._ No, indeed; I shall do no such thing.
_Jenny._ O, Sadie, I wouldn't believe you could do such a thing.
_Sadie._ O, pshaw! It's all envy; you know it is.
_Enter_ R., JUNO, _followed by_ MRS. GABBLE, _who wears a calico
dress, has her sleeves rolled up, her apron thrown over her head, and
has altogether the appearance of having just left the wash-tub._
_Mrs. G._ Yes, Juno, poor Mr. Brown has shuffled off this
mortal--what's it's name? (_Looks_ _at girls._) O, how do you do? I
don't know how much he's worth, but they do say--Why, Juno, you've
got a new calico--Fine day, young ladies.--They do say--Well, there, I
oughtn't to speak of it. Got your washing out, Juno? I've been all day
at that tub; and--Where's Miss Pease? I can't stop a minute; so don't
ask me to sit down. (_Sits in rocking-chair and rocks violently._)
_Juno._ Yes, Missy Gabble, Missy Pease to home. Send her right up,
sure for sartin. Bress my soul, how that woman do go on, for sartin.
_Exit_, L.
_Mrs. G._ Ah, poor Mrs. Brown, with all them young ones. I wonder
where my Sis is.
_Jenny._ I think she's in the kitchen, Mrs. Gabble.
_Mrs. G._ You don't say so? Stuffing herself, I'm sure. And poor Mr.
Brown lying dead in the next house--and there's my washing waiting for
soap--and there's Mrs. Jones hasn't sent my ironing-board home; and
mercy knows how I'm to get along without it.
_Enter_ MISS PEASE, L. _During the dialogue between_ MISS PEASE _and_
MRS. G., SADIE _slyly eats her pickle, offering it to_ JENNY _and_
BESSIE, _who at first shake their heads, afterwards taste; the pickle
is passed among them, and devoured before the conclusion of the
conversation._
_Miss P._ Ah, Mrs. Gabble! I'm glad to see you. (_Takes chair and sits
beside her._)
_Mrs. G._ And poor Brown is gone!
_Miss P._ Mr. Brown dead? This is sad news.
_Mrs. G._ I should think it was--and there's Skillet, the butcher,
chopped off his thumb--and Miss Pearson fell down stairs and broke her
china sugar-bowl--sp'ilt the whole set. As I told my husband, these
expensive dishes never can be matched--and speaking of matches, Mrs.
Thorpe is going to get a divorce. Jest think of it! I met her going
into Carter's shop this morning. She had on that pink muslin he gave
her for a birthday present--Jenkins has got a new lot of them, only
a shilling a yard--speaking of yards, old Cooper tumbled into
that miserable well in his back yard this morning. They pulled him
out--speaking of pulling, Miss Tibbet was in to the dentist's this
morning for a new set of teeth, and--Have you seen my Sis?
_Miss P._ O, yes. She's in the kitchen with Juno. And, speaking of
Sissy, reminds me that I must thank you for sending me--
_Mrs. G._ My pickles? Yes. Well, I'm glad you got 'em. But I didn't
have a bit of good luck with 'em. And, speaking of pickles, O, Miss
Pease, that villain, Smith, the grocer, has been taken up. He's going
to be hung. Nothing can save him.
_Miss P._ Mr. Smith arrested! For what pray?
_Mrs. G._ P'isoning! Jest think of it! And he a deacon in the church,
and has such a splendid span of horses, and such an elegant beach
wagon. I declare, the last time he took us to the beach I nearly died
eating soft-shelled crabs; and my husband tumbled overboard, and
Mr. Brown got sunstruck; and now he's gone! Dear me, dear me! And my
washing ain't out yet.
_Miss P._ But tell me, Mrs. Gabble, what is it about the poisoning?
_Mrs. G._ Why, he or somebody else has been putting prussic acid in
his vinegar, just at the time, too, when everybody's making pickles;
and there's no end of the p'isoning he will have to answer for. Mrs.
Jewel's just sent for the doctor, and Mrs. Poor's been dreadful all
day, and Dr. Baldtop's flying round from house to house; and, O,
dear--there's my washing! Who'll be the next victim nobody knows, I'm
sure.
_Sadie._ (_Jumping up._) O, dear! O, dear! Send for the doctor, quick!
I'm dying, I know I am. (_Runs across stage and sinks into chair_, R.)
_Miss P._ (_Running to her._) Bless me child, what ails you?
_Sadie._ I don't know; I can't tell. The doctor, quick!
_Mrs. G._ Deary me, she's took sudden, just for all the world like
Susan Richie.
_Jenny._ (_Jumping up._) Water, water! Give me some water! I shall die
if I don't have some water. (_Runs down and sinks into chair_, L.)
_Mrs. G._ (_Jumping up and running to her._) Gracious goodness! here's
another! It's something dreadful, depend upon it. When folks is took
sudden--
_Bessie._ (_Jumping up._) O, my throat! I'm burning up! Give me some
ipecac. Quick, quick, quick! (_Runs round stage, then sinks into
chair_, C.)
_Mrs. G._ There goes another! It's something
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