ACT II.

SCENE: _Interior of Clyde Hall. Seats arranged at wings. Door pract. in Flat, through which flowers are visible. Em’ly and Dingle discovered standing C. Both are masked._

DINGLE.――By yonder fair moon whose radiance is reflected in a thousand dewy gems; by the glorious splendors of this summer night, I adjure you to remove that mask.

EM’LY.――Sir Knight, if eloquence could tempt me to reveal my face before the proper time, then your words would win your wish. I am not what you think I am. Knights woo not poor peasant maids, and I am poor, and humble, too.

DINGLE.――The wealth of those bright eyes would make one rich though he were a beggar.

EM’LY.――Flattery from friends is at best embarrassing; from strangers it is wholly out of place.

DINGLE (_Aside_).――There’s no humbleness in that remark. (_Aloud_) I crave your forgiveness; I am the last man in the world who would do an ungallant act.

EM’LY (_Aside_).――You are among the latest who did. (_Aloud_) Are you always mindful of a woman’s feelings? Do you treat them all with gentle courtesy?

DINGLE (_Aside_).――There’s a little sarcasm in that; I wonder what she means? (_Aloud_) Certainly! I would scorn, loathe, abhor a man who could forget his duty in that regard.

EM’LY.――Even though she owed him money?

DINGLE.――Eh! (_Aside_) What is she driving at? (_Aloud_) Miss Clyde, you are severe.

EM’LY.――If any one designated me as Miss Clyde they erred. Once more I repeat that I am not Dorothy Clyde.

DINGLE (_Laughs_).――We will not discuss that point. I have danced with you twice to-night, and I have danced with no one else; and yet I have had the honor of twice dancing with the lady whose name you mentioned.

EM’LY.――The music has ceased. The guests will come this way. Excuse me. [_Exits hastily L._]

DINGLE (_Looking L_).――O Jupiter, what a beauty! How lightly she trips across the hall. Sweet Dorothy, thou hast won my heart.

[_Enter Dorothy R._]

But why does she persist in denying her identity? A servant volunteered to point out both her and the Felton girl; she evidently desires to――

DOROTHY (_Coughs_).

DINGLE (_Aside_).――The tenant’s daughter. I would recognize that haughty minx though she were doubly masked.

DOROTHY.――Pardon me, sir; I would inquire the way to the banquet room.

DINGLE (_Aside_).――It will never do to let her recognize my voice; I will assume a falsetto tone. (_Aloud_) You had better find a servant, Miss Gypsy Queen; I am not posted in the commissary department.

DOROTHY.――I perceive that all knights are not Quixotes in gallantry. Thanks, however, for your suggestion.

DINGLE (_Sarcastic bow_).――Don’t mention it, fair fortune-teller.

DOROTHY.――If you knew me you would try to be more courteous; thus have you unmasked your nature, though your face is still unseen.

[_Exit L._]

DINGLE.――The saucy beggar! Well, in some natures poverty serves to intensify pride; I will seek the Squire. (_Exits R._)

(_Enter Weatherspout and Miss Philp, Door F.; she leans upon his arm._)

WEATHERSPOUT.――The night is lovely; years and years ago it was my delight to wander forth beneath the moon’s soft rays――

MISS PHILP.――Years and years ago! There! you talk like a sexagenarian. I will wager you what you will that you are under twenty-five! Aye, that I know your name!

WEATHERSPOUT.――In a few minutes the guests will assemble and unmask; if you guess my name I will anticipate that ceremony. Can you not detect the tremor of age in my voice?

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――The servant volunteered to tell me this man’s name. He is merely assuming the ancient quaver. His form is as straight as a pin oak. (_Aloud_) My eyes are not deceived, Mr. Morley Dingle.

WEATHERSPOUT.――Not knowing the party for whom you take me, I am unable to rate the value of your compliment.

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――It is Dingle, sure! (_Aloud_) Then, holy Monk, be my father confessor and learn that Mr. Morley Dingle is a perfect Adonis, a gentleman of rare attainments, one whose name any woman would be proud to――to――that is――include among her list of friends.

WEATHERSPOUT.――Or read upon her teaspoons――I comprehend.

MISS PHILP.――Of course I speak from hearsay only; I have not the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with the gentleman; although I think I have enjoyed his company this evening.

WEATHERSPOUT.――My child, you are mistaken; I am not Dingle. I am glad for your sake that you are deceived. You will also be satisfied when you have reflected upon the matter.

MISS PHILP (_Angrily_).――Do you know to whom you are talking?

WEATHERSPOUT.――Candidly, I do not.

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――I see; he fears I will penetrate his disguise. (_Aloud_) Oh, you are deep, very deep.

WEATHERSPOUT (_Offering his arm_).――Permit me to escort you to the drawing-room.

MISS PHILP (_Takes his arm_).――What a dreamy, soul-inspiring night.

WEATHERSPOUT (_Yawning_).――Very. [_They exit L._]

SQUIRE (_From without_).――I will tell you. Step this way. (_Enter Squire and Leslie R., each holding mask in hand_) Knowing that Dingle was anxious to identify my daughter, and that Miss Philp was dying to meet Dingle, I instructed a trusty servant to mislead them by making certain remarks within their hearing. The thing has worked like a charm, and the most ludicrous blunders have resulted.

LESLIE.――I thought that Dorothy was unusually interested in the movements of certain couples. So the little rogue is a party to your conspiracy!

SQUIRE.――The motive justifies the means; I desire to reclaim an arrogant young man and a silly woman; both are difficult cases, yet I hope to succeed.

LESLIE.――Some one is calling――hark!

MERCY (_Without_).――Quick! quick! Squire, quick! (_Enters L. running_) Oh! oh! oh――!

SQUIRE.――Speak, girl, what is amiss?

MERCY.――Oh, sir, you wouldn’t joke if you knew the trouble. It may end in bloodshed!

SQUIRE.――Who’s joking?

MERCY.――You asked me a conundrum.

SQUIRE.――Never!

MERCY.――You asked me what is a miss――every girl knows what a miss is.

[_Exits R. running._]

LESLIE.――The girl is mixed. [_Leslie and Squire mask._]

DINGLE (_Without_).――You shall apologize or fight. (_Enter L._) Ah, here are gentlemen who will see fair play. Come on, sir, come on!

[_Enter Weatherspout L._]

WEATHERSPOUT.――Silence! Give me a chance to explain.

DINGLE (_Drawing sword_).――Retract, sir! Eat your words! (_Flourishes sword_) Feast upon them! Swallow them!

WEATHERSPOUT.――Gentlemen, hear him! His tongue would madden an auctioneer with envy.

DINGLE.――Ha! more insults! Hold me back! (_Makes a pass at Weatherspout._) Let me dissect him!

[_Squire and Leslie take hold of Dingle._]

SQUIRE.――Remember where you are!

LESLIE.――Do nothing rash, sir!

WEATHERSPOUT.――Release him; I fear his jargon, not his blade; let me explain, and if he then insists on satisfaction, I will thrash him with my staff.

DINGLE.――My honor! (_Flourishes his sword_) must I submit to this!

SQUIRE.――Let the monk speak.

WEATHERSPOUT.――While standing on the porch enjoying the cool breeze, my companion, a lady, playfully called me Dingle. I replied that the air was filled with Dingles, whereupon this fellow sprang from behind a bush, and would have throttled me, had I not sneezed in his face.

DINGLE.――What right had he to mention my name?

SQUIRE.――You are a masked knight――how should he know you are the champion of one Dingle?

DINGLE (_Aside_).――What a donkey I have made of myself. (_Aloud_) Gentlemen, there is a blunder here. Mr. Monk, I ask your pardon (_Sheathes his sword_). I apologize.

[_Enter Mrs. Felton D. F. She pauses C._]

SQUIRE.――Gentlemen, you’ve raised the dead with your noise. Look!

WEATHERSPOUT.――Beg pardon, sir?

LESLIE.――Were you addressing me?

DINGLE.――What did you observe, sir?

SQUIRE.――I say it is a shame when even spirits cannot rest.

[_All look at each other for explanation._]

DINGLE.――My dear sir, you’ve indulged too freely in lobster salad; you’ve got the nightmare.

SQUIRE (_Points at Mrs. Felton_).――Brave Sir Knight, look over your shoulder.

DINGLE (_Turns slowly, sees Mrs. F., and runs off L._)

WEATHERSPOUT (_Same business_).

LESLIE.――Well, gentlemen――(_Turns and sees Mrs. F._) Ugh! (_Runs off R._)

MRS. FELTON (_Removing pillow case from head_).――Is it possible that I am such a hideous object that priests, soldiers and brigands flee from my presence?

SQUIRE (_Removes mask_).――My dear Mrs. Felton, they were frightened almost to death before you came; they were longing to disperse, and you furnished the excuse.

MRS. FELTON.――This has been a night of excitement and pleasure to the young folks; to me it has proved a season of consternation. One man was so terrified on meeting me in the hall that he fell into a tub of egg flip; another individual dropped the arm of his lady-love and ran howling into the midst of the dancers.

SQUIRE.――When the guests behold your face, their fears will turn to admiration.

MRS. FELTON.――Oh, now, really, Squire!

SQUIRE.――I have long sympathized with you in your bereavement; I have observed your trials and sorrows with positive pain; sympathy often ends in love――

MRS. FELTON (_Aside_).――Is he going to propose? (_Aloud_) Don’t, don’t, Squire.

SQUIRE.――I repeat, sympathy often ends in love; Dorothy loves you well.

MRS. FELTON (_Aside_).――Dorothy! (_Aloud_) She does, I am sure. Ahem!

SQUIRE (_Falls on his knee_).――And so does her father.

[_Enter Mercy L.; she pauses unobserved._]

MRS. FELTON (_Takes his hand_).――This is indeed an honor.

SQUIRE.――A true woman is an honor beyond price. I am the honored one (_Look bashfully at each other_).

MERCY (_Aside_).――Well, if this isn’t the spooniest collection of humans I ever was thrown among, then my name’s not Mercy. (_Aloud_) Excuse me.

SQUIRE.―― } (_Start_) Eh! MRS. FELTON.――} Oh, my!

MERCY.――I’ve lost my mistress and I want to find her. It’s time to go home.

SQUIRE.――The masqueraders are coming; (_Mrs. Felton and Squire mask_) you will soon see your mistress. (_Waltz music in distance, to continue until masqueraders enter, when change to march._) They are now dancing the last waltz.

MRS. FELTON.――How sweetly the strains of music fall upon the ear.

SQUIRE (_Extending his arms_).――Do you waltz, my dear madam?

MERCY.――The idea!

MRS. FELTON (_Retreating_).――Oh, no, no, no.

MERCY.――Here they come!

(_Squire and Mrs. Felton take position C. Mercy L. E._)

SQUIRE.――They come, my dear Mrs. Felton.

MRS. FELTON.――Yes, they come.

SQUIRE.――My dear madam, let them come.

[_Enter Dingle and Em’ly, Leslie and Dorothy, Weatherspout and Miss Philp, 2 L. E., followed by masqueraders; all countermarch to music, and take final positions as follows: Dingle and Em’ly R. C., Leslie and Dorothy L. C., Weatherspout and Miss Philp R., masqueraders form semi-circle in rear._]

SQUIRE (_Removing mask_).――As your host I bid you each and all unmask.

(_All unmask._)

MISS PHILP (_Astonished_).――Only look! (_Aside_) Old as sin!

SQUIRE.――I will first present my daughter.

DINGLE (_Bows to Em’ly_).

SQUIRE.――Ladies and gentlemen (_takes Dorothy’s hand_), this is Miss Dorothy Clyde (_all bow_).

DINGLE (_Aside_).――The widow’s daughter! (_Aloud to Em’ly_) Surely, this is a joke; are you not Miss Clyde?

DOROTHY.――No, sir; _my_ name is Dorothy Clyde, and the young lady at your side is the one who did _not_ hear your gallant views on the subject of arrears of rent.

DINGLE.――Do you mean to say――?

EM’LY.――She means to say that I am Em’ly Felton.

SQUIRE.――And that you are by no means a stranger to Dorothy.

MISS PHILP.――And Mr. Dingle, pray what has become of him?

SQUIRE.――The ladies first. This is Miss Philp, my friends; this is Miss Felton, and last, but not least, this is my esteemed――ah――that is――my very esteemed friend, her mother. Now, Miss Philp, allow me to introduce to your kind consideration Mr. Morley Dingle, of Dingleton, Dingle Township, Pennsylvania.

DOROTHY (_Aside_).――Dingle, dong, dingle.

DINGLE.――I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss.

MISS PHILP.――It is such a pleasure to place your name――

WEATHERSPOUT (_Aside_).――On your teaspoons, if you could.

MISS PHILP.――Among those of my chosen friends.

SQUIRE.――Perhaps it would give Mr. Dingle exquisite pleasure to escort you home.

DINGLE.――I have already a lady.

DOROTHY (_To Dingle_).――Are you going to distrain the household chattels?

DINGLE.――Not with such good collateral security. I was wrong. I deeply regret my action.

DOROTHY.――Then the court has reversed its decision?

DINGLE.――Completely! The waiver is a fraud.

SQUIRE.――Ladies and gentlemen, this is my old chum, Caleb Weatherspout, and this is my future son-in-law, Leslie Raymore.

WEATHERSPOUT.――Of the firm of Weatherspout & Raymore.

MISS PHILP.――Mercy, get my wrap, quick.

MERCY.――Must you go home alone?

WEATHERSPOUT.――Not by any means. I shall see you both safely home.

MISS PHILP (_Aside_).――He don’t look so aged after all. (_Aloud_) How kind, sir.

SQUIRE.――Now that we have thrown off our masks, let us keep them off.

MRS. FELTON.――And let us clasp hands in the light of a perfect understanding.

(_All join hands._)

LESLIE.――This is mainly due to Dorothy Clyde――

EM’LY (_Nods to Dorothy_).――The Squire’s Daughter.

[_Curtain._]

――_Geo. M. Vickers_.

A Dog Story.

I.

He was strong and trim, and a good sized cur. A giant of dogs; with soft silk fur, Poised head, of an intellectual size, And two straight, luminous hero eyes. A tail whose gestures were eloquence; A bark with a germ of common sense. And this dog looked, upon the whole, As if he had gathered some crumbs of soul That fell from the feast God spreads for man―― Looked like a line of the human plan. There went with his strong, well-balanced stride A dignity oft to man denied. God’s humblest brutes, where’er we turn, Are full of lessons for man to learn. That night that he crouched by the yielding door, And two grim, murderous thieves, or more, Had bribed the locks with their hooks of steel, He fought with more than a henchman’s zeal For sleeping loved ones’ treasures and life:―― He conquered rogue, and bullet, and knife. That day that he walked by the river’s brink, Thinking (if certain men can think), And saw distress with a quick, sure eye, And heard the half-choked drowning cry A living life boat, soon he bore The half-killed man to a welcome shore. And when the wife of the rescued one Wept him her love for the great deed done, And fondled him in a warm embrace, He talked with his honest, kind old face, And said, “I have shown you nothing new; It is what we live and love to do. In lake or river, in sea or bay, My race are rescuers every day; In the snowy gulfs, ’mid hills above My race brings life to the race we love.”

II.

He was sick and reeling――deadly faint; He roamed the streets with a piteous plaint. He had lips afoam, and eyes hard set; He asked the mercy of all he met. He drearily ran his death-strown race; He found no pity in any face. He glanced at an old friend with a moan, There came to him back a well-aimed stone. No cure for him in his strange distress, No tender nursing and kind caress! All fled or fought when he came near; The world seemed mad with rage and fear. He searched for an unfrequented way; He would have prayed if a beast could pray. For he who man had deified Was now all mercy of man denied; He who to save man’s life had flown Now had to fight man for his own.

* * * * *

The soul of the humble brute has fled: The grand old dog lies safely dead. O, man-like brain, and God-like heart! You were made to carry a noble part. What spirit of vile Satanic breed Had sowed in your veins the poison-seed That turned to a curse your honest breath,―― That shaped your lips to a fount of death? Sleep well old friend; your teeth of flame Grew not from a soul of vice and shame. Sleep well, old saint; not yours the will To plant the world with the germs that kill. Not yours the conscious guilt that lies In men who ravage with open eyes. You did, old dog, the best you knew, And that is better than most men do; And if ever I get to the great Just Place I shall look for _your_ honest, kind old face.

――_Will Carleton._

Exercise in Pronunciation.

A jocund, sacrilegious son of Belial, who suffered from bronchitis, having exhausted his finances at the annual joust, in order to make good the deficit, resolved to ally himself to a comely, lenient and docile young lady of the Malay or Caucasian race. He accordingly purchased a calliope, a coral necklace of chameleon hue, and securing a suite of rooms at a hotel, he engaged the head waiter as his coadjutor. He then dispatched a letter of the most unexceptionable calligraphy extant, with a sentimental hemistich, inviting the young lady to an orchestral concert.

She was harassed, and with a truculent look revolted at the idea, refused to consider herself sacrificable to his desires, and sent a polite note of refusal, on receiving which, he procured a carbine and bowie knife, said that he would not now forge fetters hymeneal with the queen, went to an isolated spot, severed his jugular vein, and discharged the contents of his carbine into his abdomen, with a grimace at the raillery of his acquaintances. He succumbed and was irrefragably dead, and neither vagaries nor pageantry were permitted when he was conveyed to the mausoleum followed by his enervated canine.

The Moon.

Serenely, O moon, thou art beaming to-night, Tracking the sea with thy silvery light; Piercing the forest, thy beautiful rays Are patching the ground in fantastical ways.

On city, on hamlet, on palace and hut, On the far-stretching plain, in the deep mountain cut, Thy mellow beams softly on all alike fall; O, queen of the night, thou hast homage from all:

From the glistening dew, from the true lover’s sigh, From the cricket’s shrill voice and the katy-did’s cry; Thy heart-soft’ning power all races have felt; To thy soothing appeal the most callous must melt.

O mute sympathizer, invoker of tales, A fleet of heart secrets each night to thee sails. To the shipwrecked at sea, when the storm clears away And calm night succeeds the wild, boisterous day, All huddled on raft, or faint clinging to spar, There’s a hope in thy beams that no danger can mar.

When red in the east thou ascendest the sky, And thy disc meets the half-naked savage’s eye, He pauses, and feels as he views thy bright light That a Greater than he is displaying His might. Ere since by Omnipotence whirled into space, Thou hast gladdened the night with thy radiant face.

To nations long dead, and unheard of by man, Thou wast familiar when first they began, Through their ages of splendor, their waning away, Till their last mould’ring relic succumbed to decay.

And so, till Jehovah’s dread voice bids thee stay, And the night is absorbed by Eternity’s day, Thou shalt in thine orbit thy mission pursue, A bright silver ship in an ocean of blue.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

The Suicide.

The sun had set. The ruddy clouds Had changed to gloomy gray, And sweet, sad twilight soothed the hour Forsaken by the day.

A village road, with nest-like cots, And oaks, on either hand. An old stone bridge, whose single arch, A dark, deep river spanned:

And sounds of distant merry shouts Were borne upon the breeze, When, on the bridge there came a maid, And sank upon her knees.

A maid? Perhaps a slighted wife―― Or neither――none could tell―― A stricken life――a broken heart, About to bid farewell――

Farewell to that, which lacking hope, Is but a dreary waste; Where Nature’s brightest, fairest sweets Grow bitter to the taste.

She rose――advanced unto the brink―― A wild, imploring prayer―― Alas! she stood, unloved――alone―― A statue of despair.

One plaintive wail, and then a plunge―― The wavelets laved the shore―― Then all was still. The river flowed As smoothly as before.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

The Felon’s Wife.

The scene was a court of justice, where criminals were tried, And a woman and child[234] stood sobbing close by a prisoner’s side. The man was the woman’s husband, the child their darling boy, And they waited the dreadful sentence that would two fond lives destroy. The sunshine streamed through the window and fell on the judge’s face,[235] While the song of a bird in a tree-top[236] seemed harsh and out of place; Then the sunlight merged into shadow,[237] and the bird had ceased to sing―― So quick are the fitful changes that fate and nature bring.

The ordeal soon was over, and the woman stood alone, Alone with her tender offspring, with a heart that weighed like stone. The convict’s tear still glistened like a gem on her pallid cheek, And that tear-drop mutely told her what his white lips could not speak. ’Twas a sad farewell, that parting, for it severed man and wife―― Doomed her to toil unaided; him to servitude for life: But time soothes[238] the deepest sorrow, and love will hope and pray, And soon like a dream grew the terrors of that sad and awful day.

* * * * *

’Tis night on the Mississippi, and a steamer, staunch and new, Has stopped at a village landing her fuel to renew; A man, the only passenger, steps[239] hurriedly on board, And mates and crew stand ready, waiting the captain’s word: “Haul in the gang-plank, lively! cast off your hawser, quick!” Who――oo! blows the hoarse, loud whistle, for the fog hangs low[240] and thick: Dong! dong! rings the pilot’s signal; plash! plash! go the mammoth wheels, And into the gloomy shadows, like a monster swan she steals.[241]

A hundred souls are sleeping, and the engine’s throbbing drone[242] Has lulled the weary look-out with its drowsy monotone. Now the mist is lifting[243] slightly, and a light[244] gleams on the shore―― ’Tis gone; now the night grows blacker,[245] more dismal than before: Who-oo! goes the whistle hoarsely, but the steamer plows along, For the pilot knows his bearings and he softly hums a song.

Who――oo! comes a sound, and faintly, like an echo far away; And the engine still is droning, still is heard the raining spray: “Boat ahead, sir!”[246] calls the look-out; “Ay, ay, sir, boat ahead!” Thus replies the watchful pilot as he glances at the red,[247] Then turns to see the green[248] light, which the mist-clouds magnify Till upon each wheelhouse, gleaming, stares a single monster eye. Below the lights burn dimly, for all are locked in sleep, Save the stewardess and a porter who silent vigil keep―― Who――oo! that’s close upon us! dong! quick goes the pilot’s bell, The engineer springs promptly and handles his lever well:

“God help us! what has happened?” the frantic people cry, While terror and wild confusion are seen in every eye: Hark[249] to the trampling overhead! to the rudder’s rattling chain! To the shrieks that come from the cabin, where the women still remain! One blinding flash![250] one shudder! now everything is still, Save the swash[251] of the flowing river, and the sigh of the night wind[252] chill. The papers were full of the story, ’twas their theme for a day or more, Then the tale grew old and the world rolled on as smoothly as before.

In a lowly home by the river[253] live a woman and her son, And the lines on their patient faces show what toil and care have done: They stand with a priest and surgeon, near the bed of a dying man, And hark to his broken whispers, while his ashen face they scan: His life had been worse than wasted, and his soul was black with sin, And a seething hell of sorrow was raging his breast within―― “Yet――I’d――make――one――reparation――” and his trembling voice sinks low―― “I――would――do――one――thing――of――honor――tho’ the last――before――I――go.”

From――the――wreck――of――the――smouldering――steamer――fate――bore――me―― bleeding――here,―― That――my――awful――retribution――to――these――victims――might――appear―― I――swear![254]――” and his voice grows louder, “if――you――search――that ――satchel――there――[255] You――will――find――some――strange――confessions――and――the――proofs――of―― truth――they bear――” On the wall[256] hangs a bag all blistered, which the woman hastes to reach, For she of all his hearers knows the purport of his speech. “This[257] proves my husband’s innocence! Thank God for what you’ve said!” And she turns to the lonely passenger, only to find him dead.

* * * * *

Softly the sunbeams golden steal[258] by a prison bar Lighting an empty dungeon whose iron door stands ajar;[259] And the same sun lights a cottage,[260] with a warm and cheery glow, Where three fond hearts united, with rapture overflow: “O, husband,” the woman whispers, “I knew that you told me true;” And he smiles and gently answers, “let us our vows renew; Come, boy, kiss your new found mother, whom we’ll love to the end of life, For we’ve bid farewell forever to the grief-tried felon’s wife.”

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

GESTURES. [234] H. O. [235] Left H. O. [236] A. L. [237] B. P. H. O. [238] P. H. O. [239] H. F. [240] B. P. H. O. [241] H. F. [242] P. H. F. [243] Raise hand P. [244] H. L. [245] B. V. H. O. [246] Look up. [247] Look up to right. [248] Look up to left. [249] Raise hand to listen. [250] V. H. O. [251] P. Sw. [252] A. O. [253] H. O. [254] Raise hand to swear. [255] Ind. H. O. [256] H. O. [257] Fist raised as though holding satchel. [258] P. Sw. [259] H. O. [260] Left H. O.

Little Christel.

Fräulein, the young school mistress, to her pupils said one day, “Next week, at Pfingster holiday, King Ludwig rides this way; And you will be wise my little ones, to work with a will at your tasks, That so you may answer fearlessly whatever question he asks. It would be a shame too dreadful, if the king should have it to tell, That Hansel missed in his figures, and Peterkin could not spell!”

“Oho! that never shall happen,” cried Hansel, and Peterkin too, “We’ll show King Ludwig when he comes, what the boys in this school can do.” “And we,” said Gretchen and Bertha, and all the fair little maids, Who stood in a row before her, with their hair in flaxen braids. “We will pay such good attention to every word you say That you shall not be ashamed of us when King Ludwig rides this way.”

She smiled, the young schoolmistress, to see that they loved her so, And with patient care she taught them the things it was good to know. Day after day she drilled them, till the great day came at last, When the heralds going before him blew out their sounding blast; And with music and flying banners, and the clatter of horses’ feet, The King and his troops of soldiers rode down the village street.

Oh, the hearts of the eager children, beat fast with joy and fear, And Fräulein trembled, and grew pale, as the cavalcade drew near; But she blushed with pride and pleasure when the lessons came to be heard, For in all the flock of her boys and girls, not one of them missed a word. And King Ludwig turned to the teacher, with a smile and a gracious look; “It is plain,” said he, “that your scholars have carefully conned their book.”

“But now let us ask some questions, to see if they understand;” And he showed to one of the little maids an orange in his hand. It was Christel, the youngest sister of the mistress fair and kind,―― A child with a face like a lily, and as lovely and pure a mind. “What kingdom does this belong to?” as he called her to his knee; And at once, “The vegetable,” she answered quietly.

“Good,” said the monarch kindly; and showed her a piece of gold; “Now tell me what does this belong to, the pretty coin that I hold?” She touched it with a careful finger――for gold was a metal rare―― And then, “The mineral kingdom!” she answered with confident air. “Well done for the little mädchen!” and good King Ludwig smiled At Fräulein and her sister, the teacher, and the child.

“Now answer me one more question,”――with a twinkle of fun in his eye,―― “What kingdom do _I_ belong to?” For he thought she would make reply “The animal;” and he meant to ask with a frown, if that was the thing For a little child like her, to say to her lord and master, the King? He knew not the artless wisdom that would set his wit at naught, And the little Christel guessed nothing at all of what was in his thought.

But her glance shot up at the question, and the brightness in her face, Like a sunbeam on a lily, seemed to shine all over the place. “What kingdom do _you_ belong to?” her innocent lips repeat; “Why, surely, the Kingdom of Heaven!” rings out the answer sweet. And then for a breathless moment a sudden silence fell, And you might have heard the fall of a leaf as they looked at little Christel.

But it only lasted a moment; then rose as sudden a shout,―― “Well done, well done for little Christel!” and the bravos rang about. For the King in his arms had caught her, to her wondering, shy surprise, And over and over he kissed her, with a mist of tears in his eyes. “May the blessing of God,” he murmured, “forever rest on thy head! Henceforth, by his grace, my life shall prove the truth of what thou hast said.”

He gave her the yellow orange, and the golden coin for her own, And the school had a royal feast that day whose like they had never known. To Fräulein, the gentle mistress, he spoke such words of cheer, That they lightened her anxious labor for many and many a year. And because in his heart was hidden the memory of this thing, The Lord had a better servant, the land had a better King.

――_Mrs. Mary E. Bradley, in “Wide Awake.”_

The Ballad of Breakneck.

The sun shines out on the mountain[261] crest; Far down the valley the shadows[262] fall; All crimson and gold is the glowing west;[263] And wheeling and soaring the eagles[264] call. The good ship[265] rides with a filling sail; The sailors are crying, “Away! away! We must stem the tide ere the North wind fail; The night and the breeze brook no delay.”

The young mate lingers upon the strand[266] Near a dusky maiden with flushing cheek; In his broad brown palm he holds her hand, And eager and low are the words they speak. “Weep[267] not, Nekama; I shall return; Wait for me here on the mountain side; When the woods in their autumn glory burn, I shall come again to claim my bride.”

Slowly the Indian lifts her head; Dry is her cheek, and clear her eye: “Nekama[268] will wait as thou hast said: The son of the pale-face cannot lie. Seeking thy sails on the stream below,[269] Under the shade of the tall pine-tree,[270] When the beeches are gold and the sumachs glow, From the mountain top I shall watch for thee.”

The sailors are calling; the broad sails flap; From his neck Dirck loosens his great gold chain, Flings[271] the gleaming links in Nekama’s lap, Then springs[272] to the shallop’s stern again. The stout ash bends to the rowers’ will, Till the small boat reaches the vessel’s side, Then he turns to Nekama waiting still, Sad, but calm in her savage pride.

Sails the ship under high Cro’ Nest,[273] Wearing and tacking in Martins’ Reach,[274] While Dirck looks back with a man’s unrest; And Nekama[275] lingers upon the beach. Fade the sails to a vague white speck; Loom the mountains, hazy and tall; Dirck watches still from the vessel’s deck, And the girl moves not, though the night-dews fall.

A year has passed, and upon the hills[276] Scarlet and russet have faded to brown; No sound is heard but the flowing rills,[277] The summer’s voices are hushed[278] and gone.[279] A late, sad crow[280] on a bare beech top Caws and swings in an autumn wind; The dead leaves fall, and the acorn’s drop[281] Breaks the stillness and scares the hind.

Wrapped in her blanket Nekama stands, Scans[282] the horizon with eager eye. Late she lingers. She clasps[283] her hands, And a sadness dims her wide dark eye. Is it a mist[284] o’er the distant shore? Look how the maiden’s[285] dusky face Glows and brightens! a moment more, And the white speck changes,[286] and grows apace.

He comes! he comes! From the wigwams near Gather the braves[287] and the squaws again; The men are decked with arrow and spear, And the women of wampum and feathers vain. Flecked is the river[288] with light canoes, Laden with gifts for the welcome guest; The spoils of the chase let him freely choose; Close to the ship[289] are the frail barks pressed.

Brown and still as a bronze relief, Shyly Nekama[290] keeps her place Behind her father, the Mohawk chief, Who, plumed and tall, with painted face, Grasping a spear[291] in his nervous hand, Looking in vain one face to see, Turns and utters his proud demand: “Dirck Brandsen[292] comes not: where lingers he?”

“Dirck stays in Holland,”[293] the sailors say; “He has wedded a dame of wealth and state; He sails no more for many a day―― God send us all like happy fate!” Dark grows the brow of the angered sire: “Can the white man lie like a Huron knave?” The eyes of the maiden burn like fire, But her mien is steady, her words are brave.

From her bosom she drags[294] the great gold chain; Dashed[295] at the captain’s feet it lies: “Take back to the traitor his gift again; Nekama has learned how a pale-face lies!” Proudly she steps[296] to her light canoe; Bends her paddle at every stroke; The graceful bark o’er the waters flew, Nor wist they a woman’s heart had broke.

Up the mountain[297] Nekama hies; Stands in the pine tree’s shade again; Scans the scene with her wide wild eyes; Moans like a creature in mortal pain. The dark clouds crowd round the mountain peak,[298] Caws the crow on the bough[299] o’erhead The great limbs bend and the branches creak―― “Ah, why do I live?[300] He is false!”[301] she said.

A shriek is heard through the gathering storm; A rushing figure darkens the air; Out from the cliff[302] springs a slender form And the maiden’s grief lies buried there.[303] Towers the gray crag[304] grim and high; Drips the blood from its rugged side; Loud and shrill is the eagle’s call O’er the muttering wash of the angry tide!

But Storm King[306] nods to old Cro’ Nest,[307] Where the pine-trees nod, and the hoarse crows call, Though the Mohawk sleeps ’neath that rocky crest,[308] While the leaves on his ruined castles fall. To-day on the Hudson sailing by, Under the shadow of Breakneck Hill, We tell the legend, and heave a sigh, Where Nekama’s memory lingers still.

――_Harper’s Magazine._

GESTURES. [261] Left A. O. [262] P. H. F. [263] H. L. [264] Left A. Sw. [265] H. F. [266] H. O. [267] Look to H. O. [268] Look to Left H. O. [269] H. O. [270] A. O. [271] Sp. [272] H. F. [273] A. O. [274] Left H. F. [275] H. O. [276] Left A. O. [277] H. L. [278] P. H. O. [279] Drop hand. [280] Left A. O. [281] Sp. [282] Hand over eyes, and lean forward. [283] Clasp hands. [284] Left H. F. [285] H. O. [286] Left H. F. [287] B. H. O. [288] P. H. F. [289] H. F. [290] H.O. [291] Sp. [292] Turn to left. [293] to right. [294] Sp. [295] D. F. [296] H. O. [297] A. O. [298] B. Par. A. O. [299] A. F. [300] Wring hands. [301] B. D. Cli. [302] A. O. [303] Ind. D. O. [304] A. O. [305] H. O.] [306] Left A. O. [307] A. O. [308] Ind. A. O.

The Chemist to his Love.

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me, Our mutual flame is like the affinity That doth exist between two simple bodies: I am Potassium to thine Oxygen; ’Tis little that the holy marriage vow Shall shortly make us one. That unity Is, after all, but metaphysical. Oh, would that I, my Mary, were an Acid, A living acid, and thou an alkali, Endowed with human sense, that brought together, We might coalesce unto one salt, One homogeneous crystal. Oh, that thou Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen! We would unite to form olefiant gas, Or common Coal, or Naphtha. Would to Heaven That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime, And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret! I’d be content to be Sulphuric Acid, So that thou might be Soda; in that case We should be Glauber’s Salt. Wert thou Magnesia Instead, we’d form the salt that’s named from Epsom. Could’st thou Potassa be, I, Aquafortis, Our happy union should be that compound form, Nitrate of Potash,――otherwise Saltpetre. And thus our several natures sweetly blent, We’d live and love together, until death Should decompose the fleshy tertium quid, Leaving our souls to all eternity Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs? We will. The day, the happy day is nigh, When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.

A Wayward Life.

[An organ accompaniment, and singing by a concealed choir, will add very materially to the effect of this piece.]

’Tis a cold winter night, and the earth is robed in a gown of snow. The moon is partly hidden by the driving clouds, and but dimly lights the sleeping world.

The scene is a grave-yard. In the centre stands an old church. From its stained glass windows the warm light softly gleams. Slowly tottering along the narrow path is seen a human form; it is a rough old tramp, lonely, and almost bowed to the earth. He seeks among the tall, white tombs; now he sinks wearily down on a hard, rough mound. There is no marble slab to mark out the spot; only the drifted snow, only the bare leafless willow that moans and sighs above it.

Hark! he speaks; his voice is feeble; he mournfully cries, “Mother, I’ve come home to die with you. Here on your long-neglected grave, here let me pillow my head and fancy I sleep in your arms; and the soft music within that dear church, let me fancy ’tis your sweet voice as you lull me to sleep. I dare not enter yon church, where in youth I worshiped my God.”

See! he lays his head on that cold, hard mound, and sobs like a tired little child, “Oh, mother, I am weary, so weary of life, of toil so bitter and labor so hard. I long for rest, but I am afraid to die.” He pauses, he listens, for within the church a voice speaks slowly and reverently, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The tramp replies, “Could I but know those words were meant for such a sinner as I!”――and heavy sobs convulse his poor, wretched frame.

Now the choir sings:

“Go tell it to Jesus, He knoweth thy grief, Go tell it to Jesus, He’ll send thee relief; Go gather the sunshine He sheds on the way, He’ll lighten thy burden, go, weary one, pray.”

The wind moans piteously through the tall, gaunt trees, and he murmurs half inaudibly, “The prayers that were taught me in sweet boyhood years I then repeated with smiles, but now tears dim my eyes as I think of that patient mother who lies beneath this mound. I killed her! I broke her heart! But mother, oh, hear me to-night! With my poor, weary form I will guard you and sleep on your snow-covered grave. Could I know that when dead I could meet you in Heaven, I would rest calmly here on this rough pillow, but alas for my sins, so many, so vile! ’Tis only the pure and holy and good that ever dare hope they may enter therein.”

Each note of the organ peals out, full of tenderest pathos, each word from the singers comes clearly and plainly:

“Weary of earth and laden with my sin, I look at Heaven and long to enter in; But there no evil thing may find a home, And yet I hear a voice that bids me come.”

Now he kneels in the snow and his head is bent low, he clasps his trembling hands, then with one yearning look towards Heaven, he sinks like a child, weary of play, sleepy and tired, on that snow-covered pillow, the pillow of death.

Now the flakes fall faster and faster still, they cover him gently, like a mother that covers her child, lest she waken it out of its slumber.

Now more holy than ever, grander than ever, the old organ peals out, and the choir sings:

“Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on his gentle breast, There by his love o’er-shadowed, Sweetly my soul shall rest.”

――_Lizzie G. Vickers._

The Little Torment.

My name’s Jack. I’m eight years old. I’ve a sister Arathusa, and she calls me a little torment. I’ll tell you why: You know Arethusa has got a beau, and he comes to see her every night, and they turn the gas ’way, ’way down ’till you can’t hardly see. I like to stay in the room with the gas on full blaze, but Arathusa skites me out of the room every night. I checked her once, you better believe. You know she went to the door to let Alphonso in, and I crawled under the sofa. Then they came in, and it got awful dark, and they sat down on the sofa, and I couldn’t hear nothing but smack! smack! smack! Then I reached out and jerked Arethusa’s foot. Then she jumped and said, “Oh, mercy, what’s that?” and Alfonso said she was a “timid little creature.” “Oh, Alfonso, I’m happy by your side, but when I think of your going away it almost breaks my heart.” Then I snickered right out, I couldn’t help it, and Arathusa got up, went and peeked through the key-hole and said, “I do believe that’s Jack, nasty little torment, he’s always where he isn’t wanted.” Do you know this made me mad, and I crawled out from under the sofa and stood up before her and said, “you think you are smart because you wear a Grecian Bend. I guess I know what you’ve been doing, you’ve been sitting on Alphonso’s lap, and letting him kiss you like you let Bill Jones kiss you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. If it hadn’t been for that old false front of yours, Pa would have let me have a velocipede like Tom Clifford’s. You needn’t be grinding them false teeth of yours at me, I ain’t a-going out of here. I ain’t so green as I look. I guess I know a thing or two. I don’t care if you are 28 years old, you ain’t no boss of me!”

The Stars.

Spanglets of heaven! Ye seem to me The alphabet of immensity, By which I read, in dazzling light, The lofty name of the Infinite. Shine on! Shine on! in your depths of blue, ’Till every heart can read it too, And every raptured eye that’s bent Up to the studded firmament, Catches the glow of your ceaseless rays, And glistens in the Eternal’s praise.

Beautiful stars! ’Neath your rich beams, As down from heaven their glory streams, When silence has sealed up the lips of Earth, And thought, more wild than the winds, has birth, I wander! I wander! with untold joy, To feast my soul on the orb-lit sky; And never did Chaldee, when taught to kneel At the shrines of your splendor, more wildly feel The torrents of bliss through his bosom flow, As he upward gazed from the dust below.

Eyes of the universe! Gems divine! Suns that bask in your own pure shine! Countless guides of the awe-struck soul, As inquiring it rushes from pole to pole: I drink! I drink! at your fountains deep, While the world is locked in the arms of sleep, ’Till filled with the Pythonic draught of light, My intoxicate spirit deems all things bright; And earth (and its deeds) is lost to me, Eclipsed by your dazzling radiency.

――_Dublin University Magazine._

Why She didn’t Stay in the Poorhouse.

No, I didn’t stay in the poorhouse, and this is how, you see, It happened at the very last, there came a way for me. The Lord, he makes our sunniest times out of our darkest days, And yet we fail most always to render His name the praise. But, as I am goin’ to tell you, I have a home of my own, And keep my house, an’――no, I’m not a-livin’ here alone. Of course you wonder how it is, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tell How, though I couldn’t change a jot, the Lord done all things well. I’ve spoke of Charlie and Thomas, and Rebecca, “that lives out West;” An’ Isaac, not far from her, some twenty miles at best; An’ Susan;――but not a single word I said about another one,―― Yet we had six; but Georgie! Ah! he was our wayward son, An’ while his father was livin’ he ran away to sea, An’ never sent a word or line to neither him nor me. Each heart has some secret sorrow it hides in silence there, An’ what we can freely speak of is never so hard to bear. But I couldn’t talk of Georgie――he was too dear to blame,―― It seemed as if I couldn’t bear even to hear his name. But when I took my pauper’s place in that old work-house grim, My weary heart was every day a-cryin’ out for him. For I’d tried the love of the others, and found it weak and cold, An’ I kind o’ felt if Georgie knew that I was poor and old, He’d help to make it better, and try to do his part, For love and trust are last of all to die in a woman’s heart. An’ he used to be always tellin’ when he was a man and strong, How he’d work for father and mother; and he never done no wrong, Exceptin’ his boyish mischief, an’ his runnin’ off to sea;―― So somehow now, out of them all, he seemed the best to me. And so the slow days wore along, just as the days all go, When we cling to some wild fancy that all the time we know Is nothing but a fancy, yet we nurse it till ’twould seem That the dream alone is real, and the real but a dream. And so I clung to Georgie, or clung to my faith in him, And thought of him the long days through, until my eyes were dim. And my old heart ached full sorely to think that never again I should see my boy until we stood before the Judge of men. When one day a big brown-bearded man came rushin’ up to me, Sayin’ “Mother! my God! have they put you here?” An’ then I see ’Twas Georgie, my boy, come back to me, and I knowed nothin’ more, ’Cause I got faint, and but for him, I’d fallen on the floor. They say he swore some awful words,――I don’t know,――it may be; But swear or not, I know my boy’s been very, very good to me. An’ he’s bought the old home back again, an’ I’ve come here to stay, Never to move till the last move,――the final goin’ away. An’ I take a heap of comfort, for Georgie’s good an’ kind, An’ the thought of bein’ a pauper ain’t wearin’ on my mind; But still I never can forget until my dyin’ day, That they put me in the poorhouse ’cause I was in the way.

“Bill” the Engineer.

“All ’board!” “Sphee-ee-chee――sphee-ee-choof!” And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof, And snorts from his chest his breath of steam, With a quickening pulse and warning scream, Moves out[309] with his freight of human lives―― A sinuous[310] chain of humming hives.

Anon the hum is a rattling din, As the bright steel arms fly out and in, Till naught is heard save a deafening jar, As the train speeds[311] on like a shooting star, With a lengthening trail[312] like a smoky pall, Whose writhing folds envelope all.

“Stoke up!” shouts Bill, the engineer; “We must rush this grade and the bottom clear With a monstrous bulge, to pull up hill T’other side――heavy train.” “All right, Bill!” And the coal went in and the throttle out. “Watch yo’ side the curve!” from Bill with a shout.

Adown the grade with open throttle They swiftly glide as a flying shuttle―― Weaving in streaks of green and gray, The warp and woof of bush and clay, While steam and smoke and dust behind Form mottled clouds in the tortured wind.

Through the cut[313] and into the vale―― Across the trestle that spans the swale; There the willows swirl, and the rank weeds sway, And the heron starts with a shriek away[314]―― Blown from her course――a shrill refrain, ’Mid the whirling gusts of the flying train.

* * * * *

Beyond the curve this side the hill, There runs a creek――by the old saw-mill―― A covered bridge[315] and a water tank, With the watchman’s shanty on this bank: A quiet nook, for the mill is done,―― With crippled Jemmie it ceased to run.

Just round[316] the curve in the shady wood That fringes the creek, his low hut stood, Where Jemmie, the watch, spent his useful life, With a lovely child and a loving wife. Naught now came their peace to mar Worse than a swift train’s rumbling jar.

To fame unknown, but to roadmen dear; For Jemmie had watched from year to year―― And more than once did his vigil save A train and its lives from a watery grave; Since broken in purse and form at the mill He worked on crutches――a good watch still!

* * * * *

“Hark![317] Tis the train! The mother’s ear Leans to the sound; then a mortal fear Freezes her veins――she sees not her child[318]! “Oh, darling! Oh, Maggie!” in accents wild. She starts[319] from the hut――now _feeling_ the way, “_Keep Maggie in when the trains go by_.”

She strains her eyes[320] out toward the creek, Where up the track, with an ashen cheek, Hobbled the watch[321]――one pointing crutch Where Maggie lay[322] in the engine’s clutch―― The wilting flowers across her breast; She’d wearied to sleep in their eager quest.

“Save her, Mary![323] For God’s sake run!” Came Jemmie’s voice like a signal gun; The mother sprang like a startled deer, But the rushing train[324] was now too near―― She saw, and swooned[325] with a piercing shriek That echoed afar o’er the winding creek;

Ay, pierced the boom round the curve so near,[326] And smote on the ear of the engineer; “Great God! Down brakes! Quick! Reverse!” And Bill was out[327] on the iron horse, Treading his thrills o’er the roaring fires With his nerves strung tense as electric wires.

Alas! the engine’s speed is too great; The baby dreams in the path of fate! Yet Bill knows the force and just the brace To lift a pound in such a case; With a rushing train and the child asleep, ’Tis a giants’ power his place must keep.

Still reaching forth with an iron grasp, He does with his might this God-like task; Bears the startled child on high[328]―― So happy to hear its frightened cry―― Then crushing it to his manly breast,[329] Kisses its cheeks with a lover’s zest.

“More brakes!” calls Bill, for the mother’s seen,[330] And the crutches and form of Jemmie between His wife and the train――that’s crushed the life From his child, he thinks――“I’ll die with my wife!” But the train now slackens and stops apace―― Hard by a pallid upturned face.[331]

“Saved!” cries Bill, from the engine’s front; “Saved!” echoes Jemmie, his crutches shunt; “Saved!” shout the passengers, “Saved from death!” “Saved?”[333] queries Mary, with conscious breath. Then helped to her feet――“God bless you sir!” And Bill’s grimy hand wipes back a tear.

“All ’board!” Sphee-ee-chee――sphee-ee-choof! And the iron horse moves his steel-rimmed hoof; And the train resumes its journey far. Heroes have been, and heroes are―― Of battle and State, of travel and skill, Of letters and art――but give us “Bill.”[334]

At the end of the road they gave him a purse “I don’t want that!” and he muttered a curse; But finally took it, and stowed it away, And then threw[335] it to “Mag” as he passed next day. It whirled through the air and struck by the stoop, Where the three stood to greet him, a joyful group.

――_Bettersworth._

Published by permission of T. J. Carey, Editor of “Excelsior Readings and Recitations.”

GESTURES. [309] H. F. [310] H. O. [311] H. O. quick motion. [312] Trace line of smoke with ind. fin. from H. O. to H. F. [313] H. O. continuous gesture. [314] A. O. [315] H.O. continue with impulses to “_bank_.” [316] H. O. sweep. [317] Left listening. [318] Look around distractedly. [319] H. O. [320] Hand over eyes. [321] H. O. [322] Ind. H. F. [323] Throw both hands up. [324] Left H. O. [325] D. F. [326] Left H. L. [327] Left H. O. [328] Raise hand as though lifting child. [329] Hand on breast. [330] D. O. [331] D. L. [332] A. O. [333] Dazed manner. [334] H. F. cordially. [335] H. sweep.

The True Remedy.

Don’t say that times are pinching, Don’t say that bread is dear; Don’t say that our prospects darken, And that worse times are near.

Times are not so very pinching, Bread is not so very dear; Countless stores of loaves are wasted, Burned in whisky,――drowned in beer.

Don’t say that the harvest failed us,―― “Under average,” “short,” or “light;” Don’t say that the Bounteous Giver Gave not as you think he might.

God is bountiful, and giveth As becomes the Godhead’s hand; Food for man and beast providing, Scattering plenty o’er the land. Man himself, the food destroyer, Spurns and wastes the bounties given; Turns to famine God’s abundance, Robs his brothers, blasphemes heaven.

Don’t say that _this_ is fearful, Killing men and burning corn; War is raging here among us, Day and night, and eve and morn. Noiselessly and never ending, In a quiet, legal way, Murdering, starving, scourging, blasting, All the year and every day!

Take your grain in million quarters, Sink it in the lonely main, There to feed the gaping fishes, Never to be seen again; Hide it in earth’s drearest caverns, Burn it in the mid-day sun:―― That were mercy, that were worship, When compared with what is done,―― Taking bread from hungry children, And from starving, weeping wives; Turning it to direst poison; Demonizing human nature, Dwarfing it in moral stature, Blotting out each God-like feature, Shortening, tort’ring human lives!

We say, something must be done; Government must interfere,―― Take the “short and simple method;” Stop the whisky, stop the beer!

You can stop them if you will. ’Tis a small thing, will you do it? ’Tis your country calls you to it; Stop the traffic――shut the still.

――_Temperance Speaker._

Wanted――A Wife.

I do wish somebody would tell me how to get a wife. For the last ten years I’ve been continually proposing, at all sorts of times, in all sorts of places, to all sorts of girls, and in all sorts of positions. I have knelt in the clear moonlight, while the soft zephyrs of June fanned my heated brow, and with my hands on my heart made the most passionate appeal romantic maiden could desire. I have proposed in the giddy mazes of the waltz; I have besought a fair girl to be mine while skating, reminding her at the time that the path of life was far too slippery to be trodden alone; I have popped the question on the stairs, and in fact everywhere I could; the last time being in the surf at Long Branch, where I begged the object of my affections to let us breast the waves of life together.

But it’s of no earthly use! No one will have me except some superannuated female, and I’m not partial to aged charmers, though, goodness knows, I want a wife almost bad enough to take one. I’ve hardly a button on any of my shirts, or other undergarments, and am consequently obliged to fasten them with pins, (which occasionally prick me at most inconvenient times). My toes are poking out of my socks, and my fingers out of my gloves, while to crown all, I, who am a great lover of cleanliness, am forced to sit in a horribly dirty room. I have changed my boarding house ever so many times, but it does’nt make a particle of difference. My landlady always says it isn’t her business to “clean up” after me; the servants invariably remark that its no business of theirs, and I’m sure nobody can say that I ought to get a broom and dustpan and keep my own room clean.

My washerwoman is everlastingly cheating me, besides continually suppressing various articles of clothing; and when I mildly inquire where they have gone to, she solemnly swears she never had them; though I could swear equally solemnly that she had. Then she cuts the pearl buttons off my shirts, and declares they came off in “the wash;” and if I venture timidly to suggest that she should put them on again, she thanks God that all the gentlemen are not as mean as I am.

Oh, dear! It’s very hard upon a poor fellow not to be able to get a wife when he wants one! I’m not so very bad looking either; to be sure I squint a little, but then that peculiarity is sometimes admired, and if it were not, surely some kind-hearted girl might shut her eyes to the fact and confer upon me the inestimable benefit of becoming my partner for life. I’m not bad-tempered, and don’t drink nor smoke. I’m only thirty, and though I now belong to a club, I’ll promise to give it up if required. I possess enough money to keep a wife comfortably; have a good disposition; and what more could a girl ask. If, after trying six months longer, I cannot induce any girl to have me, I will emigrate to some tropical climate where clothes are almost superfluous, and washerwomen unknown, and consequently where a wife will not be one of the absolute necessities of civilized life.

Back to Griggsby’s.

Pap’s got his patent-right, and rich as all creation; But where’s the peace and comfort that we all had before? Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station―― Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

The like of us a-livin’ here! It’s jest a mortal pity To see us in this great, big house, with carpets on the stairs, And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city! And nothin’ but the city all around us everywheres!

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan’ people, And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see!

Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station―― Back where the latch-string’s a-hangin’ from the door; And every neighbor round the place is dear as a relation―― Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin’ A-drivin’ up from Shallow Ford to stay the Sunday through; And I want to see them hitchin’ at their son-in-law’s and pilin’ Out there at Lizy Ellen’s, like they used to do!

I want to see the piece quilts the Jones girls is makin’, And I want to pester Laury ’bout their freckled hired hand, And joke her ’bout the widower she come purt’ nigh a-takin’, Till her pap got his pension ’lowed in time to save his land.

Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s station―― Back where there’s nothin’ aggervatin’ anymore, Shet away safe in the wood around the old location―― Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see Mirandy and help her with her sewin’, And hear her talk so lovin’ of her man that’s dead and gone And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he’s growin’, And smile as I have saw her, ’fore she put her mournin’ on.

And I want to see the Samples on the old lower Eighty―― Where John, our oldest boy, he was took and buried, for His own sake and Katy’s――and I want to cry with Katy As she reads all his letters over, writ from the war.

What’s in all this grand life and high situation, And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin’ at the door―― Let’s go a-visitin’ back to Griggsby’s Station―― Back where we used to be so happy and so pore!

――_J. W. Riley._

The Old Spinster.

No, she never was married, but was to have been―― At the time she was running the loom―― But the fact’ry burned down, some were mangled and scarred, And her lover was never her groom, As he wedded a handsomer girl.

To the stranger, old Rachel was ugly indeed, For her features were grim and distorted; Tho’ in years long gone by she was lovely and fair, As the hopes of her life that were thwarted By the dreadful mishap in the mill.

But beneath the plain calico gown that she wore, Beat a heart that was loving and tender―― As the villagers knew――and man, woman or child ’Gainst the merest rude speech would defend her So well was the poor woman loved.

And right many’s the maid, who, bewailing her woe, Has told Rachel the slight that distressed her, Only soon to trip on with a happier look, While the silly goose inwardly blessed her, For her comforting words and advice.

Then the urchins have gone to her, covered with mud, Afraid to go home――perhaps crying―― But old Rachel (the remedy) washed out the stains, And they laughed while their garments were drying, In the yard at the back of her cot.

When the villagers slept, and the cricket and owl, And the rustling of leaves were unheeded, In the room of the sick, by the flickering light Was she seen, where her presence was needed, While her gaunt shadow danced on the wall.

And the out-casts who begged at her door for a crust, Ere they went on their wearisome ways, Felt that one thought them human and pitied their fate, Who recalled the remembrance of earlier days, And who reckoned them not by their rags.

But the weight of her grief which was never revealed,―― Save to Jesus――the friend of the lowly―― Bore her down――and the sands of her desolate life, Which for years had been ebbing out slowly, Ceased to run――and her spirit was freed.

When the villagers stood at the side of her grave, When the gray-headed preacher’s voice faltered, When the tears trickled down the bronzed cheeks of the men―― Oh! her beauty seemed fresh and unaltered As when happy she worked in the mill.

And oft where she lies a bent form can be seen When the twilight is deep’ning its shadows: And the sweetest of flow’rets are found on her tomb, All fresh from the dew-gleaming meadows; Yet who gathers them no one can tell.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

A String of Broken Beads; or, Jingles from Favorite Authors.

Oh, with what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God, And bless him that the land was free. ’Twas free―― From end to end, from cliff to lake, ’twas free! Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks, And plow our valleys, without asking leave! Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow In very presence of the Light Brigade.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, All a gwine into the ark.

And there was the elephant-ah, that g-r-e-a-t animal-ah of which Goldsmith describes in his Animated Nater-ah, which is as big as a house-ah, and his bones as big as a tree-ah, depending somewhat upon the size of the tree-ah; and there was Shem, and there was Ham, and there was Japhet-ah, a-l-l a-gwine into the show-room.

The auctioneer then in his labor began; And called out aloud as he held up a man, How much for a bachelor, who wants to buy? In a twinkling each maiden responded, “I――I!” In short, at a hugely extravagant price, The bachelors all were sold off in a trice, And forty old maidens――some younger, some older―― Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. But scarce had the honeymoon passed o’er their heads, When one morning to Zantippe, Socrates said, “I think for a man of my standing in life, This house is too small as I now have a wife: So without further delay Carpenter Cary Shall be sent for to widen my house and my dairy.” “Now, Socrates, dearest,” Zantippe replied, “I hate to hear everything vulgarly my’d; Now, whenever you speak of your chattles again, Say _our_ cowhouse, _our_ barn-yard; _our_ pig-pen.” “By your leave Mrs. Snooks, I’ll say what I please Of _my_ houses, _my_ lands, _my_ gardens, _my_ trees.” Then he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, And Maud was left in the fields alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court the Bugle Song. Oh, love, they die in yon fair sky, They faint on field, and hill, and river; Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Answer, echoes, answer. Hark! how the sign-board creaks! the blast howls by! Moan! moan! a dirge swells through the angry sky! Ha! tis his knock! he comes, he comes once more―― Ha, ha! Take that! and that! and that! Ha, ha! So, through your coward throat The full day shines!... Two fox tails float And drift and drive adown the stream;

Therefore, my bruddren, if you’s a-gwine to git saved, you’s got to git aboard de Ship of Faith. Dere ain’t no udder way my bruddren. Dere ain’t no gitting up de back stairs, nor goin’ ’cross lots, you’s got to git aboard de Ship of Faith, for

Me thought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house, Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore, Cawdor shall sleep no more! Then, methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censor, Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “Thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee Respite――respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh, quaff, this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!’ Quoth the raven――Good night.

――_Arranged by F. Lizzie Peirce._

The Legend of Wissahickon.

While yet the Pale-face ne’er had peeped Within that tranquil vale,――where steeped In sombre, fir-clothed heights,[336] and bound On either side[337] with moss-grown ground And craggy cliff,[338] a goodly stream,[339] With many a rippling noontide gleam, Nor ceased her daily tithes to pay To good Queen Ocean[340] far away―― Deep sheltered from the hostile world The smoke from many a tent up-curled, Where, round the wigwam fire, red dames Talked o’er their tawny lords’ brave names, While they, with feathered death and bow And trackless step, now quick, now slow, Gave chase, in neighboring hills,[341] the game, There pasturing heedless, till death came In one fell dart. Life surely here―― With naught but Manitou[342] to fear―― Seemed sweet to those blest sons of men; Yet it did find its cares e’en then, For lo![343] at last there came a day Of sorrow and of dread dismay, When from a lowering cloud that spread[344] Across the summer blue o’erhead, Their God-chiefs awful voice was heard, As like the thunder rolled each word:

“My children, I am called away Where other souls my presence pray, But ere I leave ye I must ask One boon of all,――a simple task ’Twill be to those whose faith hath borne The tests of fiery stake or thorn. Yet some I know among ye, who Will find it hard to sin eschew When left alone, and all must know, An evil spirit dwells below These rocks, and ever guards his chance To tempt ye, with his fiendish dance And wicked ways, to but forsake My laws for aught that he may make; Lo, should he rise when I am gone, Let no temptation lead ye on To overstep the bounds here set About your hunting grounds, nor let Aught of shape, however fair And good it seems, entice ye where My word hath said ye nay.”

Thus said, The cloudy spirit, then vanished Into the air from whence it grew; And now a wild commotion[345] flew Throughout the warriors gathered there; And wondered all how soon, and where, This new-brought ill its face should show, To tempt their Eve-like hearts; when lo! Ere two short days had dragged away, Within a distant wood,[346] where lay Soft twilight[347] ever ’mong the trees, Strange music stirred, and on the breeze Of evening came wild shouts of mirth,[348] That seemed to wake the very earth,[349] So boisterous were they, and, alas! The youths could not a moment pass Till they with stealthy steps were brought Close to that God-forbidden spot; And there, as o’er a lofty brow That hemmed the darksome glade, they now Did creep,[350] behold! a wondrous sight,[351] Such as their soul’s most fancied flight Had ne’er conceived of, met their eyes, Even like some glimpse of paradise: A Pale-face spirit,[352] lank and grim, With horns and claws that gave to him A weird, unearthly look, sat high Upon a rock that towered nigh; And while below[353] fair damsels played Wild antics through the woodland shade, He to loud fits of mirth gave vent, As near the maidens came and went, And cast before him laurels wreathed In crowns; then――ere the watchers breathed, Lest they should be discovered there―― Lo! quick as lightning ’thwart the air, The fiendish god turned full to view, And ere the astonished gazers knew, Close by their side[354] with devilish smile He stood, and thus addressed them,[355] while With spell-bound gaze――their eyes made dim With fascination――now from him From whom they had no power to go, Did wander to the scene below,[356] Where still,――though now the sun had gone―― To music soft, the dance went on:――

“Would’st thou, oh man, to pleasure blind, Seeking a gift thou ne’er shalt find, Led by a promise far astray[357] Along that hard and narrow way, Would’st thou no more sad anguish know, Nor lose the chase with feeble bow? Would’st thou be free,[358] and tread once more The grounds your fathers roamed of yore? Wouldst thou find game in every copse And stream,[359] and gather plenteous crops In autumn, yet know naught of care Nor labor, but with damsels fair[360] And waxen, pass life’s endless days Along my smooth and flower-girt ways? Would’st thou, in fine, the height of bliss[361] Attain? I offer[362] ye all this, And more; come, follow me.”

He ceased, And like some semi-human beast, His blood-cast eye the crowd scanned o’er, Where some, entranced, could hear no more, But, weak of heart, with outstretched hand, Forgetting quite their God’s command Of yester morn, were quickly led Adown the cliff[363] with dizzy head And burning brain, and those, alas! From mortal view for aye did pass;

But some there were who still delayed, Not resolute and half afraid To follow; lingering there they stood Till lo! the dawn[364] crept through the wood; And on its gentle face, behold![365] A strange-shaped cloud, fringed round[366] with gold, Came darkly flitting through the sky, Till seemingly it had drawn nigh Above[367] that gathering in the vale. Then quick the subtle fiend turned pale, As from the frowning mists o’erhead A mighty voice and angry said:――

“Depart, ye tempter of the night! Hence! Dare ye show your face in light? Did I not bid thee well beware Lest thou shouldst fall in thine own snare?” The spirit fled,[368] but scarce had left His seat, when some great earthquake cleft The rock beneath his feet in twain, And deep he plunged[369] between. In vain He strove to rise again, for quick The waters from a hillside creek[370] O’erran that pool,[371] that marks to-day The spot where Satan passed away. Then kindly smiled the Manitou On those around, and said:――

“To you My children, who have yet withstood The things of evil for the good; To you whose faith has ne’er been turned Astray by sin, well have ye earned The joys foretold; so now go forth; The boundless woods from south to north, From east to west, are yours to roam For aye, till I shall call ye home.”

――_John L. Cooper._

GESTURES. [336] A. O. [337] B. H. O. [338] A. O. [339] D. F. [340] Left. H. L. [341] H. O. [342] Ind. fin. A. O. [343] Raise hand. [344] V. A. O. [345] B. H. L. [346] H. F. [347] P. H. F. [348] H. F. [349] D. F. [350] P. D. F. [351] B. H. O. [352] Left. A. F. [353] D. F. [354] Left. H. L. [355] Look to left. [356] D. F. [356] Speak to H. O. [357] H. O. [358] B. H. O. [359] Left. H. O. [360] D. F. [361] Ind. fin. A. O. [362] B. O. H. [363] D. F. [364] H. L. [365] A. L. [366] A. Sw. [367] A. F. [368] Left. H. O. [369] Left. D. O. [370] Left. H. L. [371] Left. D. O.]

A New Mother.

I was with my lady when she died: I it was who guided her weak hand, For a blessing on each little head, And laid her baby by her on the bed, Heard the words they could not understand.

And I drew them round my knee at night, Hushed their childish glee, and made them say,

They would keep her words with loving tears, They would not forget her dying fears, Lest the thought of her should fade away.

I, who guess’d what her last dread had been, Made a promise to that still, cold face, That her children’s hearts, at any cost, Should be with the mother they had lost, When a stranger came to take her place.

And I knew so much: for I had lived With my lady since her childhood: known What her young and happy days had been, And the grief no other eyes had seen―― I had watch’d and sorrow’d for alone.

Ah! she once had such a happy smile! I had known how sorely she was tried: Six short years before, her eyes were bright As her little blue-eyed May’s that night, When she stood by her dead mother’s side.

No――I will not say he was unkind; But she had been used to love and praise. He was somewhat grave: perhaps, in truth, Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth Into all his stern and serious ways.

She, who should have reigned a blooming flower, First in pride and honor as in grace―― She, whose will had once ruled all around, Queen and darling of us all――she found Change enough in that cold, stately place.

Yet she would not blame him, even to me, Though she often sat and wept alone; But she could not hide it near her death, When she said with her last struggling breath, “Let my babies still remain my own!”

I it was who drew the sheet aside, When he saw his dead wife’s face. That test Seem’d to strike right to his heart. He said, In a strange, low whisper, to the dead, “God knows, love, I did it for the best!”

And he wept――O yes, I will be just―― When I brought the children to him there, Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes; And he sooth’d them with his fond replies Bidding me give double love and care.

Ah, I loved them well for her dear sake: Little Arthur, with his serious air; May, with all her mother’s pretty ways, Blushing, and at any word of praise Shaking out her sunny golden hair.

And the little one of all――poor child! She had cost that dear and precious life. Once Sir Arthur spoke my lady’s name, When the baby’s gloomy christening came, And he call’d her “Olga――like my wife.”

Save that time he never spoke of her. He grew graver, sterner every day: And the children felt it, for they dropp’d Low their voices, and their laughter stopp’d While he stood and watch’d them at their play.

No, he never nam’d their mother’s name. But I told them of her: told them all She had been, so gentle, good and bright; And I always took them every night Where her picture hung in the great hall.

There she stood: white daisy’s in her hand, And her red lips parted as to speak With a smile; the blue and sunny air Seem’d to stir her floating golden hair, And to bring a faint blush on her cheek.

Well, so time pass’d on; a year was gone, And Sir Arthur had been much away, When the news came! I shed many tears When I saw the truth of all my fears Rise before me on that bitter day.

Any one but her I could have borne! But my lady lov’d her as her friend, Through their childhood and their early youth, How she used to count upon the truth Of this friendship that would never end!

Older, graver than my lady was, Whose young, gentle heart on her relied, She would give advice, and praise, and blame, And my lady lean on Margaret’s name, As her dearest comfort, help and guide.

I had never liked her, and I think That my lady grew to doubt her too Since her marriage; for she named her less, Never saw her, and I used to guess At some secret wrong that I never knew.

That might be or not. But now, to hear She would come and reign here in her stead, With the pomp and splendor of a bride: Would no thought reproach her in her pride With the silent memory of the dead?

Lo the day came, and the bells rang out, And I laid the children’s black aside; And I held each little trembling hand, As I strove to make them understand, They must greet their father’s new-made bride.

Ah, Sir Arthur might look grave and stern, And his lady’s eyes might well grow dim, When the children shrank in fear away,―― Little Arthur hid his face, and May Would not raise her eyes, or speak to him.

When Sir Arthur bade them greet “their mother,” I was forced to chide, yet proud to hear How my little loving May replied, With her mother’s pretty air of pride,―― “Our dear mother has been dead a year!”

Ah! the lady’s tears might well fall fast, As she kiss’d them, and then turned away. She might strive to smile or to forget, But I think some shadow of regret Must have risen to blight her wedding-day.

She had some strange touch of self-reproach; For she used to linger day by day By the nursery door or garden gate With a sad, calm, wistful look, and wait Watching the children at their play.

But they always shrank away from her When she strove to comfort their alarms, And their grave, cold silence to beguile: Even little Olga’s baby smile Quiver’d into tears when in her arms.

I never could chide them; for I saw How their mother’s memory grew more deep In their hearts. Each night I had to tell Stories of her whom I loved so well When a child, to send them off to sleep.

But Sir Arthur――O, this was too hard!―― He who had been always stern and sad In my lady’s time, seem’d to rejoice Each day more; and I could hear his voice Even, sounding younger and more glad.

He might perhaps have blamed them; but his wife Never failed to take the children’s part. She would stay him with her pleading tone, Saying she would strive, and strive alone, Till she gained each little wayward heart.

And she strove indeed, and seem’d to be Always waiting for their love, in vain; Yet when May had most their mother’s look, Then the lady’s calm, cold accents shook With some memory of reproachful pain.

Little May would never call her mother: So one day, the lady bending low, Kiss’d her golden curls, and softly said, “Sweet one, call me Margaret, instead,―― Your dear mother used to call me so.”

She was gentle, kind, and patient too, Yet in vain: the children held apart. Ah, their mother’s gentle memory dwelt Near them, and her little orphans felt She had the first claim upon their hearts.

So three years pass’d; then the war broke out; And a rumor seemed to spread and rise; First we guess’d what sorrow must befall, Then all doubt fled, for we read it all In the depths of her despairing eyes.

Yes; Sir Arthur had been called away To that scene of slaughter, fear, and strife, Now he seemed to know with double pain The cold, bitter gulf that must remain To divide his children from his wife.

Nearer came the day he was to sail, Deeper grew the coming woe and fear, When one night, the children at my knee, Knelt to say their evening prayer to me, I looked up and saw Sir Arthur near.

There he waited till their low “Amen;” Stopp’d their rosy lips raised for “good night!” Drew them with a fond clasp, close and near, As he bade them stay with him, and hear Something that would make his heart more light.

Little Olga crept into his arms; Arthur leant upon his shoulder; May Knelt beside him, with her earnest eyes Lifted up in patient, calm surprise―― I can almost hear his words to-day.

“Years ago, my children, years ago, When your mother was a child, she came From her northern home, and here she met Love for love, and comfort for regret, In one early friend,――you know her name.

“And this friend――a few years older――gave Such fond care, such love, that day by day The new home grew happy, joy complete, Studies easier, and play more sweet, While all childish sorrows pass’d away.

“And your mother――fragile, like my May―― Leant on this deep love,――nor leant in vain. For this friend (strong, generous, noble heart!) Gave the sweet and took the bitter part, Brought her all the joy, and kept the pain.

“Years pass’d on, and then I saw them first: It was hard to say which was most fair, Your mother’s bright and blushing face, Or the graver Margaret’s stately grace; Golden locks, or braided raven hair.

“Then it happen’d by a strange, sad fate, One thought entered into each young soul: Joy for one――if for the other pain; Loss for one,――if for the other gain, One must lose, and one possess the whole.

“And so this――this――what they car’d for――came And belong’d to Margaret: was her own. But she laid the gift aside, would take Pain and sorrow for your mother’s sake, And none knew it but herself alone.

“Then she travell’d far away, and none The strange mystery of her absence knew, Margaret’s secret thought was never told: Even your mother thought her changed and cold, And for many years I thought so too.

“She was gone; and then your mother took That poor gift which Margaret cast aside: Flower, or toy, or trinket, matters not―― What it was had better be forgot; It was just then she became my bride.

“Margaret is my dear and honored wife, And I hold her so. But she can claim From your hearts dear ones, a loving debt I can neither pay, nor yet forget: You can give it in your mother’s name.”

Next day was farewell――a day of tears; Yet Sir Arthur as he rode away, And turned back to see his lady stand With the children clinging to her hand, Look’d as if it were a happy day.

Ah, they lov’d her soon! The little one Crept into her arms as to a nest; Arthur always with her now; and May Growing nearer to her every day:―― Well, I loved my own dear lady best.

――_Adelaide Proctor._

Richard Dingle’s Speech.

I am Master Richard Dingle, Tho’ my comrades call me Dick, And I have a purpose single, Which I’ll mention very quick.

Every day I get a lecture For behaving very wrong; And with wise looks some conjecture That I’ll never get along.

But what’s past my mind’s construing Is, that all these busy elves Scold and thrash poor me for doing What they daily do themselves!

Master Meekly says ’tis fearful, To be crushing harmless flies, Yet can he, with gun, quite cheerful Seek the bird that bleeding lies.

Others say: “Look here, Dick Dingle, Love of gold is vain and vile.” Yet when they detect its jingle, Why, somehow they always smile.

Doctor Blacktooth says tobacco Is not even fit for brutes, Yet to make his teeth still blacker Smokes the rankest of cheroots!

Now it seems to me the purest Seldom scold us when they teach, For they know the way that’s surest Is to practice what they preach!

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Word Pictures.

In fulfillment of our promise in a former number, we will now endeavor to give a few ideas upon the important subject of “suiting the action to the word.” Gestures are of two kinds, curved and straight, or emphatic and descriptive.

In the preparation for emphatic gestures the hand should be brought up on the oblique to different degrees of elevation, depending upon the force of emphasis, and then given a stroke on whatever line the sense requires.

Descriptive gestures require the curved preparation, _i. e._, the hand is brought in front of the body in the direction of the opposite shoulder, and then a graceful sweep is made in the line desired.

In the preparation of a selection for recitation, the first requisite is to lay out your picture, and locate every object that is mentioned; let it be firmly set in your mind so that you will not change the position of any portion of the scene during the course of the recitation.

A very fine piece for practice upon this is the “Ballad of Breakneck,” in the present number. Suppose you turn to it and imagine yourself to be standing upon the banks of the Hudson, in a position commanding the view down the river; by examining the marked gestures you will be able to locate the entire scene. In the delivery of a piece, always try to see with your mind’s eye what you are describing to your audience, and if the object is supposed to be in sight, let the eye follow the gesture; this, however, should be avoided in emphatic GESTURES, or where the thing described is supposed to be hidden from view.

The following rules will serve as a guide in deciding the directions that gestures should take:

_Front_ gestures express unity, personality, direct address, and forward motion; also refer to the future.

_Oblique_ gestures express plurality, general assertion, and are used in addressing numbers.

_Lateral_ gestures express vastness in time, numbers, space or idea; also casting away, and negation.

_Backward_ gestures express remoteness in time or space.

_Descending_ gestures pertain to the will, express determination and emphasis.

_Horizontal_ gestures pertain to the intellect, and are used in argument and address.

_Ascending_ gestures pertain to the imagination, and express exultation.

――_F. Lizzie Peirce._

The Meeting at Wendletown.

’Twas early in the winter when first the talk began About the rights of women and the cruelty of man, Sech talk was new in Wendeltown, it scared us all to hear How ignorant we women was about our proper speer; And how we’d toiled and pinched and saved, and nothing better knew, While our husbands did the thinking and held the pursestrings too.

Miss Harper come and tell us this――a lecturer――you know. Law me! how beautiful she talked; her words jest seemed to flow As smooth and easy as the brook――she looked and moved so quiet; But she fairly shook old Wendletown, she raised up sech a riot; And when I heerd her tell about us women’s “wasted years,” Although I’m old and tough, you’d think, I couldn’t keep from tears.

Soon all the wives and mothers too, began to see quite plain That jest to bake and churn and mend was laboring in vain: While Mrs. Cap’n Brown she come and sez, sez she to me, “I’m going to have a high career,” whatever that may be.

But Miss Harper hed to leave us, so she advertised one day That she’d lecture in the school-house once before she went away. Well, the room was packed that evening and Miss Harper did her best, Her gift of speech was wonderful,――that all the men confessed―― She soared, way up into the clouds, and back to earth again, And showed us most convincin’ly the worthlessness of men!

Her speech was drawing to a close, and she was jest a saying: “Dear sisters, spurn your tyrant, man, and scorn the part he’s playing; Let _him_ perform the menial tasks he’s set for you so long, While _you_ stand on the mountain tops, rejoicing free and strong!”

Joe Hale was setting close at hand, right in the foremost row, And on his knees his little child, ’bout two year old or so: Joe was a poor, lone widower, his wife was dead and gone, His home was near the school-house, and I ’spose he felt forlorn, So he’d come and brought the baby, though the reason why I knew―― His hired girl had slipped away to hear the lecture too. And jest that very minute, when the room was still as death, And you might have heerd a pin drop as Miss Harper stopped for breath,

That little toddling thing slid from off her father’s knee, Crept close up to the lecturer’s desk and said: “Does ’ou love me?” Poor Joe jest turned a fiery red, and tried to snatch the child; But Miss Harper she leaned over and looked at him and smiled; Then dropping all her papers, in the twinkling of an eye, She clasped the little one, who gave a wondering, happy cry, And laid her little curly head right down upon her breast, With both arms clinging round her neck, as if she’d found her rest!

It’s as fresh now as a picter, though it happened months ago, How she held that little baby girl a whispering soft and low; Her eyes as bright and smiles a-coming and a-going, While all the sound that you could hear was jest the child a-crowing.

Up to this time astonishment had kept the folks all still; But some one shouted out――“Three cheers and give ’em with a will! It’s plain enough Miss Harper has found _her_ proper speer, And man, the tyrant’s conquered! Now boys a rousing cheer!”

That meeting broke up in a tumult, but Joe was waiting there; He’s a manly, handsome fellow, and when I saw the pair Go walking off together, I sez, sez I, “It needs no witch to tell What’s coming next.” And warn’t I right? Folks laughed and talked a spell, But we all danced at the wedding! Law! how she settled down! There ain’t no better housewife than Mrs. Hale in all this town.

Petruchio’s Widow.

A SHAKESPERIAN TRAVESTY

IN ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

MR. ROMEO MONTAGUE, _an unlucky suitor_. MR. MOSES SHYLOCK, _a pawnbroker_. MRS. KATE PETRUCHIO, _a dashing widow_. MISS HELENA, _an affectionate spinster_. MRS. DESDEMONA OTHELLO, _an unhappy neighbor_. MRS. JESSICA LORENZO, _an ungrateful daughter_.

SCENE:――_A parlor; door pract. C. flat; window L. flat, open; table beneath window; rocking chair R. C.; chairs at wings; Mrs. Petruchio discovered standing in door._

MRS. PET.――’Tis a good thing that Jessica has finished dusting this parlor; no nonsense will I tolerate from man, woman, or child within this domicile. (_Enters and throws herself in rocking chair._) Petruchio ran affairs while living; but, in his demise――poor fellow――I re-inherited the freedom of my tongue. (_Calls_) Jessica!

JESSICA (_from without_).――I am here; please wait; don’t scold; here I am. (_Enters L._) Your pleasure, madam.

MRS. PET.――Have you washed the front steps, scrubbed the pavement and wrung out the clothes that were wet by the rain?

JESSICA.――Alas! all these, and more, have I done. I have picked the beans, mixed the batter for muffins, put the mackerel in soak for breakfast, and――――

MRS. PET.――Enough! Why thus parade before my fancy’s eye the coarse details of cookery. I tell you ’tis scarce an hour since I ate――the subject is distasteful.

JESSICA.――But, madam, you asked me what――――

MRS. PET. (_stamps foot_).――Silence!

JESSICA.――You are dreadfully cross. When I came to you and told you the story of my life, how I eloped with poor, dear Lorenzo, who was all a woman could ask, while the money I took from father lasted――――

MRS. PET.――And who hastily departed simultaneously with the last ducat――――

JESSICA.――Do not wound my spirit. I repeat, you promised to give me shelter, to shield me, treat me kindly――――

MRS. PET.――Shut up! move! Lorenzo, you say, has gone to Padua to seek a position as pen-wiper to Ballario; believe it not; he is in Venice suing for a divorce before the Duke. Unhappy woman, move!

JESSICA (_aside_).――As Jessica Shylock I was envied as a rich man’s child; as Jessica Lorenzo I am――――

MRS. PET.――What’s the use of whining; you will never see Lorenzo more.

JESSICA.――

There is a tide in the affairs of men―― If men, then women, too―― Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures!

I leave for Venice this very night!

MRS. PET.――Away to the kitchen and put on the beans!

JESSICA (_looks off L_).

MRS. PET.――

Alas! how is it with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep!

JESSICA (_points L_).――T. O. M.

MRS. PET.――T. O. M.? Tom who?

JESSICA.――No, no! The――old――man; my father, Moses Shylock, is creeping up the gravel path. Hide me! Do not betray me!

MRS. PET.――

Though all the world should crack their duty, And throw it from their soul; though perils did Abound as thick as thought could make them, and Appear in forms more horrid; yet would I Be true; yea, true as truth itself, And stand unshaken yours,――

Away to the kitchen and you are safe!

JESSICA.――I love my father, but I fear his righteous rage.

MRS. PET.――Stay, then; confess and ask his pardon.

JESSICA (_Shakes head sadly and exits R_).

MRS. PET.――

What! gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak; For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

[_Enter_ SHYLOCK, _door F_.]

MRS. PET.――How now, Shylock? What news among the merchants? What will you loan upon my ulster?

SHYLOCK.――Take it to my brother Solomon, on the Rialto; he’ll give you liberally and charge you naught for camphor.

MRS. PET.――Have you heard from your daughter, and your son-in-law, Lorenzo, lately?

SHYLOCK.――No, no; not I. All hope to find her long hath fled. One-half the jewels that she took no doubt Lorenzo pawned; and yet the thankless knave sent me not e’en a ticket to redeem the goods!

MRS. PET.――’Tis said, for satisfaction’s sake, you now refuse to grant renewal of your loans, e’en though the interest thereon be paid; ay, that Antonio, the poor butcher, will lose the meats that now are forfeit. Why take his venison? Wilt answer, Shylock?

SHYLOCK.――

I hate him, for he is a Christian; But more, for that, in low simplicity, He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation; and he rails Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him.

MRS. PET.――If I were his wife you would not thus berate the man. If Petruchio could speak, he’d say so too.

SHYLOCK.――I seek my truant child; I heard she lived, not long since, hereabouts.

MRS. PET.――Excuse me, Mr. Shylock, call again.

SHYLOCK.――Have you any old garments to sell?

MRS. PET.――Leave, and call again; two neighbors now approach who may mistake the object of your visit. Go! Leave by the side door.

SHYLOCK.――

O father Abraham, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teach them to suspect The thoughts of others! Adieu! [_Exit L._]

MRS. PET (_looking L_).――O, you miserly old money-grabber, if you think I will tell on poor Jessica, you know but little of Kate Petruchio! Go! go! go! you old parent, you stingy father, and con over your collaterals of watches, fiddles, bibles and pistols!

[_Enter_ MISS HELENA _and_ MRS. OTHELLO, _door F.; they pause and observe_ MRS. PETRUCHIO.]

If I was your wife wouldn’t I take the kinks out of those grizzly locks, though!

MRS. OTHELLO (_to_ HELENA).――What should this mean?

HELENA.――O what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!

MRS. PET.――Ah, ladies, kind, sweet neighbors, how glad I am to see you here!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Do you have any pain here? (_Touches head_).

HELENA.――Is not the plumb-bob of your mental plumb-line out of plumb?

MRS. PET.――

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul. My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music: It is not madness That I have uttered: bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word, which madness Would gambol from.

Saw you not that animated gaberdine descend my garden path?

MRS. OTHELLO.――You do not mean our mutual uncle, Moses Shylock; from whom, however, I never borrow.

HELENA.――Nor I.

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Do you mean to insinuate that I presume upon his kinship to obtain loans?

MRS. OTHELLO.――What have I done that thou dar’st wag thy tongue in noise so rude against me?

HELENA.――Hist! he comes!

MRS. PETRUCHIO.――Who comes?

HELENA.――My Romeo.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Your Romeo! Forsooth you have not spoken to him more than twice.

ROMEO (_Without, singing_).――

“Oh, meet me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale Must be told in the moonlight alone, In the grove――――”

HELENA.――

If music be the food of love, sing on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.

MRS. PET.――

This music mads me; let it sound no more, For though it have helped mad men to their wits, In me, it seems, it will make wise men mad.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

“Oh, meet me by moonlight a ―― ―― ―― ―― ―― lone!”

HELENA.――

That strain again; it had a dying fall; Oh, it came o’er my ear like the sweet south, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odor.

ROMEO (_without, sings_).――

“Yes, meet――yes, meet――yes, meet me by moonlight a――lone.”

MRS. PET.――Horrible! monstrous! was ever sound so nerve-destroying heard save from the larynx of a dying calf? I despise these daylight serenades.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

The woman that hath no music in herself, Nor is not woo’d with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; The motions of her spirit are dull as night, And her affections dark as Erebus: Let no such dame be trusted!

MRS. PET.――Ha! this is more than I can brook; my tongue’s my own to wag it as I will, therefore attempt not to criticise my criticisms――――I repeat, the fellow sings like a Scandinavian bag-pipe.

HELENA.――Ladies, pray be still! He may hear your dreadful comments.

[_Knock heard at door._]

’Tis he!

MRS. OTHELLO.――Let him not in until I depart! If Mr. Othello should happen to step in and find me in company with this gallant youth his jealousy would know no bounds!

[_Knock repeated._]

MRS. PET.――Nonsense! I hope he does come, I’d like to give him my opinion of jealous husbands――

Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine To joyless dread, and mak’st the loving heart With hateful thoughts to languish and to pine, And feed itself with self-consuming smart; Of all the passions in the mind thou vilest art!

ROMEO (_without_).――I suppose there’s no one home. (_Knocks_). Hello! anybody in?

HELENA (_opens door_).――Mr. Romeo! how delightful this surprise.

ROMEO (_enters_).――To me this is a pleasure sweet, sweet beyond comparison. (_Aside._) Her looks do argue her replete with modesty.

HELENA.――It gives me wonder, great as my content, to see you here before me.

MRS. PET.――

Sir, you are very welcome to our house: It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

MRS. OTHELLO.――

A hundred thousand welcomes; I could weep, And I could laugh; I am light and heavy――welcome.

[_Looks about cautiously._]

Yea, I could laugh and weep (_aside_.) It entirely depends upon the movements of Mr. Othello. He’s so jealous.

MRS. PET.――Be seated, friend Romeo; Miss Helena will entertain you while Mrs. Othello and I see that the festive board is spread below. Come, away to the pantry!

[_Exit followed by_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

ROMEO (_places a chair for Helena_).

(_Aside_) There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks. (_Aloud._) Be seated, miss.

HELENA.――Thank you, sir. (_Aside._) I know not why I love this youth.

ROMEO.――

Helena, I love thee; by my life I do; I swear by that which I will lose for thee, To prove him false that says I love thee not!

HELENA.――Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say ay, and I will take thy word.

ROMEO (_takes chair_).――

O happy fair! Your eyes are load-stars, and your tongue’s sweet air, More tunable than lark to shepherds’ ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.

HELENA.――You have bereft me of all words.

ROMEO (_aside_).――

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!

[_Knock at door._]

(_Aloud._) Ah, me! for aught that I could ever read; Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth.

[_Rises and opens door._]

[_Enter_ SHYLOCK _with old garments on his arm_.]

HELENA (_rising_).――

His horrid image doth unfix my hair, And make my seated heart knock at my ribs.

ROMEO.――

Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damned, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell; Be thy intents wicked or charitable Thou comest in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee!

SHYLOCK (_to_ HELENA).――

I do defy him, and I spit at him; Call him a slanderous coward and a villain, Which to maintain, I would allow him odds, And meet him where I tried to run a-foot; Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps.

[_Throws garments on floor._]

HELENA.――

What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath?

ROMEO.――

He gives the bastinado with his tongue; Our ears are cudgel’d; not a word of his, But buffets better than a fist of France: Zounds, I was never so bethumped with words Since I first called my brother’s father dad.

SHYLOCK.――Peace! one word: in yonder pile, for little more than half the cost, a seal-skin wrap and overcoat may grace your youthful forms.

ROMEO (_to_ SHYLOCK _in undertone_).――I pray thee, gentle signor of the Gilded Balls, say naught before this maid that will reveal the fact that half my garments now repose upon your shelves.

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――To-night I’ll steal into thy place of trade, and, under cover of the evening’s shades, examine well the seal-skin sack whereof you speak. Say nothing now, sir; mum’s the word!

SHYLOCK.――’Tis in my memory locked, and you yourself shall keep the key of it.

[_Enter_ JESSICA, MRS. PETRUCHIO _and_ MRS. OTHELLO.]

JESSICA.――Oh! Oh! (_jumps behind_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).

MRS. OTHELLO.――Hide me! Save me!

MRS. PET.――Thou shalt be punished for thus frightening me, thou man of loans. Be quiet sweet Mrs. Othello, thy husband is not here.

MRS. OTHELLO.――Mr. Romeo, what brings this, our general kinsman, here upon the scene?

ROMEO.――His business calls him here.

MRS. PET.――Romeo, put him out: mind not his glaring eyes, but put him hence!

ROMEO.――

Prythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none!

MRS. PET.――

What seek’st thou? Avaunt, and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in thy eyes Which thou dost glare with!

HELENA (_to_ SHYLOCK).――

Win her with gifts if she respect not words; Dumb jewels often, in their silent kind, More quick than words do move a woman’s mind.

MRS. PET.――See here, old man, just tell me what you want?

SHYLOCK.――

My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my, my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! my ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl!

ROMEO.――Poor man!

HELENA.――Why not advertise her in the papers?

MRS. OTHELLO.――Or, like my husband, employ a private detective?

SHYLOCK (_to_ MRS. PETRUCHIO).――Woman, tell me where to find my child! Lorenzo, he has been set free by the Venice court’s decree. If the proof you wish to see, take the train for the city by the sea.

MRS. PET.――I know not where Jessica Shylock lives, nor care to hear your family cares.

SHYLOCK.――

A serpent heart, hid with a flow’ring face, Did ever dragon keep so fair a case? Beautiful tyrant, fiend angelical! Just opposite to what thou seem’st―― I see my daughter’s head behind thy ear, Ay, behind the wig that doth surmount thy head!

MRS. PET.――Me wear a wig? O wrinkled Jew, take back thy child, whom only kindness taught me to conceal. No more courage now remains: away with her! In saying that I wear a wig, you crush my heart, and now I fain would be alone.

JESSICA (_embraces_ SHYLOCK).――Father, forgive me!

ROMEO.――See! the Jew relents!

HELENA.――O gentle Romeo!

MRS. OTHELLO.――I hope I shall get home before the Moor returns!

SHYLOCK (_takes_ MRS. PETRUCHIO’S _hand_.)

You are a widow, and I without a wife, Seek, vainly seek, for joy in life―― Will you, in short, old Shylock wed?

MRS. PET.――Think you, sir, my reason’s fled. (_Withdrawing hand indignantly._) Marry you? Never! Sooner would I see you hanged.

SHYLOCK.――But are you happy?

ROMEO.――

Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; and happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is, that her gentle spirit Would ne’er commit itself to yours.

SHYLOCK.――Go to, and why?

MRS. OTHELLO.――

Oh! sir, you are too old; Nature, in you, stands on the very Verge of her confine.

HELENA.――

Our hostess needs no fossil staff On which to lean through life; The dame in scorn does at you laugh, Go, seek an older wife!

ALL.――Yes, go! (_pounding and pushing him_.) Go! go! go!

SHYLOCK (_runs to centre and kneels_).――Mercy! (_All take positions._)

[CURTAIN.]

――_George M. Vickers._

[372]The Proud Flag of Freedom.

The proud flag of freedom, unsullied, behold How cluster about it the glories of years, As skyward and westward, ’mid purple and gold, In the land of the sunset, its home, it appears. America’s token of faith never broken, Sweet signal that flutters o’er mountain and sea; That mutely repeats what our fathers have spoken, That tells the oppressed they may come and be free!

O proud flag of freedom, how swells with delight The breast of the wand’rer who meets thee afar; What home-visions come with the gladdening sight, And how fond dwells his eye on each stripe and each star! Thus be it forever, while oceans may sever, Or fate hold in exile, a man from our shore! Tho’ fairer the clime, an American never Forgets his own colors, but loves them the more.

Thou proud flag of freedom, so lovely in peace, So awfully grand in the dread crash of war, Be ever unfaded ’till nations shall cease, While there’s room in the blue for another bright star: From danger defending, still onward, ascending; The hope of mankind and the envy of none: _E Pluribus Unum_, our motto transcending, Till earth’s constellations are blended in one!

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

[372] By permission of J. C. Beckel, Esq., owner of the copyright.]

Lost in the Mountains.

See you that[373] yellow thread, that, snake-like, winds High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen, Now lost[374] to view amid the shelving crags And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass, Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just where We stand,[375] I stood one Autumn day, and heard The legend from an aged mountaineer, And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word, Like this the story ran:

Mark Lysle, a rich, Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child, Long years agone, lived in that house[376] whose red Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though You see a light, blue plume of smoke above The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit About the hearth and watch its glow, for that Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out One stormy night, never to burn again. For miles and miles,[377] which way you went, the fame Of Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies, His open house and hospitalities, Were themes discussed no less than were his quick Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce, Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child, Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair, And read the truth within her hazel eyes,

Deemed her in ev’ry[378] trait of character His antipode, his very opposite―― A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle. Together lived they in that[379] red-roofed house, He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns: She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient, So like her mother――an exotic frail, A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.

One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380] Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro huts Gleamed white amid the evergreens; the man Her father called his chosen friend, this man, Her senior by a score of years, and ill Of feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimed It by a compact with her father made Before her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud, Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound, Whose only statute was her father’s will, Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light Of something that she might escape, a thing She might avoid, that would not come to pass; As those condemned to death will hope when hope Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought, And comfort took in hoping that it would Not be; and though his would-be gallantries Oft filled her with disgust,[381] and oft provoked A loathing in her breast, she hated not.

Once, on a summer day, with book in hand, Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,

Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed: A sudden cry aroused them both in time To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382] Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet They stood amazed some field hands moving slow, Came up the shaded walk[383] bearing between Their swarthy forms the helpless body of A man. With almost woman’s tenderness Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youth Borne to his choicest room, and summoned quick A surgeon, nor would rest until assured His uninvited guest was doing well, As well as one with broken limb could do. Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home, Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.

The leaves[384] have lost their summer hue of green; The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low; The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud Stand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines full Upon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad, And hers all tenderness and sympathy: His time to go has come; this night will be His last beneath her father’s roof. In two Short months, by merest chance, their youthful hearts Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly. Behind a tree[387] two other forms crouch low; Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale. They glide away[388] unseen.

That night when all Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle, In tones that fell like death upon the ears Of those who heard him speak, announced It as his will,[389] that on the coming day His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend; “And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deem It time to go, I shall not press you to Remain, but bid you speed upon your way,” And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]

“Farewell,[391] Until we meet again――” “No,[392] Maud, we must Not say good-bye; to leave you now would be To part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sank Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss In haste imprinted on her brow, he left The room, and then the house.

The tall, old clock That in the hallway stood, was striking nine As Maud stole out[393] into the night. Dark clouds Were rising[394] in the west. The lightning flashed From out the distant sky;[395] the thunder boomed And rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396] The black mass rising soon obscured[397] the stars O’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the storm Had burst. “To wed the hand and not the heart Is sin, far greater than to disobey. May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]

Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as all Alone she sped across the fields to reach Yon rugged pass[399] where Clair had gone to wait, That when she came they both might mount his steed, And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they Would choose that fearful path for flight.

The sun Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400] With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone, And she had gone, the star[401] of Mark Lysle’s home, Gone――to return no more.

The dark night through, Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff Had watched and listened for his promised bride; Had bended to the rock his ear,[402] had called, Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!” But never came reply.

Again, “Here, Maud!” Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403] all else was still. At dawn of day, and fearing that she could Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst. He scarce had reached the narrow valley road Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404] or die. Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore, And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse. “She’s lost! O God,[405] she’s lost! Come, follow me!” Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horse In terror bore him up[406] the winding path.

“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!” And off he dashed,[407] his livid face drawn grim With jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and then The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.

A cry! Again a cry of mortal pain was heard! The throng pressed up, and round[408] a jutting point, Till came in view a level breadth[409] of rock That shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410] Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s work On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411] The deep abyss. In horror peered they all Below, where lay the object of his gaze―― The white, the lifeless form of Maud.

The spell Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips. With curb he drew[412] his horse erect; he threw His mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs, And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]

And to this day the story still is told Of trav’lers, who, belated on the pass, Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voice Call tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!―― Here, Maud!――Is that you, Maud?”

――_George M. Vickers._

GESTURES. [373] Ind. A. O. [374] Drop hand. [375] D. O. [376] Left H. O. [377] B. H. O. [378] H. O. [379] Left H. O. [380] H. Sw. [381] V. H. O. [382] H. Sw. [383] H. F. [384] A. O. [385] H. F. [386] B. H. F. [387] Left H. O. [388] Left H. Sw. [389] D. F. [390] H. Sw. [391] Turn to Right. [392] Turn to Left. [393] H. F. [394] Raise hand P. H. L. [395] H. L. [396] H. Sw. [397] V. A. O. [398] Hand on heart. [399] A. O. [400] P. D. O. [401] Point up. [402] Bend over. [403] B. H. O. and turn them to P. [404] P. Ind. H. F. [405] Raise eyes. [406] A. F. [407] A. F. [408] A. O. [409] P. H. O. [410] P. D. O. [411] Point down. [412] Draw rein with left hand. [413] D. F.]

Maiden Song.

Long ago and long ago, and long ago still, There dwelt three merry maidens upon a distant hill. One was tall Meggan, and one was dainty May, But one was fair Margaret, more fair than I can say, Long ago and long ago.

When Meggan plucked the thorny rose, and when May pulled the brier, Half the birds would swoop to see, half the beasts draw nigher; Half the fishes of the stream would dart up to admire: But when Margaret plucked a flag-flower, or poppy, hot aflame, All the beasts and all the birds and all the fishes came To her hand more soft than snow.

Strawberry leaves and May-dew in brisk morning air, Strawberry leaves and May-dew make maidens fair. “I go for strawberry leaves,” Meggan said one day: “Fair Margaret can bide at home, but you come with me, May; Up the hill and down the hill, along the winding way, You and I are used to go.”

So these two fair sisters went with innocent will Up the hill and down again, and round the homestead hill: While the fairest sat at home, Margaret like a queen, Like a blush-rose, like the moon in her heavenly sheen, Fragrant-breathed as milky cow or field of blossoming bean, Graceful as an ivy bough, born to cling and lean, Thus she sat to sew and sing.

When she raised her lustrous eyes a beast peeped at the door; When she downward cast her eyes a fish gasped on the floor; When she turned away her eyes a bird perched on the sill, Warbling out its heart of love, warbling, warbling still With pathetic pleadings low.

Light-foot May, with Meggan, sought the choicest spot, Clothed with thyme, alternate grass; then, while day waxed hot, Sat at ease to play and rest, a gracious rest and play; The loveliest maidens near or far, when Margaret was away, Who sat at home to sing and sew.

Sun-glow flushed their comely cheeks, wind-play tossed their hair, Creeping things among the grass stroked them here and there; Meggan piped a merry note, a fitful, wayward lay, While shrill as bird on topmost twig piped merry May; Honey-smooth the double flow.

Sped a herdsman from the vale, mounting like a flame, All on fire to hear and see, with floating locks he came; Looked neither north nor south, neither east nor west, But sat him down at Meggan’s feet as love-bird on his nest, And wooed her with a silent awe, with trouble not expressed; She sang the tears into his eyes, the heart out of his breast; So he loved her, listening so.

She sang the heart out of his breast, the words out of his tongue; Hand and foot and pulse he paused till her song was sung.

Then he spoke up from his place simple words and true: “Scanty goods have I to give, scanty skill to woo; But I have a will to work and a heart for you: Bid me stay or bid me go.”

Then Meggan mused within herself: “Better be first with him, Than dwell where fairer Margaret sits, who shines my brightness dim, Forever second where she sits, however fair I be: I will be lady of his love, and he shall worship me; I will be lady of his herds and stoop to his degree, At home where kids and fatlings grow.”

Sped a shepherd from the height headlong down to look, White lambs followed, lured by love of their shepherd’s crook: He turned neither east nor west, neither north nor south, But knelt right down to May, for love of her sweet-singing mouth; Forgot his flocks, his panting flocks in parching hillside drought; Forgot himself for weal or woe.

Trilled her song and swelled her song with maiden coy caprice In a labyrinth of throbs, pauses, cadences: Clear-noted as a dropping brook, soft-noted like the bees, Wild-noted as the shivering wind forlorn through forest trees: Love-noted like the wood-pigeon who hides herself for love, Yet cannot keep her secret safe, but cooes and cooes thereof; Thus the notes rang loud or low.

He hung breathless on her breath; speechless, who listened well; Could not speak or think, or wish till silence broke the spell. Then he spoke and spread his hands, pointing here and there: “See my sheep, and see my lambs, twin lambs which they bare. All myself I offer you, all my flocks and care, Your sweet song hath moved me so.”

In her fluttered heart young May mused a dubious while: “If he loves me as he says”――her lips curved with a smile: “Where Margaret shines like the sun, I shine like the moon; If sister Meggan makes her choice I can make mine as soon: At cockcrow we were sister-maids, we may be brides at noon. Said Meggan, “Yes;” May said not “No.”

Fair Margaret stayed alone at home, awhile she sang her song, Awhile sat silent, then she thought: “My sisters loiter long.” That sultry noon had waned away, shadows had waxed great: “Surely,” she thought within herself, “My sisters loiter late.” She rose, and peered out at the door, with patient heart to wait, And heard a distant nightingale complaining of its mate; Then down the garden slope she walked, down to the garden gate, Leaned on the rail and waited so.

The slope was lightened by her eyes like summer lightning fair, Like rising of the haloed moon lightened her glimmering hair,

While her face lightened like the sun whose dawn is rosy white. Thus crowned with maiden majesty she peered into the night, Looked up the hill and down the hill, to left hand and to right, Flashing like fire-flies to and fro.

Waiting thus in weariness, she marked the nightingale, Telling, if any one would heed, its old complaining tale. Then lifted she her voice and sang, answering the bird: Then lifted she her voice and sang, such notes were never heard. From any bird when Spring’s in blow.

The king of all that country, coursing far, coursing near, Curbed his amber-bitted steed, coursed amain to hear; All his princes in his train, squire, and knight, and peer, With his crown upon his head, his sceptre in his hand, Down he fell at Margaret’s knees, Lord, King of all that land, To her highness bending low.

Every beast and bird, and fish came mustering to the sound, Every man and every maid from miles of country round: Meggan on her herdsman’s arm, with her shepherd, May; Flocks and herds trooped at their heels along the hillside way; No foot too feeble for the ascent, not any head too gray, Some were swift and none were slow.

So Margaret sang her sisters home in their marriage mirth; Sang free birds out of the sky, beasts along the earth, Sang up fishes of the deep――all breathing things that move, Sang from far and sang from near to her lovely love; Sang together friend and foe;

Sang a golden-bearded king straightway to her feet, Sang him silent where he knelt in eager anguish sweet. But when the clear voice died away, when longest echoes died, He stood up like a royal man and claimed her for his bride. So three maids were wooed and won in a brief May-tide, Long ago and long ago.

――_Christina G. Rossetti._

Lecture by One of the Sex.

My antiquated hearers, male and female. Squenchin’ my native modesty which is natural to the weaker vessels of whom I am which, I feel impelled to speak to you this evenin’ on the subject of woman――her origin, her mission, her destiny. A subject, bein’ as I am a woman myself, I hev given much attention to.

Man, my hearers, claims to be the superior of woman! Is it so? and ef so, in what, and how much?

Wuz he the fust creation? He wuz, my hearers, but what does that prove?

Man wuz made fust, but the experience gained in makin’ man wuz applied to the makin’ of a betterer and more finerer bein’ of whom I am a sample.

Nachur made man but saw in a brief space of time that he couldn’t take keer of himself alone, and so he made a woman to take keer uv him, and that’s why we wuz created; tho’ seein’ all the trouble we hev, I don’t doubt that it would hev been money in our pockets if we hedn’t been made at all.

Imagine, my beloved hearers, Adam afore Eve wuz created! Who sewed on his shirt buttons? Who cooked his beefsteak? Who made his coffee in the mornin’ and did his washin’?

He wuz mizzable, he wuz,――he must have boarded out and eat hash!

But when Eve come, the scene changed. Her gentle hand soothed his achin’ brow when he come in from a hard day’s work. She hed his house in order; she hed his slippers and dressin’ gown ready, and after tea he smoked his meerschaum in peace.

Men, cruel, hard-hearted men, assert that Eve wuz the cause of his expulsion from Eden――that she plucked the apple and give him half; oh, my sisters, it’s true, it’s too true, but what uv it?

It proves fustly, her goodness. Had _Adam_ plucked the apple, if it had been a good one, he’d never a thought of his wife at home, but would have gobbled it down himself, and perhaps have taken her the core.

Eve, angel that we all are, thought of him and went halvers with him.

_Secondly_, it wuz the means of good anyhow. It introduced death into the world, which separated ’em while they still hed love for each other.

I appeal to the sterner sex present to-night. S’posin’ all of you had been fortunate enough to win such virgin souls as me, could you endure charms like mine for an eternity. If I had a husband, I know he’d bless Eve for introducin’ death into the world.

Woman is man’s equal, but is she occupyin’ her true speer? Alas, not! We are deprived of the ballot, we ain’t allowed to make stump speeches, or take part in politics. Is it right? How many men vote who know what they are votin’ for?

I demand the ballot. I want to take part in torchlight processions! I want to demonstrate my fitness for governing by coming home elevated on election nights. I demand the right of going to Congress. I want to assume that speer which nachur fitted me for equally with man, but from which masculine jealousy has thus far excluded me.

There hev been women in the world who have done something. There was the Queen of Sheba, who was excelled only by Solomon, and all that surpassed her in him wuz that he could support 3,000 women.

Bless Solomon’s heart! I’d like to see him do it now. Where could he find a house big enough to hold ’em with their dozen Saratoga trunks apiece?

How shall we gain our lost rights and assume that position in the world to which we are entitled to?

Oh, my sisters, these is a question upon which I have cogitated long and vigorously.

We might do it by pisonin’ all the men, but we would be robbed of one-half of our triumph, for they wouldn’t be alive to see how well we did things without ’em.

We might resolve to do no more of the degradin’ work they have imposed onto us. But if we didn’t, who would?

One week’s eatin’ what they would cook, would sicken any well-regulated woman, and besides, they might not let us eat at all.

Matrimony, thus far in the world’s history, has been our only destiny.

I am glad I had always strength of mind enough to resist all propositions leadin’ to my enslavement.

I had too much respect for myself to make myself the slave of a man.

Wunst, indeed, I might have done so, but the merest accident in the world saved me. A young man in my younger days, when the bloom wuz on the peach, ere sleepless nights spent in meditatin’ on the wrongs of my sex had worn furrows into these wunst blushing cheeks, a young man come to our house, and conversed sweetly with me.

It wuz my fust beau, and oh, my sisters, had he that night asked me to be his’n, I should have been weak enough to have said Yes, and I would have been a washer of dishes and a mender of stockin’s for life.

But fate saved me! He did’nt ask me.

――_Revised by F. Lizzie Peirce._

Enguerrande’s Child.

La Comtesse Marie holds festival In the fairest nook of her fair demesne, For courtly gallants and smiling dames To mimic the sports of the village green, In hats à la paysanne looped up with gems, And rustic kirtles of satin sheen.

But Comtesse Marie, though crowned with May, Scarce smiles on the lovers who round her press, And sits on her floral throne _distrait_, Nor heeds who, watching her, strives to guess What troubles this heiress, free to choose From the proudest peers of the _haute noblesse_.

She sighs--and a suitor the sigh repeats; Again--and another bends over her chair, For every mood of a lady charms When la dame is so wealthy, so young, and fair; She speaks--and the murmur of talk is hushed, And they throng around with expectant air:

“Too sad to sing, and too tired to dance-- Shall our sport take sober cast to-night? And gathering under the fragrant limes, Shall we tell old stories of maidens bright, Of crusader bold, and the Soldan grim, Of dreary legend of ghost and sprite?”

Then gay De Norville, for wild, weird tale To please the layde, has racked his brain; While Saint Leu, with twirls of his huge mustache, His last duello fights o’er again, And fancies that Marie’s cheek grows pale As he lightly dwells on his wounds and pain.

But on one tall figure, that stands aloof, The eye of la Comtesse is seen to fall: And hast _thou_ nothing to tell?” she asks, “Canst thou from the past no deed recall, That might quicken awhile our sluggish blood? Bethink thee, I pray, good Capitaine Paul.”

Le Capitaine Paul, whom no one knows, A soldier of fortune, scarred and browned, A man more prized in the camp than court, Steps into the circle and glances round; And scornful eyes on his boldness frown, But Marie has smiled, and he holds his ground.

What boots the rest if _she_ bids him speak? What matter who lists if he gains _her_ ear? The shaft of malice is launched in vain, That aims at the stranger a barbèd sneer, And the sauciest suitors of belle Marie Unchecked may flout him while she is near.

He turns from the guests, with their covert smiles, Begins with a stammer, and speaks by rote Till treasured mem’ries awake--and then His full lip quivers, and swells his throat, And his sinewy hand is clenched, as oft It hath clenched at the ring of the bugle’s note.

And thus _le capitaine_ tells his tale: “Revolt and faction had cursed our land-- Tonnerre! that Frenchmen should be such curs! Our city walls was were but poorly manned; I--sous lieutenant--a boy in years; Our brave commander, Jacques Enguerrande.

“We had one treasure, we soldiers, then-- Enguerrande’s daughter, a happy child; She had no mother, but fifty slaves, By her winning looks and ways beguiled-- Great bearded fellows--were at her call, And felt themselves paid if their mistress smiled.

“One night--sharp--sudden--resistless broke The storm upon us: from every den The lawless rabble came howling forth, And we--ah, blind! not to learn till then, That in all that city we loved so well, There was but one handful of loyal men!

“For life, for honor we fought, and still Our foes increased as the tumult spread, Yet side by side with Jacques Enguerrande I stood till we fell together--he, dead; I, wounded--how badly, these scars reveal; And then our last man, in his terror, fled.

“Over our bodies the crowd tramped on, Nor recked if ’twere brothers their feet defiled; The city was all their own, and the greed Of plunder had made them mad or wild; And I heard one voice, with a drunken laugh, Call out for the child, Jacques Enguerrande’s child.

“At that sound the blood to my heart returns, And fiercely I struggle on to my knees! Never must Enguerrande’s orphaned one Fall into such miscreant hands as these! To my feet and away, ere the roaring mob Can hunt back the wounded wretch who flees!

“Doubling upon them, and first to gain The little chamber wherein she slept, Where, roused from repose by the horrid din, In the darkest corner she cowered and wept, I bore her down by a winding stair, And into the streets with my burden crept.

“Hushing her sobs I staggered on, Faint, dizzy with pain, and perhaps despair; For sadly we needed some refuge safe, And who would offer it?--nay, who dare? Till an aged crone peeped fearfully out Of her wretched hovel, and hid us there.

“But, alas! though almost too old to live, She feared the mob, and she feared to die, And in selfish dread, when again night fell, From her door she thrust us, and bade us fly; Yet she flung me a blouse, and _bonnet rouge_, That none should my soldier’s dress descry.

“Bribed with the little one’s rosary-- Le voici, I have it here on my breast; I brought it back for its weight in gold-- A fellow I drew aside from the rest, Let us slip by while he kept the guard, And like hunted deer for the woods we pressed.

“Scarce half a league from the city walls, Lo! swooping down like a fiery blast-- Armed to the teeth, and hot with wrath-- Rank after rank spurring quickly past-- The avengers came of Jacques Enguerrande, And I felt that his child was safe at last!

“She knew their leader--she shrieked his name-- He halted--I told you what garb I wore, They thought me a rebel; the little one With oaths and blows from my arms they tore, And left me for dead on the cold hard earth; But the child was safe--and my tale is o’er.”

“But your payment?” a dozen voices ask, And le Capitaine smiles in his deep disdain; “Pardon, mesdames! for a deed of love No soldier his palm with gold would stain; Only this boon did I ever crave-- One look at her angel face again!

“Qu’importe? she is rich and happy, and I----” He pauses--la Comtesse has left her throne; Once more on his breast a fair head lies, Once more round his neck are white arms thrown, And sweet lips murmur, “Mon brave! mon brave! Let my poor love for the past atone!”

The play is ended--the guests depart-- La Comtesse was none so fair after all! But many an eye looks back with regret On the broad domain, and the princely hall, That Enguerrande’s child with her hand bestows On the scarred and sun-burned Capitaine Paul.

――_Tid Bits._

The King’s Kiss.[414]

A king rode forth one summer morn, his vast domain to see; Through fields of wheat and fields of corn, rode on his majesty: Quoth he, “A mighty king am I; whate’er I say must be, For none there lives that dare deny a favor asked by me.”

The king in search of rest and shade, dismounted in a dell, Where, drawing water, stood a maid beside a mossy well; With courtly bow the thirsty king, the proffered draught received, And as he drank, a gallant thing his royal mind conceived.

“Fair girl,” said he, “those lips of thine were surely made to kiss, And fain I’d press them close to mine, refuse me not that bliss.” “No, no,” the blushing lass replied, “no kiss you’ll get from me, For I’m a true and promised bride, to one who’s far at sea.”

“I am the King,” the monarch said, “must I be disobeyed?” The maiden slowly dropped her head, and trembled, sore afraid: Then looking up with marble face, and wet but brave blue eye, Said she, “Ere thus my troth debase, within the well I die!”

“Enough,” the conquered sovereign cried, “this ring in honor wear, For truly have I found a bride, as pure as she is fair.” The king rode off a wiser man than oft is monarch’s lot, And deemed that naught was sweeter than the kiss he never got.

――_George M. Vickers._

[414] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of Copyright.]

Contrasts in Shakespeare.

Oration delivered at the Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages, June, 1886.

Through the whole of Shakespeare’s plays, we find every prominent character stamped with a separate individuality, which is preserved in every detail and characteristic, whether in the insane jealousy of Othello, the impetuosity of Harry Hotspur, the constancy of Portia, the vindictiveness of Shylock, the wickedness of Don John, or the benign, forgiving spirit of Prospero.

There is a silvery vein of wit threading his plays, gleaming and flashing like a sparkling brook in the sunshine.

It runs smoothly in the calmly-uttered and thoughtful sentences of Hamlet; it bubbles and laughs in the saucy badinage of Beatrice and Celia; seeks the shadow in the melancholy of Jacques; enters the realm of the pun in the wordy self-assertion of Polonius, and descends to the comic and sometimes the vulgar in Falstaff and Dogberry.

In the character of Hamlet we find a keen sense of humor, overcast by the ever-present suspicion of his father’s foul end, and a vague distrust of those around him. A certain sarcasm lurks in the depths, and imparts an incisiveness to every well-turned sentence. He says to Guildenstern:

HAMLET.――Will you play upon this pipe?

Guildenstern replies:

GUILD.――My lord, I cannot.

HAM.――I pray you.

GUILD.――Believe me, I cannot.

HAM.――I do beseech you.

GUILD.――I know no touch of it, my lord.

HAM.――’Tis as easy as lying: Govern these ventages with your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most excellent music. Look you, these are the stops.

GUILD.――But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill.

HAM.――Why, look you, now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak! ’Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Hamlet deals largely in simile and metaphor; no finer instance occurring than in the passage where he is called upon to account for the body of Polonius. Rosencranz, repelling his insinuations, asks:

ROS.――Take you me for a sponge, my lord?

HAM.――Ay, sir, that soaks up the king’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.

With a feeling of relief we turn to merry, heart-whole Beatrice, and we glory in the ease with which she puts to rout the valiant soldier Benedick. With what exquisite nonchalance she remarks:

BEAT.――I wonder that you will still be talking, Signor Benedick, nobody marks you.

She throws down the gauntlet of defiance to Cupid in the words:

BEAT.――I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me.

And she retains her woman’s right to the last word in her parting shot:

BEAT.――You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.

Her merry derision of Don Pedro is shown in her reply to his gallant offer:

DON P.――Will you have me, my lady?

BEAT.――No, my lord, unless I could have another for working days. Your grace is too costly to wear every day.

Of the same bright, refreshing character is Celia, but Beatrice is more brusque, while Celia has a tender vein of womanliness which tones her raillery, while her sprightliness is more strongly thrown out in the early scenes of the play by its contrast with the constantly recurring melancholy of Rosalind. This antithesis is clearly observable in the following:

CEL.――Why cousin! why Rosalind! Cupid have mercy! not a word?

ROS.――Not one to throw at a dog.

CEL.――No, thy words are too precious to cast away upon curs; throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.

ROS.――Then were two cousins laid up; when the one should be lamed with reasons and the other mad without any.

CEL.――But is this all for your father?

ROS.――No, some of it is for my child’s father. Oh, how full of briers is this working-day world.

CEL.――They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats will catch them.

ROS.――I could shake them off my coat; these burs are in my heart.

CEL.――Hem them away.

ROS.――I would try if I could cry “hem” and have him.

CEL.――Come, come; wrestle with thy affections.

ROS.――O, they take the part of a better wrestler than myself!

CEL.――O, a good wish upon you! You will try in time in despite of a fall.

After Rosalind and her cousin leave the court for the Forest of Arden, Rosalind’s spirits rise, and then it is she who becomes the prominent sprightly character in the play. She receives Orlando after a short absence with the reproach:

ROS.――Why how now, Orlando, where have you been all this while? You a lover! And you serve me such another trick, never come in my sight more.

ORL.――My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

ROS.――Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him on the shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heartwhole.

ORL.――Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

ROS.――Nay, and you be so tardy, come no more in my sight: I had as lief be wooed of a snail.

ORL.――Of a snail!

ROS.――Ay, of a snail; for though he comes slowly, he carries his house on his head; a better jointure, I think, than you make a woman.

In Polonius we meet with a character in direct contrast to those we have mentioned. The old gentleman, like many of the present day, loves to hear himself talk, and, owing to his high political position, has probably become so accustomed to receiving the applause of fawning courtiers, that the habit of punning has become a second nature to him; even after receiving the gentle reprimand of his Queen, it still is impossible for him to abstain from them, as is instanced in the conversation on the cause of Hamlet’s peculiarities.

POL.――My liege and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad: Mad call I it; for, to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go.

QUEEN.―― More matter, with less art.

POL.――Madam, I swear I use no art at all, That he is mad, ’tis true; ’tis true ’tis pity, And pity ’tis ’tis true; a foolish figure; But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him, then; and now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect, defective, comes by cause: Thus it remains, and the remainder thus.

Let us now turn to Portia, happy, witty Portia, with a soul far above the fickle spendthrift, Bassanio, but with all a woman’s devotion, adoring him in spite of his faults. Her gentle dignity in accepting the hoped-for result of his choice of the caskets is sweetly evinced in the following:

POR.――You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am; though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish, To wish myself much better; yet, for you I would be trebled twenty times myself; A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times More rich; That only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account; but the full sum of me Is sum of nothing, which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king.

In the Trial Scene we discover the contrasting side of Portia’s character, and we will close with a quotation from her speech to Shylock.

POR.――The quality of mercy is not strained, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The thronèd monarch better than his crown; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice.

_F. Lizzie Peirce._

Merry Mike.

Merry Mike from the door bounded off to his play, With his head in his hat on a blustery day; When the wind of a sudden came frolicking down And lifted Mike’s hat from his round little crown. Don’t you call that funny, I’d like to know?

Then he made up his mind to return to the house, But the merry wind pushed itself under his blouse. And it roared and it roared, and he puffed as he ran, Till it just knocked over this queer little man. “Ho! ho! ho!” said Mike, and he said “ha! ha! ha! I’ll get up again, old wind, you see.”

Then the wind with a flurry of bluster and racket Went crowding and crowding under his jacket, And it lifted him off of his two little feet, And carried him bodily over the street. Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho!

But the wind, with its antics, was plainly not through, For fiercer and fiercer, and fiercer it blew, Till making one effort of fury intense It carried Mike bodily over the fence.

He met there a somewhat discouraged old cow, That had blown thither too, though he failed to see how, Then he smiled and said, “Make yourself easy, my friend, Only keep your mind quiet and things will soon mend,” Mike laughed ha! ha! ha! and he laughed ho! ho! ho! “For the wind is just playing, old cow, you know.”

As he scampered off home, what above should he see But the roof of a shed that had lodged in a tree; And he laughed and he laughed till his sides fairly ached, For, he said, this is better than wedding or wake. And he roared, ha! ha! ha! ho! ho! ho!

“That boy,” say the terrified folks of the town, “He would laugh just the same if the sky tumbled down.” “Indeed, and I would,” answered Mike, with a grin, “For I might get a piece with a lot of stars in.” And he chuckled, he! he! he! and he chuckled, ho! ho! ho! The very idea delighted him so.

His father complained to the priest, “Now, I say, Mike never stops laughing by night or by day.” “Let him laugh,” spoke the priest, “he will change by and by; ’Tis better to laugh than to grumble and cry; It’s the _way_ with the lad; let him laugh if he like, And be glad you’ve a son that’s as merry as Mike.”

The Village Choir.

Half a bar, half a bar, Half a bar onward! Into an awful ditch, Choir and Precentor hitch, Into a mess of pitch, They led the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered. Oh! that Precentor’s look, When the sopranos took Their own time and hook, From the Old Hundred.

Screeched all the trebles here, Boggled the tenors there, Raising the parson’s hair, While his mind wandered; Theirs not to reason why This psalm was pitched too high; Theirs but to gasp and cry Out the Old Hundred.

Trebles to right of them, Tenors to left of them, Basses in front of them, Bellowed and thundered. Stormed they with shout and yell; Not wise they sang, nor well, Drowning the sexton’s bell, While all the church wondered.

Dire the Precentor’s glare, Flashed his pitchfork in air, Sounding the fresh key to bear Out the Old Hundred. Swiftly he turned his back, Reached he his hat from rack, Then from the screaming pack Himself he sundered.

Tenors to right of him, Trebles to left of him, Discords behind him, Bellowed and thundered. Oh, the wild howls they wrought; Right to the end they fought! Some tune they sang, but not―― Not the Old Hundred.

The Book Agent Beats the Bandit.

Brown, Jones and Robinson, three of as good fellows as ever melted the heart of a country trader to the merry music of the pliant chin, sat one evening of last week in the smoking compartment of a chair car on the R. and T. H. Western Railroad. With them was a tall, thin, dyspeptic man with sandy hair, dressed in a rusty suit of black. Nature had endowed him with long legs, and his tailor with short pants. His coat collar was rich enough in accumulated grease to keep a soap factory going for a month. His mouth was of brass, and his cheek as hard as last year’s cider. He was a book agent. Already had he gobbled up the drummers for a Life of Christ and Pocket Encyclopedia of 215 numbers, when suddenly a real Jesse-James-like train bandit opened the door and stood, pistol in hand, before the quartet.

Brown’s soul sank down into the heels of his boots. Beads of perspiration big as snow balls stood on Jones’ classic brow, while his hair lifted his hat two solid inches from the crown of his head. Robinson murmured the first verse of “Ever of Thee I’m Fondly Dreaming,” and thought he was praying. But the book agent bounded from his seat with a “How do, stranger? Delighted to see you. Do let me show you my superb ‘History of Boone County,’ a perfect bonanza of domestic peace and happiness to every householder who is fortunate enough to possess one. Three hundred pages of elegant letter press, printed on toned paper and embellished with fine steel engravings and an official map of the State. A carefully compiled, correct topographical and historical――――”

“Shut up!” roared the bandit.

“Shut up? You bet it will, and fastens itself with a double-action brass clasp――my own invention――and from its simplicity of design and beauty of construction worth half the price of the book. Given away, sir; literally given away, for $3 in boards or $4.50 in morocco with beveled edges.”

“If yer say――――”

“I do say it, sir. Look at this exquisite title page with a vignette portrait of the gifted author. Here you see a genealogical abstract chart in which you can write the names of your illustrious ancestors and beloved family――births, marriages, deaths and――――”

“Stop!” shrieked the bandit, as the agent grasped him by the buttonhole.

“You may well say ‘stop,’ sir; I’ve said enough to make you ache to possess this beautiful volume, but I haven’t begun to――――”

“Sit down!” the robber roared in a voice that made the puffs of the engine sound like the sighs of a sick zephyr, and loosened all the joints of Jones’s limbs.

“Biographical sketches of eminent men, glowing obituary, with an original poem on death, agricultural statistics, tables of mortality, valuable notes on immigration, trade reports, all the geological――――”

“Lemme go, or I’ll blow the roof of yer head off,” shrieked the robber, as he wrested himself from the agent’s grasp and dropped off the rear car into the gathering gloom of the coming night.

Then Robinson drew from his pocket his faithful revolver and looked big. Jones rolled his sleeves up and asked where the villain was gone to. Brown fished from under the spittoon a roll of bills and hoped they didn’t think he had been scared. But the agent sank wearily to his seat, and for the first time in all that long journey was silent for nearly four consecutive minutes.

――_Evansville Argus._

Not in the Ranks.

The old army overcoat that used to be such a familiar sight on our streets is one of the rarest now; indeed, it is so seldom seen that we involuntarily turn and gaze after it, as something that brings sad and often cruel memories. The other day an old man wearing a coat of this kind, which reached to his heels, stopped at a cottage a little way out of town and asked leave to rest awhile on the porch.

“I’m a bit tired,” he said to the woman who opened the door, “an’ if you don’t mind I’ll sit here and rest myself for a spell.”

“You’re welcome,” said the woman kindly, with a glance at the martial blue. Then she left him alone, but after a little while returned with a bowl of coffee and a plate of white biscuit.

“Eat,” she said, gently; “I had a boy who was a soldier.”

“But I’m not a soldier,” answered the old man. “I never was a soldier; my boy went to war and was killed. He was all I had, too. This coat was his; seems like he’s near me when I have it on. I gave him to his country; the handsomest and bravest boy he was, too, in the whole regiment. God bless him. He did his duty, died on the field, and this coat was all that came back to his poor old dad. No; I never was a soldier.”

The woman went in and brought out some cake and the whitest honey, and added it to the coffee and biscuit.

“Are you alone in the world?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” answered the old man, cheerfully; “I’ve got a sister, but she’s old and lame, and she has a daughter that is sickly and ailing. You see I have them to work for, and they are a sight of comfort to me. Many’s the time I’d have broken down since Mary died but for them poor critters. Mary was my wife, ma’am; she was a master hand to nuss sick folks, and she thought after Tim died as it were her duty to go into the hospital service and nuss the soldiers, and she died these sixteen years ago; but she did a heap of good work first. Many a soldier has kissed her shadow on the wall! Mary, darlin’, God wanted ye in the ranks up there; I’ve often wished that I had been a soldier, if only to be fit for the little mother and Tim; but I never was.”

He drank the coffee, ate the good food thankfully, and offered to pay for it with some hoarded pieces of old worn silver; but the woman shook her head.

“Put back your money. My son was a soldier,” she said.

“But I am not a soldier. Well, well,” (as he looked into her face,) “I thank you, and I take it for his sake.”

He wished good-night to his kind entertainer and turned away. As he walked off, slow and limping, bent by infirmity, the long skirt of his army overcoat struck bright and blue against the splendor of the sunset; he shaded his eyes with one trembling hand and looked wistfully at the rose and amethyst door that seemed to open in the west. What saw he there? A little, round-shouldered woman with a small, homely face; a lank, overgrown boy, with sparse, red hair. Ay, and of such as these are angels made. So, watching, he passed down into the shadows and disappeared.

The woman at the gate looked after him.

“No soldier!” she said gently, “but I wonder if the boy who died on his first battle-field ever fought as he has, or sacrificed as much to his country? All the soldiers didn’t go into the war with flying flags and rolling drums. Some of them stayed at home and fought harder battles. I’m glad I gave him a bite and a sup. He is a soldier, and a brave one, too, and one day he will know it!”

And I think she was right.

――_Detroit Free Press._

The Old Actor’s Story.

First Honor at the Third Annual Commencement of the Mt. Vernon Institute of Elocution and Languages, 1886.

Mine is a wild, strange story,――the strangest you ever heard; There are many[415] who won’t believe it, but it’s gospel[416] every word; It’s the biggest drama of any in a long,[417] adventurous life; The scene was a ship, and the actors――were myself and my new-wed wife.

You musn’t mind if I ramble, and lose the thread now and then; I’m old, you know, and I wander――it’s a way with old women and men, For their lives lie all behind[418] them, and their thoughts go far away,[419] And are tempted afield, like children, lost on a summer day.

The years must be five-and-twenty that have passed since that awful night, But I see it again this evening, I can never shut[420] out the sight. We were only a few weeks married, I and the wife, you know, When we had an offer for Melbourne,[421] and made up our minds to go.

We’d acted together in England, traveling up and down[422] With a strolling band of players, going from town to town; We played the lovers together――we were leading lady and gent―― And at last we played in earnest, and straight[423] to the church we went.

The parson gave us his blessing,[424] and I gave Nellie the ring,[425] And swore that I’d love and cherish, and endow her with everything. How we smiled at that part of the service when I said “I thee endow!” But as to the “love and cherish,” friends, I meant to keep that[426] vow.

We were only a couple of strollers; we had coin when the show was good, When it wasn’t we went without[427] it, and we did the best we could. We were happy and loved each other, and laughed at the shifts we made,―― Where love makes plenty of sunshine, there poverty casts no shade.

Well, at last we got to London, and did pretty well for a bit; Then the business dropped to nothing, and the manager took a flit,――[428] Stepped off one Sunday morning, forgetting the treasury call; But our luck was in, and we managed right on our feet[429] to fall.

We got an offer for Melbourne,――got it that very week. Those were the days when thousands went over their fortunes to seek, The days of the great gold fever, and a manager thought the spot Good for a “spec,” and took us as actors among his lot.

We hadn’t a friend in England――we’d only ourselves to please―― And we jumped at the chance of trying our fortune across the seas.[430] We went on a sailing vessel, and the journey was long and rough; We hadn’t been out a fortnight before we had had enough.

But use is a second nature, and we’d got not to mind a storm, When misery came upon us,――came in a hideous form.[431] My poor little wife fell ailing, grew worse, and at last so bad That the doctor said she was dying,――I thought ’twould have sent me mad,[432]――

Dying where leagues[433] of billows seemed to shriek for their prey, And the nearest land was hundreds[434]――ay, thousands――of miles away. She raved one night in a fever, and the next lay still as death, So still I’d to bend and listen[435] for the faintest sign of breath.

She seemed in a sleep,[436] and sleeping, with a smile[437] on her thin, wan face; She passed away[438] one morning, while I prayed[439] to the throne of grace. I knelt in the little cabin, and prayer after prayer I said, Till the surgeon came and told me it was useless――my wife was dead!

Dead! I wouldn’t believe it. They forced me away that night, For I raved in my wild despairing, the shock sent me mad outright. I was shut in the farthest cabin,[440] and I beat my head on the side, And all day long in my madness, “They’ve murdered her!”[441] I cried.

They locked me away from my fellows,――put me in cruel[442] chains, It seems I had seized a weapon to beat out the surgeon’s brains. I cried in my wild, mad fury, that he was a devil[443] sent To gloat o’er the frenzied anguish with which my heart was rent.

I spent that night with the irons heavy upon my wrists, And my wife lay dead quite near[444] me. I beat[445] with my fettered fists, Beat at my prison panels, and then――O God!――and then I heard the shrieks of women[446] and the tramp of hurrying men.

I heard the cry, “Ship a-fire!” caught up by a hundred throats, And over the roar the captain shouting to lower the boats; Then cry upon cry, and curses, and the crackle of burning wood, And the place[447] grew hot as a furnace, I could feel it where I stood.

I beat[448] at the door and shouted, but never a sound came back, And the timbers above me started, till right through a yawning crack[449] I could see the flames shoot upward, seizing on mast and sail, Fanned in their burning fury by the breath of the howling gale.

I dashed[450] at the door in fury, shrieking, “I will not die! Die in this burning prison!”――but I caught no answering cry. Then, suddenly, right upon me, the flames crept up with a roar, And their fiery tongues shot forward, cracking my prison door.

I was free[451]――with the heavy iron door dragging me down[452] to death; I fought my way to the cabin,[453] choked with the burning breath Of the flames that danced around me[454] like man-mocking fiends at play, And then――O God! I can see it, and shall to my dying day.

There[455] lay my Nell as they’d left her, dead in her berth that night; The flames flung a smile[456] on her features,――a horrible,[456a] lurid light, God knows how I reached and touched her, but I found myself by her side; I thought she was living a moment, I forgot that my Nell had died.

In the shock of those awful seconds reason came back to my brain;[457] I heard a sound as of breathing,[458] and then a low cry of pain; Oh, was there mercy in heaven?[459] Was there a God in the skies? The dead woman’s lips were moving,[460] the dead woman opened her eyes.

I cursed[461] like a madman raving――I cried to her, “Nell! my Nell!”[462] They had left us alone and helpless, alone in that burning hell, They had left us alone to perish――forgotten me living――and she Had been left for the fire to bear her to heaven,[463] instead of the sea.[464]

I clutched at her,[465] roused her shrieking, the stupor was on her still; I seized her in spite of my fetters,――fear gave a giant’s will. God knows how I did it, but blindly I fought through the flames and the wreck Up――up[466] to the air, and brought her safe to the untouched deck.

We’d a moment of life together,――a moment of life, the time, For one last word to each other,――’twas a moment supreme, sublime. From the trance we’d for death mistaken, the heat had brought her to life, And I was fettered and helpless, so we lay there,[467] husband and wife!

It was but a moment, but ages seemed to have passed away, When a shout came over the water,[468] and I looked, and lo, there lay, Right away from the vessel,[469] a boat that was standing by; They had seen our forms on the vessel, as the flames lit up the sky.

I shouted a prayer to Heaven,[470] then called to my wife,[471] and she Tore with new strength at my fetters――God helped her, and I was free; Then over the burning bulwarks we leaped[472] for one chance of life. Did they save us? Well, here I am,[473] sir, and yonder’s[474] my dear old wife.

We were out in the boat till daylight, when a great ship passing by Took us on board, and at Melbourne[475] landed us by and by. We’ve played many parts in dramas since we went on that famous trip, But ne’er such a scene together as we had on the burning ship!

――_George R. Sims._

GESTURES. [415] H. O. [416] H. F. [417] H. Sw. [418] H. B. [419] H. L. [420] V. HO. [421] Left H. L. [422] H. Sw. [423] H. F. [424] B. P. H. F. [425] H. O. [426] H. F. [427] H. L. [428] Left H. L. [429] B. D. F. [430] Left H. L. [431] V. H. O. [432] Hand to head. [433] B. H. O. [434] H. L. [435] Bend in listening attitude. [436] D. O. [437] Turn to P. [438] A. O. [439] Clasp hands. [440] Left H. L. [441] B. Cl. [442] Sp. [443] Cl. D. [444] H. L. [445] Sp. [446] A. O. [447] B. H. O. [448] Sp. [449] A. O. [450] B. V. H. F. [451] B. H. O. [452] B. D. F. [453] H. O. [454] B. H. O. [455] D. O. [456] P. D. O. [457] Hand to head. [458] Listening. [459] A. O. [460] D. O. [461] B. Cl. D. [462] B. Par. D. O. [463] A. O. [464] D. O. [465] Sp. [466] A. O. [467] B. D. O. [468] Look to Left. [469] Left H. O. [470] A. O. [471] H. O. [472] B. Par. H. O. to left. [473] Point to self. [474] Ind. H. O. [475] Left H. O.

Ben Hassan’s Dream.

I stood alone beside a mighty sea; The waves in awful majesty swept in And crashed upon the strand. Far out beyond The snowy-crested line of breakers rode A ship; and as she rose and fell her tall Masts seemed to trace a message on the sky: “O, ship! O, restless waste!” I cried, “Be true, Be merciful, that they who watch on board, And they that wait at home, may once more clasp The hands and press the lips of those they love.”

The vision changed. I sat beneath my tent. ’Twas noon. Upon my right the desert sands Stretched hot and gleaming till they touched the sky; Upon my left lay leagues of sand; before, Behind; which way I looked was burning sand: The fierce sun overhead poured down a stream Of heat intolerable. Silence reigned. The caravan had gone. I leaned low down To hearken, but in vain. Abandoned! Lost! Would my siesta prove a sleep of death?

Another scene: The sun had set, and peace Pervaded hill and dale. A sweet perfume Of flowers filled the evening air. The sound Of tinkling bells came faintly from a plain Where camels browsed. The slender minarets, And stately domes of mosques, proclaimed a town, That nestled ’mid the distant, waving palms. A troop of horsemen slowly came in view; Their banner bore the crescent and the star. I knelt and cried: “Praise be to Allah’s name!”

And then, it seemed, I was within a grot That opened on a placid lake. The moon Was at the full and o’er the water threw A track of silver sheen. Beside me stood A child with upturned face. I placed my hand Upon its head, when, lo! from out the lake Arose a horrid, monster form. It glared With baleful eyes and then advanced. “Keep off! Keep off!” I shrieked, then seized the child and turned To fly――when suddenly the vision changed:

Once more I dwelt beneath my parents’ roof, A happy, careless child. The olden scenes Were fresh again, and things forgot had life And form. O home!――how blest are they that have A home!――sweet haven sure when others fail! “Oh, do not leave me, darling boy, my own!” It was my mother’s voice. Ah, yes, her eyes Were beaming love, as angel-like she smiled And kissed my brow. And, as I watched her face, I woke and wept to know ’twas but a dream.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Six o’Clock.

Down by the rugged coast of Maine Breaks on the air the glad refrain That welcomes old Time on his westward flight, That makes the dull eye of the toiler bright, And heralds the bliss of a single night; Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, At six o’clock and six times a week.

Loveliest hour of all the day, Blest is thy sweet and mystic sway: Affection and hope in their might are rife In each watching child; in the waiting wife; The father that tramps from his daily strife; The widow’s son and his fond embrace; In the smile that beams on her pallid face.

Who hath not felt the wondrous spell, Ushered by whistle and by bell? A halo of peace round each home it flings; To poor and to weary relief it brings; And e’en the black tea-kettle gaily sings: O moments calm! Ye foretell the rest That soon must come to each human breast.

Westward speed on o’er hill and dell, City and town and cot to tell; On, on, like a courier, dash away, Hard pressing the heels of departing day Till stopped by the waters of “’Frisco” Bay! Thus bell and whistle with clang and shriek, At six o’clock, and six times a week.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Charlie’s Story.

I was sitting in the twilight, With my Charlie on my knees, Little two-year old, forever Teasing “Talk a tory to me pease.” “_Now_,” I said, “talk _me_ a ’tory.” “Well,” reflectively, “I’ll ’mence. Mamma, I did see a kitty, Great big kitty on the fence.”

Mamma smiles. Five little fingers Cover up her laughing lips; “Is oo laughing?” “Yes” I tell him, But I kiss the finger tips; And I say: “Now tell another.” “Well” (all smiles) “now I will ’mence. Mamma, I did see a doggie, Great big doggie on the fence.”

“Rather similar, your stories, Aren’t they, dear?” A sober look Swept across the pretty forehead; Then he sudden courage took. “But I know a nice _new_ ’tory ’Plendid, Mamma! Hear me ’mence, Mamma, I did see a――elfunt Great big elfunt on the fence!”

The Months.

A PAGEANT.

PERSONIFICATIONS.

JANUARY. } FEBRUARY. } MARCH. } APRIL. } JULY. } Gentlemen. MAY. } Ladies. AUGUST. } JUNE. } OCTOBER. } SEPTEMBER.} DECEMBER.} NOVEMBER. }

ROBIN REDBREASTS; LAMBS AND SHEEP; NIGHTINGALE AND NESTLINGS.

_Various Flowers, Fruits, etc._

SCENE:――A COTTAGE WITH ITS GROUNDS.

(_A room in a large, comfortable cottage; a fire burning on the hearth; a table on which the breakfast things have been left standing. January discovered seated at the fire._)

JANUARY.

Cold the day and cold the drifted snow, Dim the day until the cold dark night. [_Stirs the fire._]

Crackle, sparkle, fagot; embers, glow: Some one may be plodding through the snow, Longing for a light, For the light that you and I can show. If no one else should come, Here Robin Redbreast’s welcome to a crumb, And never troublesome: Robin, why don’t you come and fetch your crumb?

Here’s butter for my bunch of bread, And sugar for your crumb; Here’s room upon the hearth-rug, If you’ll only come.

In your scarlet waistcoat, With your keen bright eye, Where are you loitering? Wings were made to fly!

Make haste to breakfast, Come and fetch your crumb, For I’m as glad to see you As you are glad to come.

(_Two Robin Redbreasts are seen tapping with their beaks at the lattice, which January opens. The birds flutter in, hop about the floor, and peck up the crumbs and sugar thrown to them. They have scarcely finished their meal, when a knock is heard at the door. January hangs a guard in front of the fire, and opens to February, who appears with a bunch of snowdrops in her hand._)

JANUARY.

Good-morrow, sister.

FEBRUARY.

Brother, joy to you! I’ve brought some snowdrops; only just a few, But quite enough to prove the world awake, Cheerful and hopeful in the frosty dew, And for the pale sun’s sake.

(_She hands a few of her snowdrops to January, who retires into the background. While February stands arranging the remaining snowdrops in a glass of water on the window-sill, a soft butting and bleating are heard outside. She opens the door, and sees one foremost lamb, with other sheep and lambs bleating and crowding towards her._)

FEBRUARY.

O you, you little wonder, come――come in, You wonderful, you woolly, soft, white lamb: You panting mother ewe, come too, And lead that tottering twin Safe in: Bring all your bleating kith and kin, Except the horny ram.

(_February opens a second door in the background, and the little flock files through into a warm and sheltered compartment out of sight._)

The lambkin tottering in its walk, With just a fleece to wear; The snowdrop drooping on its stalk So slender,―― Snowdrop and lamb, a pretty pair, Braving the cold for our delight, Both white, Both tender.

(_A rattling of door and windows; branches seen without, tossing violently to and fro._)

How the doors rattle, and the branches sway! Here’s brother March comes whirling on his way, With winds that eddy and sing.

(_She turns the handle of the door, which bursts open, and discloses March hastening up, both hands full of violets and anemones._)

FEBRUARY.

Come, show me what you bring; For I have said my say, fulfilled my day, And must away.

MARCH.

(_Stopping short on the threshold._)

I blow and arouse, Through the world’s wide house, To quicken the torpid earth: Grappling I fling Each feeble thing, But bring strong life to the birth. I wrestle and frown, And topple down; I wrench, I rend, I uproot; Yet the violet Is born where I set The sole of my flying foot.

(_Hands violets and anemones to February, who retires into the background._)

And in my wake Frail wind-flowers quake, And the catkins promise fruit. I drive ocean ashore With rush and roar, And he cannot say me nay: My harpstrings all Are the forests tall, Making music when I play. And as others perforce, So I on my course Run and needs must run, With sap on the mount, And buds past count, And rivers and clouds and sun, With seasons and breath And time and death And all that has yet begun.

(_Before March has done speaking, a voice is heard approaching accompanied by a twittering of birds. April comes along singing, and stands outside and out of sight to finish her song._)

APRIL.

(_Outside._)

Pretty little three Sparrows in a tree, Light upon the wing; Though you cannot sing, You can chirp of Spring: Chirp of Spring to me, Sparrows, from your tree.

Never mind the showers, Chirp about the flowers, While you build a nest: Straws from east and west, Feathers from your breast, Make the snuggest bowers In a world of flowers.

You must dart away From the chosen spray, You intrusive third Extra little bird; Join the unwedded herd! These have done with play, And must work to-day.

APRIL.

(_Appearing at the open door._)

Good-morrow and good-bye: if others fly, Of all the flying months you’re the most flying.

MARCH.

You’re hope and sweetness, April.

APRIL.

Birth means dying, As wings and wind mean flying; So you and I and all things fly or die; And sometimes I sit sighing to think of dying. But meanwhile I’ve a rainbow in my showers, And a lapful of flowers, And these dear nestlings, aged three hours; And here’s their mother sitting, Their father merely flitting To find their breakfast somewhere in my bowers.

(_As she speaks April shows March her apron full of flowers and nest full of birds. March wanders away into the grounds. April, without entering the cottage, hangs over the hungry nestlings watching them._)

APRIL.

What beaks you have, you funny things, What voices, shrill and weak; Who’d think anything that sings Could sing with such a beak? Yet you’ll be nightingales some day And charm the country-side, When I’m away and far away, And May is queen and bride.

(_May arrives unperceived by April, and gives her a kiss. April starts and looks round._)

APRIL.

Ah, May, good-morrow, May, and so good-bye.

MAY.

That’s just your way, sweet April, smile and sigh; Your sorrows half in fun, Begun and done And turned to joy while twenty seconds run. At every step a flower Fed by your last bright shower,――

(_She divides an armful of all sorts of flowers with April, who strolls away through the garden._)

MAY.

And gathering flowers I listened to the song Of every bird in bower.

The world and I are far too full of bliss, To think or plan or toil or care; The sun is waxing strong, The days are waning long, And all that is, Is fair.

Here are May buds of lily and of rose, And here’s my namesake-blossom, May; And from a watery spot See here, forget-me-not, With all that blows To-day.

Hark to my linnets from the hedges green, Blackbird and lark and thrush and dove, And every nightingale And cuckoo tells its tale, And all they mean Is love.

(_June appears at the further end of the garden, coming slowly towards May, who seeing her, exclaims:_)

MAY.

Surely you’re come too early, sister June.

JUNE.

Indeed I feel as if I came too soon To round your young May moon, And set the world a-gasping at my noon, Yet must I come. So here are strawberries, Sun-flushed and sweet, as many as you please; And there are full-blown roses by the score, More roses and yet more.

(_May, eating strawberries, withdraws among the flower beds._)

JUNE.

The sun does all my long day’s work for me, Raises and ripens everything; I need but sit beneath a leafy tree And watch and sing.

(_Seats herself in the shadow of a laburnum._)

Or if I’m lulled by note of bird and bee, Or lulled by noontide’s silence deep, I need but nestle down beneath my tree And drop asleep.

(_June falls asleep; and is not awakened by the voice of July, who behind the scenes is heard half singing, half calling._)

JULY.

(_Behind the scenes._)

Blue flags, yellow flags, all freckled, Which will you take? Yellow, blue, speckled! Take which you will, speckled, blue, yellow, Each in its way has not a fellow.

(_Enter July, a basket of many-colored irises swung upon his shoulders, a bunch of ripe grass in one hand, and a plate piled full of peaches balanced upon the other. He steals up to June, and tickles her with the grass. She wakes._)

JUNE.

What, here already?

JULY.

Nay, my tryst is kept; The longest day slipped by you while you slept. I’ve brought you one curved pyramid of bloom,

(_Hands her the plate._)

Not flowers, but peaches, gathered where the bees, As downy, bask and boom In sunshine and in gloom of trees. But get you in, a storm is at my heels; The whirlwind whistles and wheels, Lightning flashes and thunder peals, Flying and following hard upon my heels.

(_June takes shelter in a thickly-woven arbor._)

JULY.

The roar of a storm sweeps up From the east to the lurid west, The darkening sky, like a cup, Is filled with rain to the brink;

The sky is purple and fire, Blackness and noise and unrest; The earth, parched with desire, Opens her mouth to drink.

Send forth thy thunder and fire, Turn over thy brimming cup, O sky, appease the desire Of earth in her parched unrest;

Pour out drink to her thirst, Her famishing life lift up; Make thyself fair as at first, With a rainbow for thy crest.

Have done with thunder and fire, O sky with the rainbow crest; O earth, have done with desire, Drink, and drink deep, and rest.

(_Enter August, carrying a sheaf made up of different kinds of grain._)

JULY.

Hail, brother August, flushed and warm, And scathless from my storm. Your hands are full of corn, I see, As full as hands can be: And earth and air both smell as sweet as balm In their recovered calm, And that they owe to me.

(_July retires into the shrubbery._)

AUGUST.

Wheat sways heavy, oats are airy, Barley bows a graceful head, Short and small shoots up canary, Each of these is some one’s bread; Bread for man or bread for beast, Or at very least A bird’s savory feast. Men are brethren of each other, One in flesh and one in food; And a sort of foster brother, Is the litter, or the brood Of that folk in fur and feather, Who, with men together, Breast the wind and weather.

(_August descries September toiling across the lawn._)

AUGUST.

My harvest home is ended; and I spy September drawing nigh With the first thought of Autumn in her eye, And the first sigh Of Autumn wind among her locks that fly.

(_September arrives, carrying upon her head a basket heaped high with fruit._)

SEPTEMBER.

Unload me, brother. I have brought a few Plums and these pears for you, A dozen kinds of apples, one or two Melons, some figs all bursting through Their skins; and pearled with dew These damsons, violet-blue.

(_While September is speaking, August lifts the basket to the ground, selects various fruits, and withdraws slowly along the gravel walk, eating a pear as he goes._)

SEPTEMBER.

My song is half a sigh Because my green leaves die; Sweet are my fruits, but all my leaves are dying; And well may Autumn sigh, And well may I Who watch the sere leaves flying.

My leaves that fade and fall, I note you one and all; I call you, and the autumn wind is calling, Lamenting for your fall, And for the pall You spread on earth in falling.

And here’s a song of flowers to suit such hours: A song of the last lilies, the last flowers, Amid my withering bowers.

In the sunny garden bed Lilies look so pale, Lilies droop the head In the shady, grassy vale; If all alike they pine In shade and in shine, If everywhere they grieve, Where will lilies live?

(_October enters briskly, some leafy twigs bearing different sorts of nuts in one hand, and a long, ripe hop-vine trailing after him from the other. A dahlia is stuck in his button-hole._)

OCTOBER.

Nay, cheer up, sister. Life is not quite over, Even if the year has done with corn and clover, With flowers and leaves; besides, in fact, it’s true; Some leaves remain, and some flowers too, For me and you. Now see my crops.

[_Offering his produce to September._]

I’ve brought you nuts and hops; And when the leaf drops, why the walnut drops.

(_October wreathes the hop-vines about September’s neck, and gives her the nut twigs. They enter the cottage together, but without shutting the door. She steps into the background; he advances to the hearth, removes the guard, stirs up the smouldering fire, and arranges several chestnuts ready to roast._)

OCTOBER.

Crack your first nut, light your first fire, Roast your chestnuts, crisp on the bar, Make the logs sparkle, stir the blaze higher; Logs are as cheery as sun or as star, Logs we can find wherever we are.

Spring, one soft day, will open the leaves, Spring, one bright day, will lure back the flowers; Never fancy my whistling wind grieves, Never fancy I’ve tears in my showers; Dance, nights and days! and dance on, my hours.

(_Sees November approaching._)

OCTOBER.

Here comes my youngest sister, looking dim And grim, With dismal ways. What cheer, November?

NOVEMBER.

(_Entering and shutting the door._)

Nought have I to bring, Tramping a-chill and shivering, Except these pine cones for a blaze,―― Except a fog which follows, And stuffs up all the hollows,―― Except a hoar frost here and there,―― Except some shooting stars, Which dart their luminous cars, Trackless and noiseless through the keen night air.

(_October, shrugging his shoulders, withdraws into the background, while November throws her pine cones on the fire and sits down listlessly._)

NOVEMBER.

The earth lies fast asleep, grown tired Of all that’s high or deep; There’s naught desired and naught required Save a sleep.

I rock the cradle of the earth, I lull her with a sigh; And know that she will wake to mirth By and bye.

(_Through the window December is seen running and leaping in the direction of the door. He knocks._)

NOVEMBER.

(_Calls out without rising._)

Ah, here’s my youngest brother come at last: Come in, December.

(_He opens the door and enters, loaded with evergreens in berry, etc._)

Come in and shut the door, For now it’s snowing fast; It snows, and will snow more and more; Don’t let it drift in on the floor. But you, you’re all aglow; how can you be Rosy and warm and smiling in the cold.

DECEMBER.

Nay, no closed doors for me, But open doors and open hearts and glee To welcome young and old. Dimmest and brightest month am I; My short days end, my lengthening days begin; What matters more or less sun in the sky, When all is sun within?

(_He begins making a wreath as he sings._)

Ivy and privet dark as night I weave with hips and haws a cheerful show, And holly for a beauty and delight, And milky mistletoe.

While high above them all I set Yew twigs and Christmas roses, pure and pale; Then Spring her snowdrop and her violet May keep, so sweet and frail;

May keep each merry singing bird, Of all her happy birds that singing build: For I’ve a carol which some shepherds heard Once in a wintry field.

(_While December concludes his song, all the other months troop in from the garden, or advance out of the background. The twelve join hands in a circle, and begin dancing round to a stately measure as the Curtain falls._)

――_Christina G. Rossetti._

Illustration: “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lockinvar?”

Uncle Ned’s Tale.

Well, lads, it was in summer time, and just at morning’s light We heard the “Boot and Saddle” sound: the foe was then in sight, Just winding round a distant hill[476] and opening on the plain. Each trooper looked with careful eye to girth and curb and rein. We snatched a hasty breakfast――we were old campaigners then: That morn, of all our splendid corps, we’d scarce one hundred men; But they were soldiers, tried and true, who’d rather die[477] than yield; The rest were scattered far and wide[478] o’er many a hard-fought field. Our trumpet now rang sharply out, and at a swinging-pace We left the bivouac behind;[479] and soon the eye could trace[480] The columns moving o’er the plain. Oh! ’twas a stirring sight To see two mighty armies there preparing for the fight: To watch the heavy masses, as, with practised, steady wheel, They opened out in slender lines of brightly flashing steel. Our place was on the farther flank,[481] behind some rising ground, That hid the stirring scene from view; but soon a booming sound Proclaimed the opening of the fight. Then war’s loud thunder rolled, And hurtling shells and whistling balls their deadly message told.

We hoped to have a gallant day; our hearts were all aglow; We longed for one wild, sweeping charge,[482] to chase the flying foe Our troopers marked the hours glide by, but still no orders came: They clutched their swords[483] and muttered words ’twere better not to name. For hours the loud artillery roared――the sun was at its height―― Still there we lay behind the hill,[484] shut out from all the fight! We heard the maddened charging yells, the ringing British cheers, And all the din of glorious war kept sounding in our ears. Our hearts with fierce impatience throbbed, we cursed the very hill That hid the sight: the evening fell, and we were idle still. The horses, too, were almost wild, and told with angry snort And blazing eye their fierce desire to join the savage sport.

When lower still the sun had sunk, and with it all our hope, A horseman, soiled with smoke and sweat, came dashing down the slope.[485] He bore the wished-for orders. “At last!” our Colonel cried: And as he read the brief dispatch, his glance was filled with pride. Then he who bore the orders, in a low, emphatic tone, The stern, expressive sentence spake “He _said it must be done_!” “It _shall_ be done!” our Colonel cried. “Men, look to strap and girth, We’ve work to do this day, will prove what every man is worth; Ay, work, my lads, will make amends for all our long delay―― The General says on us depends the fortune of the day!”

No order needed we to mount――each man was in his place, And stern and dangerous was the look on every veteran face. We trotted sharply up the hill,[486] and halted on the brow, And then that glorious field appeared.[487] Oh! lad, I see it now! But little time had we to spare for idle gazing then: Beneath us in the valley,[488] stood a dark-clad mass of men: It cut the British line in two. Our Colonel shouted, “There![489] Behold your work! Our orders are _to charge and break that square_!” Each trooper drew a heavy breath, then gathered up his reins, And pressed the helmet o’er his brow, the horses tossed their manes In protest fierce against the curb, and spurned[490] the springy heath, Impatient for the trumpet’s sound to bid them rush to death.

Well, boy, that moment seemed an hour: at last we heard the words―― “Dragoons! I know you’ll follow me. Ride steady, men! Draw swords!” The trumpet sounded: off[491] we dashed, at first with steady pace, But growing swifter as we went. Oh, ’twas a gallant race! Three-fourths the ground was left behind: the loud and thrilling “Charge!” Rang out; but fairly frantic now, we needed not to urge With voice or rein our gallant steeds, or touch their foaming flanks, They seemed to fly. Now straight in front[492] appeared the kneeling ranks. Above them waved[493] a standard broad: we saw their rifles raised―― A moment more, with awful crash, the deadly volley blazed.

The bullets whistled through our ranks, and many a trooper fell; But we were left. What cared we then? but onward rushing still! Again the crash roared fiercely out; but on![494] still madly on! We heard the shrieks of dying men, but recked not who was gone. We gored the horses’ foaming flanks, and on through smoke and glare. We wildly dashed, with clenched teeth. We had no thought, no care! Then came a sudden, sweeping rush. Again with savage heel I struck my horse: with awful bound he rose right o’er[495] their steel!

Well, friend, I cannot tell you how that dreadful leap was made, But there I rode, inside the square, and grasped[496] a reeking blade. I cared not that I was alone, my eyes seemed filled with blood: I never thought a man could feel in such a murderous mood. I parried not, nor guarded thrusts; I felt not pain nor wound, But madly spurred the frantic horse, and swept my sword around.[497] I tried to reach the standard sheet; but there at last was foiled. The gallant horse was jaded now, and from the steel recoiled.

They saw his fright, and pressed him then; his terror made him rear, And falling back he crushed[498] their ranks and broke their guarded square! My comrades[499] saw the gap he made, and soon came dashing in: They raised me up, I felt no hurt, but mingled in the din. I’d seen some savage work before, but never was engaged In such a wild and savage fight as now around me raged. The foe had ceased their firing, and now plied the deadly steel: Though all our men were wounded then, no pain they seemed to feel. No groans escaped from those who fell, but horrid oaths instead, And scowling looks of hate were on the features of the dead. The fight was round the standard: though outnumbered ten to one, We held our ground,――ay, more than that,――we still kept pushing on.[500]

Our men now made a desperate rush to take the flag by storm. I seized the pole,[501] a blow came down and crushed my outstretched arm. I felt a sudden thrill of pain, but that soon passed away; And with a devilish thirst for blood, again I joined the fray. At last we rallied all our strength, and charged o’er heaps of slain: Some fought to death; some wavered――then fled[502] across the plain.

Well, boy, the rest is all confused: there was a fearful rout; I saw our troopers chase the foe, and heard their maddened shout. Then came a blank: my senses reeled, I know not how I fell; I seemed to grapple with a foe, but that I cannot tell. My mind was gone: when it came back I saw the moon[503] on high, Around me all was still[504] as death. I gazed[505] up at the sky, And watched the glimmering stars above,――so quiet did they seem,―― And all that dreadful field appeared like some wild, fearful[506] dream. But memory soon came back again, and cleared my wandering brain, And then from every joint and limb shot fiery darts of pain. My throat was parched, the burning thirst increased with every breath; I made no effort to arise, but wished and prayed for death.

My bridle arm was broken, and lay throbbing on the sward, But something still my right hand grasped: I thought it was my sword. I raised[507] my hand to cast it off,――no reeking blade was there; Then life and strength returned,――I beheld the Standard of the Square! With bounding heart I gained my feet. Oh! then I wished to live, ’Twas strange the strength and love of life that standard seemed to give! I gazed around: far down the vale I saw a camp-fire’s glow.[508] With wandering step I ran that way,――I recked not friend or foe. Though stumbling now o’er heaps of dead, now o’er a stiffened horse, I heeded not, but watched the light, and held my onward course.

But soon that flash of strength had failed, and checked my feverish speed; Again my throat was all ablaze, my wounds began to bleed. I knew that if I fell again my chance of life was gone. So, leaning on the standard pole, I still kept struggling on. At length I neared the camp-fire: there were scarlet jackets round, And swords and brazen helmets lay strewn upon the ground. Some distance off, in order ranged, stood men,[509]――about a score: O God! ’twas all that now remained of my old gallant corps! The muster-roll was being called: to every well-known name I heard the solemn answer――“Dead!” At length my own turn came.

I paused to hear,――a comrade answered, “Dead! I saw him fall!” I could not move another step, I tried in vain to call. My life was flowing fast, and all around was gathering haze, And o’er the heather tops I watched my comrades’ cheerful blaze. I thought such anguish as I felt was more than man could bear, O God! it was an awful thing to die with help so near! And death was stealing o’er me: with the strength of wild despair. I raised the standard o’er my head, and waved it through the air. Then all grew dim: the fire, the men, all vanished from my sight, My senses reeled: I know no more of that eventful night.

’Twas weeks before my mind came back: I knew not where I lay, But kindly hands were round me, and old comrades came each day. They told me how the waving flag that night had caught their eye, And how they found me bleeding there, and thought that I must die; No wonder ’twas with all their care, I soon began to mend. The General came to see me, too, with all his brilliant train, But what he said, or how I felt, to tell you now ’twere vain. Enough, I soon grew strong again; the wished-for route had come, And all the gallant veteran troops set out with cheers for home.

We soon arrived; and then my lads, ’twould thrill your hearts to hear How England welcomed home her sons with many a ringing cheer. But tush! what boots it now to speak of what was said or done, The victory was dearly bought, our bravest hearts were gone. Ere long the King reviewed us. Ah! that memory is sweet. They made me bear the foreign flag, and lay it at his feet. I parted from my brave old corps: ’twere matter, friends, for tears, To leave the kind old comrades I had ridden with for years. I was no longer fit for war, my wanderings had to cease. There, boys, I’ve told you all my tale, now let me smoke in peace.

――_James Boyle O’Reilly._

_Published by special permission._

GESTURES. [476] H. F. [477] D. F. [478] B. H. O. [479] H. B. [480] H. Sw. [481] H. L. [482] B. H. F. [483] Sp. [484] H. L. [485] Left H. O. [486] A. F. [487] B. D. O. [488] D. F. [489] Ind. D. F. [490] V. D. L. [491] H. F. [492] H. F. [493] Sp. [494] B. H. F. [495] Sp. [496] Raised Fists. [497] Sp. [498] P. D. B. [499] D. B. [500] H. F. [501] Grasp. [502] Left H. L. [503] A. O. [504] B. P. H. O. [505] Look up. [506] V. H. O. [507] Raise hand. [508] D. F. [509] H. F.

Read This if You Can.

Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for his train and reading the _Tribune_, when a squadron of street Arabs (incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley, uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable GESTURES of heinous exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.

“You little blackguards!” cried Winthrop, stepping outside and confronting them, adding the inquiry, “Whose dog is that?”

“That audacious Caucasian has the bravado to interfere with our clique,” tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian, exhibiting combativeness.

“What will you take for him?” asked the lenient Geoffrey, ignoring the venial tirade.

“Twenty-seven cents,” piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing the crouching dog by the nape.

“You can buy licorice and share with the indicorous coadjutors of your condemnable cruelty,” said Winthrop, paying the price and taking the dog from the boy. Then catching up his valise and umbrella, he hastened to his train. Winthrop, satisfied himself that his sleek protégé was not wounded, and then cleared the cement from the pretty collar, and read these words:

“Leicester. Licensed, No. 1770.”

Hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron’s feet and slept.

Among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing vagaries of Indian literature, also two physicians, a somber, irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who made a specialty of bronchitis. Two peremptory attorneys from the legislature of Iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch, and the details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative, and sought condolence in a high lamentable treble from a lethargic and somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated.

Near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (from Asia) in a blouse waist and tarpaulin hat, was amusing his patriotic juvenile listeners by relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested by the contents of a knapsack, which he was calmly and leisurely arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. Above swung figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements too verbose to be misconstrued.

A mature matron of medium height and her comely daughter soon entered the car, and took seats in front of Winthrop (who recalled having seen them one Tuesday in February in the parquet of a theatre). The young lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at her aunt’s. She had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet perfume. She said to her parent, “Mamma, shall we ever find our lost Leicester?”

Geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card――

“Pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but prithee, have you lost a pet dog?”

The explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for Leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality) till, succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his haunches, complacently contemplating his friends. It was truly an interesting picture.

They reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon. Often during the summer Winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay with the naive and blithe Beatrice, in her jaunty yachting suit, but no coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. Little Less, their jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel) always attended them on these occasions, and whene’er they rambled through the woodland paths. While the band played Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bach, and others, they promenaded the long corridors of the hotel. And one evening, as Beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger.

Let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance, and around a cheerful hearth we see again Geoffrey and Beatrice, who are paying due homage to their tiny friend Leicester.

――_Quarterly Elocutionist._

The Ivy-Clad Ruin.[510]

’Tis the old, old church that for years I’ve known, And with ivy green are its walls o’ergrown; All its ancient splendor has passed away, And there’s naught remaining but grim decay; The pale moonbeams glimmer the windows through, And the roofless floor is all damp with dew; Both the pious priest and his flock are gone, And the gravestones watch o’er their dead alone.

Oh, how oft I’ve passed thro’ the spacious aisle And have met the throng with a friendly smile; In the bygone days when I saw them kneel, When I felt the thrill of the organ’s peal; But the forms I knew enter here no more, And no footsteps fall on the mouldy floor; There’s but one thing left that with life I’ve seen―― ’Tis the faithful vine of the ivy green.

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

[510] By permission of W. F. Shaw, owner of the copyright.

“Yes, I’m Guilty.”

“Yes, I’m guilty,” the prisoner said, As he wiped his eyes and bowed his head. “Guilty of all the crimes you name; But this yere lad is not to blame. ’Twas I alone who raised the row, And, Judge, if you please, I’ll tell yer how. You see, this boy is pale and slim; We calls him saint.――His name is Tim.―― He’s like a preacher in his ways:―― He never drinks, or swears, or plays, But kinder sighs and weeps all day; ’Twould break yer heart to hear him pray. Why, sir, many and many a night, When grub was scarce and I was tight, No food, no fire, no light to see, When home was hell, if hell there be, I’ve seen that boy in darkness kneel, And pray such words as cut like steel; Which somehow warmed and lit the room, And sorter chased away the gloom. Smile if you must, but facts are facts, And deeds are deeds, and acts are acts; And though I’m black as sin can be His prayers have done a heap for me, And make me think that God, perhaps, Sent him on earth to save us chaps. This man what squealed and pulled us in, He keeps a place called Fiddlers’ Inn, Where faiks, and snides, and lawless scamps Connive and plot with thieves and tramps. Well, Tim and me, we didn’t know Just what to do or where to go, And so we stayed with him last night. And this is how we had the fight: They wanted Tim to take a drink, But he refused, as you may think, And told them how the flowing bowl Contained the fire that kills the soul. ‘Drink! Drink!’ they cried, ‘this foaming beer; ’Twill make you strong and give you cheer. Let preachers groan and prate of sin, But give to us the flowing gin!’ Then Tim knelt down beside his chair, And offered up this little prayer: ‘Help me, dear Lord,’ the child began, As down his cheeks the big tears ran, ‘To keep the pledge I gave to you, And make me strong, and good, and true. I’ve done my best to do what’s right, But, Lord, I’m sad and weak to-night. Father, mother, oh, plead for me―― Tell Christ I long with you to be!’ ‘Get up, you brat, don’t pray ’round here,’ The landlord yelled with rage and fear, Then, like a brute, he hit the lad, Which made my blood just b’iling mad. I guess I must uv hurt his head, For I struck hard for the man that’s dead. No, he hain’t no folks or friends but me: His dad was killed in ’sixty-three. Shot at the front, where bursting shell And cannon sang their song of hell, And muskets hissed with fiery breath, As brave men fell to their tune of death. I promised his father before he died, As the life blood rushed from his wounded side, I promised him, sir, and it gave him joy, That I’d protect his darling boy. I simply did what his father would, And helped the weak, as all men should. Yes, I knocked him down and blacked his eye, And used him rough I’ll not deny; But think of it, Judge, a chap like him Striking the likes of little Tim. If I did wrong, send me below, But spare the son of comrade Joe.―― You forgive him; and me? Oh, no! A fact? God bless you! Come, Tim, let’s go.”

――_J. M. Munyon._

The Enchanted Shirt.

The King was sick. His cheek was red, And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly zest, And peacefully snored at night.

But he said he was sick, and a king should know, And the doctors came by the score. They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came, And one was as poor as a rat,―― He had passed his life in studious toil, And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book; His patients gave him no trouble; If they recovered, they paid him well; If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue, As the King on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.

The old sage said, “You’re as sound as a nut.” “Hang him up,” roared the King in a gale―― In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose, And thus his prescription ran―― _The King will be well if he sleeps one night In the shirt of a happy man._

* * * * *

Wide o’er the realm the couriers rode, And fast their horses ran, And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man....

They saw two men by the roadside sit, And both bemoaned their lot; For one had buried his wife, he said, And the other one had not.

At last they came to a village gate, A beggar lay whistling there! He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled On the grass in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked At the scamp so blithe and gay; And one of them said, “Heaven save you friend! You seem to be happy to-day.”

“O yes, fair sirs,” the rascal laughed, And his voice rang free and glad; “An idle man has so much to do That he never has time to be sad.”

“This is our man,” the courier said; “Our luck has led us aright. I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, For the loan of your shirt to-night.”

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass, And laughed till his face was black; “I would do it,” said he, and he roared with the fun, “But I haven’t a shirt to my back.”

* * * * *

Each day to the King the reports came in Of his unsuccessful spies, And the sad panorama of human woes Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life, And his maladies hatched in gloom; He opened his windows and let the air Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled In his own appointed way; And the people blessed him, the land was glad, And the King was well and gay.

――_Col. John Hay._

Fra Giacomo.

Alas, Fra Giacomo, Too late!――but follow me;[511] Hush![512] draw the curtain[513]――so!―― She is dead,[514] quite dead, you see. Poor little lady! she lies With the light gone out of her eyes, But her features still wear[515] that soft Gray, meditative expression, Which you[516] must have noticed oft, And admired, too, at confession.

How saintly she looks[517] and how meek! Though this[518] be the chamber of death, I fancy I feel her breath[519] As I kiss her on the cheek. With that pensive, religious face, She has gone to a holier place![520] And I hardly appreciated her―― Her praying, fasting, confessing, Poorly,[521] I own, I mated her; I thought her too cold, and rated[522] her For her endless image-caressing. Too saintly for me by far, As pure and as cold as a star,[523] Not fashioned for kissing and pressing―― But made for a heavenly crown. Ay, father, let us go down―― But first, if you please, your blessing![524]

Wine?[525] _No?_ Come, come, you must! You’ll bless it with your prayers, And quaff a cup, I trust, To the health of the saint[526] up stairs! My heart[527] is aching so! And I feel so weary and sad Through the blow that I have had―― You’ll sit,[528] Fra Giacomo? My friend! (and a friend I rank you) For the sake of that saint[529],――nay, nay![530] Here’s the wine[531]――as you love me, stay! ’Tis Montepulciano!――Thank you.[532]

Heigho! ’Tis now six summers Since I won that angel and married her: I was rich,[533] not old, and carried her Off in the face of all comers. So fresh, yet so brimming with soul! A tenderer morsel, I swear, Never made the dull black coal[534] Of a monk’s eye glitter and glare. Your pardon![535]――nay, keep your chair! I wander a little, but mean No offence to the gray gabardine: Of the church,[536] Fra Giacomo, I’m a faithful upholder,[537] you know. But (humor me![538]) she was as sweet As the saints in yon[539] convent windows, So gentle, so meek, so discreet, She knew not what lust does or sin does. I’ll confess, though, before we were one I deemed her less saintly, and thought The blood in her veins had caught Some natural warmth from the sun.[540] I was wrong[541]――I was blind as a bat―― Brute[542] that I was, how I blundered! Though such a mistake as that Might have occurred as pat To ninety-nine men in a hundred.[543] Yourself,[544] for example: you’ve seen her? Spite[545] her modest and pious demeanor, And the manner so nice and precise, Seemed there not color and light,[546] Bright motion and appetite, That were scarcely consistent with _ice_?[547] Externals implying, you see, Internals less saintly than human! Pray speak,[548] for between you and me You’re not a bad judge of a woman!

A jest――but a jest![549]... Very true:[550] ’Tis hardly becoming to jest, And that saint upstairs[551] at rest―― Her soul may be listening, too! Well may your visage[552] turn yellow―― I was always a brute[553] of a fellow! To think how I doubted and doubted, Suspected, grumbled at, flouted[554] That golden-haired angel――and solely Because she was zealous and holy! Noon and night and morn She devoted herself to piety; Not[555] that she seemed to scorn Or dislike[556] her husband’s society; But the claims of her _soul_[557] superseded All that I[558] asked for or needed, And her thoughts were far away[559] From the level of sinful clay, And she trembled if earthly matters Interfered with her _aves_ and _paters_.[560] Poor dove, she so fluttered[561] in flying Above the dim vapors of hell―― Bent on self-sanctifying―― That she never thought of trying To save her husband as well. And while she was duly elected For a place in the heavenly roll,[562] I (brute[563] that I was!) suspected Her manner[564] of saving her soul. So half for the fun of the thing, What did I (blasphemer![565]) but fling On my shoulders[566] the gown of a monk―― Whom I managed for that very day To get safely out of the way[567]―― And seat me, half sober, half drunk, With the cowl thrown over my face; In the father confessor’s place. _Eheu! benedicite!_[568] In her orthodox sweet simplicity, With that pensive, gray expression She sighfully knelt[569] at confession, While I bit my lips till they bled, And dug my nails into my hand,[570] And heard with averted head[571] What I’d guessed,[572] and could understand. Every word was a serpent’s sting, But wrapt[573] in my gloomy gown, I sat, like a marble thing, As she told me all![574] SIT DOWN![575]

More wine,[576] Fra Giacomo! One cup――if you love me! No? What, have these dry lips drank So deep of the sweets of pleasure―― _Sub rosa_,[577] but quite without measure―― That Montepulciano tastes rank? Come, drink![578] ’twill bring the streaks Of crimson back to your cheeks;[579] Come, drink again to the saint[580] Whose virtues you loved to paint, Who stretched on her wifely bed, With the tender gray expression You used to admire at confession, Lies POISONED,[581] overhead!

Sit still[582]――or by Heaven, you die![583] Face to face,[584] soul to soul, you and I Have settled accounts in a fine Pleasant fashion,[585] over our wine. Stir not,[586] and seek not to fly―― Nay, whether or not, you are mine! Thank Montepulciano[587] for giving You death in such delicate sips; ’Tis not every monk ceases living With so pleasant a taste on his lips; But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss, Take this![588] and this! and this!

* * * * *

Cover him over, Pietro,[589] And bury him in the court below[590]―― You can be secret, lad, I know! And, hark you,[591] then to the convent[592] go―― Bid every bell[593] in the convent toll, And the monks say mass for your mistress’[594] soul.

――_Robert Buchanan._

GESTURES. [511] H. O. [512] L. P. H. O. [513] Sp. [514] D. O. [515] P. D. O. [516] L. H. O. [517] Look to D. O. [518] B. H. O. [519] Stoop. [520] A. O. [521] P. D. O. [522] V. H. O. [523] Ind. A. O. [524] Kneel. [525] H. O. [526] L. A. O. [527] Sp. [528] H. O. [529] L. A. O. [530] P. H. O. [531] H. O. [532] Bow and sit at left of a table. [533] B. H. O. [534] Lean forward. [535] P. H. O. [536] L. H. O. [537] A. O. [538] V. Con. [539] L. H. L. [540] A. O. [541] P. H. O. [542] B. Cli. D. [543] B. H. O. [544] H. O. [545] V. H. O. [546] H. O. [547] P. H. O. [548] H. O. [549] V. H. O. [550] P. H. O. [551] L. A. O. [552] H. O. [553] B. Cli. D. [554] V. Con. [555] B. H. O. Con. [556] V. H. O. [557] L. H. O. [558] To left. [559] L. H. L. [560] Hand applied. [561] Sp. [562] A. O. [563] Cli. D. [564] H. O. [565] V. H. O. [566] Sp. [567] L. H. O. [568] B. V. Par. H. O. [569] D. E. [570] Sp. [571] Sp. [572] Ind. H. O. [573] Sp. [574] Fist on table. [575] Rise and P. H. O. [576] Offer wine. [577] P. H. O. [578] B. H. O. [579] H. O. [580] L. A. O. sustained. [581] L. Point up forcibly. [582] P. H. O. [583] D. O. [584] Fold arms and face to right. [585] B. H. O. [586] P. H. E. [587] Point to table. [588] Cross to right and stab. [589] Look to left and P. D. O. [590] D. L. [591] L. Ind. H. O. [592] L. H. L. [593] L. A. O. [594] L. Point up.

A Grain of Truth.

The luxury derived in doing good Is oft the only recompense men get For kindly deeds; e’en toil of years is paid Too oft with ingrate acts, and motives pure As angel thoughts are powerless to stay Suspicion’s tongue; but, oh, ’tis sweet to know Our duty has been done ’twixt man and man, To feel we have been loyal to ourselves; To know one voice at least proclaims us true, The whispered voice of God, within our hearts!

――_George M. Vickers_.

The Corsican.

This piece is most effective if given sitting by the right side of a table.

Well, Michel, the luck seems against[595] you to-night, You do nothing but lose;――it may change? You are right,[596] For Dame Fortune’s a jade that one never can trust; She may smile on our labors, but one[597] always must Keep both eyes wide open――your play,[598]――mine again,―― Or he’ll pay[599] for his confidence, fifty to ten. Pshaw! don’t[600] be faint-hearted――another deal, try; Now don’t swear,――what’s the use? You may win by and by: Why! what are these?[601] Jewels? Your dead wife’s, you say? You’ll stake them against all I’ve won here to-day? You’ve nothing but these? All’s lost?――(_the end’s near!_)[602] Well, put the stones there;[603] why, how white you appear! You’re faint from reverses; ho![604] landlord! I say―― A flask of your best without any delay: Come, drink, man; ’twill cheer you――tut![605] have no reserve; Here’s to your success![606] Ha! that strengthens one’s nerve. I’ll deal the cards first; ’tis your turn――come, begin; Just think of the stakes you will have if you win. Have you ever seen Paris? Were born there? Indeed! They say ’tis a place where a man must take heed[607] Lest his money and life be not taken away In a hurry,――one moment[608]――’tis my turn to play. A strange tale I’ve heard――no offence――of their mode, And the close-cutting rules of their well-prepared code; This narrative’s true;――at least, so I’ve been told.―― A young Corsican noble, scarce twenty years old―― A mere boy in years, but with wealth at command, And a title as proud as the best in the land―― About twelve years ago to gay Paris repaired, To see life as ’tis there to be seen, and――get snared.[609] With some friends like himself,――young, thoughtless and gay,[610] He managed to while time and money away.[611] Among other places, the gossips all tell,―― He was brought to a flash,[612] gilded gaming hell, Kept by a certain French Count――have a care![613] You play wildly; now put your best there;―― By a certain French Count, De la Fontelle by name, And his wife, a bewitching, heart-damaging dame; As well-matched a pair for their devilish trade, As the fiend incarnate[614] had e’er till then made. Well, into this hell-trap of splendor and guilt,[615] Young Malletti――his name――was dragged;――see, you have spilt All your wine;――you are nervous from play: fill once more;―― And then like the rest,[616] I imagine, before He well was aware or his own thoughts could tell, He madly in love with the fair Countess fell. He was handsome and rich, young, easily led―― A most opportune prize, and so easily bled. She so skillfully――women, what devils[617] are ye!―― Lured him on till no longer the power had he Or the will to resist;――I’ve just played the knave;―― Till his honor and soul into her hands he gave―― Heaven curse[618] her! It makes a man crazy to think How these fair, smiling creatures will drag to the brink Of destruction a poor, silly fool:――You are pale, And no wonder; the blood leaves the heart at the tale. But, mind you, the husband with eyes turned away――[619] Unconscious――ha! ha! of what passed every day,―― To his own affairs kept, nor with her interfered; She could manage her own; but the end was soon neared. His money at last was all gone, and he then Turned to her――to her love appealed,[620] but when On his two knees, with words full of fond love, the young Noble knelt[621] with his proud heart and spirit sore wrung,―― And abjectly――God! yes, abjectly[622] sued,―― But your pardon; I feel so deeply imbued With the sense of this wrong, that the throats I could seize―― A neck in each grasp――and complacently squeeze[623] Out the life of these two devils, breath after breath, Till my eager revenge would be stopped but by death. Well, in spite of his burning entreaties, this pair, With laughter and blows――ay, what wouldn’t they dare?―― The young noble seized, and out[624] he was thrown Like a dog;――he who never till that time had known The harsh tone of insult. But come,[625] give me some wine; Such a tale would stir more than your feelings[626] and mine:[627] For all[628] who have souls and have hearts not of stone Can judge of the tumult his soul must have known, When robbed of his money,[629] his honor,[630] his life,[631] By this Judas incarnate and syren-tongued wife, He found himself out on the streets,[632] treated worse Than the veriest menial or slave.[633] May the curse Of the injured their foul souls pursue![634] But, howe’er, Young Malletti that night to this house did repair, And in her own bed the fair serpent slew;―― Drove his knife to the hilt in her heart;[635]――Wouldn’t you?[636]―― And cut her white throat――ay! he left a grand mark,―― But the husband escaped from the house[637] in the dark―― The cowardly cur![638] But you suffer; your frame Is all trembling. Ah! Michel, your nature’s[639] the same As my own, full of tenderness, gentle and weak; As regards now its sympathy ’tis that I speak. But come, play again; ’tis the last trick; I drink[640] To your health and success! Ha! ha! One would think From your looks you were pale with some terrible fear. There’s nothing to dread,――there are none but us here, And the days of dark murder in secret are o’er:―― Ace! King! I win. Though mine is the gain, It gives me, friend Michel, less pleasure than pain. But let us return to our sheep, as they say In la belle France, your land ever charming and gay. Young Malletti was captured, convicted I’m told, To the galleys[641] was sent,――a life sentence, too: Now I think ’twas too much for his just crime――don’t you? But mark![642] two years since――ay! this very day,―― The convicts rebelled, and some few got away, And among them Malletti.――Why, man, how you shake! And what a strange, terrified look your eyes take! Well, Malletti had Corsican blood in his veins,―― Such blood as ne’er cools while on earth[643] there remains The being or thing that had offered insult: He no rest, peace or happiness ever would know, Till dead[644] at his feet he the Count would lay low. He searched France from north to south,[645] England went through,[646] And at last of his old foe discovered a clue: He found him disguised both in feature and name;―― Come, Michel, what ails you? Your drinking’s too tame. Here, fill up your goblet;[647] I’ll give you a toast;[648] Dios! man; what a face! It would frighten a ghost; Here’s success to all men who the life blood may spill Of such as the Count and his wife! But sit still,[649] And wait till my narrative ends. ’Tis a queer Story, take it in all, but true――never fear. I’m sorry you lost, Michel, sorry indeed, And feel that at my hands some succor[650] you need, Which you shall receive――ay! shall, on my life. These gems are superb![651] They belonged to your wife? ’Tis the fortune of cards;――a full purse to-day; To-morrow like smoke-clouds it all melts away.[652] But, no doubt, you’re eager and anxious to know What held back the young noble’s long-wished-for blow: Ah! he wished his revenge to be perfect, complete, A sort of a climax. Revenge must be sweet; That is, if we judge from Malletti’s standpoint. What unction with which his keen sword to anoint! Well, at the card table day following day, The two were engaged, and strangely to say, The Count lost every sou[653] in the world he possessed; And at last by reverses became so hard pressed That he staked his wife’s jewels;――_ha, ha! don’t stir yet!_[654] But wait, dearest Michel, my friend, till I get To the end. Well, the jewels he staked and _he lost_. Then Malletti uprose from his seat[655] and crossed To the side of the Count, _as I now do to you,―― Keep your seat――we’re alone――none can hear:―― Revenge is so sweet when the cost was so dear_;―― He drew a stiletto[656]――in this manner,――see! And plunged it with joy to the hilt――_look at me! Ha! you know me, vile caitiff! What, mercy! Forgive!_ The seconds are numbered that you have to live: This moment takes out of my life all the pain, And wipes out the stain on my honor again. Thy struggles are useless,――’tis _revenge’s_ fell clasp That holds thee resistless within its close grasp. _Look your last on my face_, while thus with a blow[657] I send your black soul to the regions below;――[658] _There_[659]――Count de la Fontelle; now join your fair spouse In the chambers of hell,[660] and keep your carouse―― Ha! that twinge again;[661]――twice I felt it before,―― And a drowsy sensation[662] seems now stealing o’er All my frame;――God of heaven! what is this?[663] Can it be? Poisoned![664] Ha! slave![665] thou hast done too for me.―― What pain darts across me![666] My blood is on fire! My brain reels,――Oh, mercy! is’t thus I expire![667] Help! help! Oh, will no one attend to my cry! Must I in my agony unaided lie, And suffer the torment the damned[668] only feel! Ha! no;――I’ve a friend left in thee, faithful steel:[669] Thou shalt end all and quickly;――thy virtue I’ll try; Ah, Count! thou art well avenged;――_thus――thus![670] I die!_

――_Thos. F. Wilford, A. M._

GESTURES. [595] H. O. [596] Con. V. [597] Ind. H. O. [598] In this and the passages following that speak of the play, imitate motions of card playing. [599] H. O. [600] V. H. O. [601] Sp. [602] Speak to left with L. hand in front of mouth. [603] Motion to table. [604] To left. [605] Con. V. [606] Sp. [607] Ind. [608] Con. V. [609] P. H. O. [610] B. H. O. [611] L. H. Sw. [612] A. O. [613] P. H. O. [614] Cli. [615] H. O. [616] B. H. O. [617] L. Cli. D. [618] B. Cli. D. [619] V. H. O. [620] B. H. F. [621] B. D. F. [622] B. P. D. F. [623] Sp. [624] B. Par. to L. H. O. [625] H. O. [626] H. O. [627] To self. [628] B. H. O. [629] H. O. [630], [631] Imp. [632] L. H. O. [633] L. D. O. [634] P. H. F. [635] Sp. [636] H. O. [637] L. H. O. [638] L. P. D. O. [639] H. O. [640] Sp. [641] L. H. L. [642] H. O. [643] Ind. [644] D. F. [645] D. F. [646] L. H. Sw. [647], [648] Sp. [649] P. H. O. [650] B. H. O. [651] Sp. [652] A. Sw. [653] Ind. [654] P. H. O. [655] Rise and cross in front of table. [656] Sp. [657] Sp. [658] Sheathe dagger. [659] P. D. O. [660] D. F. [661] Hand on breast. [662] Hand to head. [663] Take up wine glass. [664] Replace it. [665] D. O. [666] Strong dramatic action. [667] Sit. [668] B. Cli. [669] Draw dagger. [670] Stab.

All Wrong.

A FARCE, IN ONE ACT.

CHARACTERS.

JOHN DUPEWELL, _a rogue_. OLIVER OPENFACE, _benevolent old gent_. TOMMY, _a street fakir_. POLICEMAN. TILLY, _Openface’s daughter_. PEDESTRIANS.

SCENE: A City Street in the Morning.

(_Tommy discovered standing in centre of stage, near flat, holding a string in right hand, to which are attached several small rubber balloons inflated with gas._)

* * * * *

TOMMY.――Well, here goes for another hard day’s work. This standin’ on yer feet, an’ shoutin’ all day is wicked on the toes and lungs. Hello! here comes a swell. Balloons! balloons! Here’s yer genuine rubber air wessels filled with gas!

(_Enter Dupewell――Left._)

DUPEWELL (_Swinging cane and not noticing Tommy_).――Something must be done to raise the wind.

TOMMY.――Balloons! balloons! balloons!

DUPEWELL.――Shut up! shut up, sir! Your goods are too suggestive of the present state of my stomach.

TOMMY.――Don’t lean on me that way; I’m a poor boy, I want to be encouraged, for me stock’s light, trade’s dull, and both pockets is empty.

DUPEWELL.――Poor fellow! Perhaps I can give you a start in life, but it all depends upon――

TOMMY.――Oh, sir, I never had nobody to take me by the hand and say, “Tommy, here’s a chance, take it!” I’ve been lookin’ for a openin’ all me life――

DUPEWELL.――And the biggest kind of a one right under your nose. (_Points cane at Tommy’s mouth._)

TOMMY.――I can’t see it.

DUPEWELL.――Well, I’ll explain. How many balloons have you sold to-day?

TOMMY.――Not one; haven’t broke a string.

DUPEWELL.――Good! People are beginning to throng the street. Now listen; if you will strictly obey all my instructions, I will to-night give you more cash, and a squarer meal than your pockets ever held or your palate ever tasted.

TOMMY.――That’s what I dreamed last night; I seed a great big――

DUPEWELL.――Never mind your dream. What do you want for your balloons, all of them?

TOMMY.――Fifty cents.

DUPEWELL.――If I purchase them, will you enter my employ at once, and promise to obey me, unquestioned, in all things?

TOMMY.――When do you eat breakfast?

DUPEWELL.――In a short time; as soon as we attend to a small affair. Do you solemnly――

TOMMY.――Hold on! I never swear. I’ll be bound, I’ll affirm, I’ll promise to agree; but don’t ask me to swear; ’tain’t right.

DUPEWELL.――That will answer; your word will do. (_Takes half-dollar from pocket and looks at it._) (_Aside_.)――Farewell ’till next we meet. (_Aloud._)――Well, sir, here is the money.

TOMMY (_Taking money_).――Here’s your balloons.

DUPEWELL.――I don’t want them just now. Tommy, loan me that coin a few minutes.

TOMMY (_backing away_).――Can’t do that.

DUPEWELL (_angrily_).――What! disobey my first request? Besides, you hold good collateral. (_Points to balloons._)

TOMMY (_aside_).――This is a bad openin’; he’s leanin’ on me heavy at the start. (_Hands money to Dupewell._) I don’t see how I’m to make a profit on this sale.

DUPEWELL (_hurriedly_).――Tut! Now for business; mark what I say; there are some persons coming this way. I’ll step off in this direction a few paces. Watch me. When I raise my hat, let your balloons go, fall on your knees and groan; say nothing to any one, but groan in reply to every question. I will attend to the rest.

TOMMY.――Let me hold the fifty cents.

DUPEWELL.――Silence. (_Exit L._)

TOMMY (_looking after Dupewell_).――That’s a queer fellow. I think I’ll skeet. Oh! there goes his hat. (_Lets the balloons go, falls on his knees and groans._)

(_Enter Oliver Openface――R._)

OPENFACE (_trying to assist Tommy to arise_).――My poor fellow, what ails you? Do tell me, are you sick?

(_Re-enter Dupewell――R._)

(_Tommy groans and looks upward._)

DUPEWELL (_to Openface_).――Sad! sad! Know the man well; worthy case――sick wife――eleven children, oldest four years――wounded in late war――lost his balloons; look! (_Points upward._)

OPENFACE.――Ah, I see. (_Pulls out handkerchief and wipes eyes._) What shall we do?

DUPEWELL.――Make donation――encourage honesty. (_Hands fifty cents to Tommy, who takes it and groans._)

OPENFACE (_examining his wallet_).――I have nothing less than a fifty-dollar bill. (_Holds note in his hand._)

(_Dupewell takes note._)

OPENFACE.――Hold on, there. (_Reaches for note._)

DUPEWELL.――No, no! Let this poor man get it changed around the corner; thoroughly honest――trusted him with thousands――be responsible myself. (_Aside to Tommy_)――Meet me at the Hero’s Inn. (_Makes believe to give note to Tommy, but puts it in his own pocket._) (_Aloud_) Go, now! Run! The gentleman’s waiting. (_Exit Tommy, running._)

DUPEWELL (_touching Openface on arm and pointing up_).――How small those balloons appear; a mere speck.

OPENFACE (_looking up_).――I cannot see them; my eyes are too old.

DUPEWELL (_points_).――See! There they go! (_Takes wallet from Openface’s pocket._) See! see!

OPENFACE (_impatiently_).――I’d like to see that fellow coming with my change.

DUPEWELL (_starting to go_).――I’ll see what keeps him.

OPENFACE.――But hold on――

DUPEWELL (_aside_).――That’s what I intend to do. (_Taps wallet._) (_Aloud._)――Be back in a second. (_Exit R.――hurriedly._)

OPENFACE.――I just recollect that there is a dollar bill in the middle pocket of my wallet; see what time I could have saved if――(_feels in his pockets_)――if――if――I had only――(_still feeling in his pockets_)――if I had only thought of it before. (_Discovers that his wallet is gone._) Come back you, there! Watch! Thieves!

(_Falls on his knees_) Police! Police!

(_Enter Policeman――R._)

POLICEMAN (_poking Openface in side with club_).――Git up! Git up!

OPENFACE.――Police! I’m robbed, I’m――I’m――murder!

(_Enter Pedestrians――Running._)

POLICEMAN.――He’s got ’em bad; a genteel case of the tremmens.

(_Pedestrians laugh._)

POLICEMAN.――Somebody git a push-cart; there’s one down at the corner grocery.

PEDESTRIAN.――I’ll go, I’ll go! (_Exit._)

OPENFACE (_attempts to rise_).――Let me up, let me get up, I’m a――――

POLICEMAN (_putting him down again_).――Keep quiet; I’ve ordered the carriage; I’ll watch the snakes.

(_Pedestrians laugh._)

OPENFACE.――Let me speak.

POLICEMAN (_to pedestrians_).――Here comes a lady. Clear the sidewalk.

(_Pedestrians gather around Openface so that Tilly cannot see him._)

POLICEMAN (_aside_).――What a beauty!

(_Enter Tilly, carrying parasol._)

TILLY.――Dear me! I wonder what has happened.

OPENFACE.――I am a gentleman, let me go! I have been basely robbed, let me go, I say!

POLICEMAN.――Shut up! shut up!

TILLY.――That voice, that beloved voice! Surely I have heard that voice before!

POLICEMAN (_bowing low_).――No doubt, lady, you have often listened to my tones when I’ve been on the beat――――

PEDESTRIAN (_aside_).――Which is all the time.

TILLY.――I do not mean your voice.

OPENFACE (_groans_).――Let me rise.

TILLY.――’Tis he! My father!

POLICEMAN (_motioning her away_).――Go home, Miss, go home; he’s got ’em bad; he wouldn’t know you.

TILLY (_places handkerchief to her eyes_).――My heart will surely break.

POLICEMAN.――Oh! now we’ll get him off in good shape; here comes the push-cart.

(_Enter Pedestrian, carrying an arm chair._)

POLICEMAN.――Why didn’t you bring the barrow?

PEDESTRIAN.――The groceryman just left with a load of onions and won’t be back for an hour.

POLICEMAN.――Make way for the chair.

(_Pedestrians divide to R. and L._)

OPENFACE (_stands up_).――I will go straight to the Mayor and enter a complaint.

TILLY (_rushes to Openface_).――My father!

OPENFACE.――My darling child! (_They embrace._)

TILLY.――Oh, how did it happen?

POLICEMAN.――What’s this mean?

OPENFACE.――It means that I have been swindled on the highway, and that you have treated me in a villainous manner.

PEDESTRIANS.――Hear! hear!

(_Enter Dupewell and Tommy. The latter wears a straw hat and long linen duster._)

OPENFACE.――I will give one hundred dollars for the arrest of the thieves!

TILLY.――And I will owe a debt of gratitude that years can ne’er efface.

TOMMY (_aside_).――This is the opening I’ve been looking for. Here’s a chance for a fortune and a wife.――(_Seizes Dupewell._)――(_Aloud_)―― Here’s the thief!

DUPEWELL (_takes wallet from his breast and slips it into Tommy’s pocket_).――’Tis false, I deny the charge!

POLICEMAN (_arrests Dupewell_).――Is this the man?

OPENFACE.――He looks like one of the thieves, but I am not certain; the other one I could identify at once by his clothes.

POLICEMAN.――If you cannot identify him I must let him go. (_Releases Dupewell._)

DUPEWELL.――Pity must give way to justice;――(_Points to Tommy_)――Seize him, he is the robber!

POLICEMAN.――Ah, ha! Come here. (_Taking hold of Tommy._)

DUPEWELL.――Feel his pockets, search him.

TOMMY.――You’re welcome to feel in these pockets. I’ve got nothing but loose change, the proceeds of a horse I just sold.

POLICEMAN.――Let me see. (_Taking wallet from Tommy’s pocket._) Is this your property? (_Hands it to Openface._)

OPENFACE.――It is; and yet I never saw this man before!

TOMMY.――Of course he didn’t.

DUPEWELL.――Take off his coat and hat.

POLICEMAN.――Come sir; take them off!

TOMMY (_struggles to escape_).――I didn’t take it; I didn’t, I didn’t, let me go!

DUPEWELL (_assists to remove Tommy’s hat and duster_).――Now――(_to Openface_),――is this the culprit?

OPENFACE.――It is; just as the rascal appeared when he committed the crime.

DUPEWELL.――I claim the reward.

OPENFACE.――Come home with me. You shall dine with me; I will then reward you; you shall be my friend for life!

POLICEMAN.――Bring the chair here.

TILLY.――Never mind sir; papa will order a coupé.

POLICEMAN.――It is for this rogue. (_Tommy is forced into_ _the chair, after which it is raised up by two pedestrians, a third using Tommy’s legs for shafts._)

TOMMY.――Bad luck’s leanin’ on me heavy――at last I’ve found an openin’; but it’s the openin’ of the jail door. Ah! it’s all wrong, it’s all wrong.

(_All form in line with Tommy at the head; Dupewell supports Tilly on his arm; next Openface and Pedestrians._)

POLICEMAN.――Forward, march!

(_March is played by Piano or Orchestra, while procession countermarches._)

TOMMY (_kicking in chair_).――It’s all wrong! It’s all wrong! wrong! Balloons! balloons! it’s all wrong.

OPENFACE.――Hold! (_The procession halts._) My dear sir, (_to Dupewell_) the cry of balloons! balloons! from that young man in the chair reminds me that I had my wallet when you called my attention to the fugitive balloons that were growing smaller and smaller as they arose in the air!

DUPEWELL.――Well, sir!

OPENFACE.――It is not well, sir, for you, sir, for I had my wallet then, and it was only after you left me that I missed it. Release the unhappy youth and let the iron talons of the law clutch this monstrous scoundrel who would fasten his crime upon a verdant youth.

(_Tommy is released and Dupewell is placed in the chair._)

TOMMY.――Luck’s openin’ an’ shuttin’ like an alligator’s jaw; where’ll it end?

TILLY.――You shall go home with us; we will try to educate you and give you profitable employment.

OPENFACE.――It is even so; I will get you a government appointment, but! but, sir! hereafter beware of taking up with strangers in matters of business; bad associates have ruined many a man. Let the phalanx move.

(_Music continues._)

POLICEMAN.――Forward, march!

(_Procession countermarches._)

DUPEWELL (_kicking_).――It’s all wrong! it’s all wrong! it’s all wrong!

[CURTAIN.]

――_Geo. M. Vickers._

Go Fan Yourself.

When moist with perspiration, When the mercury is high, When stung to aggravation, When your tongue and lips are dry Then fretting’s worse than folly, Rather let this be your rule―― Shake off all melancholy, Go and fan yourself――keep cool.

Go fan yourself, cease growling, Just remember who you are; Stop snarling, snapping, scowling, It will pay you better far. If toiling melts your collars, Recollect that life’s a school―― That all the lucky scholars Win the prize by keeping cool.

Go fan yourself when heated, Set the motto to a tune, And let it be repeated Though December ’tis or June; Since mortal man is fickle And his brother oft doth fool, Just keep the saw in pickle, Go and fan yourself――keep cool.

――_George M. Vickers._

Nell.

You’re a kind[671] woman, Nan! Ay, kind and true![672] God[673] will be good to faithful folk like you! You knew my Ned? A better,[674] kinder lad never drew breath. We loved each other true, and we were wed In church, like some who took him to his death;[675] A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost[676] His senses when he took a drop too much.

Drink[677] did it all――drink made him mad when cross’d―― He was a poor man, and they’re hard[678] on such. O Nan! that night! that night! When I was sitting in this[679] very chair, Watching and waiting in the candle-light, And heard[680] his foot come creaking up the stair, And turned and saw him standing yonder,[681] white And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair! And when I caught[682] his arm and called in fright, He pushed[683] me, swore, and to the door[684] he pass’d To lock and bar[685] it fast. Then down he drops[686] just like a lump of lead, Holding his brow,[687] shaking, and growing whiter, And――Nan!――just then the light[688] seem’d growing brighter, And I could see the hands[689] that held his head, All red![690] all bloody red! What could I do but scream? He groaned to hear, Jump’d to his feet, and gripped[691] me by the wrist; “Be still,[692] or I shall kill thee, Nell!” he hiss’d. And I was still for fear. “They’re after[693] me――I’ve knifed a man!” he said, “Be still![694]――the drink――drink did it!――he is dead!”[695] Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn’t weep; All I could do was cling[696] to Ned and hark,[697] And Ned was cold,[698] cold, cold, as if asleep, But breathing hard and deep. The candle[699] flicker’d out――the room grew dark[700] And――Nan!――although my heart[701] was true and tried―― When all grew cold[702] and dim, I shuddered[703]――not for fear of them outside,[704] But just afraid to be alone with him.[705] “Ned! Ned!”[706] I whisper’d――and he moan’d and shook, But did not heed or look! “Ned! Ned![707] speak, lad! tell me[708] it is not true!” At that he raised his head and look’d so wild; Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw His arms around[709] me, crying like a child, And held me close――and not a word was spoken, While I clung tighter to his heart and press’d him, And did not fear him, though my heart was broken, But kiss’d his poor stain’d hands, and cried, and bless’d[710] him!

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold With sound[711] of falling rain―― When I could see his face,[712] and it look’d old, Like the pinch’d face of one that dies[713] in pain; Well, though we heard folk stirring[714] in the sun, We never thought to hide away or run, Until we heard those voices[715] in the street, That hurrying of feet, And Ned leap’d up,[716] and knew that they had come. “Run, Ned!”[717] I cried, but he was deaf and dumb; “Hide, Ned!”[718] I scream’d, and held him; “Hide thee, man!”[719] He stared with blood-shot eyes and hearken’d, Nan! And all the rest[720] is like a dream――the sound Of knocking[721] at the door―― A rush of men――a struggle on the ground[722]―― A mist――a tramp――a roar; For when I got my senses back again, The room was empty,[723] and my head[724] went round! God[725] help him? God _will_ help him! Ay, no fear![726] It was the drink,[727] not Ned[728]――he meant no wrong; So kind! So good!――and I am useless[729] here, Now he is lost that loved me true and long. … That night before he died, I didn’t cry――my heart[730] was hard and dried; But when the clocks[731] went “one,” I took my shawl To cover up my face, and stole away, And walk’d[732] along the silent streets, where all Look’d cold[733] and still and gray, And on[734] I went, and stood in Leicester Square, But just as “three” was sounded close at hand I started and turn’d east,[735] before I knew, Then down Saint Martin’s Lane, along the Strand, And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo. Some men and lads went by, And turning round, I gazed,[736] and watch’d ’em go, Then felt that they were going to see him die,[737] And drew my shawl[738] more tight, and follow’d slow.[739] More people pass’d me, a country cart with hay Stopp’d close beside[740] me, and two or three Talk’d about _it_![741] I moan’d, and crept[742] away!

Next came a hollow sound[743] I knew full well, For something gripped[744] me round the heart!――and then There came the solemn tolling[745] of a bell! O God! O God![746] how could[747] I sit close by, And neither scream nor cry? As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, I listen’d,[748] listen’d, listen’d, still and dumb, While the folk murmur’d, and the death-bell[749] toll’d, And the day brighten’d,[750] and his time had come. … Till, Nan!――all else was silent[751] but the knell Of the slow bell![752] And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, And what I waited for[753] I couldn’t tell―― At last there came a groaning deep and great―― St. Paul’s struck “eight”[754]―― I scream’d, and seem’d to turn to fire and fell![755] God[756] bless him, live or dead! He never meant no wrong, was kind and true. They’ve wrought their fill of spite[757] upon his head. Why didn’t they be kind, and take me[758] too? And there’s the dear old things[759] he used to wear, And there’s[760] a lock of hair. And Ned, my Ned! is fast asleep,[761] and cannot hear me call. God bless you,[762] Nan, for all you’ve done and said! But don’t mind me, my heart[763] is broke, that’s all![764]

――_Robert Buchanan._

GESTURES. [671] H. F. [672] H. O. [673] A. F. [674] H. O. [675] D. F. [676] H. L. [677] B. Cli. D. [678] P. H. O. [679] P. H. O. [680] Raise hand to listen. [681] H. O. [682] Sp. [683] L. V. H. L. [684] H. O. [685] V. H. O. [686] D. O. [687] B. to head. [688] L. H. Sw. [689] D. O. [690] B. V. Par. to D. O. [691] L. Sp. [692] Speak to left. [693] H. L. [694] L. P. H. O. [695] B. Cli. D. [696] H. O. [697] Raise hand to listen. [698] P. D. O. [699] L. H. O. [700] B. V. H. O. [701] Hand to heart. [702] B. P. H. O. [703] B. Cli. and shudder. [704] H. O. [705] D. O. [706], [707] B. Par. to D. O. [708] Clasp hands. [709] Sp. continued. [710] P. H. O. [711] Lis. [712] D. O. [713] P. D. O. [714], [715] H. O. [716] Raise P. [717], [718], [719] L. H. L. [720] B. H. O. [721] H. O. [722] D. O. [723] B. H. O. [724] Hand to head. [725] Look to left. [726] L. V. H. O. [727] H. F. [728] H. L. [729] B. D. L. [730] Hand to heart. [731] Raise hand to listen. [732] H. Sw. [733] Turn to P. [734] H. O. [735] Left, continuous gesture to “Waterloo.” [736] H. O. [737] B. Cli. D. [738] Sp. [739] H. O. [740] L. H. O. [741] B. Cli. D. [742] H. O. [743] Lis. [744] Sp. [745] B. Sp. [746] Raise B. Cli. [747] B. Cli. D. [748] Lis. [749] A. O. [750] B. H. O. [751] P. H. O. [752] A. O. [753] B. H. F. [754] A. O. [755] B. D. F. [756] A. F. [757] P. H. O. [758] To self. [759] H. O. [760] Sp. [761] H. L. [762] L. P. H. O [763] Hand on heart. [764] H. O.

A Soldier’s Offering.

The laurel wreath of glory That decks the soldier’s grave, Is but the finished story, The record of the brave; And he who dared the danger, Who battled well and true, To honor was no stranger, Though garbed in gray or blue

Go, strip your choicest bowers, Where blossoms sweet abound, Then scatter free your flowers Upon each moss-grown mound; Though shaded by the North’s tall pine Or South’s palmetto tree, Let sprays that soldiers’ graves entwine, A soldier’s tribute be.

――_George M. Vickers._

The Ruling Passion.

She had never mailed a letter before, and so she approached the stamp clerk’s window with the same air that she would enter a dry goods store.

“I would like to look at some stamps, please,” she said.

“What denomination do you want?” asked the clerk.

“Denomination!” This was remarked in surprise. She hadn’t supposed that stamps belonged to any church at all.

“Yes,” replied the clerk, who saw no necessity for holding a lengthy palaver over the sale of a stamp, especially when other people were waiting. “Is it for a letter or a newspaper?”

“Oh, I want to send a letter to my Uncle John; he’s just moved to――”

“Then you need a two-cent stamp,” interrupted the clerk, offering her one of that value.

“I hardly like that color,” she observed, holding the brick-tinted stamp up to the light and surveying it critically.

The clerk looked at her in astonishment. In his long experience in the postal business he had never before met a customer who objected to the color of the stamps.

“That is a two-cent stamp, madame. Please stand aside and let the gentleman behind you come up.”

“Haven’t you got them in any other color?” she asked, wholly oblivious to the “gentleman behind.”

The clerk began to act cross.

“I never did like that shade of red,” she added.

“There is only one color,” he replied, curtly.

“That is strange,” she mused. “I’d think you’d keep them in different shades, so that there’d be some choice.”

The clerk said nothing, but he kept getting crosser every minute, and murmurs of disapprobation began to rise from the ever-lengthening line of people who would have been thankful to get their stamps without criticizing their hue.

“You are sure you have none in a brighter red, or even in a different color――Nile green, or seal brown, or jubilee blue, for instance?”

“You can put two one-cent stamps on your letter if you like,” said the clerk, who began to see that the customer could not be frowned away from the window.

“Let me see them, please.”

Two blue stamps were solemnly handed to her, and the crowd began to hope that at last she was suited.

“Ah, that will do,” she said, as she took up the one-cent stamps and eyed them as if they were samples of dress goods. “I like that shade better. I’ll take only one, if you please.”

And she handed the other back to the clerk, who took it mechanically, but managed to add:

“If it’s for a letter you’ll need two. These are one-cent stamps and letter postage is two cents per ounce.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put two stamps on my letter,” she said; “I don’t think they will look well.”

“It requires two cents to carry a letter, madame, and you must either put a two-cent stamp on or two ones. It won’t go without. And I must ask you to please hurry, for you are keeping a great many people away from the window.”

“That’s singular. I don’t like the look of two together. You are sure the other doesn’t come in seal brown, or”――

“No!” thundered the clerk, getting very red in the face.

“Then I’ll have to see if I can’t suit myself elsewhere.”

And she departed.

The clerk replaced his despised red and blue stamps, mopped his perspiring brow, and began to make up for lost time.

I’m Getting Too Big to Kiss.

The friends of my childhood with pleasure I greet, Their faces I ever hold dear, In palace or cottage, on meadow or street, Wherever they chance to appear. Then do not misjudge me, and deem me not cold, Nor call me a queen, haughty miss, Oh, no one can budge me, so do not be bold, I’m getting too――too big to kiss.

’Tis hardly a year since the guests of the house, On leaving, would kiss me adieu, The parson, the deacon, old Schnider Von Krouse, Ned Blanc, and the young squire, too. They called me a treasure, a sweet, roguish maid; Now nonsense like that is amiss, Though once ’twas a pleasure, I’m really afraid That somebody’s too big to kiss.

Now if you should happen by moonlight to walk, With some one you know very well, Remember ’tis harmless to laugh and to talk, Or sweet little stories to tell. But oh, have a care, girls, and heed me, I pray, For what I would counsel is this―― Refuse, though his hair curls, and promptly this say: I’m getting, sir, too big to kiss.

Oh, no, no, no, no, sir! Allow me to pass; Oh, no, sir, ’tis more than I dare: That game’s out of fashion (I’m sorry, alas!) You needn’t look cross as a bear. Yet still I’ve an ember of pity right here, I’ll throw you just one kiss like this, But, sir, you’ll remember, now don’t come so near―― That really I’m too big to kiss.

――_George M. Vickers._

Waiting for the Mail.

It is strange I get no letter―― I have written twenty-four―― And the chances now decidedly are slim; How I wish my luck was better, I am really feeling sore, And my cup of sorrow’s flowing to the brim.

Though my sweetheart’s tall and slender, With a dark and roguish eye, And a blushing cheek that shames the blooming rose. One more letter will I send her, Then I’ll write a last good-bye, And so bring my dream of pleasure to a close.

If she’s caught another lover, Just to make the moments glide, (Which, without a doubt, she really thinks she ought,) Then, of course, I’ll look it over, And continue to confide―― For the best of mortals like a little sport!

But suppose this other fellow Should, with sly and skillful art, In the darling girl’s affections fill my place! ’Tis enough to make me bellow,―― ’Tis enough to break my heart,―― ’Tis enough to make me run and hide my face.

When we parted last December, Oh, she vowed she’d share my lot; And to me her silence is a puzzle quite: Though I happen to remember―― And ’tis strange that I forgot―― That my darling ducky never learned to write!

――_George M. Vickers._

Ben-Hur’s Chariot Race.

The trumpet sounded short and sharp. The starters, one for each chariot, leaped down, ready to give assistance if any of the fours proved unmanageable. Again the trumpet blew, and simultaneously the gate-keepers threw[765] the stalls open. Forth from each stall, like missiles in a volley from so many great guns, rushed[766] the six contesting fours――the Corinthian’s, Messala’s, the Athenian’s, the Byzantine’s, the Sidonian’s, and Ben-Hur’s――and the vast assemblage rose[767] and, leaping upon the benches, filled[768] the circus with yells and screams.

The competitors were under view from nearly every part[769] of the circus, yet the race was not begun; they had first to make successfully the chalked line, stretched for the purpose of equalizing the start. If it were dashed upon, discomfiture of man and horses might occur; on the other hand, to approach it timidly was to incur the hazard of being thrown behind in the beginning of the race――a certain loss of the great advantage of being next the wall[770] on the inner line of the course.

Each driver looked first for the rope, then for the coveted inner line. With all six aiming at the same point[771] and speeding furiously, a collision seemed inevitable. Quick the eye, steady the hand, unerring the judgment required. The fours neared the rope together. Ben-Hur was on the extreme left[772] of the six. At Messala, who was more than an antagonist to him, he gave one searching look, and saw the soul of the man, cunning, cruel, desperate, in a tension of watchfulness and fierce resolve.

In that brief instant all his former relations with Messala came before him. First, happy childhood, when, loving and beloved, they played together. Then, manhood that brought a change in Messala, and the Roman’s inborn contempt of Jews asserted itself and broke the friendship. Then the bitter day, when, by the accidental falling of a loose tile, the Roman procurator was nearly killed, and he, Ben-Hur, was accused of willfully throwing the missile. One word from Messala would have saved the family from ruin, but the word was not spoken. Nay, more, it was Messala that urged on the Roman authorities and prevented even a fair trial of the case. It was Messala’s influence that had banished[773] him to the galleys for life, that had consigned his mother and sister to an uncertain fate, whose very uncertainty was more torture[774] than their certain death would have been. It was Messala that had stolen his property and with it had bought the silence of the authorities on the cruel deeds; and was it not money that belonged to the House of Hur that Messala was betting with in this very race? Was it human nature[775] to resist an opportunity for vengeance like this? No.[776] At whatever cost[777] he would humble his enemy.

He saw that Messala’s rush would, if there was no collision, and the rope fell, give him the wall. Therefore, he yielded it for the time. Just then the trumpeter blew a signal. The judges dropped[778] the rope. And not an instant too soon, for the hoof of one of Messala’s horses struck it as it fell. The Roman shook out[779] his long lash, loosed the reins, leaned forward, and with a triumphant shout[780] took the wall.

“Jove with _us_![781] Jove with _us_!”[781] yelled the Roman faction, in a frenzy of delight.

“Jove with us!”[782] screamed a young nobleman.

“He wins![783] Jove with us!” answered his associates.

Messala having passed, the Corinthian was the only contestant on the Athenian’s right, and to his side he tried to turn his four; but the wheel of the Byzantine, who was next on the left, struck the tail-piece of his chariot, knocking[784] his feet from under him. There was a crash, a scream of rage and fear, and the unfortunate Athenian fell[785] under the hoofs of his own steeds. Sanballat, a friend of Ben-Hur, turned to a group of Roman noblemen.

“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!”[786] he cried.

“Taken!”[787] answered one of the group.

“Another hundred on the Jew!” shouted Sanballat. Nobody appeared to hear him. The situation below was too absorbing, and they were too busy shouting, “Messala! Messala! Jove with us!”

While the spectators were shivering at the Athenian’s mishap, and the Sidonian, Byzantine, and Corinthian were striving to avoid involvement in the ruin, Ben-Hur drew head to the right,[788] and, with all the speed of his Arabs, darted[789] across the trails of his opponents, and took the course[790] neck and neck with Messala, though on the outside. And now, racing together, side by side, a narrow interval between them, the two neared the second goal. Making the turn here was considered the most telling test of a charioteer. A hush[791] fell over the circus. Then, it would seem, Messala observed Ben-Hur and recognized him, and at once the audacity of the man flamed out.

“Down, Eros![792] up, Mars!”[793] he shouted, whirling his lash. “Down, Eros! up, Mars!” he repeated, and gave the Arab steeds of Ben-Hur a cut, the like of which they had never known.

The blow was seen in every quarter. The silence deepened and the boldest held his breath.[794] The affrighted four sprang forward[795] as with one impulse, and forward leaped[796] the car. The car trembled with a dizzy lurch, but Ben-Hur kept his place and gave the horses free rein, and called to them in a soothing voice, trying to guide them round[797] the dangerous turn, and before the fever of the people began to abate he had back the mastery. Nor that only; on approaching the first goal he was again side by side with Messala, bearing with him the sympathy and admiration of every one[798] not a Roman. Even Messala, with all his boldness, felt it unsafe to trifle further.

On[799] whirled the cars. Three rounds were concluded; still Messala held the inside position; still Ben-Hur moved with him side by side; still the other competitors followed as before. The contest began to have the appearance of a double race, Messala and Ben-Hur in the first, the Corinthian, Sidonian, and Byzantine in the second. In the fifth round the Sidonian succeeded in getting a place outside Ben-Hur, but lost it directly. The sixth round was entered upon without change of relative position. Gradually the speed had been quickened; men and beasts seemed to know alike that the final crisis was near. The interest, which from the beginning had centred chiefly in the struggle between the Roman and the Jew, with an intense general sympathy for the latter, was fast changing to anxiety on his account. On all the benches the spectators bent forward, motionless.

“A hundred sestertii on the Jew!”[800] cried Sanballat to the Romans.

There was no reply.

“A talent, or five talents, or ten;[801] choose ye!”

“I will take thy sestertii,” answered a Roman youth.

“Do not so,” interposed a friend.

“Why?”

“Messala has reached his utmost speed. See him[802] lean over his chariot-rim, the reins loose as flying ribbons, then look at the Jew!”

“By Hercules!” replied the youth, “I see, I see! If the gods help him not, he will be run away with by the Israelite. No; not yet! Look![803] Jove with us! Jove with us!”

If it were true that Messala had gained his utmost speed, he was slowly but certainly beginning to forge ahead. His horses were running with their heads low down; from the balcony their bodies appeared actually to skim the earth; their nostrils showed blood-red in expansion; their eyes seemed straining in their sockets. The good steeds were doing their best! How long could they keep the pace? It was but the commencement of the sixth round. On they dashed! As they neared the second goal, Ben-Hur turned in behind[804] the Roman’s car. The joy of the Messala faction reached its bound. They screamed, and howled, and tossed[805] their colors, and Sanballat filled his tablets with their wagers. Ben-Hur was hardly holding a place at the tail of his enemy’s car.

Along the home-stretch――sixth round――Messala leading; next him, pressing close, Ben-Hur. Thus to the first goal, and around it, Messala, fearful of losing his place, hugged the stony wall with perilous clasp; a foot to the left[806] and he had been dashed[807] to pieces; yet when the turn was finished, no man, looking at the wheel-tracks of the two cars, could have said, “Here[808] went Messala, there[809] the Jew.” They left but one trace behind them.

And now all the people drew a long breath, for the beginning of the end was at hand. First, the Sidonian gave the scourge to his four, and they dashed[810] desperately forward, promising for an instant to go to the front. The effort ended in promise. Next, the Byzantine and the Corinthian each made the trial with like result, after which they were practically out of the race. Thereupon, all the factions except the Romans joined hope in Ben-Hur, and openly indulged their feeling.

“Ben-Hur! Ben-Hur!”[811] they shouted. “Speed thee,[812] Jew!”

“Take the wall now!”

“On![813] loose the Arabs! Give them rein and scourge!”

“Let him not have the turn on thee again. Now or never!”[814]

Either he did not hear, or could not do better, for half-way round the course and he was still following; at the second goal, even still no change.

And now, to make the turn, Messala began to draw in[815] his left-hand steeds. His spirit was high; the Roman genius was still present. On the pillars,[816] only six hundred feet away, were fame, fortune, promotion, and a triumph[817] ineffably sweetened by hate,[818] all in store for him! That moment Ben-Hur leaned forward over his Arabs and gave them the reins.[819] Out flew[820] the many-folded lash in his hand; over the backs of the startled steeds it writhed[821] and hissed,[822] and hissed[823] and writhed[824] again and again, and, though it fell not, there were both sting and menace in its quick report. Instantly, not one, but the four as one, answered with a leap[825] that landed them alongside the Roman’s car. Messala, on the perilous edge of the goal, heard but dared not look to see what the awakening portended. The thousands on the benches understood it all. They saw the four close outside Messala’s outer wheel, Ben-Hur’s inner wheel behind the other’s car. Then, with a cunning touch[826] of the reins, Ben-Hur caught Messala’s fragile wheel with the iron-shod point of his axle and crushed[827] it. There was a crash loud enough to send a thrill through the circus, and out over[828] the course a spray of shining white and yellow flinders flew. Down on its right side toppled the bed of the Roman’s chariot. There was a rebound, as of the axle hitting the hard earth; another and another; then the car went to pieces, and Messala, entangled in the reins, pitched forward[829] headlong, and lay still, crushed, and bleeding, and crippled for life. Above the noises of the race arose one voice, that of Ben-Hur:

[830]“On, Altair! On, Rigel! What, Antares! dost thou linger now? Good horse-oho, Aldebaran! I hear them singing in the tents. I hear the children singing, and the women singing of the stars, of Altair, Antares, Rigel, Aldebaran, victory――and the song will never end. Well done! On, Antares! The tribe is waiting for us, and the master is waiting! ’tis done! ’tis done! Ha! ha! We have overthrown the proud! The hand that smote us is in the dust! Ours the glory! Ha! ha!――steady! The work is done――soho! Rest!”

And Ben-Hur turned the goal of victory and revenge,[831] and the race was won![832]

――_Gen. Lew Wallace._

GESTURES. [765] B. V. H. F. [766] H. F. [767] B. raised P. [768] B. A. O. [769] B. H. O. [770] H. F. [771] Ind. H. F. [772] Left H. O. [773] H. L. [774] P. D. O. [775] H. F. [776] Cli. D. [777] H. O. [778] P. Sp. [779] Sp. [780] Throw up fist. [781] B. thrown outward, emphasize _us_. [782] A. O. [783] Point to Messala and look around. [784] V. D. Sw. [785] D. F. [786] To left, raise hand. [787] Ind. H. O. [788] Sw. to H. O. [789] Sp. [790] H. F. [791] B. P. H. O. [792] Whip hand Cli. D. F. [793] Up. [794] Hand to breast. [795] H. F. [796] Imp. [797] H. Sw. [798] B. H. O. [799] H. F. [800] To left, raise hand. [801] Repeat. [802] Ind. H. F. [803] H. F. [804] H. F. [805] A. Sw. [806] Left H. F. Sp. [807] Left D. F. [808] - [809] Designate. [810] H. F. [811] A. Sw. [812] H. F. [813] H. F. [814] Cli. raised. [815] Left Sp. [816] Ind. H. F. [817] A. O. [818] Cli. D. [819] B. Sp. [820] Sp. [821] - [822] - [823] - [824] Motion as expressed. [825] H. F. [826] Sp. [827] P. D. F. [828] P. D. Sw. [829] Sp. [830] Chant this on two tones of the voice, higher pitch for important words and lower for unimportant, holding reins in both hands. [831] A. O. [832] H. F. strong.

Dolores.

Her old boat loaded with oranges, Her baby tied on her breast, Minorcan Dolores bends her oars, Noting each reed[833] on the swift-moving shores; But the way is long and the inlet wide――[834] Can two small hands overcome the tide Sweeping up from the west?

Four little walls of conquina stone, Rude thatch of palmetto leaves; There[835] they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836] From winter, and labor, and hunger free, Taking from earth their small need, but no more; No thought of the morrow,[837] no laying in store. No gathering patient sheaves.

Alone in their southern island home, Through the year of summer days, The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838] Clusters its sea-food within his reach; The two love on, and the tropical land And life is a shining haze.

Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown, With dreamy, passionate eyes―― Far in the past,[839] lured by Saxon wiles, A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles, Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroon Their children live idly along[840] the lagoon, Under the Florida skies.[841]

Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown, Ah! their blooming life of love!―― But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842] Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night; In vain[843] her poor herbs, in vain[844] her poor prayers, Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairs That lead up[845] to heaven above.

So, her old boat loaded with oranges, Her baby tied on her breast, Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846] Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down From the far cold North;[847] they are men who know―― Thus Dolores thinks――how to cure all[848] woe; Nay, their very touch is blest.

“Oranges! Oranges!”[849] hear her cry, Through the shaded plaza path; But the Northern soldiers come marching in Through the old Spanish city with stir and din; And silent people[850] stand sullen by, To see the old flag mount[851] again to the sky―― The flag they had trampled[852] in wrath.

Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear, And buy thy little store? Now north,[853] now south,[854] on the old sea-wall, But her pitiful tones unheeded fall; Now east,[855] now west,[856] through the angry town, Patient she journeys up and down, Nor misses one surly door.

Then, desperate, up[857] to the dreaded ranks She carries her passionate suit; “I have no money,[858] for none would buy; But come,[859] for God’s sake, or he will die! Save him――my Luiz――he is so young,” She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue, And proffers[860] her store of fruit.

But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861] They hear not, nor understand; The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862] She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863] They have crossed the whole country,[864] by night and by day, And marked with their blood every step of the way, To conquer[865] this Southern land.

They are gone――O despair![866] she turns to the church,[867] Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears; “Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere, May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer; They are very sweet, as the saint will see, If he would but wake up and listen to me. But he sleeps, so he never hears.”

She enters;[868] the church is filled[869] with men, The pallid men of the North; Each dingy old pew[870] is a sick man’s bed, Each battered old bench[871] holds a weary head, The altar candles are swept away,[872] For vials and knives in shining array, And a new saint[873] is stepping forth.

He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine, A saint of a Northern creed, Clad in a uniform, army blue, But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874] Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand, And hears all her story, and understands The cry of her desperate need.

An orange he gives to each weary man,[875] To freshen the fevered mouth, Then forth[876] they go down the old sea-wall, And they hear[877] in the dusk the pickets call, And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878] The Northern saint can manage an oar, And the boat glides fast[879] to the south.

A healing touch and a holy drink, A bright little heavenly knife, And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers, Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880] And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes, In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies, Rest calm[881] on the awe-stricken wife.

“Oh! dear Nordern saint![882] a shrine will I build, Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883] De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright, And dose will I worship each morning and night.” “Nay, nay![884] poor Dolores, I am but a man, A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can, The wounds of this heart-breaking man.

“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885] And teach the brown baby to read.” He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore, She watches the boat[886] till she sees it no more, She hears[887] the quick musketry all through the night, She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light, The book of the Northern creed.

* * * * *

The sad war is over, the dear peace has come, The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888] The brown baby reads the small book, and the three Live on in their isle in the Florida sea, The brown baby learns many things wise and strange, But all[889] his new English words never can change The faith of Dolores’ fond heart.

GESTURES. [833] H. Sw. at side. [834] B. H. O. [835] H. O. [836] A. O. [837] H. F. [838] D. O. [839] H. B. [840] H. Sw. [841] Glance up. [842] P. H. O. [843] H. L. [844] Imp. [845] A. F. [846] H. F. [847] Left H. L. [848] H. O. [849] Listen. [850] H. O. [851] A. O. [852] P. D. O. [853] Left H. L. [854] H. L. [855] H. F. [856] H. B. [857] H. F. [858] B. D. L. [859] B. Cla. [860] B. H. F. [861] H. Sw. [862] Look to R. bending forward. [863] H. L. [864] B. H. O. [866] D. F. [866] B. Cli. D. [867] H. F. [868] H. F. [869] B. H. O. [870] H. Sw. [871] Left H. Sw. [872] V. H. Sw. [873] H. F. [874] H. O. [875] H. Sw. [876] H. F. [877] Lis. [878] D. O. [879] H. Sw. [880] A. O. [881] P. H. O. [882] B. Cla. [883] H. L. [884] V. H. O. [885] H. O. [886] Hand over eyes. [887] Listen. [888] Left H. L. [889] B. H. O.

Scene from Merchant of Venice.