Chapter 4

But the Deacon swore, (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; --"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of whitewood, that cut like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through."-- "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren,--where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day,-- There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub _encore_. And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be _worn out!_

First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the--Moses--was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. --First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,-- And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,-- Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! --What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,-- All at once, and nothing first,-- Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.

THE INJURED MOTHER.

From the Rev. JOHN BROWN'S tragedy of BARBAROSSA.

CHARACTERS:

BARBAROSSA, _an Usurper_, OTHMAN, _an officer_, ZAPHIRA, _the Widowed Queen_.

[This play has many passages of splendid diction, well calculated for bold declamation. The plot of the piece runs thus: _Barbarossa_ having killed, and then usurped the throne of his friend and master, tries to obtain the hand of Zaphira, the late monarch's widow--having previously destroyed, (as is supposed) her son, _Selim_. The following scene represents the interviews between the unhappy queen and her faithful Othman, and of the queen with Barbarossa.

COSTUMES.--_Barbarossa_ green velvet robe, scarlet satin shirt, white trousers, russet boots, and turban. _Othman_, scarlet fly, yellow satin shirt, white slippers, turban white, scarlet cashmere vest. _Zaphira_, white dress, embroidered with silver, turban, and Turkish shoes.

NOTE.--A little taste will enable any smart young lady to make up these dresses. They are mostly loose, and the embroidery may be of tinsel--while cheap velveteen looks as well as the best velvet on the stage.]

SCENE I.--_An apartment, with sofa._

_Enter_ ZAPHIRA, R.

ZAP. (C.) When shall I be at peace? O, righteous heaven Strengthen my fainting soul, which fain would rise To confidence in thee! But woes on woes O'erwhelm me. First my husband, now my son-- Both dead--both slaughter'd by the bloody hand Of Barbarossa! What infernal power Unchain'd thee from thy native depth of hell, To stalk the earth with thy destructive train, Murder and lust! To wake domestic peace, And every heart-felt joy!

_Enter_ OTHMAN, L.

O, faithful Othman! Our fears were true; my Selim is no more!

OTH. Has, then, the fatal secret reach'd thine ear? Inhuman tyrant!

ZAP. Strike him, heav'n with thunder, Nor let Zaphira doubt thy providence!

OTH. 'Twas what we fear'd. Oppose not heav'n's high will, Nor struggle with the ten-fold chain of fate, That links thee to thy woes. O, rather yield, And wait the happier hour, when innocence Shall weep no more. Rest in that pleasing hope, And yield thyself to heaven, my honor'd queen. The king----

ZAP. Whom stylest thou king?

OTH. 'Tis Barbarossa.

ZAP. Does he assume the name of king?

OTH. He does.

ZAP. O, title vilely purchas'd!--by the blood Of innocence--by treachery and murder! May heav'n, incens'd, pour down its vengeance on him, Blast all his joys, and turn them into horror Till phrensy rise, and bid him curse the hour That gave his crimes their birth!--My faithful Othman, My sole surviving prop, canst thou devise No secret means, by which I may escape This hated palace?

OTH. That hope is vain. The tyrant knows thy hate; Hence, day and night, his guards environ thee. Rouse not, then, his anger: Let soft persuasion and mild eloquence Redeem that liberty, which stern rebuke Would rob thee of for ever.

ZAP. An injur'd queen To kneel for liberty!--And, oh! to whom! E'en to the murd'rer of her lord and son! O, perish first, Zaphira! Yes, I'll die! For what is life to me? My dear, dear lord-- My hapless child--yes, I will follow you!

OTH. Wilt thou not see him, then?

ZAP. I will not, Othman; Or, if I do, with bitter imprecation More keen than poison shot from serpents' tongues, I'll pour my curses on him.

OTH. Will Zaphira Thus meanly sink in woman's fruitless rage, When she should wake revenge?

ZAP. Revenge!--O, tell me-- Tell, me but how?--What can a helpless woman?

OTH. (C.). Gain but the tyrant's leave, and seek thy father; Pour thy complaints before him; let thy wrongs Kindle his indignation to pursue This vile usurper, till unceasing war Blast his ill-gotten pow'r.

ZAP. (L.C.). Ah! say'st thou, Othman? Thy words have shot like lightning through my frame, And all my soul's on fire!--thou faithful friend! Yes, with more gentle speech I'll soothe his pride; Regain my freedom; reach my father's tents; There paint my countless woes. His kindling rage Shall wake the valleys into honest vengeance; The sudden storm shall pour on Barbarossa, And ev'ry glowing warrior steep his shaft In deadlier poison, to revenge my wrongs! (_crosses to_ R.)

OTH. (C.). There spoke the queen.--But, as thou lov'st thy freedom, Touch not on Selim's death. Thy soul will kindle, And passion mount in flames that will consume thee.

ZAP. (R.). My murder'd son!--Yes, to revenge thy death, I'll speak a language which my heart disdains.

OTH. Peace, peace,!--the tyrant comes. Now, injur'd Queen, Plead for thy freedom, hope for just revenge, And check each rising passion. [_Exit_ OTHMAN, R.

_Enter_ BARBAROSSA, L.

BAR. (L.). Hail sovereign fair! in whom Beauty and majesty conspire to charm: Behold the conqu'ror.

ZAP. (R.C.) O, Barbarossa, No more the pride of conquest e'er can charm My widow'd heart. With my departed lord My love lies buried! Then turn thee to some happier fair, whose heart May crown thy growing love with love sincere; For I have none to give.

BAR. Love ne'er should die: 'Tis the soul's cordial--'tis the font of life; Therefore should spring eternal in the breast. One object lost, another should succeed, And all our life be love.

ZAP. Urge me no more.--Thou mightst with equal hope Woo the cold marble, weeping o'er a tomb, To meet thy wishes. But, if generous love (_approaches him._) Dwell in thy breast, vouchsafe me proof sincere: Give me safe convoy to the native vales Of dear Mutija, where my father reigns.

BAR. O, blind to proffer'd bliss!--What! fondly quit This pomp Of empire for an Arab's wand'ring tent, Where the mock chieftain leads his vagrant tribes From plain to plain, and faintly shadows out The majesty of kings!--Far other joys Here shall attend thy call: Submissive realms Shall bow the neck; and swarthy kings and Queens, From the far-distant Niger and the Nile, Drawn captive at my conqu'ring chariot wheels, Shall kneel before thee.

ZAP. Pomp and pow'r are toys, Which e'en the mind at ease may well disdain: But oh! what mockery is the tinsel pride Of splendour, when the mind Lies desolate within!--Such, such is mine! O'erwhelm'd with ills, and dead to ev'ry joy; Envy me not this last request, to die In my dear father's tents.

BAR. Thy suit is vain.

ZAP. Thus, kneeling at thy feet--(_kneels._)

BAR. Thou thankless fair! (_raises_ ZAPHIRA.) Thus to repay the labours of my love! Had I not seiz'd the throne when Selim died, Ere this thy foes had laid Algiers in ruin. I check'd the warring pow'rs, and gave you peace, Make thee but mine, I will descend the throne, and call thy son From banishment to empire.

ZAP. O, my heart! Can I bear this? Inhuman tyrant!--curses on thy head! May dire remorse and anguish haunt thy throne, And gender in thy bosom fell despair,-- Despair as deep as mine! (_crosses to_ L.)

BAR. (R.C.). What means Zaphira? What means this burst of grief?

ZAP. (L.). Thou fell destroyer! Had not guilt steel'd thy heart, awak'ning conscience Would flash conviction on thee, and each look, Shot from these eyes, be arm'd with serpent horrors, To turn thee into stone!--Relentless man! Who did the bloody deeds--O, tremble, guilt, Where'er thou art!--Look on me; tell me, tyrant, Who slew my blameless son?

BAR. What envious tongue Hath dar'd to taint my name with slander? Thy Selim lives; nay, more, he soon shall reign, If thou consent to bless me.

ZAP. Never, O, never!--Sooner would I roam An unknown exile through the torrid climes Of Afric--sooner dwell with wolves and tigers, Than mount with thee my murder'd Selim's throne!

BAR. Rash queen, forbear; think on thy captive state, Remember, that within these palace walls I am omnipotent. Yield thee, then; Avert the gath'ring horrors that surround thee, And dread my pow'r incens'd.

ZAP. Dares thy licentious tongue pollute mine ear With that foul menace? Tyrant! dread'st thou not Th' all-seeing eye of heav'n, its lifted thunder, And all the red'ning vengeance which it stores For crimes like thine?--Yet know, Zaphira scorns thee. [_crosses to_ R. Though robb'd by thee of ev'ry dear support, No tyrant's threat can awe the free-born soul, That greatly dares to die. [_Exit_ ZAPHIRA, R.

BAR. (C.). Where should she learn the tale of Selim's death? Could Othman dare to tell it?--If he did, My rage shall sweep him swifter than the whirlwind, To instant death! [_Exit._

(R.) Right. (L.) Left. (C.) Centre. (R.C.) Right Centre. (L.C.) Left Centre.

THE MILLS OF GOD.

DUGANNE.

Apart from the noble sentiments of these verses, and their exquisite diction--in which every word is the best that could possibly be used--as in a piece of faultless mosaic every minute stone is so placed as to impart strength, brilliancy, and harmony--they afford an excellent example of lofty, dignified recitation:

Those mills of God! those tireless mills! I hear their ceaseless throbs and thrills: I see their dreadful stones go round, And all the realms beneath them ground; And lives of men and souls of states, Flung out, like chaff, beyond their gates.

And we, O God! with impious will, Have made these Negroes turn Thy mill! Their human limbs with chains we bound, And bade them whirl Thy mill-stones round; With branded brow and fettered wrist, We bade them grind this Nation's grist!

And so, like Samson--blind and bound-- Our Nation's grist this Negro ground; And all the strength of Freedom's toil, And all the fruits of Freedom's soil, And all her hopes and all her trust, From Slavery's gates were flung, like dust.

With servile souls this mill we fed, That ground the grain for Slavery's bread; With cringing men, and grovelling deeds, We dwarfed our land to Slavery's needs; Till all the scornful nations hissed, To see us ground with Slavery's grist.

The mill grinds on! From Slavery's plain, We reap great crops of blood-red grain; And still the Negro's strength we urge, With Slavery's gyve and Slavery's scourge; And still we crave--on Freedom's sod-- That Slaves shall turn the mills of God!

The Mill grinds on! God lets it grind! We sow the seed--the sheaves we bind: The mill-stones whirl as we ordain; Our children's bread shall test the grain! While Samson still in chains we bind, The mill grinds on! God lets it grind!

THE MENAGERIE.

J. HONEYWELL.

Did you ever! No, I never! Mercy on us, what a smell! Don't be frightened, Johnny, dear! Gracious! how the jackals yell! Mother, tell me, what's the man Doing with that pole of his? Bless your little precious heart, He's stirring up the beastesses!

Children! don't you go so near! Hevings! there's the Afric cowses! What's the matter with the child? Why, the monkey's tore his trowses! Here's the monstrous elephant,-- I'm all a tremble at the sight; See his monstrous tooth-pick, boys! Wonder if he's fastened tight?

There's the lion!--see his tail! How he drags it on the floor! 'Sakes alive! I'm awful scared To hear the horrid creatures roar! Here's the monkeys in their cage, Wide awake you are to see 'em; Funny, ain't it? How would you Like to have a tail and be 'em?

Johnny, darling, that's the bear That tore the naughty boys to pieces; Horned cattle!--only hear How the dreadful camel wheezes! That's the tall giraffe, my boy, Who stoops to hear the morning lark; 'Twas him who waded Noah's flood, And scorned the refuge of the ark.

Here's the crane,--the awkward bird! Strong his neck is as a whaler's, And his bill is full as long As ever met one from the tailor's. Look!--just see the zebra there, Standing safe behind the bars; Goodness me! how like a flag, All except the corner stars!

There's the bell! the birds and beasts Now are going to be fed; So my little darlings, come, It 's time for you to be abed. "Mother, 't is n't nine o'clock! You said we need n't go before; Let us stay a little while,-- Want to see the monkeys more!"

Cries the showman, "Turn 'em out! Dim the lights!--there, that will do; Come again to-morrow, boys; Bring your little sisters, too." Exit mother, half distraught, Exit father, muttering "bore?" Exit children, blubbering still, "Want to see the monkeys more!"

IGNORANCE IS BLISS

CHARACTERS.

FRED BROWN. JOHNNY GRAY. NED WHITE.

SCENE.--_Recitation-Room at a Public School._

_Enter_ FRED.

_Fred._ A pretty task Master Green has given me this time! He calls me to his desk, and says, "Brown, those boys, Gray and White, have been very inattentive during the music lesson: take them into the recitation-room, and keep them there until they can sing four stanzas of 'The Battle-cry of Freedom.'" A nice music-master I am! I can't read, sing, or growl a note, and I don't know a single line of "The Battle-cry of Freedom." But I must not let them know that. Here they are. (_Enter_ GRAY _and_ WHITE; _they get in a corner of the stage, and whisper together._) Now, what conspiracy is hatching? Hem! Here, you fellows, do you know what you came here for?

_Gray._ To take a music lesson, I suppose.

_Fred._ Well, you had better commence.

_White._ Certainly, after you.

_Fred._ After me! What do you mean?

_White._ I believe it's the custom of all music-masters to first sing the song they wish to teach. (_Aside to_ GRAY.) He can't sing a note.

_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) He can't? good! Let's plague him. (_Aloud._) Come, singing-master, proceed.

_Fred._ No matter about me. You two can sing, and when you make a mistake I will correct it.

_Gray._ You'll correct it! That's good. With what, pray?

_Fred._ With this. (_Producing a ratten from under his jacket._)

_White._ O, dear, I don't like that sort of tuning-fork.

_Fred._ You'll get it if you don't hurry. Come, boys, "The Battle-cry of Freedom."

_Gray._ (_Aside to_ WHITE.) Ned, do you know the song?

_White._ (_Aside._) I know just one line.

_Gray._ (_Aside._) O, dear, we're in a scrape. (_Aloud._) Master Fred, will you please give me the first line? I've forgotten it.

_Fred._ Certainly. Let me see. "Rock me to sleep, mother." No, that isn't it.

_White._ (_Aside._) He's split on that rock.

_Fred._ Hem! ah! "Dear father, dear father, come home." O, bother!

_Gray._ (_Aside._) It'll bother him to "come home" with that line.

_Fred._ "Give me a cot."--O, pshaw! I tell you what, boys, I didn't come here to talk, but to listen: now you two sing away at once, or down comes the ratten.

_Gray._ (_Aside._) I say, Ned, Brown doesn't know it? here's fun. Now you just keep quiet, and ring in your line when I snap my fingers.

_White._ (_Aside._) All right. I understand. When you snap, I sing.

_Fred._ Come, come! Strike up, or I shall strike down.

_Gray._ (_Sings to the tune of the Battle-cry of Freedom_,)--

"Mary had a little lamb; Its fleece was white as snow."

(_Snaps his fingers._)

_White._ (_Very loud._)

"Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ Capital! Perfectly correct, perfectly correct. Sing again.

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"It followed her to school one day; It was against the rule." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ Beautiful! beautiful! I couldn't do it better myself.

_Gray._ (_Aside._) I should think not.

_White._ Come, Mr. Singing-master, you try a stanza.

_Fred._ What, sir! do you want to shirk your task? Sing away.

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"And so the teacher turned him out; Yet still he lingered near." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._

"And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ Glorious! Why, boys, it's a perfect uproar.

_White._ There's enough, isn't there?

_Fred._ No, sir, four stanzas. Come, be quick.

_Gray._ I don't know any more.

_White._ I'm sure I don't.

_Fred._ Yes you do, you're trying to shirk; but I won't have it. You want a taste of the rattan. Come, be lively.

_Gray._ (_Sings._)

"'What makes the lamb love Mary so?' The eager children cry." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Gray._

"'Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know,' The teacher did reply." (_Snaps._)

_White._ "Shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

_Fred._ There, boys, I knew you could sing. Now come in, and I will tell Master Green how capitally you have done--that I couldn't do better myself.

[_Exit._

_White._ Well, Johnny, we got out of that scrape pretty well.

_Gray._ Yes, Ned; but it's a poor way. I must pay a little more attention to my singing.

_White._ And so must I, for we may not always have a teacher on whom the old saying fits so well.

_Gray._ Old saying? What's that?

_White._ "Where ignorance is bliss--"

_Gray._ O, yes, "'Twere folly to be wise."

[_Exeunt._

THE VULTURE OF THE ALPS.

ANONYMOUS.

[The following stirring poem is highly dramatic. The reader should, as far as possible, realize the feelings of the shepherd-parent as he sees "the youngest of his babes" borne in the iron-claws of the vulture high in mid air towards his golgotha of a nest. Much force of attitude and gesture is not only admissable, but called for, as the agonized father leans forward following the flight of the vulture.]

I've been among the mighty Alps, and wandered through their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cottage blazing hearth, when their daily work was o'er They spake of those who disappeared, and ne'er were heard of more.

And there I from a shepherd heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear: The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous. But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus:--

"It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells; But, patient, watching hour on hour upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim, from the flock.

"One cloudless Sabbath summer morn, the sun was rising high, When from my children on the green, I heard a fearful cry, As if some awful deed were done, a shriek of grief and pain, A cry, I humbly trust in God, I ne'er may hear again.

"I hurried out to learn the cause; but, overwhelmed with fright, The children never ceased to shriek, and from my frenzied sight I missed the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care, But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through the air.

"Oh! what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye! His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry! And know, with agonizing breast, and with a maniac rave, That earthly power could not avail, that innocent to save!

"My infant stretched his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly to get free, At intervals, I heard his cries, as loud he shrieked and screamed: Until, upon the azure sky, a lessening spot he seemed.

"The vulture flapped his sail-like wings, though heavily he flew, A mote upon the sun's broad face he seemed unto my view: But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight; 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanished quite.