Chapter 5

"All search was vain, and years had passed; that child was ne'er forgot, When once a daring hunter climbed unto a lofty spot, From whence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reached, He saw an infant's fleshless bones the elements had bleached!

"I clambered up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away; I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay; A tattered garment yet remained, though torn to many a shred, The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon the head."

That dreary spot is pointed out to travellers passing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh. And as I journeyed, the next morn, along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me, whereon the infant lay.

FALSTAFF'S BOASTING

SHAKESPEARE.

This scene will give a good chance to practise _variety_ of expression, both in words and action. Falstaff throws himself into all the attitudes, and elevates and depresses his voice, as if he was actually engaged in the combat he describes--preserving the utmost gravity of face, until he finds that the Prince has really detected him. Then the "fat rogue" bursts into a jolly, unctuous laugh, and carries off the honors, after all:

_P. Henry._ What's the matter?

_Fal._ What's the matter? there be four of us here have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.

_P. Hen._ Where is it, Jack? where is it?

_Fal._ Where is it? taken from us it is: a hundred upon poor four of us.

_P. Hen._ What, a hundred, man?

_Fal._ I am a rogue, if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four, through the hose; my buckler cut through and through; my sword hacked like a hand-saw _ecce signum_. I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!--Let them speak: if they speak more or less than truth, they are villains, and the sons of darkness.

_P. Hen._ Speak, sirs: how was it?

_Gads._ We four set upon some dozen,--

_Fal._ Sixteen at least, my lord.

_Gads._ And bound them.

_Peto._ No, no, they were not bound.

_Fal._ You rogue, they were bound, every man of them; or I am a Jew else, an Ebrew Jew.

_Gads._ As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh men set upon us.

_Fal._ And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.

_P. Hen._ What, fought ye with them all?

_Fal._ All! I know not what ye call, all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature.

_Poins._ Pray God, you have not murdered some of them.

_Fal._ Nay, that's past praying for, for I have peppered two of them: two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal,--if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward;--here I lay, and thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me.--

_P. Hen._ What, four? thou said'st but two, even now.

_Fal._ Four, Hal; I told thee four.

_Poins._ Ay, ay, he said four.

_Fal._ These four came all a-front, and mainly thrust at me. I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus.

_P. Hen._ Seven? why, there were but four, even now.

_Fal._ In buckram.

_Poins._ Ay, four in buckram suits.

_Fal._ Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.

_P. Hen._ Pr'ythee, let him alone; we shall have more anon.

_Fal._ Dost thou hear me, Hal?

_P. Hen._ Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.

_Fal._ Do, so, for it is worth the listening to. The nine in buckram that I told thee of,----

_P. Hen._ So, two more already.

_Fal._ Their points being broken,----

_Poins._ Down fell their hose.

_Fal._ Began to give me ground: But I followed me close, came in foot and hand: and, with a thought, seven of the eleven I paid.

_P. Hen._ O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two!

_Fal._ But, as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal green, came at my back, and let drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.

_P. Hen._ These lies are like the father that begets them; gross as a mountain, open palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts; thou knotty-pated fool! thou whoreson, obscene, greasy, tallow-keech,--

_Fal._ What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth, the truth?

_P. Hen._ Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? come, tell us thy reason; what sayest thou to this?

_Poins._ Come, your reason, Jack, your reason.

_Fal._ What, upon compulsion? No; were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! if reasons were as plenty as blackberries I would give no man a reason upon compulsion, I.

_P. Hen._ I'll be no longer guilty of this sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh;--

_Fal._ Away, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish,--O for breath to utter what is like thee!--you tailor's yard, you sheathe, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck;--

_P. Hen._ Well, breathe a while and then to it again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base comparisons hear me speak but this.

_Poins._ Mark, Jack.

_P. Hen._ We two saw you four set on four: you bound them, and were masters of their wealth.--Mark now how plain a tale shall put you down.--Then did we two set on you four: and, with a word, out-faced you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can show it you here in the house:--and, Falstaff, you carried your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a slave art thou, to hack thy sword, as thou hast done; and then say, it was a fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole, canst now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame?

_Poins._ Come, let's hear, Jack: What trick hast thou now?

_Fal._ By the Lord, I knew ye, as well as he that made ye. Why, hear ye, my masters: Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter; I was a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself and thee, during my life; I, for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord, lads, I am glad you have the money.--Hostess, clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow.--Gallant, lads, boys, hearts of gold. All the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extempore?

ON TO FREEDOM.

DUGANNE.

This poem should be delivered with bold energy, with flashing eye, swelling breast, and free action--as though the speaker's heart was full of the nobility of the theme:

"There has been the cry--'On to Richmond!' And still another cry--On to England!' Better than either is the cry--'On to Freedom!'"

CHARLES SUMNER.

On to Freedom! On to Freedom! 'Tis the everlasting cry Of the floods that strive with ocean-- Of the storms that smite the sky; Of the atoms in the whirlwind, Of the seed beneath the ground-- Of each living thing in Nature That is bound! 'Twas the cry that led from Egypt, Through the desert wilds of Edom: Out of darkness--out of bondage-- On to Freedom! On to Freedom!

O! thou stony-hearted Pharaoh! Vainly warrest thou with God! Moveless, at thy palace portals, Moses waits, with lifted rod! O! thou poor barbarian, Xerxes! Vainly o'er the Pontic main Flingest thou, to curb its utterance, Scourge or chain! For, the cry that led from Egypt, Over desert wilds of Edom, Speaks alike through Greek and Hebrew; On to Freedom! On to Freedom!

In the Roman streets, with Gracchus, Hark! I hear that cry outswell; In the German woods with Hermann, And on Switzer hills, with Tell; Up from Spartacus, the Bondman, When his tyrants yoke he clave, And from Stalwart Wat the Tyler-- Saxon slave! Still the old, old cry of Egypt, Struggling up from wilds of Edom-- Sounding still through all the ages: On to Freedom! On to Freedom!

On to Freedom! On to Freedom! Gospel cry of laboring Time: Uttering still, through seers and sages, Words of hope and faith sublime! From our Sidneys, and our Hampdens, And our Washingtons they come: And we cannot, and we dare not Make them dumb! Out of all the shames of Egypt-- Out of all the snares of Edom; Out of darkness--out of bondage-- On to Freedom! On to Freedom!

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

When spring, to woods and wastes around, Brought bloom and joy again, The murdered traveller's bones were found, Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung Her tassels in the sky; And many a vernal blossom sprung, And nodded, careless, by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought His hanging nest o'erhead; And, fearless, near the fatal spot, Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away, And gentle eyes, for him, With watching many an anxious day, Grew sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so, The fearful death he met, When shouting o'er the desert snow, Unarmed, and hard beset.

Nor how, when round the frosty pole, The northern dawn was red, The mountain-wolf and wild-cat stole, To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, They dressed the hasty bier, And marked his grave with nameless stones, Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared and wept, Within his distant home; And dreamt and started as they slept, For joy that he was come.

So long they looked--but never spied His welcome step again, Nor knew the fearful death he died, Far down that narrow glen.

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM.

N.P. WILLIS.

This admirable composition gives ample scope for gentle, mournful, tear-stricken recitation. The thoughts prompt the speaker to natural expression:

The king stood still Till the last echo died: then throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe:--

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou should'st die Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair. How could he mark _thee_ for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee; How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee, And hear thy sweet '_my father_' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shall come To meet me, Absalom!

"And, oh! when I am stricken, and my heart, Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom!

"And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee:-- And thy dark sin!--Oh! I could drink the cup, If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My erring Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child: then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer; And, as a strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

THE BOY ARCHER.

SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

The fire and energy of Tell contrasts nobly with the youthful ambition of his son's young and noble heart. It is a charming exercise, and exceedingly effective when well delivered:

SCENE.--_Exterior of_ TELL'S _cottage. Enter_ ALBERT (TELL'S _son_) _with bow and arrows, and_ VERNER.

_Verner._ Ah! Albert! What have you there?

_Albert._ My bow and arrows, Verner.

_Ver._ When will you use them like your father, boy?

_Alb._ Some time, I hope.

_Ver._ You brag! There's not an archer In all Helvetia can compare with him.

_Alb._ But I'm his son; and when I am a man I may be like him. Verner, do I brag, To think I some time may be like my father? If so, then is it he that teaches me; For, ever as I wonder at his skill, He calls me boy, and says I must do more Ere I become a man.

_Ver._ May you be such A man as he--if heaven wills, better--I'll Not quarrel with its work; yet 'twill content me If you are only such a man.

_Alb._ I'll show you How I can shoot (_goes out to fix the mark._)

_Ver._ Nestling as he is, he is the making of a bird Will own no cowering wing.

_Re-enter_ ALBERT.

_Alb._ Now, Verner, look! (_shoots_) There's within An inch!

_Ver._ Oh, fy! it wants a hand. [_Exit_ VERNER.

_Alb._ A hand's An inch for me. I'll hit it yet. Now for it.

_While_ ALBERT _continues to shoot,_ TELL _enters and watches him some time, in silence._

_Tell._ That's scarce a miss that comes so near the mark? Well aimed, young archer! With what ease he bends The bow. To see those sinews, who'd believe Such strength did lodge in them? That little arm, His mother's palm can span, may help, anon, To pull a sinewy tyrant from his seat, And from their chains a prostrate people lift To liberty. I'd be content to die, Living to see that day! What, Albert!

_Alb._ Ah! My father!

_Tell._ You raise the bow Too fast. (ALBERT _continues shooting._) Bring it slowly to the eye.--You've missed. How often have you hit the mark to-day?

_Alb._ Not once, yet.

_Tell._ You're not steady. I perceive You wavered now. Stand firm. Let every limb Be braced as marble, and as motionless. Stand like the sculptor's statue on the gate Of Altorf, that looks life, yet neither breathes Nor stirs. (ALBERT _shoots_) That's better! See well the mark. Rivet your eye to it There let it stick, fast as the arrow would, Could you but send it there. (ALBERT _shoots_) You've missed again! How would you fare, Suppose a wolf should cross your path, and you Alone, with but your bow, and only time To fix a single arrow? 'Twould not do To miss the wolf! You said the other day, Were you a man you'd not let Gesler live-- 'Twas easy to say that. Suppose you, now, Your life or his depended on that shot!-- Take care! That's Gesler!--Now for liberty! Right to the tyrant's heart! (_hits the mark_) Well done, my boy! Come here. How early were you up?

_Alb._ Before the sun.

_Tell._ Ay, strive with him. He never lies abed When it is time to rise. Be like the sun.

_Alb._ What you would have me like, I'll be like, As far as will to labor joined can make me.

_Tell._ Well said, my boy! Knelt you when you got up To-day?

_Alb._ I did; and do so every day.

_Tell._ I know you do! And think you, when you kneel, To whom you kneel?

_Alb._ To Him who made me, father.

_Tell._ And in whose name?

_Alb._ The name of Him who died For me and all men, that all men and I Should live

_Tell._ That's right. Remember that my son: Forget all things but that--remember that! 'Tis more than friends or fortune; clothing, food; All things on earth; yea, life itself!--It is To live, when these are gone, when they are naught-- With God! My son remember that!

_Alb._ I will.

_Tell._ I'm glad you value what you're taught. That is the lesson of content, my son; He who finds which has all--who misses, nothing.

_Alb._ Content is a good thing.

_Tell._ A thing, the good Alone can profit by. But go, Albert, Reach thy cap and wallet, and thy mountain staff. Don't keep me waiting. [_Exit_ ALBERT.

TELL. _paces the stage in thought. Re-enter_ ALBERT.

_Alb._ I am ready, father.

_Tell._ (_taking_ ALBERT _by the hand_). Now mark me, Albert Dost thou fear the snow, The ice-field, or the hail flaw? Carest thou for The mountain mist that settles on the peak, When thou art upon it? Dost thou tremble at The torrent roaring from the deep ravine, Along whose shaking ledge thy track doth lie? Or faintest thou at the thunder-clap, when on The hill thou art o'ertaken by the cloud, And it doth burst around thee? Thou must travel All night.

_Alb._ I'm ready; say all night again.

_Tell._ The mountains are to cross, for thou must reach Mount Faigel by the dawn.

_Alb._ Not sooner shall The dawn be there than I.

_Tell._ Heaven speeding thee.

_Alb._ Heaven speeding me.

_Tell._ Show me thy staff. Art sure Of the point? I think 'tis loose. No--stay! 'Twill do. Caution is speed when danger's to be passed. Examine well the crevice. Do not trust the snow! 'Tis well there is a moon to-night. You're sure of the track?

_Alb._ Quite sure.

_Tell._ The buskin of That leg's untied; stoop down and fasten it. You know the point where you must round the cliff?

_Alb._ I do.

_Tell._ Thy belt is slack--draw it tight. Erni is in Mount Faigel: take this dagger And give it him! you know its caverns well. In one of them you will find him. Farewell.

A VENTRILOQUIST ON A STAGE-COACH.

HENRY COCKTON.

"Now then, look alive there!" shouted the coachman from the booking-office door, as Valentine and his Uncle John approached. "Have yow got that are mare's shoe made comfor'ble, Simon!"

"All right, sir," said Simon, and he went round to see if it were so, while the luggage was being secured.

"Jimp up, genelmen!" cried the coachman, as he waddled from the office with his whip in one hand and his huge way-bill in the other; and the passengers accordingly proceeded to arrange themselves on the various parts of the coach,--Valentine, by the particular desire of Uncle John, having deposited himself immediately behind the seat of the coachman.

"If you please," said an old lady, who had been standing in the gateway upwards of an hour, "will you be good enow, please, to take care of my darter?"

"All safe," said the coachman, untwisting the reins. "She shaunt take no harm. Is she going all the way?"

"Yes, sir," replied the old lady; "God bless her! She's got a place in Lunnun, an' I'm told--"

"Hook on them ere two sacks o' whoats there behind," cried the coachman; "I marn't go without 'em this time.--Now, all right there?"

"Good by, my dear," sobbed the old lady, "do write to me soon, be sure you do,--I only want to hear from you often. Take care of yourself."

"Hold hard!" cried the coachman, as the horses were dancing, on the cloths being drawn from their loins. "Whit, whit!" and away they pranced, as merrily as if they had known that _their_ load was nothing when compared with the load they left behind them. Even old Uncle John, as he cried "Good by, my dear boy," and waved his hand for the last time, felt the tears trickling down his cheeks.

The salute was returned, and the coach passed on.

The fulness of Valentine's heart caused him for the first hour to be silent; but after that, the constant change of scene and the pure bracing air had the effect of restoring his spirits, and he felt a powerful inclination to sing. Just, however, as he was about to commence for his own amusement, the coach stopped to change horses. In less than two minutes they started again, and Valentine, who then felt ready for anything, began to think seriously of the exercise of his power as a ventriloquist.

"Whit, whit!" said Tooler, the coachman, between a whisper and a whistle, as the fresh horses galloped up the hill.

"Stop! hoa!" cried Valentine, assuming a voice, the sound of which appeared to have travelled some distance.

"You have left some one behind," observed a gentleman in black, who had secured the box seat.

"Oh, let un run a bit!" said Tooler. "Whit! I'll give un a winder up this little hill, and teach un to be up in time in future. If we was to wait for every passenger as chooses to lag behind, we shouldn't git over the ground in a fortnit."

"Hoa! stop! stop! stop!" reiterated Valentine, in the voice of a man pretty well out of breath.

Tooler, without deigning to look behind, retickled the haunches of his leaders, and gleefully chuckled at the idea of _how_ he was making a passenger sweat.

The voice was heard no more, and Tooler, on reaching the top of the hill, pulled up and looked round, but could see no man running.

"Where is he?" inquired Tooler.

"In the ditch!" replied Valentine, throwing his voice behind.

"In the ditch!" exclaimed Tooler. "Blarm me, whereabouts?"

"There," said Valentine.

"Bless my soul!" cried the gentleman in black, who was an exceedingly nervous village clergyman. "The poor person no doubt is fallen down in an absolute state of exhaustion. How very, very wrong of you, coachman, not to stop!"

Tooler, apprehensive of some serious occurrence, got down with the view of dragging the exhausted passenger out of the ditch; but although he ran several hundred yards down the hill, no such person of course could be found.

"Who saw un?" shouted Tooler, as he panted up the hill again.

"I saw nothing," said a passenger behind, "but a boy jumping over the hedge."

Tooler looked at his way-bill, counted the passengers, found them all right, and, remounting the box, got the horses again into a gallop, in the perfect conviction that some villanous young scarecrow had raised the false alarm.

"Whit! blarm them 'ere boys!" said Tooler, "'stead o' mindin' their crows, they are allus up to suffen. I only wish I had un here, I'd pay _on_ to their blarmed bodies; if I would n't--" At this interesting moment, and as if to give a practical illustration of what he would have done in the case, he gave the off-wheeler so telling a cut round the loins that the animal without any ceremony kicked over the trace. Of course Tooler was compelled to pull up again immediately; and after having adjusted the trace, and asking the animal seriously what he meant, at the same time enforcing the question by giving him a blow on the bony part of the nose, he prepared to remount; but just as he had got his left foot upon the nave of the wheel, Valentine so admirably imitated the sharp snapping growl of a dog in the front boot, that Tooler started back as quickly as if he had been shot, while the gentleman in black dropped the reins and almost jumped into the road.

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the gentleman in black, trembling with great energy; "How wrong, how very horribly wrong, of you, coachman, not to tell me that a dog had been placed beneath my feet."

"Blarm their carcases!" cried Tooler, "they never told _me_ a dog was shoved there. Lay _down_! We'll soon have yow out there together!"

"Not for the world!" cried the gentleman in black, as Tooler approached the foot-board in order to open it. "Not for the world! un-un-un-less you le-le-let me get down first. I have no desire to pe-pe-perish of hydropho-phobia."

"Kip yar fut on the board then, sir, please," said Tooler, "we'll soon have the varmint out o' that." So saying, he gathered up the reins, remounted the box, and started off the horses again at full gallop.