Chapter 7

_Aunt H._ Out of that bandbox.

_Kitty._ (_Takes up the cover._) It's marked "Miss Katy Doolan." You've made a pretty mess of it!

_Aunt H._ Sakes alive! It's the hired gal's! Well, I never!

_Mrs. C._ But where's the bonnet you sent from Thompson's?

_Katy._ (_Outside._) O, murder! that iver I should say this day!

_Enter_ KATY, R., (_holding in her hand an elegant bonnet._)

The mane, stingy blackgurd has sint me this whisp of a bunnet, that I'll niver git on my head at all at all!

_Kitty._ That's my bonnet!

_Katy._ Is it, indade? and perhaps ye's be afther claiming the letther Cornalius Ryan sint wid it.

_Mrs. C._ No, no, Katy; there's a little mistake here. This is your bonnet.

_Katy._ Faith, now, isn't that a darling, jist! I'll wear it to church to-morrow, sure.

_Kitty._ Put it on now, Katy; and then take this wisp of a bonnet, as you call it, to Miss Thompson, with my best compliments and tell her I have decided not to keep it.

_Mrs. C._ Why, Kitty, I thought your heart was set upon having it.

_Kitty._ So it was, mother; but I shall never dare to wear it, after the ridiculous appearance I have just made. It's too fine for me. My conscience gave me a little twinge as I was coming home. Send Harry the money for his new suit. My old bonnet is quite good enough for me.

_Aunt H._ Neow that's what I call a self-denyin' gal. I'll fix it up for you; for if there's anything I pride myself on doin', it's fixing up old bunnets.

_Kitty._ And trying on new ones! No, I thank you, aunt Hopkins. Hereafter I'll look after my bonnets myself. I think our acquaintance with Mrs. Fastone will be broken off by this adventure; and so I will make a merit of necessity, abandon fashionable society, and be more humble in my demeanor and in my dress.

_Mrs. C._ Ah, my child, you will be better satisfied with your decision, as you grow older, and see how frivolous are the demands of fashion, and how little happiness can be obtained by lavish display. And I think this little adventure, though a severe lesson, will be far more profitable than the possession of that "love of a bonnet."

DRAFTED.

MRS. H.L. BOSTWICK.

The opening stanzas of this poem should be recited in an agitated, broken voice, as though the fond mother could not fully realize the fact of her boy being drafted:--in the end the voice changes to a firmer and gentler tone, as a spirit of resignation fills the mother's heart:

My son! What! Drafted? My Harry! Why, man, 'tis a boy at his books; No taller, I'm sure, than your Annie--as delicate, too, in his looks. Why, it seems but a day since he helped me girl-like, in my kitchen at tasks; He drafted! Great God, can it be that our President knows what he asks?

He never could wrestle, this boy, though in spirit as brave as the best; Narrow-chested, a little, you notice, like him who has long been at rest. Too slender for over much study--why, his master has made him to-day Go out with his ball on the common--and you have drafted a child at his play!

"Not a patriot?" Fie! Did I wimper when Robert stood up with his gun, And the hero-blood chafed in his forehead, the evening we heard of Bull Run? Pointing his finger at Harry, but turning his eyes to the wall, "There's a staff growing up for your age, mother," said Robert, "if I am to fall."

"Eighteen?" Oh I know! And yet narrowly; just a wee babe on the day When his father got up from a sick-bed and cast his last ballot for Clay. Proud of his boy and his ticket, said he, "A new morsel of fame We'll lay on the candidate's altar"--and christened the child with his name.

Oh, what have I done, a weak woman, in what have I meddled with harm, (Troubling only my God for the sunshine and rain on my rough little farm,) That my ploughshares are beaten to swords, and whetted before my eyes, That my tears must cleanse a foul nation, my lamb be a sacrifice?

Oh, 'tis true there's a country to save, man, and 'tis true there is no appeal, But did God see my boy's name lying the uppermost one in the wheel? Five stalwart sons has my neighbour, and never the lot upon one; Are these things Fortune's caprices, or is it God's will that is done?

Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his rest, With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his breast? Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred? My boy! Thank God for these tears--I was growing so bitter and hard!

* * * * *

Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night, Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight; Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine, And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly camp-fires shine.

Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide down in the yard; That shall go with my soldier to battle, and stand with my picket on guard. Spirits of loving and lost ones--watch softly with Harry to-night, For to-morrow he goes forth to battle--to arm him for Freedom and Right!

AN ERUPTION OF MOUNT VESUVIUS.

BULWER.

The following magnificent description of perhaps the most awful phenomenon in nature, gives full scope for almost every tone and gesture. Care should, however, be taken that the natural grandeur of the subject be not marred by a stilted, pompous, or affected delivery. Let the speaker try to realize the thought and feelings of a spectator of the dark scene of desolation, and he cannot go amiss:

The eyes of the crowd beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapour shooting from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk, blackness; the branches, fire, that shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment: now fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare.

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet; the walls of the theatre trembled; and beyond, in the distance, they heard the crash of falling roofs. An instant more, and the mountain-cloud seemed to roll toward them, dark and rapid like a torrent; at the same time it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes, mixed with fragments of burning stone! Over the crushing vines, over the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre itself,--far and wide,--with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful shower!

The cloud advanced, darker, disgorging showers of ashes and pumice stones; and, amid the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the half-burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the streets, in frequent intervals.

The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the day, at length settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the blackness gathered did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare.

Nor was their horrible beauty confined to their hues of fire. Now brightly blue, as the most azure depth of a southern sky; now of a livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro, as the folds of an enormous serpent; now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke far and wide, and lighting up all Pompeii; then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of its own life!

In the pauses of the showers were heard the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea; or, lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through the chasms of the distant mountain.

The ashes, in many places, were already knee-deep; and in some places immense fragments of rock, hurled upon the house-roofs, bore down along the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed the way; and, as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt; the footing seemed to slide and creep, nor could chariot or litter be kept steady, even on the most level ground.

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach; and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved, for several houses and even vineyards had been set on flames; and at various intervals the fire rose fiercely and sullenly against the solid gloom. The citizens had endeavoured to place rows of torches in the most frequented spots; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the wind extinguished them.

Suddenly arose an intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the darkness which closed around it, the mountain shone, a pile of fire! Its summit seemed riven in two; or rather, above its surface, there seemed to rise two monster-shapes, each confronting each, as demons contending for a world. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which lighted up the whole atmosphere; but below, the nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in three places, adown which flowed serpentine, and irregular rivers of molten lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the devoted city. And through the still air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurling one upon another, as they were borne down the fiery cataracts, darkening for one instant the spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the burnished hues of the flood along which they floated!

Suddenly a duller shade fell over the air; and one of the two gigantic crests into which the summit had been divided, rocked and waved to and fro; and then, with a sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down the sides of the mountain. At the same instant gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke, rolling on, over air, sea and earth. Another, and another, and another shower of ashes, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the streets, and darkness once more wrapped them as a veil.

The whole elements of civilization were broken up. If in the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing was left save the law of self-preservation.

A PLEA FOR THE OX.

DUGANNE.

This beautiful poem should be recited with a calm, even devout dignity; occasionally rising into energetic expression as the poet apostrophizes the Deity in behalf of the down-trodden:

Of all my Father's herds and flocks, I love the Ox--the large-eyed Ox! I think no Christian man would wrong The Ox--so patient, calm, and strong!

How huge his strength! and yet, with flowers A child can lead this Ox of ours; And yoke his ponderous neck, with cords Made only of the gentlest words.

By fruitful Nile the Ox was Lord; By Jordan's stream his blood was poured; In every age--with every clan-- He loves, he serves, he dies for MAN!

And, through the long, long years of God, Since labouring ADAM delved the sod, I hear no human voice that mocks The _hue_ which God hath given His Ox!

While burdening toils bow down his back, Who asks if he be _white_ or _black?_ And when his generous blood is shed, Who shall deny its common _red?_

"Ye shall not muzzle"--God hath sworn-- "The Ox, that treadeth out the corn!" I think no Christian law ordains That _Ox_ or _Man_ should toil in chains.

So, haply, for an Ox I pray. That kneels and toils for us this day; A huge, calm, patient, large-eyed Ox, Black-skinned, among our herds and flocks.

So long, O righteous Lord! so long Bowed down, and yet so brave and strong-- I think no Christian, just and true, Can spurn this poor Ox for his _hue!_

I know not why he shall not toil, Black-skinned, upon our broad, free soil; And lift aloft his dusky frame, Unbranded by a bondman's name!

And struggling still, for nobler goal, With wakening will and soaring soul, I know not why his great free strength May not be our best wealth at length:

That strength which, in the limbs of _slaves_-- Like Egypt's--only piles up graves! But in the hands of _freemen_ now May build up states, by axe and plough!--

And rear up souls, as purely white As angels, clothed with heavenly light; And yield forth life-blood, richly red As patriot hearts have ever shed.

God help us! we are veiled within-- Or white or black--with shrouds of skin; And, at the last, we all shall crave Small difference in the breadth of grave!

But--when the grass grows, green and calm, And smells above our dust, like balm-- I think our rest will sweeter be, If over us the Ox be--_free!_

HERE SHE GOES, AND THERE SHE GOES.

JAMES NACK.

Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way, Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke, to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill; Will looked it over:--"Very right-- But hold! what wonder meets my sight? Tom! the surprise is quite a shock!" "What wonder? where?" "The clock, the clock!"

Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke; At last the landlord silence broke,--

"You mean the clock that's ticking there? I see no wonder, I declare! Though maybe, if the truth were told, 'Tis rather ugly, somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute; But, if you please, what wonder in it?"

"Tom, don't you recollect," said Will, "The clock at Jersey, near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink; Tom scratched his head and tried to think. "Sir, begging your pardon for inquiring," The landlord said with grin admiring, "What wager was it?"

"You remember It happened, Tom, in last December: In sport I bet a Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do To make his finger go and come In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till the hour should close, Still--'_Here she goes, and there she goes._' He lost the bet in half a minute."

"Well, if I would, the deuce is in it!" Exclaimed the landlord; "try me yet, And fifty dollars to be bet." "Agreed, but we will play some trick, To make you of the bargain sick!" "I'm up to that!"

"Don't make us wait,-- Begin,--the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all its might, And hoarse his voice and hoarser grows, With--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"Hold!" said the Yankee, "plank the ready!" The landlord wagged his finger steady, While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table, "Tom! with the money let's be off!" This made the landlord only scoff. He heard them running down the stair, But was not tempted from his chair; Thought he, "The fools! I'll bite them yet! So poor a trick sha'n't win the bet." And loud and long the chorus rose Of--"Here she goes, and there she goes!" While right and left his finger swung, In keeping to his clock and tongue.

His mother happened in to see Her daughter: "Where is Mrs. B----?" "When will she come, do you suppose?" Son!--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Here!--where?"--the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes; "Son! why that steady gaze and sad? Those words,--that motion,--are you mad? But here's your wife, perhaps she knows, And--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!"

His wife surveyed him with alarm, And rushed to him and seized his arm; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go, While curled his very nose with ire That _she_ against him should conspire; And with more furious tone arose The--"Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"Lawks!" screamed the wife, "I'm in a whirl! Run down and bring the little girl; She is his darling, and who knows But--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!" "Lawks! he is mad! What made him thus? Good Lord! what will become of us? Run for a doctor,--run, run, run,-- For Doctor Brown and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black and Doctor White, And Doctor Grey with all your might!"

The doctors came, and looked, and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered. Then one proposed he should be bled,-- "No, leeched you mean," the other said,-- "Clap on a blister!" roared another,-- "No! cup him,"--"No! trepan him, brother." A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge; The eighth, just come from a dissection, His verdict gave for an injection. The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills: "I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, "and wretched was her plight, And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her; And by to-morrow I suppose That--" "Here she goes, and there she goes!"

"You are all fools!" the lady said,-- "The way is, just to shave his head. Run! bid the barber come anon." "Thanks, mother!" thought her clever son; "You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha'n't outwit me!" Thus to himself, while to and fro His fingers perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But--"Here she goes, and there she goes!" The barber came--"Lord help him! what A queerish customer I've got; But we must do our best to save him,-- So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him!" But here the doctors interpose,-- "A woman never--" "There she goes!"

"A woman is no judge of physic, No even when her baby is sick. He must be bled,"--"No, no, a blister,"-- "A purge, you mean,"--"I say a clyster,"-- "No, cup him,"--"Leech him,"--"Pills! pills! pills!" And all the house the uproar fills.

What means that smile? what means that shiver? The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face, His finger yet shall win the race; The clock is on the stroke of nine, And up he starts,--"'Tis mine! 'tis mine!" "What do you mean?"

"I mean the fifty; I never spent an hour so thrifty. But you who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose! But how is this? where are they?" "Who?"

"The gentlemen,--I mean the two Came yesterday,--are they below?" "They galloped off an hour ago." "O, purge me! blister! shave and bleed! For, hang the knaves, I'm mad indeed!"

DAVID AND GOLIATH.

Goliath gives vent to his arrogance in a bombastic style. This should be borne in mind by the speaker. David, on the other hand, expresses himself with modesty, but in a tone of confident courage:

_Goliath._ Where is the mighty man of war, who dares Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief? What victor-king, what general drenched in blood, Claims this high privilege? What are his rights? What proud credentials does the boaster bring To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes, What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms, What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings, In battle killed, or at his altars slain, Has he to boast? Is his bright armory Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail, Of vanquished nations, by his single arm Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold, So much a wretch, so out of love with life, To dare the weight of this uplifted spear? Come, advance! Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald, Sound for the battle straight!

_David._ Behold thy foe.

_Gol._ I see him not.

_Dav._ Behold him here.

_Gol._ Say, where? Direct my sight. I do not war with boys.

_Dav._ I stand prepared; thy single arm to mine.

_Gol._ Why, this is mockery, minion; it may chance To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above thee: But tell me who, of all this numerous host, Expects his death from me? Which is the man Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance?

_Dav._ The election of my sovereign falls on me.

_Gol._ On thee! on thee! by Dagon, 'tis too much! Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion! 'Twould move my mirth at any other time; But trifling's out of tune. Begone, light boy! And tempt me not too far.

_Dav._ I do defy thee, Thou foul idolator! Hast thou not scorned The armies of the living God I serve! By me he will avenge upon thy head Thy nation's sins and thine. Armed with his name, Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe That ever bathed his hostile spear in blood.

_Gol._ Indeed! 'tis wondrous well! Now, by my gods! The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy! Keep close to that same bloodless war of words, And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant warrior! Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung, Of idle field-flowers? Where thy wanton harp, Thou dainty-fingered hero? Now will I meet thee, Thou insect warrior; since thou dar'st me thus, Already I behold thy mangled limbs, Dissevered each from each, ere long to feed The fierce, blood-snuffing vulture. Mark me well, Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks And toss in air thy head all gashed with wounds.

_Dav._ Ha, say'st thou so? Come on, then; Mark us well. Thou com'st to me with sword and spear, and shield; In the dread name of Israel's God, I come; The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defi'st; Yet though no shield I bring; no arms, except These five smooth stones I gathered from the brook With such a simple sling as shepherds use; Yet all exposed, defenceless as I am, The God I serve shall give thee up a prey To my victorious arm. This day, I mean To make the uncircumcised tribes confess There is a God in Israel. I will give thee, Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk, To glut the carrion-kites. Nor thee alone; The mangled carcasses of your thick hosts Shall spread the plains of Elah; till Philistia, Through all her trembling tents and flying bands, Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed! I dare thee to the trial!

_Gol._ Follow me. In this good spear I trust.

_Dav._ I trust in Heaven! The God of battles stimulates my arm, And fires my soul with ardor not its own.

In this dialogue, the first speech of Goliath is simple vaunt. Confident in his huge bulk and strength, he strides occasionally from side to side while speaking, elevating his arms and throwing his limbs about as if anxious to display his powerful sinews and muscular proportions. He speaks very loud, as if willing to terrify all Israel with his voice.

In this second speech, Goliath partly stoops, half shuts his eyes like a person endeavouring to discern some diminutive object, and, after looking intently a short time, suddenly straightens himself up to his full height, and says arrogantly: "I see him not."

In his third speech, Goliath maintains the same ground, till, in the conclusion, he seems, at last, to have perceived David, and, turning away contemptuously, adds: "I do not war with boys."