mfmmmmm***™*™** ■ I ■ n Good Selections, No. 2. Selected Readings, SERIOUS AND HUMOROUS, PROSE AND POETRY, APPENDIX ON ELOCUTION, ETC. BY Prof. J; E. FKOBISHEK, Author op "Voice and Action," "Guide to Elocution," Etc. NEW YORK J. W. Schermerhorn & Co 14 Bond Street. 1875. 6 ^\^ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by J. W. SCHERMERHORN & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Lange, Little & Co., PEINTERS, ELECTBOTYPERS AND STEREOTYPEBS, 108 to 114 Woostek Street, N. Y. PEEFAOE Voice and Action was published a few years since, more particularly as a manual of instruction, and, consequently, contains but a limited number of selections especially adapt- ed to parlor or platform reading. The author of the above-mentioned work has continually experienced the necessity of having some more extended means of supplying pupils and friends with material for such occasions, and hopes to meet these needs in the present work. It is the intention to publish only such recognized selec- tions as have been most frequently desired, and the more recent productions possible to obtain. The popular serial form is the plan pi^oposed, combining as it does two very desirable advantages; the opportunity of constantly adding fresh material, and the no inconsiderable one of inexpensiveness. To publishers, grateful acknowledgments are due : James R. Osgood, & Co., for use of poems from Whittier, Lowell, Trowbridge, Stedman, and Miss Proctor; Harper & Bros., for use of poems from Naseby, Carlton, and Dug- gane (in Magazine and Weekly) ; Hurd & Houghton, for use of poems from the Cary Sisters ; to Roberts Bros., for use of poems from Rossetti. To friends, much is due : to Mrs. E. F. Ellet for especial translations and many excellent selections from other authors. To Madame 0. W. Le Vert for original sketches expressly arranged. To Mrs. Lillie Devereux Blake, for original poems and selected material. To Miss Ella Dietz, for original poems and sketches. To Miss Sara Genevra Chafa, for original and many selected poems from her repetoire of 4 PKEFACE. readings used in public. To Col. T. B. Thorpe, for original poems and prose sketches. To John A. Volck, for original poems and translations expressly for the serial. To David Legare, for original prose and poetry and miscellaneous selected pieces. To J. Seaver Page, for numerous contribu- tions from private collection. 1ST. B. — Selections from persons willing to contribute, either original or selected, prose or poetry, will be gladly received for following numbers of the serial readings. J. E. FROBISHER. CONTENTS. PAGE After the Battle Sallie Bridges Rynes. 97 All But Lost Charles Follen Lee. 87 Ballad of the War Alice Carey. 121 Bells (Parody) J. E. Frobisher. 103 Brutus and Caesar John J. Case. 59 Cane-Bottomed Chair Thackeray. 105 Charlie Machree W. J. Hoppin. 78 Curfew 118 Darling Wee Shoe Dora Shaw. 68 Darnley's Dream Swinburne. 107 Decoration Day Gen. Cochrane. 77 Dutchman's Shmall Pox 66 Dying Drummer-Boy T. B. Thorpe. 50 Enoch Arden 93 Experience and Hope , Frothingham. 91 Fairy Precept (Dialogue) 137 Fairy Story 133 Falling Stars (Translation) Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 46 Fragment Ella Bietz. 48 Girl with the Milking Pail 80 Half a Century Ago > Mrs. Lillie Bevereux Blake. 30 How He Saved St. Michael's. . . > Mary A. P. Stansbury. 72 How the Baby Came Mrs. M. E. Bradley. 116 Irishman's Spur > 84 Maclaine's Child 124 Manuela Bayard Taylor. 113 Moonlight Fancies Sara Genevra Chafa. 63 Morning on the Pincian Hill Madame Le Vert. 56 Murad (Translation) John A. Volck. 127 6 CONTENTS. PAGE Old Elm 53 One Day Solitary Trowbridge. 19 On the Water Geibel 58 Our Dead Gen. James B. M 'Kean. 75 Polish Boy Mrs. A. Stephens. 109 Professor of Signs 28 Regulus Kellogg. 61 Revenge of the Flowers (Translation) Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 25 Shakespeare Gervinus. 23 Sister Helen Gabriel Dante Rosetti. 32 Sorrow John A. Volck. 44 Story of Some Bells 7 Story of the Faithful Soul Adelaide Proctor. 100 Striving Ella Dietz. 21 Sumner's Character Carl Schurz. 70 Swineherd Hans Andersen. 16 Tom O'Connor's Cat 39 Toussaint L'Ouverture Wendell Phillips. 95 Wanderer's Christmas .Sara Genevra Chafa. 14 Widow Mrs. E. F. Ellet. 82 APPENDIX Voice Culture. — Reading. — To Teachers. — The Nasal Organs. — The Youth of Henry Ward Beecher 143 Brevities, Original and Selected 148 Character Reading. — Wendell Phillips 151 Public Readings. — The Uses of Readings 153 The Actor and the Reader. — Management of the Voice. — Poetry. — Argumentative Reading. — Sentimental Reading. — The Bible. — Dramatic Reading 158 Witty and Humorous Readings. — Public Readings 164 Before an Audience. — Platform Oratory. — Open Air Speaking 166 FEOBISHEE'S Serial Readings THE STORY OF SOME BELLS. Long years agone a southern artisan, Dowered with the tender genius of his clime, A dreamy-eyed, devout, and sad-voiced man, Cast, with rare skill, a wondrous tuneful chime, "Whose very sound might draw the pagan Turk To bow in rapture on the minster floor ; And, it is said, this founder seemed to pour His deep Italian soul into his work Like molten music, and when first high hung, A triumph peal the bells harmonious rung, And made a Sabbath on the golden air, He stood with clasped hands, and brow all bare, And murmured liquid syllables of prayer. Against the cliff, beneath the convent tower, < He built the rude nest of his peasant home ; Nor wandering sail, nor hope of gain had power To tempt him from the spot blest by his bells to roam. At last, there came to curse that lovely land, The woe and waste of war ; the legend tells How one wild night a sacrilegeous band Despoiled the convent even of its bells. erobisher's serial readings. The founder seizing his rude arms, in vain Strove that fierce tide of blood and fire to stay ; He saw his home in flames, his brave sons slain, And then a dungeon's walls shut out the day. Long years wore on, at last the artisan, A weary, bowed, gray-haired, and lonely man, Joyless beheld again the sea, the sky, And pined to hear his bells once more — then die. Somewhere, he knew, those bells at morn and even, Made sweetest music in the ear of Heaven ; Voiced human worship, called to praise and prayer, Censers of sound, high swinging in the air. The legend telleth how, from town to town, Where'er a minster cross stood up to bless God's praying souls, where'er a spire looked down, He, through strange lands and weary ways did pre His mournful pilgrimage, companionless. The Norman carillons, so sweet and clear, The chimes of Amsterdam and gray old Grhent, But alien music rang they to his ear ; No faintest thrill of joy to his sad heart they sent. Before full many an English tower he stood And vainly listened, then his quest pursued. Soft shades foretold the coming of the night, Yet goldenly on Shannon's emerald shores, As charmed, or fallen asleep, the sunset light Still lingered — or as there sweet Day Had dropped her mantle, ere she took her flight. Up Shannon's tide a boat slow held its way ; All silent bent the boatmen to their oars, For at their feet a dying stranger lay. THE STORY OP SOME BELLS. 9 In broken accents of a foreign tongue, He breathed fond names, and murmured words of prayer, And yearningly his wasted arms outflung, Grasped viewless hands, and kissed the empty air. Sudden upon the breeze came floating down The sound of vesper-bells from Limerick town, So sweet 'twould seem that holiest of chimes Stored up new notes amid its silent times — Some wandering melodies from heavenly climes — Or gathered music from the summer hours, As bees draw sweets from tributary flowers. Peal followed peal, till all the air around Trembled in waves of undulating sound. The dying stranger, where he gasping lay, Heard the sweet chime, and knew it ringing nigh ; Quick from his side the phantoms fled away, And the last soul-light kindled in his eye! His cold hands reaching toward the shadowy shore, "Madonna, thanks !" he cried, "I hear my dells once more ! " Nearer they drew to Limerick, where the bells Were raining music from the church-tower high ; The pilgrim listened till their latest swells Shook from his heart the faintest echoing sigh ; With their sweet ceasing, ceased his mortal breath. So, like a conqueror, to the better land Passed the worn artisan — such music grand Uprolled before him on the heavenly path. From the west heavens went out the sunset gold, And Hesperus his silver lamp uphung; To countless pious hearts those bells had rung The vesper chime that summons souls to pray: But to that stranger, weary, lone, and old, They pealed the matins of immortal day. 10 frobisher's sebial readings. ONE DAY SOLITARY. TROWBRIDGE. I am all right ! Good-bye, old chap ! Twenty-four hours, that won't be long ; Nothing to do but take a nap, And — say ! can a fellow sing a song? Will the light fantastic be in order — A pigeon-wing on your pantry floor? "What are the rules for a regular boarder ? Be quiet? All right! Oling-clang goes the door, Clang clinic the bolts, and I am lockecl in ; Some pious reflection and repentance Come next, I suppose, for I just begin To perceive the sting in the' tail of my sentence — " One day whereof shall be solitary." Here I am at the end of my journey, And — well, it ain't jolly, not so very — Fd like to throttle that sharp attorney ! He took my money, the very last dollar, Didn't leave me so much as a dime, Not enough to buy me a paper collar To wear at my trial ; he knew all the time 'Twas some that I got for the stolen silver! Why hasn't he been indicted, too ? If he doesn't exactly rob and pilfer, He lives by the plunder of .them that do. Then didn't it put me into a fury, To see him step up, and laugh and chat With the county attorney, and joke with the jury, When all was over, then go back for his hat ; ONE DAY SOLITARY. 11 While Sue was sobbing to break ber heart, And all I could do was to stand and stare! He had pleaded my cause, he had played his part, And got his fee — and what more did he care? It's droll to think how, just out yonder, The world goes jogging on the same; Old men will save, and boys will squander, And fellows will play at the same old game Of get-and-spend — to-morrow, next year — And drink and carouse, and who will there be To remember a comrade buried here ? I am to them, they are nothing to me. And Sue — yes, she will forget me, too, I know ; already her tears are drying. I believe there is nothing that girl can do So easy as laughing, and lying, and crying. She clung to me well while there was hope, Then broke her heart in that last wild sob ; But she ain't going to sit and mope While I am at work on a five years' job. They'll set me to learning a trade, no doubt, And I must forget to speak or smile ; I shall go marching in and out, One of a silent, tramping file Of felons, at morning, and noon, and night — Just down to the shops, and back to the cells, And work with a thief at left and right, And feed, and sleep, and — nothing else. Was I born for this ? Will the old folks know ? I can see them now on the old home-place ; His gait is feeble, his step is slow, There's a settled grief in his furrowed face; 12 frobisher's serial readings. While she goes wearily groping about In a sort of dream, so bent, so sad ! But this won't do ! I must sing and shout, And forget myself, or else go mad. « I won't be foolish ; although for a minute I was there in my little room once more. What wouldn't I give just now to be in it? The bed is yonder, and there is the door ; The Bible is here on the neat white stand; The summer sweets are ripening now ; In the flickering light I reach my hand From the window, and pluck them from the bough. When I was a child, (0, well for me And them if I had never been older !) When he told me stories on his knee, And tossed me, and carried me on his shoulder; When she knelt down and heard my prayer, And gave me, in my bed, my good-night kiss — Did they ever think that all their care For an only son could come to this ? Foolish again ! ]STo sense in tears And gnashing the teeth; and yet, somehow, I haven't thought of them so for years : I never knew them, I think, till now. How fondly, how blindly, they trusted me ! When I should have been in my bed asleep, I slipped from the window, and down the tree, And sowed for the harvest which now I reap. And Jennie — how could I bear to leave her ? If I had but wished — but I was a fool ! My heart was filled with a thirst and a fever, Which no sweet airs of heaven could cool. ONE DAT SOLITARY. 13 I can hear her asking : "Have you heard ? " But mother falters and shakes her head ; " 0, Jennie ! Jennie ! never a word ! What can it mean ? He must be dead ! " Light-hearted, a proud, ambitious lad, I left my home that morning in May ; What visions, what hopes, what plans I had ! And what have I — where are they all — to-day ? Wild fellows, and wine, and debts, and gaming, Disgrace, and the loss of place and friend ; And I was an outlaw, past reclaiming ; Arrest and sentence, and — this is the end ! Five years ! Shall ever I quit this prison ? Homeless, an outcast, where shall I go ? Eeturn to them, like one arisen From the grave, that was buried long ago? All is still; 'tis the close of the week; I slink through the garden, I stop by the well, I see him totter, I hear her shriek ! — What sort of a tale will I have to tell ? But here I am ! What's the using of grieving ? Five years— will it be too late to begin ? Can sober thinking and honest living Still make me the man I might have been ? I'll sleep : — 0, would I could wake to-morrow In that old room, to find, at last, That all my trouble and all their sorrow Are only a dream of the night that is past. 14 frobisher's serial readings. THE WANDERER'S CHRISTMAS. SARA GEKEYRA CHAFA. 'Tis Christmas night in cot and hall, 'Tis Christmas night at sea, 'Tis Christmas night o'er all the earth, For every one but me. I see the village lights that gleam From many happy homes, I know that there are smiles of love, For all save one who roams. 'Tis Christmas night among the rich, 'Tis Christmas with the poor, For all have some to love and greet, Save I who walk the moor. I know the Christmas trees are hung With presents fair to see, Bestowed by loving hearts and hands On every one but me. Wide open swing the castle gates, And troops of guests go in, But I am shut from happiness As if it were a sin. Gay groups of lovers come and go, Beneath the starlit sky, But, — I wander to and fro, And wander but to die. I sit upon the marble steps Of stately homes of wealth, And when the door swings wide I look on merry youth and health. THE WANDERER'S CHRISTMAS. 15 The skies flame out with northern lights, But bitter is the cold; 0, would that I might walk, to-night, The city payed with gold. My tattered clothes, amid the blast, Blow wildly here and there, And though my lips are stiff and blue, I strive to frame a prayer. This is the night when Christ came down To save a world of woe ; But ah ! it brings no joy to me Amid this blinding snow. I've toiled so long without repay That I am weak and faint ; And yet, to any ear on earth, I dare not make complaint. 0, rich men, sitting in your halls, 0, women, proud and fair, Pray God that you may never know What I am called to bear. Your lights send out upon the snow A bright and cheery ray, Which is but mockery to one Who has nowhere to stay. I trusted night would cool the pulse That beats so hot and high; It will ; I hear it whispered low That I am soon to die. I wonder if 'tis Christmas night Above, beyond the blue ; And are there any presents there For me as well as you ? 16 Ah, me, my pulse is beating slow, I can no longer roam ; Christ ! this Christmas night take Thou The weary wanderer home. Ah, list ! I hear the angels sing, I see their harps of gold ; All pain is gone, no longer I Can feel the bitter cold. The gates swing wide, I see a face Bend to me, dazzling bright : Praise God ! the wanderer will be In heaven this Christmas night. THE SWINEHEED. andeeson — (Da?iish). dahlbom. There was once a poor prince, who had a kingdom ; his kingdom was very small, but still quite large enough to marry upon, and he wished to marry, of course. It was certainly rather bold of him to say to the Emperor's daughter — " Will you have me ? " — but so he did, for his name was renowned far and wide, and there were a hundred princesses who would have answered — '* Yes ! and thank you kindly ! " We shall see what this princess said. Listen ! Where the prince's father lay buried there grew a rose-tree — a most beautiful rose-tree — which blossomed only once in every five years, and even then, bore only one flower; but that was a rose that smelt so sweet that all cares and sorrows were forgotten by him who inhaled its fragrance. And furthermore, the prince had a nightingale which could sing- in such a manner that it seemed as if all sweet melodies dwelt in her little throat. This rose and nightingale the THE SWINEHERD. 17 princess was to have, and they were accordingly put into large silver caskets and sent her. The Emperor had them brought into the large parlor where the princess was playing at visiting with the ladies of the court — they never did anything else — and when she saw the caskets with presents, she clapped her hands for joy. " Oh, if it were but a little pussy-cat," said she; but the rose came to view. " Oh, how prettily it is made ! " said all the court ladies. "It is more than pretty," said the Emperor, " it is nice." But the princess touched it and was almost ready to cry. " Fie, papa ! " said she, " it is not made at all, it is natu- ral ! " " Oh ! " said all the ladies, " it is not made at all, it is natural! Oh! oh! oh!" " Let us see what is in the other casket before we get into a bad humor," said the Emperor. So the nightingale came forth and sang so delightfully, that at first no one could say anything ill-humored of her. " Siqwrbe! Charmant ! " ex- claimed all the ladies, for they all used to chatter French, each one worse than her neighbors. " How much this bird reminds me of a musical-box that belonged to our blessed Empress ! " said an old knight. " Oh, yes ! these are the same tones, the same execution ! " " Yes, yes," said the Emperor, and he wept like a child at the remembrance. " I will still hope it is not a real bird," said the princess. " Yes, it is a real bird," said those who had brought it. "Well, then, let the bird fly," said the princess; and she positively refused to see the prince. However, he was not to be discouraged ; he daubed his face over brown and black, pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door. " Good day to my lord, the Emperor ! " said he ; " can I have employment at the palace ? " " I don't know," said the Em- peror, " there come so many to solicit ; but never mind, I want some one to take care of the pigs, for we have a great many of them." So the prince was appointed Imperial Supe- rior swineherd. He had a dirty little room close by the pigsty, and there he sat the whole day and worked. By 18 fkobishek's serial readings. evening, he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot. Little bells were hung all round it ; and when the pot was boiling, these bells tinkled in the most charming manner, and played the old melody — ' ' Ach du lieber Augustine, Alles vech, vech, vech ! " But what was still more curious, whoever held his ringer in the steam of the kitchen-pot, immediately smelt all the dishes that were cooking on every hearth in the city — this, you see, was something quite different from a rose. Now the princess happened to walk that way, and when she heard the tune, she stood quite still and seemed very much pleased, for she could also play " Ach du lieber Augustine." It was the only piece she knew, and she played it with one finger. "Why, there is my piece!" said she; "that swineherd must certainly have been well educated. Go in and ask him. the price of the instrument." So, one of the court ladies must run in ; you know that pigsties are not made at all for court ladies, so she drew on wooden shoes first. " What will you take for the kitchen- pot ? " asked the lady. " I will have ten kisses from the princess," said the swine- herd. " Yes, indeed ! " said the lady. " I cannot sell it for less," rejoined the swineherd. " Now, what did he say ? " asked the princess, on the lady's return. " Oh, I can't tell it— it's so awful ! " "Well, you can whisper it then !" and then she whispered. "He is an impudent fellow," said the princess, and walked on. But when she had gone a little way, the bells tinkled so charmingly — "Ach du lieber Augustine, Alles vech, vech, vech ! " " Stay ! '' said the princess. " Ask him if he will have ten kisses from the ladies of my court ? " THE SWINEHERD. 19 "No, thank yon," said the swineherd; "ten kisses from the princess, or I keep the kitchen-pot myself ! " " That must not be, either," said the princess ; " but do you all stand before me so that no one may see us!" And the court ladies placed themselves in front of her, and spread out their dresses. The swineherd got ten kisses, and the princess — the kitchen-pot. That was delightful ! The pot was kept boiling the whole evening and the whole of the follow- ing day, and they knew perfectly w T ell what was cooking at every fire throughout the city, from the chambermaid's to the cobbler's, and the court ladies danced and clapped their hands for joy. " Oh, I know who has soup and pancakes for dinner, to- day!" " Yes, but I know who has scorched-milk porridge and cutlets for dinner ! " " Oh, how interesting!" « Very interesting, indeed ! " repeated the lady-steward of the king's household ! "Yes, but keep my secret, for I am the Emperor's daughter ! " "Of course!" cried they all together. The swineherd, that is to say, the prince — but no one knew that he was other than an ill-favored swineherd — let not a day pass without working at something; he at last con- structed a rattle, which, when it was swung round, played all the waltzes and jig-tunes which have ever been heard since the creation. " Ah, that is superb ! " said the princess, w T hen she passed by; "I have never heard prettier compositions. Go in and ask him the price ; but mind, he shall have no more kisses ! " "He will have a hundred kisses from the princsss !" said the lady who had been to ask. "I think he is not in his right mind," said the princess, and walked on. But when she had gone a little way, she stopped again. "One must encourage art," said she; "I am the Emperor's daughter. Tell him he shall, as on yesterday, 20 frobisher's serial readings. have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest from the ladies of my court." " Oh ! but we should not like that at all ! " said they. " What are you muttering?" said the princess; "if I can kiss him, surely you can. Eemember 'tis I who give you food and clothes." So the ladies were obliged to go to him again. "A hundred kisses from the princess!" said he, " or else let every one keep his own." " Stand round ! " said she ; and then all the ladies stood round whilst the kissing was going on. "What can be the reason of such a crowd close by the pig- sty ? " said the Emperor, who happened just to step out on the balcony. He rubbed his eyes, and put on his spectacles. " They are the ladies of the court; I must go down and see what they are about." And then he wrapped himself close up with his morning-gown, and pulled up his slippers at the heel, which he had trodden down, and hurried away. As soon as he had got into the courtyard, he moved very softly, and the ladies were so much engrossed in counting the kisses, that all might go on fairly, that he neither got too many nor too few, that they did not perceive the Emperor, who rose on tip-toes. "What is all this? " said he, when he saw what was going on, and boxed the princess' ear with his slipper, just as the swineherd was taking the eighty-sixth kiss. "Cum arous ! " cried he ; for he was very angry, and then he spoke G-erman, of course ; and both princess and swineherd were thrust out of his kingdom. The princess now stood and wept, the swineherd scolded, and the rain poured down. " Alas ! unhappy creature that I am ! " said the princess. "If I had but married the handsome young prince! ah, how unfortunate I am!" But the swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown color from his face, threw off his dirty clothes, and stepped forth in his princely robes, and he looked so noble that the princess could not help bowing '« I have come to despise thee ! " said he. " Thou wouldst STBIVING 21 not have an honorable prince ! Thou couldst not prize the rose and the nightingale, but thou wast ready to kiss the swineherd for the sake of a trumpery plaything. Thou art rightly served." He then went back to his own little king- dom, and shut the door in her face, and bolted it. And now she might indeed stand there and sing — " Acli du lieber Augustine, Alles vech, vech, vech ! " STKIVINGL ELLA DIETZ — (from Ms.). I'm tired of tragedies and sorrows, Of waking nights and toiling morrows, Of death, satiety, and sin, Open ye gods and let me in ! Divide with me your jests and laughter, Your grand indifference of hereafter, And in your brimming nectar cup We'll first drown grief, then drink it up. Why should we care, though men be slain ? Who knows but seeming loss be gain ? Why should we weep with many tears, When one escapes some bitter years? Why should we spurn as fragile toys, The godlike mirth, the godlike joys, And grasp each fleeting human pleasure As some inestimable treasure ? We weep at joy, we laugh at sin ; We sorrow for what might have been : 22 tfKOUiSHEK-S SERIAL READINGS. Could we but climb a little higher We'd know how poor is our desire. Grasping the false, we lose the real ; We ca]l the substance poor ideal; Grovel like swine amid the dust, Excusing sin because we must. Weak, human, frail, infirm of will, Our lowest passions rule us still; — While mind and soul must be our slaves, Or bury us in martyrs' graves. We cringe, we fawn, we fear, we feign ; We sell our souls for this world's gain ; We dwarf our reason, dull our sense, To gain a false pre-eminence. We've lost our rule o'er earth's domain ; Her precious secrets she'll retain : Pry as we will with finest arts, We cannot reach her heart of hearts. No longer giants we, but dwarfs ; The greatest reasoner, he who scoffs ; And lest some mind should slip and fall, . The rulers settle things for all. Who can attain the good and true Except the grand and fearless few, Who, piercing through the tainted air, Have found a way to climb the stair? And they, poor souls, are pitied still? As visions of their wayward will ; But in a hundred years or more They're fetish gods whom we adore. SHAKESPEARE. 23 Can we not claim our high estate, And bid defiance to our fate, As lords of earth, and air and sea, Assert onr royal pedigree ? Conquering the winds by human will, As one of old, with " Peace be still ! " The earth herself might change her course As thrilled by strange electric force. All elements are ours at birth, Were we " en rapport " with the earth , Her, seas, her lands, her winds, her waves, Would be our servants and our slaves. Crush your weakness, grasp your power ! Assert your godhood hour by hour ! Conquer, aspire, adore, ascend ! A glorious kingdom crowns the end. SHAKESPEARE, GERVINUS. I cannot desire to offer these reflections as a trifling recreation, for they treat of one of the richest and most im- portant subjects which could be chosen. They concern a man who, by nature, was so lavishly endowed, that even there where the standard by which to estimate him was most wanting, an innate genius within him was ever antici- pated, and they admired in him a spirit unconscious of itself; while those who understood how to penetrate into his works with an unprejudiced mind, agreed more and more in the slowly acquired conviction, that, in whatever branch of knowledge it might be, no age or nation could easily ex- 24= erobisher's serial readings. hibit a second, in whom the riches of genius, natural en- dowment, original talent, and versatility of power, were so great as in him, and who made the freest use of these liberal gifts of nature. Shakespeare was filled with the conviction, and uttered it in various expressions, that nature has given nothing to man, but has only lent ; that she only gives him, that he should give again. His works have often been called a secular bible ; in them the world and human nature can be seen as in a mirror! These are no exaggerated ex- pressions, but reasonable, well-founded opinions. To be engaged earnestly and eagerly with such a man re- wards every trouble and demands every effort. He is ever new, and cannot satiate. Not only he may but he must be often read, and read with the accuracy with which we are accustomed at school to read the old classics; otherwise one seizes not even the outer shell, much less the inner kernel. To approach him closer demands honest industry and earnest endeavor. Such is not only the experience of every single man but of the whole world. For two hundred and fifty years have men toiled over this poet; they have not grown weary, digging in his works as in a mine, to bring to light all the noble metal they contain; and those who were most active, were humble enough at last to declare that scarcely a single passage of this rich mine was yet exhausted. And almost two centuries of this time had passed away before the men appeared who first recognized Shakespeare's entire merit and capacity, and divested his pure noble form of the confusion of prejudices which had veiled and disfigured it. How was it that this poet should so long remain an enigma to the whole literary world and history ? That so extraordinary a man should be so tardily appreciated, and even yet by many be so imperfectly understood, — -a poet who was in no way indistinct concerning himself, and whom, in- deed many of his contemporaries seem to have fully valued. The cause of the tardy appreciation of our poet lies before all in this, that he is an extraordinary man; the or- THE REVENGE OE THE FLOWERS. 25 dinary alone is comprehended quickly, the commonplace only is free from misconception. Shakespeare's works should properly only be explained by representation. For that and that alone were they written, we read them and do not see them. THE REVENGE OF THE FLOWERS. freiligrath— (German), translated eor the "serial READINGS " BY MRS. E. E. ELLET. On her couch of snowy cushions, In her sleep the maiden lay ; Closely cling her soft, brown lashes To the cheeks where rose-tints play. By the bed, ornate and gleaming, i Stands the silver vase, to bear Gathered wealth of flowery treasures, ' Fresh plucked, glowing, rich and rare. Like an unseen cloud the fragrance Wanders all the chamber round, Where to summer's cooling breezes No admittance can be found. Undisturbed the deepest stillness ! Hark ! a sudden murmur light 'Mong the flowers and soft green leaflets, As if wings expand for flight. And from out each flowery chalice, From the blossoms' glowing breast, Phantoms robed in mist are floating, Some in shining armor dressed. 2 2e frobisher's serial readings. From the Kose's heart one rises, Slender, pale, with eyes of scorn ; Back her airy locks are streaming, Decked with pearls like dews of morn. From the Monk's-hood's sturdy helmet, Circled with its leaves of green, Steps a knight in harness courtly, With a stalwart warrior's mien. O'er his brow a plume is nodding, Silvery, from the heron's wing; From the Lily, veiled in vapor, Elfin forms like fairies spring. From the Tulip's gorgeous petals, One who Moorish soldier seems, Dark and haughty ; in his turban Green a golden crescent gleams. One from out the Crown Imperial, Bears a sceptre, bold and free ; And his sword-girt, martial huntsman, Issues from the Fleur-de-lis. From the leaves of the Narcissus Floats a youth of slender grace ; O'er the couch he drops soft kisses On the slumbering maiden's face. Eound her now in circles airy, Twine the sprites their fairy ring ; And while floating in the mazes, Thus they to their victim sing : " Maiden, from our genial birth-soil, Us thy ruthless hand has torn, Doomed us, in this vase — our prison- Withering, soon to die forlorn. THE REVEKGE OF THE FLOWERS. 27 "Oh! how joyously we nourished On our mother's verdant breast ! Where the sunlight through the foliage Came to warm our beauteous nest. "Where the zephyr's vernal breathing O'er our heads caressing swept ; Where we sported in the moonlight. While the forest warblers slept. " Dews and gentle showers refreshed us ; Here we pant in noisome cell ; We must fade, bni ere we perish, Vengeance be our sad farewell ! " Ceased the song ; the phantoms, bending Bound the maid, in circles close ; And again the effusive murmur 'Mid the heavy silence rose Panting like a smothered tempest, While the maiden's cheek grows pale, As the flower-breaths, breathing on her, Wrap her in a vapory veil. When the morn, illumined the chamber, Vanished were the shapes of ill; And a fair form on the cushions Lay all white, and cold, and still ! She, a flower as fair and fragile, Yielded with the flowers her breath ; Lay beside her faded sisters : Their revenge had been her death I 28 frobisher's serial readings. PKOFESS^K OF SIGNS. When James the VI. removed to London he was waited on by the Spanish Ambassador, who had a crotchet in his head, that there should be a Professor of Signs in every kingdom. He lamented to the king, that no country in Europe had such a professor, and that, even for himself, he was deprived of the pleasure of communicating his ideas in that manner. The king replied, "Why, I have a Professor of Signs in the northernmost college of my dominions, at Aberdeen, but it is a great way off, perhaps 600 miles." " Were it 10,000 leagues I am determined to see him." The king saw that he had committed himself, and wrote to the University, stating the case, and asking the Professors to put him off in some way, or make the best of him. The Ambassador went — was re- ceived with great solemnity, and soon inquired which of them had the honor to be the Professor of Signs. He was told the Professor was absent, in the Highlands, and would return, nobody knew when. " I will await his re- turn, though it be a year." Seeing this would not do, as they had to entertain him at great expense, they contrived a stratagem. There was one Sandy, a butcher, blind in one eye, a droll fellow, with some wit and roguery about him. They told him the story/ instructed him to be a Professor of Signs ; but not to speak a word under pain of losing the promised five pounds for his success. To the great joy of the Ambassador, he was informed that the Professor would be home the next day. Sandy was dressed in a wig and gown, and placed in a chair of state in one of the college halls. The Ambassador was conducted to Sandy's door and shown in, while all the Professors waited in another room in suspense and with anxi- ety for the success of their scheme. The Ambassador approached Sandy and held up one finger, Sandy held up two ; the Ambassador held up three, Sandy clenched his fist and looked stern. The Ambassador then PROFESSOR OF SIGNS. 29 took an orange from his pocket and held it up, Sandy took a barley-cake from his pocket and held that. The Ambassa- dor then bowed and returned to the other Professors, who anxiously inquired the result. " He is a wonderful man, a perfect miracle of knowledge ; he is worth all the wealth of the Indies." " Well," inquired the Professors, " tell us the particulars." " Why," the Ambassador replied, " I held up one finger, denoting there is one God; he held up two, signifying that there are Father and Son. I held up three to indicate the Holy Trinity; he clenched his fist to show that these three are one. I then showed him an orange, to illustrate the goodness of God in giving to his creatures the luxuries as well as the necessaries of life ; and this most wonderful philosopher presented a piece of bread to show that the staff of life is preferable to every luxury." The Professors were, of course, highly delighted, and the Ambassador departed for London to thank the king for the honor of knowing a Professor of Signs. The Professors then called upon Sandy to give his version of the interview. "The rascal!" said Sandy. "What do you think he did first ? He held up one finger, as much as to say you have only one eye. Then I held up two, to show that I could see as much with one as he could with two. And then the fel- low held up three fingers, to say that we had but three eyes between us. That made me mad, and I doubled up my fist to give him a whack for his impudence, and I would have done it but for my promise to you not to offend him. Yet that was not the end of his provocations; but he showed me an orange, as much as to say, your poor, rocky, beggarly, cold country cannot produce that. I showed him an oat- meal bannock that I had in my pocket to let him know that I did na' care a farthing for all his trash, and signs neither, sae lang as I hae this. And by all that's guid, I'm angry yet that I did not thrash the hide off the scoundrel." So much for two ways of understanding a thing. 30 frobisher's serial readings. HALF A CENTURY AGO. MRS. LILLIE DEVEREUX BLAKE. The sun shone brightly on the hills, And on the Hudson's stately flow, One summer morning, gone and faded, Half a century ago. The soft breeze whispered through a grove Of graceful locusts, swaying slow Their tufted crowns of feathery leaflets Half a century ago. While all beneath, upon the grass, The checkered light, with changing glow, Played, noiselessly as fairy dancers.. Half a century ago. From grove to river spread the lawn Beyond an ancient mansion low, All gently sloping to the water, Half a century ago. The roses blushed along the bank, The tangled vines drooped off below, Till trailing in the rippling wavelets. Half a century ago. And on the lawn two laughing girls With two young men walked to and fro, For life was pleasant in the summer, Half a century ago. At last, gay Bessie sudden asked, With merry mischief all aglow, " Why not send out for dear Maria ?" (Half a century ago.) HALF A CENTURY AGO. 31 Then up sprang Sam with eyes aflame, " For fair Maria I will go." For Sam adored the blue-eyed maiden, Half a century ago. At this, aroused to jealous wrath, Out flashed the words of stalwart Joe, " I, too, will go for sweet Maria," Half a century ago. The girls exchanged a merry glance; "As you decide, it shall be so." They knew the secret of these heroes, Half a century ago. Behold them now, through shade and shine, The gray horse leading onward slow, The rivals gone to seek Maria, Half a century ago. The river flowed beneath the hill, The song-birds warbled sweet and low, The hours crept on toward the nooning, Half a century ago. The ladies left upon the lawn, Oft wondered, strolling to and fro, "What will she do with both her lovers ?" Half a century ago. Anon, along the locust grove, And out beneath the noontide glow, The three appeared, with happy faces, Half a century ago. The lady sat upon the horse, On either hand walked Sam and Joe, As guardians of the fair young beauty, Half a century ago. 32 frobisher's serial readings. A few steps more, the maid slid down, As light as falling wreath of snow, And ran to greet her young companions, Half a century ago. " Now, tell us, dear," laugh-loving Bess The saucy question whispered low, "How did you so please both your lovers? " Half a century ago. The beauty shook her dainty curls, " I talked through all the ride with Joe, But then I let Sam hold my hand, dear," Half a century ago. SISTEE HELEN". GABRIEL DANTE ROSSETTI. " Why did you melt your waxen man, Sister Helen ? To-day is the third since you began." " The time was long, yet the time ran, Little brother." (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Three clays to-day, between Hell and Heaven I) " But if yon have done your work aright, Sister Helen, You'll let me play, for you said I might." " Be very still in your play to-night, Little brother." (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Third night, to-night, between Hell and Heaven !) SISTER HELEK. 33 " You said it must melt ere vesper bell, Sister Helen ; If now it be molten all is well." "Even so; nay, peace! You cannot tell, Little brother." ( Mother, Mary Mother, what is this hetiveen Hell and Heaven?) "Oh, the waxen knave was plump to-day, Sister Helen ; How like dead folk he has dropped away ; " " Nay, now, of the dead what can you say, Little brother?" ( Mother, Mary Mother, Wliat of the dead between Hell and Heaven ?) " See, see, the sunken pile of wood, Sister Helen, Shines through the thinned wax red as blood!" " Nay, now, when looked you yet on blood, " Little brother?" ( Mother, Mary Mother, Hoiv pale she is betiueen Hell and Heaven !) " Now close your eyes, for they're sick and sore, Sister Helen, And I'll play without the gallery door." " Aye, let me rest ; I'll lie on the floor, Little brother" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Wliat rest to-night hetiueen Hell and Heaven ?) " Here, high up in the balcony, Sister Helen, The moon flies face to face with me." " Aye, look and say whatever you see, Little brother." ( Mother, Mary Mother, What sight to-night bettueen Hell and Heaven f) 2* 34 frobisher's serial readings. " Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, Sister Helen ; In the shaken trees the chill stars shake," " Hush, heard you a horse- tread as you spake, Little brother?" ( Mother, Mary Mother, What sound to-night between Hell and Heaven ?) " I hear a horse-tread and I see, Sister Helen, Three horsemen that ride terribly." " Little brother, whence came the three, Little brother?" ( Mother, Mary Mother, Whence should they come, between Hell and Heaven " They come by the hill-verge from Boyne Bar, Sister Helen, And one draws nigh, but two are afar." "Look, look! do you know them who they are, Little brother ? " (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Who should they be, bettueen Hell and Heaven f) " Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white mane on the blast." " The hour has come, has come at last, Little brother ! " ( Mother, Mary Mother, Her hour at last, between Hell and Heaven !) " He has made a sign and called, Halloo ! Sister Helen, And he says that he would speak with you." " Oh, tell him I fear the frozen dew, Little brother." (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Why laughs she thus, between Hell and Heaven f) SISTER HELEtf. 35 "The wind is loud, but I hear him cry, Sister Heleu, That Keith of Euern's like to die." " And he and thou, and thou and I, Little brother." (0 Mother, Mary Mother, And they and we, between Hell and Heaven !) "For three days now he has lain abed, Sister Helen, And he prays in torment to be dead." " The thing may chance, if he have prayed, Little brother!" ( Mother, Mary Mother, If lie have prayed, betiveen Hell and Heaven!) " But he has not ceased to cry to-day, Sister Helen, That you should take your curse away." " My prayer was heard, — he need but pray, Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Shall God not hear, let ween Hell and Heaven?) " But he says, till you take back your ban, Sister Helen, His soul would pass, yet never can." " Nay, then, shall I slay a living man, Little brother ? " ( Mother, Mary Mother, A living soul, between Hell and Heaven !) " But he calls for ever on your name, Sister Helen, And says that he melts before a flame." " My heart for his pleasure fared the same, Little brother." (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Fire at the heart, between Hell and Heaven I) 36 frobisher's serial readings. " Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white plume in the blast." " The hour, the sweet hour I forecast, Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Is the hour siveet, between Hell and Heaven ?) " He stops to speak, and he stills his horse, Sister Helen ; But his words are drowned in the wind's course." " Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear perforce, Little brother ! " (0 Mother, Mary Mother, A word ill-heard, bettueen Hell and Heaven !) " Oh., he says, Keith of Euern's cry, Sister Helen, Is ever to see you ere he die." " He sees me in earth, in moon, and sky, Little brother ! " ( Mother, Mary Mother, Earth, moon, and shy, between Hell and Heaven!) " He sends a ring and a broken coin, Sister Helen, And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." " What else he broke will he ever join, Little brother ? " ( Mother, Mary Mother, Oh, never more, bekveen Hell and Heaven !) " He yields you there and craves full pain, Sister Helen, You pardon him in his mortal pain." " What else he took will he give again, Little brother?" ( Mother, Mary Mother, No more again, between Hell and Heaven I) SISTEK HELEN. 37 " He calls your name in an agony, Sister Helen, That even dead Love must weep to see." " Hate, born of Love, is blind as lie, Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Love turned to hate, between Hell and Heaven!) " Oh! its Keith of Keith now that rides fast, Sister Helen, For I know the white hair on the blast.'' " The short, short hour will soon be past, Little brother ! " ( Mother, Mary Mother, Will soon be past, betiveen Hell and Heaven!) " He looks at me, and he tries to speak, Sister Helen, But oh ! his voice is sad and w r eak!" " What here should the mighty Baron seek, Little brother ? " ( Mother, Mary Mother, Is this the end betiveen Hell and Heaven !) " Oh ! his son still cries, if you forgive, Sister Helen ; The body dies, but the soul shall live. " Eire shall forgive me, as I forgive, Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, As she forgives, betiveen Hell and Heaven !) " Oh ! he prays you, as his heart would rive, Sister Helen, To save his dear son's soul alive." " Nay, flame cannot slay it ; it shall thrive, Little brother ! " ( Mother, Mary Mother, Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven!) 38 frobisher's serial readings. " He cries to you, kneeling in the road, Sister Helen, To go with him for the loye of God ! " " The way is long to his son's abode, Little brother!" ( Mother, Mary Mother, The xoay is long between Hell and Heaven !) " 0, sister Helen, you heard the bell, Sister Helen ! More loud than the vesper-chime it fell." . *' No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, His dying knell, between, Hell and Heaven ! " Alas ! but I fear the heavy sound, Sister Helen ; Is it in the sky or in the ground ? " " Say, have they turned their horses round, Little brother ? " (0 Mother, Mary Mother, What would she more, between Hell and Heaven " They have raised the old man from his knee, Sister Helen, And they ride in silence hastily." " More fast the naked soul doth flee, Little brother ! " (0 Mother, Mary Mother, The naked soul between Hell and Heaven!) " Oh, the wind is sad in the iron chill, Sister Helen, And weary, sad, they look by the hill." " But Keith of Euern's sadder still, Little brother ! " (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Most- sad of all between Hell and Heaven !) TOM o'cokhor's cat. 39 " See, see, the wax has dropped from its place, Sister Helen, And the flames are winning np apace ! " " Yet here they burn but for a space, Little brother ! » ( Mother, Mary Mother, Sere for a space, between Sell and Heaven !) " Ah ! what white thing at the door has crossed, Sister Helen ? Ah ! what is this that sighs in the frost ? " "A soul that's lost as mine is lost, Little brother!" (0 Mother, Mary Mother, Lost, lost, all lost, between Sell and Heaven /) TOM O'CONNOK'S CAT. There was a man called Tom O'Connor, and he had a cat equal to a dozen rat-traps and worth her weight in goold, in savin' his sacks of meal from the thievery of the rats and mice. This cat was a great pet, and was so up to everything, and had so sinsible a look in her eyes, Tom were sartin sure the cat knew ivery word that was said to her. She used to sit by him at breakfast ivery morning, and the eloquent cock in her tail, as she used to rub against his leg, said, " Give me some milk, Tom O'Connor," as plain as print; and the plenitude of her purr, spoke a gratitude be- yond language. Well, one morning, Tom was going to the neighboring town, to market, and to bring home shoes to the childhre, out of the price of his corn ; and sure eno', before he sat down to breakfast, there was Tom takiii' the measure of the childhre's feet by cuttin' notches on a bit of stick; and the wife gave him so many cautions about a nate fit for " Billy's purty feet," that Tom in his anxiety to nick the closest possible measure, cut the child's toe. That disturbed 40 frobisher's serial readings. the harmony of the party, and Tom had to breakfast alone, while mother was tryin' to cure Billy — to make a heal of his toe. Well, all the time Tom was takin' measure, the cat was observin' him with that luminous peculiarity in her eye, for which her tribe is remarkable; and when Tom sat down to breakfast, the cat rubbed against him more vigorously than iver, and whin he kipt niver mindin' her, she made a sort of cater waulin' growl and gave Tom a dab of her claws that wint clane through his leathers. " IsTow, " said Tom, with a jump, "by this and by that, ye dhrew the blood out iv me," says he. " You wicked divil ! tish, go long ! " makin' a strike at her. With that the cat gave a reproachful look, and her eyes glared like mail-coach lamps in a fog. The cat gave a mysterious "miaou," fixed a penetrating glance on Tom, and distinctly uttered his name. Tom felt every hair on his head as stiff as a pump-handle; he returned a searching look at the cat, who quietly pro- ceeded with a sort of twang : " Tom O'Connor " says she. " Och the Saints be good to me," says he ; " if it isn't spak- in' she is." " Tom O'Connor," says she again. " Yis, ma'am," says Tom. " Come here," says she, " the laste taste in private ; " says she, risin' on her hams, an' beckonin' him wid her paw out iv the door, wid a wink, an' a toss iv the head, equal to a milliner. Tom didn't know whether he was on his head or his heels ; but he followed the cat, and off she wint and squatted on the hedge of a little paddock back of the house. Well, divil a word Tom could say with the fright. " Tom," says the cat, " I've a great respect for you." " Thank you, ma'am," says Tom. " You're goin' off to the town," says she, " to buy shoes for the childhre, and niver thought on gettin' me a pair." " You ? " says Tom. "Yes, me; and the neighbors wonder, Tom O'Connor, Tom o'coxxor's cat. 41 that a respectable man like you allows your cat to go about the counthry barefutted," says she. " Is it a cat to wear shoes ? " says Tom. " Why not ?" says she; "doesn't horses wear shoes? an' I've a purtier fut nor a horse ! " "Faix, she spakes like a woman!" says Tom, "But, ma'am, I don't see how you cu'd fasten a shoe on you ! " says he. " Lave that to me," says the cat. "As for the horses, mem, you know their shoes is fastened on wid nails ! " " Ah, you stupid thafe," says the cat, a an' hav'nt I illigant nails of my own ? " an' wid that she gave him a dab wid her claws. " Och, murther," roared Tom. " No more oy yer palaver, Misther O'Connor," says the cat ; "'just be off an' get me the shoes." " Tare an' ouns ! " says Tom, " what 'ill become ov me if I am to get shoes for me cats ?" So Tom wint off to the town, as he pretended — for he saw the cat watchin' him thro' a hole in the hedge. But whin he came to a turn in the road, the dickens he minded the mar- ket, but wint off to the Squire's to swear examinations agin' the cat. But whin he was asked to relate the evints ov the morning, his brain was so bewildered between his corn an' the cat, an' the child's toe. that he made a confused account. "Begin your story from the beginning," said the magis- trate. "Well, — plaze yer honor," — says Tom, "I was goin' to market, this morning, to sell the child's — corn — I beg yer pardon — my own toes — I mane, sir," " Sell yer toes ? " said the Squire. "Xo, sir; takin' the cat to market — I mane." " Take a cat to market ? " said the Squire ; " you're drunk, man." "No,— yer honor — only confused, for when the toes began to spake to me — the cat, I mane — I was bothered clane " 42 fbobisher's serial readings. " The cat speak to you ? " said the Squire. " Phew ! worse than before — you're drunk." "No, yer honor, — it's on the strength ov the cat I come to spake to you ! " " I think it's on the strength ov a pint oy whiskey, Tom ! " " By the vartue on my oath, yer honor, it's nothih' but the cat." Then Tom told him about the affair, an' the Squire was astonished. The bishop of the diocese and the priest ov the parish came in and had a tough argument ov two hours on the subject, one saying she must be a witch, an' the other, she was only enchanted. The magistrate pulled down all the law books in his library, and looked over the laws, but he found nothing agin' cats. " There's the Alien Act," says the Squire ; " an' perhaps she's a Frinch spy in disguise." " She spakes like a French spy, sure enough," says Tom. " Fve a fresh idea," says the magistrate. "Faix, it won't kape frish long this weather," says Tom. "We'll hunt her undher the .game laws," says the magis- trate. "Meet me at the cross roads in the mornin', an' we'll have the hounds ready." Well, off Tom went home, racking his brains for an ex- cuse for not bringin' the shoes; an' he saw the cat canter- ing up to him, half a mile before he got home. " Where's the shoes, Tom ? " says she. " I've not got 'em to-day, ma'am," says he. "Is that the way you keep your promise, Tom?" says she. "I'll tell you what it is, Tom, I'll tear the eyes out ov the childhre, if you don't get me shoes." "Whist, whist!" says Tom, frightened out ov his life. "Don't be in a passion, pussy! The shoemaker hadn't a shoe nor a last to make one to fit you, an' he says I must bring you into the town for him to take your measure." " An' whin ? " says the cat. " To-morrow," says Tom. " It's well ye said that, Tom, or the divil an eye I'd lave in yer family this night," said the cat, an' off she hopped. Tom thrimbled at the wicked look she gave him. tom o'coknok's cat. 43 " Eemember ! " she said, over the hedge, wid a bitter caterwaul. Well, sure eno', the nixt mornin' tjiere, was the cat lickin' herself as nate as a new pin to go into the town, an' out came Tom wid a bag under his arm. " Now, git into this, an' I'll carry you into town," says Tom, opening the bag. "Shure, I can walk wid you," says the cat. " Oh, that wouldn't do," says Tom, " the people is slan- derous, an' shure it w'd rise ugly remarks if I was seen with a cat aftlier me. A dog is a man's companion by nature, but cats doesn't stand to raison." Well, the cat got into thabag, an' off set Tom to the cross roads, whin the Squire, an' the huntsmen, an' the hounds, an' the pack ov people were waitin'. "What's that bag you have at yer back?" says the Squire, — makin' believe he knew nothing. " Oh, nothing at all," says Tom, with a wink. " Oh, there's something in that bag," says the Squire. " Let me see it ! " " If you bethray me, Tom O'Connor," says the cat, in a low voice, "by this an' by that, I'll niver spake to you agin ! " "I've been missin' my praties ov late," said the Squire, " an' I'd just like to examine that bag." " Is it doubting my characther you'd be, sir," says Tom ? " Tom, your sowl ! " says the voice in the sack. " If you let the cat out ov the bag I'll murther you ! " The Squire insisted on searching, an' laid hold ov the bag, Tom pretinding to fight all the time ; but, my jewel, before two minutes they shook the cat out ov the bag, an' off she wint wid her tail as big as a sweeping brush, an' the Squire, wid a thunderin' view halloo afther her, clapt the dogs at her heels, an' away they wint for their bare life. Never was there seen such runnin' as that. The cat made for a shakin' bog, an' there the riders were all thrown out, ban in' the huntsman who had a web-footed horse, an' the praist ; an' 44 frobisher's serial readings. they stuck to the hunt like wax ; an' they said the cat give a twist as the foremost dog closed with her on the border ov the bog, for he gave her a nip in the flank. Still she wint on, towards an old mad cabin in the middle ov the bog; an' they saw her jump in at the window, an' up came the dogs an' set up a terrible howling. The huntsman alighted an' wint into the house, an' what should he see but an old hag lying in bed in the corner. " Did you see a cat come in here ? " says he. " Oh, n-o-o-o," squealed the old hag in a trembling voice. " There's no cat here ! " " Yelp ! yelp ! yelp ! " wint the dogs outside. " Oh, keep the dogs out ov this," squealed the old hag. " Oh-o-o," an' the huntsman saw her eyes glare under the blanket just like a cat's. " Hillo ! " says he, pullin' down the blanket, an' there was her flank all in a gore of blood! "Ow, ow, ow, you old witch an' divil, is it you — you owld cat ? " says he, opening the door. In rushed the dogs ; up jumped the witch, an' changin' to a cat before their eyes, out she darted thro' the window ; but she could not escape, an' the dogs gobbled her while you could say Jack Robinson. But the most remarkable part ov the story is, that the pack of hounds, after having eaten the enchanted cat, the divil a thing they would ever hunt afterwards but mice. SORROW. FOB THE " SERIAL READINGS. AFTER THE DANISH OF CHR. WILSTER. BY JOHN VOLCK. One day while Jupiter, the great Olympian, Sat listening to the glorious hymns of mirth Ascending thro' the airy clouds beneath him, A maid rose to Olympus from the earth. SORROW. 45 Upon her shoulders her night-black ringlets fell, Pale was her cheek, and full of tears her eye ; Her graceful head hung down upon her bosom As slowly she the god of gods drew nigh. * Despair not, child ! " quoth Jupiter, the mighty ; " Come, lay thy burden down before our throne; In vain thou shalt not seek for consolation ; Unfold thy heart, and make thy trouble known." Then she, her eyes uplifting: "I am Sorrow; I dwell among the children of the dust. My peace has gone ; I long for rest and solace, And hope in thee; for thou alone art just. Fate destined me to live among the mortals, To bring forth tears, to mingle grief with mirth, And, therefore, though I am a goddess' daughter, I have no worshiper upon the earth. Behold! on all sides temples are erected; Sweet incense is ascending to the skies ; To every god and demi-god and goddess Doth mankind offer up a sacrifice. But me they hate, avoid, and I must wander With grief in heart, forsaken and alone ; Therefore I left the earth, rose to Olympus, And humbly here I kneel before thy throne." Then, with a smile, the god spoke to the maiden: " Sorrow, listen, and in peace arise ! Thou shouldst not envy us our lofty temples, Nor e'en the incense rising to the skies. The sacrifice that man to thee doth offer Is greater far ; it is the holy tear ! A mother's tear, shed for her dying infant; A maiden's tear, shed at her lover's bier This sacrifice maid was never offered From vanity ; it needs i*o sacred hall. The tears which from the depths of hearts are flowing Make sacred every place on which they fall. 46 ebobisheb's SEBIAL BEADI^GS. And therefore was no temple consecrated To honor thee ; but thou receivest no less ; For young and old bestow on thee, Sorrow, The noblest gift, the purest they possess." FALLING STARS. translated (from Ber 'anger) by mbs. e. f. ellet. " Shephebd, thou say'st there rules our doom Some star that shines in yonder skies ? " " True, child, but in her veil of gloom Night hides the secret from our eyes." " Shepherd, in yon blue fields afar Thou read'st the lore the heavens display; Say, what betides yon falling star That shoots, and shoots, and fades away?" " My child, a mortal breathed his last; His star from heaven that instant fell; 'Mid jovial friends his hours were passed, And wine and music's festal swell, The flowing bowl, with flowers bedight, Still mantles by his senseless clay; " See! yet another falling light That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " " There passed a maiden, pure and fair ; A lover's hope, a father's pride; The wreath upon her golden hair That crowns the tender, happy bride. Fresh from the vow of nuptial rite, And blessed she took to heaven her way/' " See! yet another falling light That shoots, and shoots, and fades away." PALLING STAKS. 47 " An infant prince to empire born, On whom a train of courtiers wait, Then closed his eyes on earthly morn And gave to Death his royal state. Funereal pomp, the pageant's sight, Now sate the crowds who owned his sway;" " But, see ! another falling light That shoots, and shoots, and fades away! " " My child !, how fierce its lurid glare ! A tyrant fell from power just then ; He mocked a suffering land's despair That with his death is freed again. Ambition's dream of wealth and might, Has paled as dies the sunset's ray ; " " See ! yet another falling light That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " "A benefactor of the poor, My child, was then restored to heaven, A meagre dole from others' store, By Ms kind hand his all was given. The houseless throng, this very night, To seek his door, their friend and stay ; " . ■ " But, see ! another falling light That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " " Just then a mighty monarch fell ; Oh, guard thine innocence, my child ! Nor yield thee to the baleful spell Of stars enwrapped in splendors wild. If, useless, thine but shines to blight, At thy last hour shall mortals say, " 'Tis but another fleeting light That shoots, and shoots, and fades away ! " 48 frobisher's sebial readings A FKAGMENT. ELLA DIETZ. " I shall never see white roses again without thinking of him," said Delia. "Nor I," sobbed Florrie; "poor old Hector, he always wore one ever since that evening Willow gave him the white bud from her hair." Delia had a trick of giving nicknames, and because I had rather a drooping way, she called me Willow. I left them there, and went to my own room. I could not hang over that lifeless form as they did. It did not seem like Hector to me. He was the embodiment of strength, and life, and beauty. I kissed the cold lips just once, but when they remained cold and motionless, and failed to thrill back the love mine gave them, I knew that my darling was gone. I sat and looked from my window to the garden below — my window, surrounded by the clustering white roses that I had planted and trained long, long before Hector came. I looked at the mark on the ground where they had laid him, hoping against hope, until the Doctor discovered that dark red spot near his temple, and then we knew the sea had not taken my darling. We understood his sudden sinking as the boat capsized ; something, somehow, had struck him. I thought of it all again, and of all the short three months we had known each other, and how that very morning Delia had said, as he sauntered down the path, "He seems like a Greek god in all his glorious strength, with immortal youth shining from his eyes." And Aunt Mary grumbled, " Yes, there is something heathenish about him." And now — w T as he not immortal ? My Hector. I threw myself on the bed, and gazed out at the stars, and heard the sea sobbing afar off — sobbing for him, I A FRAGMENT. 49 thought, her own child, as strong and daring as her very self. How often I had watched him swimming among the breakers until he seemed part of them, clasped close in their embrace, rising and falling with them, and now — ah, darling ! The soft summer breeze stole through the open windows ; the roses seemed giving out their very hearts in delicious odors, so subtle, so tender. They seemed to contain all the sweetness, the happiness of my life, and fling it together with a bitter sense of its loss at my feet. Ah ! how my poor heart ached and throbbed. And then, as if the fra- grance itself had become vocal, there came a voice — the sweetest, tenderest voice that ever spoke — calling, " Willow, Willow!" It whispered in my very ear, as I breathed the breath of the roses, and yet seemed sobbing from the sea far off. By some strange power, and as if carried by the roses' odors, I floated toward it, nearer, nearer. I was wafted down to the very depths of the sea. I sank, and was folded in his arms, clasped close and safe ; and all around us the sea, green and cool, and above the stars and sweet white roses. I knew then all his love, more than I had known or dreamed. We did not speak; thought answered thought. The blow from the boom had stunned him before he ever reached the water ; and so he passed away unknowing, and woke to call for me, to find me answering to his call. At length we rose, moved by our own wills, and floated through the ether upward, upward to the very stars. All elements were part of us, and we of them ; but as our bliss seemed perfect and complete, I felt myself drawn down- ward and away. I reached my arms in vain. I seemed to slide from his embrace, and though each tried to clasp the other, we w r ere torn apart. Long, long after we w r ere parted, his sad eyes saw and answered mine ; but at last they faded too, and only a white star left were they had been. And now, my beloved, was indeed gone. I sank on my bed, and slept a deep long sleep — a sleep of 3 50 feobishee's seeial readings. forgetfulness, and when I awoke there were the four walls of my little room. I lifted my hand and saw the slender fingers thin and white. It fell back of its own weight. I tried to move, but could not. My eyes wandered, and there Aunt Mary sat by the fire knitting. I looked to the win- dow ; no roses now, only the bare branches of my trailer, leaves and roses gone. What wonder, I thought, when the soul is dead ? But then I saw the willows were bare, too. The sky was dark, and every now and then the flakes of snow gave spiteful little taps upon the pane. It was winter. Afterwards they told me of my long illness, brain fever, and one day Aunt Mary said softly, " Hector is buried in the churchyard. We planted a willow near the grave." And both the girls got up crying, and left the room. Aud Aunt added, "We must be resigned to the will of God/' I smiled assent, and I am resigned, for the winter is pass- ing, the spring is near, and I know in the balmy days of June my trailer will bud and blossom, and in the soft, warm nights, when the odors are thick around me, I shall hear the dear voice calling, " Willow, Willow!" and I will follow it, until his arms clasp close around me, where we will never be parted again — never, never. THE DYING DRUMMER-BOY. BY T. B. THOEPE. ; Lift me gently, Jim, I'm shot — Bullets, rattling down like hail, Struck my sheepskin on the spot, And my breath began to fail. Cold, — a crawling, creeping chill Overspread my hands and face, But defiant playing still, Ruby drops each other trace. THE DYI^G DRUMMER-BOY. 51 " Tell the boys — they saw me fall, Knew not how I staggered through, — Tell them, Jim, that last roll-call Sounded bully, loud and true. " Turn me sideways — that will do ; Listen now to what I say, Brother died at sea ; and you Must to mother bear my pay. (i Ask the captain six months' due : See her, Jim, — and say I'm gone : Add to that of words a few, Just to cheer her, if she mourn. " Selling papers was my trade, Till the war down South broke out ; Fifty cents a day I made, More or less, or thereabout. " 'Twas to her I gave it all : Eas'd her burdens, smooth'd her lot; Sad it is now to recall Things I had almost forgot. "Down Broadway the streamers went Must'ring soldiers, ev'ry day ; Papers play'd out — due the rent — 'Listed with them right away. " My old woman first got craz'd ; Fum'd and fretted, moan'd and wail'd ; Look'd so pitiful and maz'd — Eesolution almost fail'd. " Then she took another mood; Laugh'd to hide her aching pain; Bustled round me all she could, Choking with the awful strain. 52 frobisher's seeial readings. " Went aboard at Barclay street ; Mother hobbled after us, Proud her soldier-boy to greet, Couldn't make enough of fuss. "Waved her handkerchief like mad; Shouted as we sailed away : 4 Hark (her thin lip quiver'd), lad, Ne'er forsake your flag, I pray.' " Wither'd fingers brush'd a tear ; Gray hairs flutter'd, scant and few ; Shrill, yet standing on the pier, ' Serve that flag, red, white, and blue.' " Dying, Jim, I'm fain to say To the old flag I've been true, And her parting words that day, 1 Don't desert the boys in blue ! ' s " If you should live through the muss, Jim, you'll tell her of her boy ; Foolish details, p'raps, to us, Gladden her old heart with joy " Gently lay me on the turf, Slowly thank you! that will do; Like the roaring, swelling surf, Now, then ! beat a loud tattoo ! " Take my sheepskin, beat it hard ! Faster! faster! that sounds well! Oh ! it's bully, boys on guard ! Hear it! that's my passing knell! " Hear you now the reveille ? Stop ! the sentinels retire ! Challenge not at dawning day, When the east is all on fire. THE OLD ELM. 53 "Now, my parting words are said; Farewell, sheepskin ! good-bye all ! Papers are not for the dead; Coming ! — mother, did you call ? " Thus he died, and there he rests, Sleeping with the noble dead, Where the hilltops raise their crests, There's his little six-foot bed. THE OLD ELM. Did it ever come in your way to pass The silvery ford with its fringe of grass, And threading the lane hard by to see The veteran " Elm of Xewbury ? " You saw how its roots had grasped the ground, As if it had felt the earth went round, And fastened them down with determined will, To keep it steady and hold it still. Its aged trunk, so stately and strong, Has braved the blasts as they've swept along, Its head has towered, and its arms have spread, While more than a hundred years have fled. Well, that old elm that is now so grand Was once a twig in the rustic hand Of a youthful peasant, who went one night To visit his love by the tender light Of the modest moon, and her twinkling host ; While the star that lighted his bosom most And gave to his lonely feet their speed Abode in a cottage beyond the mead ! 'Twas the peaceful close of a summers day, Its glorious orb had passed away, 54 frobisher's seeial readings. The toil of the field till morn nad ceased, Eor a season of rest to man and beast ; The mother had silenced her humming wheel, The father returned for the evening meal; The thanks of one who had chosen the part Of the poor in spirit, the meek in heart. The good old man in his chair reclined At his humble door, with a peaceful mind, While the drops from his sunburnt brow were dried By the cool sweet air of eventide. The son from the yoke had unlocked the bow, Dismissing the faithful ox to go And graze in the close. He had called the kine For their oblation at eve's decline ; He'd gathered and numbered the lambs and sheep, And fastened them up in their nightly keep. He'd stood by the coop, till the hen could bring Her huddling brood safe under her wing, And made them secure from the hooting owl, Whose midnight prey was the clucking fowl. When all was finished he sped to the well, Where the old gray bucket hastily fell, And the clear cold water came up to chase The dust of the field from his neck and face, And hands, and feet, till the youth began To look renewed in the outer man. And soon arrayed in his Sunday best, The stiff new suit had done the rest ; And the hale young lover was on his way, Where through the pen and field it lay, And over the bramble, the brake, and grass, As the shortest cut to the home of his lass. It is not recorded how long he stayed In the cheerful home of the smiling maid, THE OLD ELM. 55 But when he came out it was late and dark, And silent — not even a dog would bark, To take from his feelings of loneliness, And make the length of his way seem less. He thought it was strange that the treacherous moon Should have given the world the slip so soon, And whether the eyes of the girl had made The stars of the sky in his own to fade Or not, it certainly seemed to him That each grew distant, and small, and dim. And he shuddered to think he was near a lane To take a long and lonely route — For he did not know what fearful sight Might come to him through the shadows of night. An elm grew close by the cottage eaves, So he plucked a twig well clothed with leaves, And sallying forth with a supple arm, To use as a talisman, parrying harm, He felt that though his heart was so big, 'Twas all the stouter for having the twig; For this, he thought, would answer to switch The horrors away, as he crossed the ditch, The meadow and copse, wherein, perchance, A will-o'-the-wisp might wickedly dance. And wielding it, keep him from feeling a chill, At the menacing voice of the whip-poor-will, And his flesh from creeping beside the bog, At the harsh bass voice of the viewless frog. In short, he felt that the switch would be Guard, plaything, business, and company. When he got safe home, and joyfully found He still was himself, and living, and sound, He planted the twig by his family cot, To serve as a monument marking the spot It had helped him to reach, and what was still more, Because it had grown by his fair one's door. 56 frobisheb's sekial readings. The twig took root, and as time flew by, Its boughs spread wide, and its head grew high ; While the priest's good service had long been done, Which made the youth and maiden one And their young scions arose and played Around the tree, in its leafy shade. But many and many a year has fled Since they were numbered with the dead, And now their names, with moss o'ergrown, Are veiled from sight on the church-yard stone, That leans away, with a lingering fall, And owns the power that levels all The works that the hand of man has wrought, Brings him to dust, and his name to nought. While near in view, and just beyond The grassy skirts of the silvery pond, In its green old age, stands the noble tree, The veteran elm of Newbury. MORNING ON THE PINCIAN HILL. BY MADAME OCTAYIA WALTON LE VERT. Awaking at dawn, and remembering that I had never seen Rome from the Monte Pincio by the soft light of the early morning, I quickly made my toilette, briskly walked up the terraced hill, and seated myself by the balustrade overlooking the grand old city. Often before at evening I had been here to watch the gorgeous sunset. Then the gardens on the summit were filled with people, and the lines with hundreds of equipages. Now, save a few artists with sketch-book in hand, I was alone to enjoy the glorious scene. MORNING ON THE PINCIAN HILL. 57 The cross springing heavenward from the majestic dome of St. Peter's was wrapt in a gauze-like drapery of snowy mist, while the vast Basilica, the Vatican, the Pantheon, and the lofty column of Antoninus were glowing in the rays of the morning sunlight. The freshness of spring was expressed in every tree, shrub, and flower, and birds were singing amid the green foliage. Never was the joy of existence greater to me than during those three hours of the young day spent upon the Monte Pincio. It was not a bright, gay happiness, but a serene, sublime feeling; a gratitude to God that I had seen Rome, whose glory, even in my childhood, had been as a halo around me. Like the fabled wand of the magician, the very name of Eome had possessed an electric power, dart- ing along from century to century, and calling up visions from the past, which fired the imagination while they thrilled the soul. That noble city was before me, once the home of heroes, patriots, poets, and philosophers. Other cities, however vast, are only capitals of countries; but Rome seems the metropolis of the world, appealing to the hearts of all civilized people as the birthplace of the noblest arts, and the spot whereon had been enacted the most thrilling incidents in the mighty drama of human life. I gazed upon the spectacle before me with reverence, even as though I were in a hallowed presence. In scenes like these, the past so mingles with the present we are scarcely aware how we cross the gulf which separates them ; and almost unconscious of its utterance, I find myself murmur- ing— " May not men some day gaze upon St. Peter's and the Vatican, and marking their ruins, say these things were ! " Truly has Byron called Rome the " Mobe of Nations," for no object more touchingly awakens our sympathies than the mother bereft of her children ; and thus it is with Rome, no longer grand and prosperous; still our hearts cling lovingly and with tender enthusiasm to the memories of her departed glories. 5* 58 FROBISHER ? S SEEIAL READINGS. The day was far advanced ere I could tear myself away from the contemplation of the scene. When I reached the hotel all was prepared for our departure. Suddenly I re- membered an old superstition of the Romans — " Whoever shall drink of the waters of Trevi, the last hour of their stay in Rome, shall surely come again." So I sprang into a carriage, bade the coachman drive quickly to the Fountain- of Trevi. There, kneeling by the sparkling waters, I caught them up in my hands and drank earnestly to my return to the « fflitg of thtf gout " ON THE WATER. FROM THE GERMAN" OF GEIBEL. The valley and the hill are sweet with May, The soft spring air is softer still to-day ; The woodland echoes float in evening red, The earth is joyful, but my heart is dead. The silver moon hangs in the crimson west, Gay songs are singing from each happy breast; In the full wine- cup glows the wine deep red — Can I be joyful when my heart is dead? The little boat goes swiftly on her way, The first stars glimmer in the twilight gray ; Soft music sounds, and softer words are said ; — I would be joyful, but my heart is dead. Yet if my lost love from the grave could rise, To thrill me with those un forgotten eyes, And offer me once more the joys long fled! — In vain ! for lost is lost, and dead is dead. BRUTUS AND CAESAR. 59 BRUTUS AND (LESAK. BY JOHN J. CASS. In ancient times, two thousand years ago (Perhaps not quite, but very nearly so), Before old Ohronos, with his sweeping blade, Had swept our annum one into. the shade, When gods were plenty, and when clothes were scarce ; As well as other things I might rehearse, There lived, so I have heard, in famous Rome, Two poor young men, possessed of "nary" home. They merely lodged up in a garret rude, Where none but rats and landlord dare intrude; No wife's nor sister's whims had they to please, They lived together, happy and at ease ; And if out late at night they chanced to stay, No mother groaned because they were away, Nor kept them waiting, freezing at the door, Because they had not come in an hour before. Brutus and Csesar were the names they bore, Perhaps you've heard their history before, But should it differ from the tale I tell, Account it false, for on the spot and well This one was taken, faithful to a hair, By Russell, our reporter, who was there. Complacently a pleasant life they led, For angry thought had ne'er disturbed their head, Until one sad, unhappy day, it seems, " A change came o'er the spirit of their dreams." Now you must know our heroes had a plan, A method to supply the inner man ; And this it was : each morn they tried by chance Who should the cash for that day's food advance. The lot this woeful day on Caesar fell, And Csesar spoke, " No one shall ever tell, 60 frobisher's sebial readings. When to the shades I'm- gone (that's when I'm dead), That I or friend of mine e'er wanted bread." Then off he went, and little time had sped, When back he came with three huge loaves of bread ; Nor was this all, for going out once more, He back a well-cooked leg of mutton bore. " And now," he said, "I'll go and get some wine, And bring my friend, Mark Antony, to dine." Now Brutus, having never learned a trade, Had politics his means of living made, And found it was, as many since have seen, A means of living, but of living mean. He wore that' famished look of want and care Which office- seeking men are won't to wear. Being now alone, his hungry-looking eyes Gloat on the food that spread before him lies, And though he was " an honorable man/' Still thus it was his meditations ran : " If Julius Caesar brings his friend up here, They'll leave but little grub for me, 1 fear ; So I'll pitch in, nor will I wait a minute, For if I wait the very deuce is in it ; Between this Caesar and his hungry guest I can't get half enough, and do my best." And so he ate, nor ceased to wag his jaw Until two loaves were settled in his maw, Besides the roasted leg, of which, said he, " A leg it was, but now no leg-i-see." About this time some steps approached the stair, And Brutus, grown uneasy in his chair, And now repentant grown, bemoans his lot, With " Here's old Nick to pay, and no pitch hot." Closer and closer now up stairs they come, They pass the threshold, and with wonder dumb, They stand dejectedly in mute surprise, With chagrin pictured in their gaping eyes. EEGULTJS. 61 Then Caesar spoke in deep and husky voice : "Friend of my bosom, comrade of my choice, What means this queer confusion I see here? What have you done with all my goodly cheer ? " Quoth Brutus then, " I scorn to tell a lie, I ate your grub, my friend, alas, 'twas I. Being sadly by the pangs of hunger pressed, I ate two loaves of bread, and there's the rest." " Et tu ! Brute ! insatiable glutton ! How dare you do so, sir ? And where's my mutton ? My mutton cut ! My curses on you fall. This is the most unkindest cut of all." Deep wounded by this base ingratitude, And still more deeply by the loss of food, Even at his washstand base, " great Caesar fell," While Brutus muttered, "Let him go — 'tis well, I do not care." Said 'Tony then, " Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen. I mean not Caesar's fall upon the floor, Although that hurt his feelings much, or more ; But the fall, has worse befell a saint or sinner, The fall of all my hopes of getting dinner." EEGULTJS. KELLOGG. The whole people of Carthage, startled, astounded, by the report that Eegulus had returned, were pouring a mighty tide into the great square before the Senate House. There were mothers in that throng, whose captive sons were groan- ing in Eoman fetters ; maidens, whose lovers were dying in the distant dungeons of Eome ; gray-haired men and ma- trons, whom Eoman steel had made childless ; men, who were seeing their country's life crushed out by Eoman power; 62 frobisher's serial readings. and with wild voices, cursing and groaning, the vast throng gave vent to the rage, the hate, the anguish of long years. Calm, cold, and immovable as the marble walls around him, stood Eegulus, and he stretched out his hand over that frenzied crowd, with gesture as proudly commanding as though he still stood at the head of the gleaming cohorts of Rome. " Ye doubtless thought — for ye judge of Roman virtue by your own — that I would break my plighted oath, rather than, returning, brook your vengeance. I might give reasons for this, in Punic comprehension, most foolish act of mine. I might speak of those eternal principles which make death for one's country a pleasure, not a pain. But, by great Jupi- ter ! methinks I should debase myself to talk of such high things to you. "If the bright blood that fills my veins, transmitted free from godlike ancestry, were like that slimy ooze which stag- nates in your arteries, I had remained at home, and broke my plighted oath to save my life. I am a Roman citizen ; there- fore have I returned, that ye might work your will upon this mass of flesh and bones, that I esteem no higher than the rags that cover them. "Here, in your capitol, do I defy you. Have I not con- quered your armies, fired your towns, and dragged your gen- erals at my chariot wheels, since first my youthful arms could wield a spear? And do you think to see me crouch and cower before a tamed and shattered senate ? Compared with that fierce mental agony which I have passed through at Rome, the tearing of flesh and rending of sinews is but pas- time to me. Venerable senators, with trembling voices and outstretched hands, besought me to return no more to Car- thage. The generous people, with loud wailing, and wildly- tossing gestures, bade me stay. The voice of a beloved mother, her withered hands beating her breast, her gray hairs streaming in the wind, tears flowing down her fur- rowed cheeks, praying me not to leave her in her lonely and helpless old age, is still sounding in my ears. Compared to MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 63 anguish like this, what are your paltry torments ? Go, bring your sharpest tortures ! The woes I see impending over this guilty realm shall be enough to sweeten death, though every nerve were strung with agony. I die, but mine shall be the triumph; yours, the untold desolation. For every drop of blood ye from my veins do draw, your own shall flow in rivers. Woe to thee, Carthage ! woe to the proud city of the waters ! I see thy nobles wailing at the feet of Eoman senators! thy citizens in terror ! thy ships in flames ! I hear the victorious shouts of Some ! I see her eagles glittering on thy ramparts. Proud city, thou art doomed ! The curse of God is on thee, a clinging, wasting curse. It shall not leave thy gates till hungry flames shall lick the fretted gold from off thy proud palaces, and every brook runs crimson to the sea. Eome, with bloody hand, shall sweep thy heart- strings, and all thy homes shall howl in wild response of anguish to her touch. Proud mistress of the sea, disrobed, uncrowned and scourged, thus again do I devote thee to the infernal gods ! Now, bring forth your tortures ! Slaves ! while ye tear this quivering flesh, remember how often Eegulus has beaten your armies and humbled your pride. Out as he would have carved you ! Burn deep as his curse ! " MOONLIGHT FANCIES. SARA GENEVRA CHAFA. The moonlight falls in a misty flood Adown on my chamber roof, And a thousand thoughts in my busy brain Soon are woven into woof. I think I stand on Italia's shore, And muse as the moonbeams fall On the glassy sea, and the ivied fanes, And many a ruined wall. 64 eeobisheb's seeial eeadikgs. It kissed the brow of a fair young bride, And sleeps in her sweet dark eyes, And haloes the spot where the two kneel down, Like a gleam from Paradise. Then I think I see it pouring free Down the classic mountain's side, And it falls in a golden flood on fields Where the heroes of earth have died. Again I stand amid its light As it falls on the busy street Of the city of wit and fickleness, Where fashion holds reign complete. In sunny France, where the vineyards are, And the people of dance and song, And it pours o'er the Bastile a solemn sheen, As in fancy I move along. It gleams on an old chateau, Through its windows, ivy-grown, Weirdly bright is the moonbeam's light, As a dream that is overthrown. O ! it rests on a marble brow, On a cheek that is icy cold ; On a prostrate form of a maiden fair Who has sold her life for gold. Then over the Alps, and far away, Where it shines on their peaks of snow, Gazing and dreaming and musing still, On Fancy's wild wing I go. It looks in a Switzer's home, And rests on the bright young cheek Of a youth with waving locks flung back, And a red lip fixed to speak. And his tones are clear and sweet As his own free mountain air, And his proud young face is full of grace, Of everything bright and fair. MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 65 Away I go where the moonlight sleeps On Hungary's sacred soil, And I see it kiss, with its silver lips, A man's brown face of toil. It rests on the Austrian sabre's blade In a soldier's stalwart hand, And it gleams on Vienna's towering spires As they shadow the verdant land ; And down by a battlement It creeps 'mong the cannon balls, Then speeds away to a pleasant home, Where, soft as a prayer, it falls. Far off in a Turkish harem It peeps from the blue, bright skies, And mirrors its own sweet splendor In numberless sparkling eyes. But I see it fall more softly On a bowed young jetty head, With wondrous brow and pensive eyes, And lips where the rose has fled ; And the maiden murmurs, in accents low, In another tongue, a tale of woe. Again I track its footsteps To a far Egyptian plain, Where it falls in liquid glory Like a shower of silver rain. And it haloes the grand old Pyramids, In their mighty, solemn state, And it calls up within my spirit The dead, and the ancient great. And yonder, in far Arabia, It silvers the wondrous palm, And rests on Sahara's sand-waves With a heavy, baptismal calm, 6$ fkobishek's sekial keadikgs. Then back o'er the foaming ocean, As the billows dance in light, I see it bathe the steamer, In her onward, steady flight ; And it looks in the cabin window, And wakes up the sailor boy, Who has wandered away, and, homesick, Was dreaming of future joy. Down the Eocky Mountain passes It shines with a cheering ray, And, tangled amid the forest, It waits for the coming day ; And so through the solemn minutes, While I rest from my spirit's flight, Over the earth the moonlight Is clasped in the arms of night. THE DUTCHMAN'S SHMALL POX. Some years ago, a droll sort of a Dutchman was the driver of a stage in ISTew Jersey, and he passed daily through the small hamlet of Jericho. One morning, just as the vehicle was starting from Squash Point, a person came up and re- quested the driver to take in a small box, and ''leave it at Mrs. Scudder's, third house on the left after you get into Jericho." "Yaas, oh yaas, Mr. Ellis, I knows der haus," said the driver. " I pleeve der voman dakes in vashin', vor I always sees her mit her clothes hung out." "You're right, that's the place," said Ellis (for that was the man's name), "she washes for one of the steamboats." The box was thereupon duly deposited in the front boot, the driver took his 'levenpenny bit for carrying it, and the stage started on its winding way. In an hour or two, the THE DUTCHMAN'S SHMALL POX. 67 four or five houses comprising the village of Jericho hove in sight. In front of one of them, near the door, a tall, mus- cular woman was engaged at a wash-tub, while lines of white linen, fluttering in the wind, ornamented the adjoin- ing lawn. The stage stopped at the gate, when the follow- ing ludicrous dialogue, and attendant circumstances, took place : Driver — Is dis Miss Scutter's haus ? Woman [looking up, without stopping her work] — Yes, I'm Mrs. Scudder. Driver — I'fe got der shmall pox in der stage ; vill you come out and dake it ? Woman [suddenly throwing down the garment she was washing] — Got the small pox ! mercy on me ! why do you stop here, you wicked man ? you'd better be off, quick as you can. [Runs into the house.] Driver [mutters to himself] — I vonder vat's der matter mit der fool ? I'fe a goot mind ter drow it over der fence. Upon second thought, he takes the box, gets off the stage, and carries it into the house. But in an instant he reap- pears, followed by a broom, with an enraged woman at the end of it, who is shouting in a loud voice — "You git out of this ! clear yourself quicker! — you've no business to come here exposing decent people to the small pox ; what do you mean by it ? " "I dells you it's der shmall pox!" exclaimed the Dutch- man, emphasizing the Avord box as plainly as he could. " Ton't you versteh? — der small pox dat Mishter Ellis sends to you." But Mrs. Scudder was too much excited to comprehend this explanation, even if she had listened to it. Having it fixed in her mind that there w r as a case of small pox on the stage, and that the driver was asking her to take into the house a passenger thus afflicted, her indignation knew no bounds. "Clear out! " exclaimed she, excitedly; " I'll call the men folks if you don't clear!" and then shouting at the top of her voice: "Ike! you Ike! where are you ? " 68 frobisher's serial readings. Ike soon made his appearance, and inquired — " W-what's the matter, mother ? " The driver answered! — " I dells yon now onct more, for der last time, I'fe got der shmall pox, and Mishter Ellis he dells me to gif it to Miss Scutter, and if dat vrow ish Miss Scutter, vy she no dake der pox?" By this time several of the passengers had got off the stage to see the fnn, and one of them explained to Mrs. Scudder that it was a box, and not small pox, that the driver wished to leave with her. The woman had become so thoroughly frightened that she was still incredulous, until a bright idea struck Ike. " Oh, mother ! " exclaimed he, "I know what 'tis — it's Madame Ellis's box of laces, sent to be done up." With this explanation the affair was soon settled, and Mrs. Scudder received the Dutchman's "shmall pox" amidst the laughter and shouts of the occupants of the old stage coach. The driver joined in, although he had not the least idea of what they were laughing at, and as the vehicle rolled away, he added not a little to the mirth by saying, in a triumphant tone of voice, " I vas pound ter gif ter old vomans der shmall pox, vether she vould dake it or not." THE DARLING WEE SHOE. BY DORA SHAW. 'Twas a morning in June, and the roses, each one, Turned up its soft cheek for a k'iss from the sun; And the violet, wooed by the breeze that stole by, Purpled over with shame, while a tear in its eye THE DARLIKG WEE SHOE. 69 Seemed its only reproof, and it bowed to the sod As a worshiper bows at the name of his God, — When a maiden, with fingers bejeweled with dew, Stooped to fasten the strings of her darling wee shoe. Oh, the maiden was lithe, and the maiden was fair; The laburnum was dim to the gold of her hair; And the pale-faced lily, if it could but speak, Would say how it envied the rose of her cheek; And the lark, 'mid his song, would fold up his brown wing, To list her glad voice with its mellow-toned ring ; And the fragile mimosa no tremor e'er knew At the fall of that foot in its darling wee shoe. Oh, that foot was so slender, that foot was so small! Soft as voices of air was the sound of its fall ; And, as it drew nearer, a strange nameless fear Then thrilled through my heart, 'till its throbs I could hear ; And blushes, like lightning, flashed up to my cheek, When this maiden so fair ope'd her red lips to speak, And begged me to bind, what the breeze would undo, The ribbons which fastened that darling wee shoe. Of that task were enamored my fingers, I ween, For they lingered full long o'er those fetters of sheen Which fluttered like birds but just caught in a snare, While more silent and calm grew the maiden so fair ; She smiled me her thanks, and turned from the spot With a look in her blue eyes I never forgot, For it seemed to say, in a language too true: "Thou'st fettered thy heart in the strings of my shoe!" Well, I loved and I wedded this maiden so fair; But the cold dews of Death fell one night on her hair, And dimmed its bright gold ; and they fell on her cheek ; Silent grew the dear lips that such fond words could speak. 70 erobisher's serial readings. " My feet are aweary," it seemed as she'd say, "That have trod with thee, darling, life's flowery way; Oh, stoop thee again, and, I prithee, undo, My feet are aweary, the strings of my shoe." Oh, that foot was so slender, that foot was so cold ! Not the rose-tinted thing that had charmed me of old ; I bathed it with tears, but I could not restore Its motion so bounding; nay, its fleetness was o'er; Nevermore would it meet me at morning, at night, Or wander 'mong flowers that loved it like light, For together stooped Death and myself to undo The ribbons that fastened that darling wee shoe. Calm she sleeps in the church-yard, this maiden so fair, And her favorite flowers are blossoming there ; There the sweet lady-slipper springs up in its pride, Fitting type of the wee one which lies by my side! Did I say in the church-yard she sleeps ? No, ah, no ! For star-crowned in Heaven she dwelleth, I know ; And light, silvery sandals, which Death cannot undo, She weareth in place of that darling wee shoe. SUMNER'S CHARACTER. CARL SCHUR. Mr. Sumner's natural abilities were not of the first order; but they were supplemented by acquired abilities of remark- able power. His mind did not invent and create by inspira- tion ; it produced by study and work. Neither had his mind superior constructive capacity. When he desired to originate a measure of legislation, he scarcely ever elaborated its practical detail; he usually threw his idea into the form of a resolution, or a bill giving in the main his purpose summer's character. 71 only, and then he advanced to the discussion of the prin- ciples involved. It was difficult for him to look at a question or a problem from more than one point of view, and to com- prehend its different bearings, its complex relations with other questions or problems ; and to that one point of view he was apt to subject ail other considerations. He not only thought, but he did not hesitate to say -that all construction of the Constitution must be subservient to the supreme duty of giving the amplest protection to the natural rights of man by direct national legislation. He was not free from that dangerous tendency to forget the limits which bound the legitimate range of legislative and governmental action. No living man who knew Mr. Sumner well, will hesitate a moment to pronounce the charge of duplicity as founded on the most radical of misapprehensions. An act of du- plicity on his part was simply a moral impossibility. It w T as absolutely foreign to his nature. Whatever may have been the defects of his character, he never knowingly deceived a human being. There.was in him not the faintest shadow of dissimulation, disguise, or trickery. Not one of his words ever had the purpose of a double meaning, not one of his acts a hidden aim. His likes and dislikes, his approval and disapproval, as soon as they were clear to his own con- sciousness, appeared before the world in the open light of noonday. His frankness was so unbounded, his candor so entire, his ingenuousness so childlike, that he lacked even the discretion of ordinary prudence. He was almost inca- pable of moderating his feelings, of toning down his mean- ing in the expression When he might have gained a point by indirection, he would not have done so, because he could not. He was one of those who, when they attack, attack always in front and in broad daylight. The night surprise and the flank march were absolutely foreign to his tactics, because they were incompatible with his nature. I have known many men in my life, but never one who was less capable of a perfidious act or an artful profession. Call him a vain, an impracticable, an imperious man, if you will, 72 froblshee's seeial readings. but American history does not mention the name of one of whom with greater justice it can be said that he was a true man. HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. BY MARY A. P. STANSBURY. 'Twas long ago — ere ever the signal gun That blazed above Fort Sumter had wakened the north as one ; Long ere the wondrous pillar of battle-cloud and fire Had marked where the unchained millions marched on to their heart's desire. On roofs and glittering turrets, that night as the sun went down, The mellow glow of the twilight shone like a jeweled crown, And bathed in the living glory, as the people lifted their eyes, They saw .,the pride of the city, the spire of St. Michael's, rise High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball, That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall; Eirst glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor, round, And last slow-fading vision dear to the outward bound. The gently-gathering shadows shut out the waning light ; The children prayed at their bedsides, as they were wont each night; The noise of buyer and seller from the busy mart was gone, And in dreams of a peaceful morrow the city slumbered on. HOW HE SAVED ST. MICHAEL'S. 73 But another light than sunrise aroused the sleeping street, For a cry was heard at midnight, and the rush of trampling feet; Men stared in each other's faces, thro' mingled fire and smoke, While the frantic bells went clashing clamorous, stroke on stroke. By the glare of her blazing roof- tree the houseless mother fled, With the babe she pressed to her bosom shrieking in name- less dread, While the fire-king's wild battalions scaled wall and capstone high, And planted their glaring banners against an inky sky. From the death that raged behind them, and the crush of ruin loud, To the great square of the city, were driven the surging crowd, Where yet firm in all the tumult, unscathed by the fiery flood, With its heavenward pointing finger the church of St. Michael's stood. But e'en as they gazed upon it, there rose a sudden wail, A cry of horror blended with the roaring of the gale, On whose scorching wings updriven, a single flaming brand, Aloft on the towering steeple clung like a bloody hand. "Will it fade?" the whisper trembled from a thousand whitening lips ; Far out on the lurid harbor they watched it from the ships, A baleful gleam, that brighter and ever brighter shone, Like a flickering, trembling will-o'-the-wisp to a steady bea- con grown. 4 74 frobisher's serial readings. " Uncounted gold shall be given to the man whose brave right hand, Foi the love of the perilled city, plucks down yon burning brand ! " So cried the Mayor of Charleston, that all the people heard, But they looked each one at his fellow, and no man spoke a word. Who is it leans from the belfry, with face upturned to the sky ? Clings to a column and measures the dizzy spire with his eye ? Will he dare it, the hero undaunted, that terrible sickening height ? Or will the hot blood of his courage freeze in his veins at the sight ? But, see! he has stepped on the railing, he climbs with his feet and his hands, And firm on a narrow projection, with the belfry beneath him he stands! Now, once, and once only, they cheer him — a single tempestu- ous breath, And there falls on the multitude gazing, a hush like the still- ness of death. Slow, steadily mounting, unheeding aught save the goal of the fire, Still higher and higher, an atom, he moves on the face of the spire ; He stops! Will he fall? Lo ! for answer, a gleam like a meteor's track, And, hurled on the stones of the pavement, the red brand lies shattered and black ! Once more the shouts of the people have rent the quivering air; At the church door, mayor and council wait with their feet on the stair, OUR DEAD. 75 And the eager throng behind them press for a touch of his hand, The unknown saviour whose daring could compass a deed ■ so grand. But why does a sudden tremor seize on them as they gaze ? And what meaneth that stifled murmur of wonder and amaze ? He stood in the gate of the temple he had perilled his life to save, And the nice of the unknown hero was the sable face of a slave ! With folded arms he was speaking in tones that were clear, not loud, And his eyes, ablaze in their sockets, burnt into the eyes of the crowd. " Ye may keep your gold, I scorn it ! but answer me, ye who can, If the deed I have done before you be not the deed of a man f " He stepped but a short space backward, and from all the women and men There were only sobs for answer, and the mayor called for a pen, And the great seal of the city, that he might read who ran, And the slave who saved St. Michael's went out from its door a man. OUB DEAD. GEN". JAMES B. M'KEAN. To comrades living, for comrades dead I speak to-day. On the earth, in the earth, and perchance in the air, they sur- round us. When before was ever a speaker "compassed 76 frobisher's serial readings. about with so great a cloud of witnesses ? " — and such wit- nesses ! Steadier nerves and stouter hearts than mine might well recoil abashed in such a presence. Who are they to whom I speak to-day ? Among those who look and listen are some who have gone unharmed through the carnage of a score of battles. Let not the fact of their good fortune diminish their country's gratitude. Here are men with empty sleeves; let a hundred hands be stretched out to help them. Here are men poised upon crutches ; let millionaires stand up that they may sit down. Here are men with maimed and scarred visages; let the world uncover in their presence, for their scars are badges of our Legion of Honor. Here are men with pale faces, who threw their all upon the altar of their country, and took nothing off but broken constitutions ; let their country make them, not the objects of a pitiful charity, but the sub- jects of simple justice, not to say bountiful generosity. I am surrounded by men who rallied with the flag -when it had fallen back in defeat, and who went with it when it mounted above the clouds in victory. Perhaps among our colored comrades here may be, if he recovered from his wounds, that standard-bearer of desperate courage, who, when his right arm was shattered, with his left held up the flag, and when one leg was shattered, poised on the other he held up the flag, and when both legs were shattered he fell upon his knees and held up the flag, and hobbling upon his knees he crept up to his captain and said, " Massa, de ole flag nebber touch de ground! " And here are men who "bore a hand" when the Monitor stove in the ribs of the Merrimac ; when Farragut went to battle mounted aloft in the rigging ; and when the half-breed Anglo-rebel pirate, Alabama, was sent down head foremost in sight of British waters; men who helped to bring our good old ship of State through the storm and into the harbor, where already she is refitted, and is even now weighing her anchors to go out upon another, even more glorious, but peaceful voyage on the high seas of the future. DECORATION DAT. 77 DECORATION DAY. GEN. COCHRANE. Muffled drum and vailed standard marshaled us the way to the field of our dead, and we have come back with hearts surcharged with solemn memories. A myriad graves of soldiers slain lay silent in the morning sun — lay green in the turf upon them ; a myriad voice broke their silence with a blessing, and myriad hands strewed all their turf with flowers — flowers grown in Nature's virgin purity, and strewn with affection's unstinted measure. They lie there now, and long may they lie — sweet emblems of all that is beautiful and true — exhaling the incense of our love for them that are in the skies. Of all causes, comrades, the cause of country is that which crowns achievement with glory, and its soldier with im- mortality. So has been written the judgment of the vanished ages. The dead for country come to us embalmed by the historic, and robed effulgently by the poetic muse. Art breathes into her votary an inspiration ; and the pencil and the chisel vie in transmitting through the generations an enduring monument of the patriot past. Nature's self is not voiceless. With all her tongues she attunes the deeds of heroes sepulchered in her bosom. Marathon is still plead- ing to the listening stars the story of her -Grecian slain; and ever the iEgean wave is beating on the wide world's ear the cadenced stroke of the Salaminian galleys. Man dies, but virtue and liberty never cease, once having been, to be; and from the tomb their mighty radiance streams along the gloom of ages evermore, without decrease. Comrades ! To their country a thousand days were given by the boys who died to save it. Shall not that country now give one day to them ? The inexorable mart, the crazed and crazing 'Change, and trade's unfeeling train, say — No ! Justice, and wisdom, and the large heart of a great people 78 frobisher's serial readings. say— Yes. From that side comes the wail of bills payable distracted, and bills receivable distressed. Here are heard the plaintive and persuasive accents of a nation in behalf of its defenders. Know yon not, O law-makers! know you not that one day seized from the fretful fever of gain is a halt called in the exhausting march to personal wealth ? — a rest in the soul-subduing struggle for riches? Such a day, set in the national calendar, would incontestibly prove a day of national blessing. Bonfires, and bells, and cannon noisily attest the anniversary of our National Independence. Solemn ceremonies and religious rites should recall the memory of our national preservation. It may be truthfully said, comrades, that two annual holidays are the peculiar birthright of every American — the one to celebrate, with an irrepressible and explosive joy, the national birth; the other, with sedate and sincere thanksgivings, to celebrate the national resurrection. May Congress heed well the lesson. CHARLIE MACHEEE. BY W. J. HOPPIK. Come over, come over the river to me, If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree. Here's Mary McPherson and Susy O'Linn, Who say ye're faint-hearted, and dare na plunge in. But the dark rolling river, though deep as the sea, I know will na scare you, nor keep you frae me; For stout is yer back, and strong is yer arm, And the heart in yer bosom is faithful and warm. CHARLIE MACHREE. 79 Come over, come over the river to me, If ye are my laddie, bold Charlie Machree. I see, I see him, he's plunged in the tide, His strong arms are dashing the big waves aside. the dark rolling water shoots swift as the sea, But blithe is the glance of his bonny bine e'e: His cheeks are like roses, twa buds on a bough ; Who says ye're faint-hearted, my brave laddie now ? Ho, ho, foaming river, ye may roar as ye go, But ye canna bear Charlie to the dark loch below! Come over, come over, the river to me, My true-hearted laddie, my v Charlie Machree. He's sinking, he's sinking — what shall I do ? Strike put, Charlie, boldly, ten strokes and ye're thro' ! He's sinking, Heaven ! Ne'er fear, man, ne'er fear ; I've a kiss for ye, Charlie, as soon as ye're here ! He rises, I see him — five strokes, Charlie, mair — He's shaking the wet from his bonnie brown hair ; He conquers the current, he gains on the sea, Ho, where is the swimmer like Charlie Machree ! Come over the river, but once come to me, And I'll love you forever, dear Charlie Machree. * He's sinking! he's gone ! God, it is I, It is I who have killed him — help ! help ! he must die. Help ! help ! ah, he rises, strike out and ye're free, Ho, bravely done, Charlie, once more now, for me! 80 Now cling to the rock, now gie us your hand, Ye're safe, dearest Charlie, ye're safe on the land. Come rest on my bosom, if there ye can sleep ; I canna speak to ye ; I only can weep. Ye've crossed the wild river, ye've risked all for me ; And I'll part frae ye never, dear Charlie Machree ! THE GIRL WITH THE MILKING PAIL. College vacation ! A trip to the sea-shore was the word for us, and a jollier set you never saw. A few hours' ride by rail, and then the lumbering, rattling old stage-coach, drawn by real horses — four of them. It didn't take long to " claim our baggage" and take our seats for a lovely two hours' trip " in the cool " of the afternoon, through, to us, the most enchanting scenery to a village in Massachusetts, right on the edge of old ocean. We could smell the brine from afar, intermixed with that of pulverized sea-shells of various kinds strewn along the road, and see the piles of sea-grass piled up in stacks by many a barn and shed ; and we longed to meet old friends, to see the sea, whose roar we fancied we could almost hear as bowled the wheels under the rocking and swaying antediluvian vehicle that looked old enough to have been among the first on the highway. " The mail " had been twice changed, rosy apples had been plucked from trees along the way, and as the sun was gorgeously setting behind a young and vigorous growth of oak, we could see the principal church-spire of the village towering high above the neat white houses and red barns, and we felt our happy trip was nearly over. We had laughed and joked, and now our faces began to wear a soberer hue, as we drew foster and faster to- ward our destination. We could have hardly believed it pos- sible to have laughed louder than a smile, but you have not THE GIRL WITH THE MILKING PAIL. bl yet read the sequel. The horn was " tooted " long and loud for the 1 last time, and now we gained the suburbs. We were already in the " main " street of the village, perhaps a mile in length. Faces peered at almost every pane of glass in many windows. Some ran to doors to gaze, children to the gates and sidewalks, all with "one idee," to see "who'd cum ? " " Smack went the whip, round went the wheels" The horses gave an extra snort, pricked up their ears, I verily believe smelling "their oats." Milkmaids were re- turning from their lacteal labors, some with more, some with less, of liquid whiteness, pure and unadulterated. But one bare-foot, strapping lassie, brown as a nut, more am- bitious than all the rest, had found her way to the road itself, not content with remaining on the narrow side-path, determined to have a good look or none. The stage was full inside and outside, but those on top had, of course, the first and the best sight of all that was going on. Her pail was an unusually full one, and, being somewhat awkward to handle, she carried it upon her head, her waterfall and sun- bonnet rolled up supplying the place of a pad usually worn by those bearing burdens in this wise. She knew the coach was coming, and as it grew nearer she turned and faced full around. She walked backwards, as Hamlet describes it, " like a crab." We young fellows on top were " all eyes," and she, with her pouting lips, did not seem to mind our gazing " one bit." But " pride cometh before a fall. " The leaders — I mean by that the forward horses — had just reached abreast the damsel, and she, fearing she would not see enough — oh, fatal curiosity! — took longer steps backwards, intently occupied on the one thought, when, as the fates would have it, a huge stone, lying athwart her path, and unaccustomed to moving out of one's way, brought her up all standing, as the saying runs, and the con- sequences are part of our story. She sat square down for an instant, but an instant only, and vainly attempted to rally her lost equilibrium. The big stone was all right, but somehow she had not made her calculations correctly. The 82 milk-pail was the bother. She clutched it with a firmel grasp, but its momentum was too great ; it must go, and it did go, and she with it. A faint shriek, a splurge, a splash, a del age, and where was the maid with the milk- ing- pail ? It was all the work of an instant, but in that instant we saw a pail very strangely mixed with arms, legs, and milk, a wet rock, a lot of calico, and damaged dry goods generally. Remember, this was all seen in an instant; the next we saw a form emerging, like Venus rising from a milky sea, or Milky Way, whichever you choose, and very undignifiedly spluttering and striving to catch her breath. The moment she could gasp a syllable^ she bellowed out, " Oh, Lucl ! oh, Lud ! wliat have I done, and where am If" The stage was brought up with a sudden halt, and the gallant outside passengers sprang to her/ assistance, but before they could fairly reach her, she had once more got her eyes open, and with scarcely more than a single bound she reached the walk, clambered over the fence belonging to the house from which she hailed; not knowing where she was until called by the people of the same, who had also hastened to her rescue, and she rushed into the door and out of sight, leaving the pail behind her. What need the casket after the gem had gone ? What afterwards occurred can only be conjectured, but many a hearty laugh went up as soon as all were satisfied she was not hurt, and the village folks by no means short- ened the story in its telling. THE WIDOW. TRANSLATION FROM GILBERT {German). MRS. E. F. ELLET. Dorinda mourned a husband kind and true ; She loved him as herself, and better too ; " Better ? " methinks I hear some sceptic say, With smiling scorn. But let him scoff away ! THE WIDOW. 83 Death snatched from poor Dorinda, I'll say, then, The best of husbands and the best of men. The hapless widow wrung her hands and cried, And sank down swooning by the dead man's side. Friends came, and strove to soothe her woes, in vain; In piteous mpans she poured her ceaseless pain. "Whole days continued this afflicted mood. Meanwhile, a neighbor skilled in carving wood, Some comfort to the sorrowing one to send, Resolved to carve an image of his friend. 'Twas done ! The blessed Stephen, large as life, Stood then to comfort his distracted wife. With triumph then they brought the wooden spouse To the second story of the widow's house ; There, in her chamber, having turned the key, Quite inconsolable by sympathy, She shut herself from all, and sought relief With that dear statue from her bitter grief, Vowing to weep away the rest of life, What more could one desire of a wife ? Here stayed Dorinda, lonely and heartbroken, For weeks ; and had not to a creature spoken. One day, she from her window chanced to throw A careless look. A stranger stood below ! Up in a twinkling came the trembling maid, " Madam, a gentleman has called,'' she said ; " A lovely man as one could wish to see ! He has some business he'll not trust with me ! " " Make some excuse for me," the widow sighed. " I'll not leave this dear image I " "I have tried To put him off ; v the maid said, " but 'twon't do ! " "Tell him I'm sick with sorrow." "Madam, no ; He has already had a glimpse of you, Here, at your window, as he stood below ; You must come down ; the stranger will not go He's something weighty to impart, I know." 84 fkobisher's seeial readings. A moment the young widow stands perplexed, Embraced the image, and went down the next. Hour after hour slips on. What can this mean ? So strange a thing has Susan never seen ! At last, Dorinda comes out, and alone, And shuts the door. " Say, what shall now be done ? The gentleman ivill be my guest to-night. Broil fish for supper, set the lire alight." Back to the parlor goes the widow quick, Susan looks high and low to find a stick To set the fire agoing ; all in vain, She calls her mistress, in despair, again, " Madam, I cannot find a stick of wood, Except that image ! That is hard and good. I'd split it in a thrice, ma'am, but for you ! " " The image ? No, indeed! — But — well— yes — do ! " " Oh, thank you, ma'am ! but 'tis too much for me ! I cannot lift it all alone, you see. 'Twould go out of the window easily ! " " A lucky thought ! And that would split it, too ! What need you now of any more ado ! Come, then ! I'll bear no more this misery ! The gentleman in future lives with me!" Up went the sash, and out the " Blessed Stephen " flew ! THE IRISHMAN'S SPUR. Many years ago, before railroads or turnpikes were in- vented, and when travelers were few in number, journies were usually made on horseback; and at country taverns it was customary to make a double bed answer for two guests. At that period, one hot summer evening, a Scotchman and an Irishman had stopped at a public house in New Jersey, on the main road from New York to Philadelphia, to spend THE IRISHMAN'S SPUE. 85 the night. A jolly Dutchman who provided " entertain- ment for man and beast/' kept this hostelry. The two guests were strangers to each other, having arrived from different directions, but being somewhat lonesome, and supping together at the common table, they scraped an acquaintance, and at bed- time the landlord showed both to the same room, where they were to occupy one bed. The night was hot, the ceiling of the bedroom somewhat low, and our travelers, after laying off their garments and hoist- ing the windows, were about to retire, when the Scotchman suggested, on blowing out the light, that it would be more comfortable to throw open the bedroom door and get " a wee bit of air through the hoose," as he expressed it. Patrick consenting, the door was set open, and the two betook them- selves to slumber. A couple of hours later, two other travelers arrived in company, and demanded a bed, which was duly promised them. Being young and jolly fellow r s, they first imbibed pretty freely at the bar, and were then lighted up stairs. Now it so happened that in going through the upper hall, the open bedroom door, and the sounds issuing therefrom, attracted the attention of the new comers. Both the foreigners were apparently fast asleep, and the Scotchman was snoring loud enough to accompany the music of a barrel organ. Patrick lay on the front side of the bed with a naked leg and foot hanging out. " Pll have some sport, now," said one of the bloods to his mate, " if you'll hold the candle a minute.'' The candle was held, while our young joker, creeping noiselessly and cat-like into the room, took up one of the Irishman's spurs (travelers upon horseback always wore spurs in those clays), and buckled it on the heel of Paddy's naked foot. He then gave the naked leg a pinch, and squatted down out of sight at the foot of the bed. The Irishman (though not awakened) drew his leg back suddenly into bed, much to the discomfiture and indignation of his bedfellow, whose shins were badly raked. 86 erobisher's serial readings. " The de'el dang you ! " exclaims Donald, rubbing his leg " an' ef ye dinna gang oot o' bed and cocht yer too nails, I'll soon be gettin' up and thraw ye oot th' winder, ye loot ! " — and giving the offending leg a push, it was again extended as before without waking Pat, who proved to be a sound sleeper. After waiting a few moments until the Scotchman got quiet, our joker drew a straw from the bed-tick, and with it tickled the bottom of Patrick's extended foot : and now the leg was drawn into bed with a spasmodic jerk, giving the unhappy Scotchman a spurring that brought him up on end in bed. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, and his bruised leg with the other, he began to upbraid his bed- fellow in a broad Scotch accent somewhat as follows : " Are ye daft, mon, to be scratching me legs in thoft unco' way ? Why din ye cocht yer too-nails befoor ga'ing to bed with a decent body ? Get oot o' bed and grub off yer too- nails, ye loot ! do ye fash a Christian mon to stan' such rough diggin' ! " This waked up the Irishman, who, involuntarily raking his own other leg, vaulted out of bed in double-quick. " Och, millia murther ! what's the matther now, and what's got hould me fut ? " exclaimed he, putting down his hand and feeling the spur with the "greatest astonishment. "By me sowl, what a stupid fellow is the hostler of this inn ; sure an' he tuk off me boots whin I wint to bed, and the fule has left on one ov me spurs ! Strange it is that I did'nt notice it." This explanation being satisfactory to Donald, harmony was soon restored, while the author of the mischief, stuffing his handerchief into his mouth to keep from bursting with laughter, sneaked out of the room to his own nest. ALL BUT LOST. 87 ALL BUT LOST. BY CHARLES FOLLEl* LEE. The Northern bugles blithely play Through the Shenandoah at break of day, And a troop of horsemen clad in blue Eide over the meadows wet with dew. Their chargers are fresh, and their spirits high, And they champ the bit as they thunder by, And their nostrils wide in the balm of morn Make answer shrill to the bugle horn. ii. Oh, a gallant band of troopers are they Who ride so swift from the camp to-day, Sturdy and tall, in heart as strong As the heroes brave in the minstrels' song, And every mind from guile as free As the zephyr that blows from the distant sea. in. Proud were the men of their noble band, And proud of the cause for which they bled, A.nd ready to wield the battle brand And cleave rebellion's Gorgon head ; But prouder yet their leader was Of his troopers brave and their noble cause ; And as onward he spurred his flying steed, His horsemen felt sure some gallant deed Would come about ere the burning sun Had half of his daily journey run. IV. In a little town this very day, From these Union riders far away, 88 erobisher's serial readings. Was the noise of arms and the tramp of feet, And the loud command in every street. Columns of gray-clad soldiery, Of veteran horse and infantry, Marched hither and thither, while fife and drum Rose far above the busy hum. v. And see, they halt just out of the town, The infantry form in a hollow square, While the horsemen gallop up and down And restrain the crowd with their sabres bare. But why this throng, and this warlike show ? Why gallop these orderlies to and fro ? Why muffled those drums that heavily roll Such a dead'ning weight on the list'ner's soul ? 0, Heaven ! what is it that rises there In the middle of yonder hollow square ? A scaffold it is, whose form uncouth Tells plainer than words the awful truth, Some one must die on this lovely day, Though heaven is fair and Nature gay ; But man ne'er thinks when working ill If the day be fair, or dark and chill ; And he never hears to the silent prayer That Nature is making everywhere, Her mute appeals to the throne above, For the sons of men to live in love. VI. Some one must die, who is drawing near 'Tis a stalwart man of a noble mien, His face is calm and his eye as clear As the liquid blue of the sky serene. Unmoved between the files of gray To the gate of death he takes his way, ALL BUT LOST. Unheeding the cruel taunt or sneer Which falls from the rebel musketeer; But, ready for death, his inward prayer Asks not for life, but strength to bear The martyr's crown, though thorny it be, The glorious emblem of the free. VII. And what was his crime ? The tale is brief ! — He heard the voice of Freedom call, And he left old Maine when the rebel chief Insulted the flag on Sumter's wall, And long he fought with a valiant might For the law of God and the cause of right, And a braver soldier was never born Than the one to die on this summer morn. The general sought for a scout, and he Was willing to suffer the jeopardy If he only might aid with his honest hand, The goodly cause of his native land. He went, was taken and doomed to die By a rebel court as a Union spy. VIII. 'Tis hard to die when life is strong, When the heart throbs lustily, free from age, And the blood in the vein speeds brisk along, And the hopes of the Future the mind engage. But he must die, what traitorous knave Would raise but a finger, a foeman to save? Stern War knows nought of the claims of youth, Nor the rebel horde of honor and truth. So on they move with jeer and cry Till they reach the spot where the scout must die. IX. The time has come : — five minutes for prayer Is all the rebel chief can spare ; 90 frobisher's seeial readings. Dead silence reigns, and all is still But the murmuring breeze or the flowing rill, Or, oyer the meadow, the lark's blithe lay That carols so sweet for the sunny day. x. One minute is gone ; he is praying now, But still unmoyed is his youthful brow. Two more have fled, the prayer is done, And he looks once more on the cheerful sun, On the scenes around, and his mind runs o'er With the lightning's speed the days of yore. He sees again that village in Maine, And he dreams himself a child again. The gentle mother clasps her boy, And the father's eye beams bright with joy, And then a face, — so dear to him — His sweetheart's — ah! his eye is dim With the mournful thought, but he bravely quells The deep emotion that quivers and swells. XI. One minute is left, one minute for breath, 0, God ! but why so awful is Death ? Why doth the soul of the dying treasure Each beat of time in the failing measure ? The minute is up, and he must die. Is there no hope ? But stop ! that cry ! What is it that stays the hand of death, And echoing holds the very breath ? 'Tis a bugle blast. 0, where can it be ? That carol of hope so wild and free. It echoes again, now louder and nearer The sweet notes ring, till clearer and clearer, The prisoner hears the bugle blast He heard so oft in the busy past. 0, can it be ! 0, is it true That he yonder sees a line of blue ! EXPERIENCE AND HOPE. 91 Eejoice ! rejoice ! 'tis the Union horse That thunders near with resistless force ! Ha ! ha ! how the rebels pale and quake ! Hurrah ! for their lines are beginning to break, And they feel in terror, the merciless steel, And the gray clad legions waver and reel ! They flee, hurrah! how the traitors run! Thank God ! the battle is fought and won. XII. The Northern bugles blithely play Through the Shenandoah at bright mid-day, And the gallant scout, once doomed to die, With his faithful friends rides gayly by. The trial is over, the danger is passed, But the thrilling remembrance will ever last, How the Union troopers came in view When the Northern bugles merrily blew. EXPERIENCE AND HOPE. PROTHIXGHA^I. Tribulation : That is, friction ; the hard, long rubbing of the man against his lot ; the grinding and rasping of duty, suffering, sorrow, temptation, and sin. This knocks off the sharp points, smooths the jagged edges, rounds the angles, polishes the surface, as the ceaseless pounding and rolling of waves on the sea-beach polishes the pebbles. Thence issues patience : the power to wait, endure, suffer, submit, with a firm, resigned spirit. Out of this, again, comes experience: the experimental knowledge of good and evil ; the solid scientific conviction ; the knowledge of things which he alone has who has tried them. Finally, from this experi- mental knowledge, the child of patience, and the grand- child of suffering, proceeds hope. See what a rock basis 92 , frobisher's serial readings. hope has. We commonly think of hope as of some- thing light, airy, visionary; the mist of the morning; the hue of the sunset; the shimmer of the moonlight; a butterfly; the perfume of a flower; a gorgeous, but fantastical, fluttering thing; seen but a moment, and as it is about to disappear. But it is not so. Hope is one of the three things that abide when prophecies fail, and tongues cease, and knowledge passes away. And why does it abide ? Because it has this everlasting foundation ; because beneath it lie these enormous layers of experience, patience, tribula- tion ; because its base is down among the primitive forma- tions of being ; the limestone, the granite, the quartz, fused in the central fires, moulded by suffering, cooled by tears, and piled up in adamantine masses underneath the smiling surface of existence. Hope is the silvery needle of the Jung- frau, that catches the first ray of the morning and the part- ing beam of the evening, and in the midnight glitters like a star, because its mountain roots take hold on the core of the planet. We speak in these days of the experimental sciences, the knowledges that result from experience. Chemistry is an experimental science. So is physiology, and anatomy, and botany, and many another. It is by long process of experi- ment that we arrive at useful results. The sewing-machine did not come by inspiration, but by experiment. India rub- ber, the printing-press, the photograph, the pneumatic rail- way, the subsoil plough, resulted from experiments. The lives of Watt, and Fulton, and Stevenson, and Howe, and Goodyear, and Morse, to say nothing of scores of men less known, tell us how severe and protracted this course of ex- periment has been. The tribulation was fearful ; the patience was supreme ; the experience was thorough and convincing ; the hope was glorious; the success was triumphant. This hope we feel will not disappoint us. The result is accom- plished; the gain is sure. These fine fruits, so rich in com- fort, ease, convenience, wealth, material and social happi- ness for mankind, can never be taken away. EKOCH ARDEN". 93 ENOCH ARDEN. 'Twas in a city years ago, But just the time I hardly know, There lived a girl whose name was Lee, With eyes that sparkled like the sea; (As for her age, she did not show it, Nor did she want the world to know it, Perhaps she'll tell some other day,) Also a lad whose name was Eay, Besides a boy (I beg his pardon !) Whose mother named him Enoch Arden. The first boy had a miller dad, The second was a sailor lad ; Each boy was sharp, and in his way. Inclined to pass an idle day. The latter loafed, and to some pool Was more inclined to go than school. The former so was not inclined, By nature he'd a different mind; 'Twas not to good — no boy's mind is, For he would often poke his phiz Into his father's bags of meal, And wriggle like a little eel, Or often in an idle hour, He'd play the dickens with the flour, And sometimes in his youthful flight He'd play the mischief in the night. The last is wrong ; it was the ghost He rather loved to play the most. To Annie Lee, with cautious pace, He'd often show his ghostly face, And cry out " bo ! " as she passed on, But Annie never liked the fun, She'd cry out " Enoch ! " in her fears, " Go catch that boy, and pull his ears ; 94 frobisher's serial readings. He frightens me, and plays the ghost, That's why, my dear, I love you most." Then Enoch would to Philip run, And with his fist would lay it on; Or off Phil's shoulder knock a chip, Or sometimes cut his upper lip, Or black his eye ; then Phil would yield, Leave Enoch master of the field, And going throw at him a stone, With "wait till I catch you alone, Won't I punch you!" but Philip coming, Would quickly set the boy a running; Who cowardly would turn his back And take at once the beaten track; Then, like a soldier, he'd go on And boast of deeds that he had done; Or tell some boy his " muckle " feel, Or how he Enoch's nose did peel; Or whip the boy, if he were small, Until he'd made the urchin bawl. Then going to his father's mill, He'd pound the meal-bags with a will, And call them Enoch, or his nose, And lay on them repeated blows. But time walked on (please spare the figure) And both the boys were little bigger ; Both fell in love, as boys will do, And both in love with Annie, too. Each courted her, and each would roam To catch a chance to 'scort her home ; Or go to church (of course for prayer) They always prayed if she were there, For rain, perhaps (they knew their part) ; If lightning flashed, Phil home would start To get umbrella ; Enoch, too, Would take of this a " bird's-eye view, toussalnt l'ouvertuke. 95 And to his dwelling turn his face And prove no loser in the race, And get back first; then Phil would rage And Annie try the storm assuage. " I hate you, Enoch ! " Phil would cry, " She is my girl ! " " She is ? " « You lie ! » But Annie's pleading look would check them, And to her side she both would beck them, " Come here, my darlings, as you're bid, Pll marry both ; " and so she did. TOTTSSAINT L'OUVEETTTKE. WENDELL PHILLIPS. If I were to tell you the story of Napoleon, I should take it from the lips of Frenchmen, who find no language rich enough to paint the great captain of the nineteenth century. Were I to tell you the story of Washington, I should take it from your hearts, — you, who think no marble white enough on which to carve the name of the Father of his country. Cromwell manufactured his own army. Napoleon, at the age of twenty-seven, was placed at the head of the best troops Europe ever saw. Cromwell never saw an army till he was forty ; this man never saw a soldier till he was fifty. Cromwell manufactured his own army — out of what ? Englishmen, — the best blood in Europe. Out of the middle class of Englishmen, — the best blood of the island. And with it he conquered what ? Englishmen, — their equals. This man manufactured his army out of what ? Out of what you call the despicable race of negros, debased, demor- alized by two hundred years of slavery, one hundred thousand of them imported into the island within four years, unable to speak a dialect intelligible even to each other. Yet out of this mixed, and, as you say, despicable mass he 96 forged a thunderbolt and hurled it at what ? At the proud est blood in Europe, the Spaniard, and sent him home con- quered ; at the most warlike blood in Europe, the French, and put them under his feet; at the pluckiest blood in Europe, the English, and they skulked home to Jamaica. Now, if Cromwell was a general, at least this man was a soldier. Now, blue-eyed Saxon, proud of your race, go back with me to the commencement of the century, and select what states- man you please. Let him be either American or European ; let him have a brain the result of six generations of culture ; let him have the ripest training of university routine ; let him add to it the better education of practical life ; crown his temples with the silver of seventy years, and show me the man of Saxon lineage for whom his most sanguine admirer will wreathe a laurel rich as embittered foes have placed on the brow of this negro, — rare military skill, profound knowledge of human nature, content to blot out all party distinctions, and trust a state to the blood of its sons, — an- ticipating Sir Eobert Peel fifty years, and taking his station by the side of Roger Williams, before any Englishman or American had won the right ; and yet this is the record which the history of rival States makes up for this in- spired black of St. Domingo. Some doubt the courage of the negro. Go to Hayti, and stand on those fifty thousand graves of the best soldiers France ever had, and ask them what they think of the negro's sword. I would call him Napoleon, but Napoleon made his way to empire over broken oaths and through a sea of blood. This man never broke his word. I would call him Cromwell, but Cromwell was only a soldier, and the state he founded went down with him into his grave. I would call him Washington, but the great Virginian held slaves. This man risked his empire rather than permit the slave-trade in the humblest village of his dominions. You think me a fanatic, for you read history, not with AFTER THE BATTLE. 97 your eyes but with your prejudices. But fifty years hence, when Truth gets a hearing, the Muse of history will put Phocian for the Greek, and Brutus for the Eoman, Hampden for England, Fayette for France, choose Washington as the bright consummate flower of our earlier civilization, and John Brown the ripe fruit of our noon-day, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, Toussaint L'Ouverture. AFTEE THE BATTLE.— SEAECHING FOE THE SLAIN. sallie bridges. Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so ; There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow ; There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there, And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair. Did you think when we came, you and I, out to-night To search for our dead, it would be a fair sight ? You're his wife ; you love him — you think so ; and I Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear His form to a grave that mine own soon may share. So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth, While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth. You will go ! then no faintings ! Give me the light, And follow my footsteps, — my heart will lead right. Ah, God ! what is here ? a great heap of the slain All mangled and gory! — what horrible pain These beings have died in ! Dear mothers, ye weep, Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep. 5 98 erobisher's serial readings. More! more! Ah ! I thought I could nevermore know Grief, horror, or pity for aught here below, Since I stood in the porch and heard his Chief tell How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell. Did they think I cared then to see officers stand Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand ? \ Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright, That your red hands turn over toward this dim light These dead men that stare so ? Ah, if you had kept Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left, You had heard that his place was worst of them all, Not 'mid the stragglers, — where he fought he would fall. There's the moon through the clouds : God, what a scene Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean, And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine ? Hark, a groan ! there's another — here in this line, Piled close on each other ! Ah, there is the flag, Torn, dripping with gore : bah ! they died for that rag. Here's the voice that we seek ; poor soul, do not start; We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart ! Is there aught we can do ? A message to give To any beloved one ? — I swear, if I live, To take it for sake of the words my boy said, " Home, mother, wife," ere he reeled amid the dead. But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood ? Speak, speak, man, or point ; 'twas the Ninth — Oh, the blood Is choking his voice ! What a look of despair ! Here, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own, My hands were both idle when you died alone. He's dying— he's dead ! Close his lids, let us go. God's peace on his soul ! If we only could know AFTER THE BATTLE. 99 Where our own dear one lies ! — my soul has turned sick : Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick ? I cannot ! I cannot ! How eager you are ! One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War. He's not here, — and not here. What wild hopes flash thro' My thoughts as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew, And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky ! Was it you, girl, that shrieked ? Ah ! what face doth lie Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white ? G-od, my brain reels ! 'Tis a dream. My old sight Is dimmed with these horrors. My son ! oh, my son ! Would I had died for thee, my own, only one ! There, lift off your arms ; let him come'to the breast Where first he was lulled with my soul's hymn to rest, Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss, As mine to his baby-touch ; was it for this? He was yours, too ; he loved you ? Yes, yes, you're right ; Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to-night. Don't moan so, dear child ; you're young, and your years May still hold fair hopes, but the old die of tears. Yes, take him again ; ah ! don't lay your face there ; See, the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair. How quiet you are ! Has she fainted ? — her cheek Is as cold as his own. Say a word to me, — speak ! Am I crazed ? Is she dead ? Has her heart broke first ? Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead ; Those corpses are stirring ; God help my poor head ! I'll sit by my children until the men come To bury the others, and then we'll go home. Why, the slain are all dancing ! Dearest, don't move! Keep away from my boy ; he's guarded by love. Lullaby, lullaby ; sleep, sweet darling, sleep ! God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep. 100 THE STOEY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. ADELAIDE PBOCTOR. The fettered spirits linger In purgatorial pain, With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain, "Which Life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain. Yet on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release, For the Great Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease ; And the name of these brief respites Is called " Our Lady's Peace." Yet once — so runs the legend— "When the archangel came, And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name, One voice alone was wailing, Still wailing on the same. And though a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke, This one discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke: So when Saint Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke: I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain ; I prize our Lady's blessing, Although it comes in vain To still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain. THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL. 101 "On earth a heart that loved me Still lives and mourns me there, And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear ; All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair. " The evening of my bridal Death took my life away ; Not all Love's passionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay. And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day. " If I could only see him, — If I could only go And speak one word of comfort And solace — then I know He would endure with patience, And strive against his woe." Thus the archangel answered : " Your time of pain is brief, And soon the peace of Heaven Will give you full relief; Yet if his earthly comfort So much outweighs your grief, * Then, through a special mercy, I offer you this grace, — You may seek him who mourns you, And look upon his face, And speak to him of comfort For one short minute's space. "But when that time is ended, Return here, and remain 103 fbobisher's serial readings. A thousand years in torment, A thousand years in pain : Thus dearly must you purchase The comfort he will gain." The lime-tree's shade at evening Is spreading "broad and wide; Beneath their fragrant arches, Pace .slowly, side by side, In low and tender converse, A bridegroom and his bride. The night is calm and stilly, ISTo other sound is there Except their happy voices : What is that cold bleak air That passes through the lime-trees, And stirs the bridegroom's hair ? "While one low cry of anguish, Like the last dying wail Of some dumb, hunted creature, Is borne upon the gale : Why does the bridegroom shudder, And turn so deathly pale ? Near Purgatory's entrance The radiant angels wait ; It was the great Saint Michael Who closed that gloomy gate, When the poor wandering spirit Came back to meet her fate. u Pass on," thus spoke the angel : " Heaven's joy is deep and vast ; Pass on, pass on, poor spirit, For Heaven is yours at last ; In that one minute's anguish Your thousand years have passed." THE BELLS. 103 THE BELLS A PAEODT. — J. E. EBOBISHEE. Heae the hotels with their bells, — Morning bells ! What a thundering sound of bells ! How they twang-ee-tee-bang ! Tee-bang, tee-bang! Up the stairs and halls around ; Twang-ee-tee-bang, tee-bang, What a bustling, hurrying sound ! Now the lodgers cease from snoring, Now the morning cock is crowing, Now the meadow lark is soaring, And the cattle they are lowing, While the bells are clanging, Whanging, Clang-ee-tee-bang, tee-bang, tee-bang, tee-bang, Olang-ee- tee-bang, tee-bang — Oh ! such a clanging never was heard, Even in the lurid lower world. Now hear the jangling breakfast bells ! Second bells ! Hear the distand sound of dishes, And the rattling knife and fork; Don't you smell those frying fishes, Tough beefsteak and crispy pork ? Here's the tune you've sung, As yoiA e leaped from bed to floor, " 1 wish that I had risen — before The second bells had rung ! " Now you hear the chairs a-moving, Bound the chamber you go raving, Fast your clothes on-hurrying ! 104. erobisher's serial readings. Now some one taps upon your door — " Breakfast ! " Sf Yes, sir ! " you loudly roar ; But oh ! those bells that tell of viands smoking ; You fret, — you do, — with rage you're choking: Those sounds have died away, but still you hear Their brazen notes yet lingering in your ear. And they faintly say, clang-ee-tee bang, Tee-bang, tee-bang, clang-ee-tee-bang, Tee-bang, tee-bang. Then comes the dinner bells ! Delightful bells ! Of boiled and roasted meats Their ringing tells. Now the merchant drops his pen, And the workman leaves his tools ; Hear the sound once more — then All rush to eat like half-starved mules ; Oh ! never mind the noise and hustling, — Do all you can to help the bustling! Scrouge your neighbor, fill your plate, Stuff it down at railroad rate ; Eat all you can, — fill the bill, — You can settle, — eat to kill ! Thus it is, each day, we're running To the tune of bells a-ringing, With the dinging, donging, banging, whanging, To the clanging, and the banging, and the whanging of the bells ! There's another sound of bells! Supper bells ! "We're not so anxious as at noon, We're not at table quite so soon ; The crowd is small,. The noise not near as great. The dining hall Is filled by slower feet — THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. 105 When they came to dinner rushing, One would think an army crushing Enemies beneath its feet. But now, to milder ringing bells, "With their sweet tingle, jingle, jingle, Jingle, jingle, jingle, tingle, jingle, Each one quiet takes his seat. Thus, by various kinds of bells, We eat and live, and live and eat, To the sound of clanging bells — To the jingling, dinging, ringing of a host of bells! THE CAKE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. THACKEEAY. Ik tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, Away from the world, and its toils and its cares, Pve a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure; And the view I behold on a sunshiny day Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. The snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks With worthless old knicknacks, and silly old books, And foolish old odds, and foolish old ends, Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends. Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; What matter ? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 106 feobishee's seeial eeadi^gs. No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn, 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. Long, long, thro' the hours, and the night and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times, As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie, This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. But of all the old sweet treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best ; For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; But, since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee, and love thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms, A thrill must have passed thro' your withered old arms; I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ; A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottom'd chair. And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; Saint Fanny, my patroness, sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. DAENLEY'S deeam. 107 When the candles burn low, and the company is gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone — I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair; My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair. DARNLEY'S DREAM. SWI^BURXE. I dreamed this bed here was a boat adrift Wherein one sat with me who played and sang, Yet of his cittern I could hear no note Nor in what speech he sang inaudibly, But watched his working fingers and quick lips As with a passionate and loathing fear, And could not speak nor smite him; and methought That this was David ; and he knew my heart, How fain I would have smittten him, and laughed As 'twere to mock my helpless hands and hate. So drove we toward a rock whereon one sat Singing, that all the highest air of heaven Was kindled into light therewith, and shone As with a double dawn ; stars east and west Lightened with love to hear her and the sky Break in red bloom as leaf-buds break in spring. But these bore fires for blossoms ; then awhile My heart, too, kindled and sprang up and sang And made sweet music in me to keep time With that swift singing; then, as fire drops down Dropped and was quenched, and in joy's stead I felt Fear ache in me like hunger, and I saw 108 fbobisheb's sebial beadikgs. These were not stars nor overhead was heaven But a blind vault more thick and gross than earth, The nether firmament that roots in hell, And those hot lights were of lost souls, and this The sea of tears and fire below the world That still must wash and cleanse not of one curse The far foul strands with all its wandering brine ; And as we drove I felt the shallop's sides Sapped by the burning water, plank from plank Severing ; and fain I would have cried on God, Bat that the rank air took me by the throat ; And ever she that sat on the sea rock Sang, and about her all the reefs were white With bones of men whose souls were turned to fire ; And if she were or were not what I thought, Meseemed we drew not near enough to know ; For ere we came to split upon that reef The sundering planks opened, and through their breach Swarmed in the dense surf of the dolorous sea With hands that plucked and tongues thrust out at us And fastened on me flame-like, that my flesh Was molten as with earthly fire, and dropped From naked bone and sinew ; but mine eyes The hot surf seared not, nor put out my. sense ; For I beheld and heard out of the surge Voices that shrieked and heads that rose, and knew Whose all they were, and whence their wrath at me ; For all these cried upon me that mine ears Rang, and my brain was like as beaten brass, Vibrating ; and the froth of that foul tide Was as their spittle shot in my full face That burnt it ; and with breast and flanks distent I strained myself to curse them back, and lacked Breath; the sore surge throttled my tongueless speech, Though its weight buoyed my dipping chin that sank No lower than where my lips were burnt with brine And my throat clenched fast of the strangling sea, THE POLISH BOY. 109 Till I swam short with sick strokes, as one might Whose hands were maimed ; then mine ill spirit of sleep Shifted, and showed me as a garden walled, Wherein I stood naked, a shipwrecked man, Stunned yet and staggered from the sea, and soiled With all the weed and scurf of the gross wave Whose breach had cast me broken on that shore ; And one came like a god in woman's flesh And took mine eyes with hers, and gave me fruit As red as fire, but full of worms within That crawled and gendered ; and she gave me wine, But in the cup a toad was ; and she said, " Eat/' and I ate, and " Drink," and I did drink, And sickened ; then came one with spur on heeL Eed from his horse o'erridden, smeared with dust, And took my hand to lead me as to rest, Being bruised yet from the sea breach ; and his hand Was as of molten iron wherein mine Was as a brand in fire ; and at his feet The earth split, and I saw within the gulf, As in clear water, mine own writhen face, Eaten of worms and living ; then I woke. THE POLISH BOY. MKS. A. STEPHENS. Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That like an arrow cleave the air, Causing the blood to creep and thrill With the sharp cadence of despair ? Whence came they ? from yon temple, where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed, Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. 110 frobisher's serial readings. The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rajs of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by. What hand is that whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress, No thrilling fingers seek its clasp ? It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly late upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye, Outstretched upon the altar there. Now with white lips and broken moan She sinks beside the altar stone ; But hark ! the heavy tramp of feet Is heard along the gloomy street ; Nearer and nearer yet they come, With clanking arms and noiseless drum. The gate is burst. A ruffian band Eush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain. The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom snatched her child ; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye, Shouted with fearful energy, — " Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead ! Nor touch the living boy — I stand Between him and your lawless band ! No traitor he ; but listen ! I Have cursed your master's tyranny. THE POLISH BOY. Ill Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " " Peace, woman, peace ! " the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side; And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. ^ " One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one! Will land or gold redeem my son ? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall ! Take these ! " and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there. Her cross of blazing rubies last Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store; Up springing from the marble floor The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy! But no ! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony. But the brave boy is roused at length, And, breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold! If so, I bend the Polish knee, And, Russia, ask a boon of thee. Unclasped the brilliant coronal And carcanet of Oriental pearl ; 112 erobisher's serial readings. With a full voice of proud command, He turns upon the wondering band : " Ye hold me not ! no, no, nor can ! This hour has made the boy a man. I knelt beside my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept ! I was a child ; but noio — My noble mother on her knee Has done the work of years for me ! " He drew aside his broidered vest And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of a poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. " Ha ! start ye back ? Fool ! coward ! knave ! Think ye my noble father's gliave, Could drink the life-blood of a slave ? The pearls that on the handle flame, Would blush to rubies in their shame . The blade would quiver in thy breast, Ashamed of such ignoble rest ! No ; thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " A moment, and the funeral light Plashed on the jeweled weapon bright ; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor a crimson flood. .Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang — " Up ! mother, up ! I'm free ! I'm free ! The choice was death or slavery. Up ! mother, up ! look on my face, I only wait for thy embrace. One last, last word — a blessing, one, To prove thou knowest what I've done. MANUELA. 113 No look ! No word ! Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ? Speak, mother, speak — lift np thy head ! What, silent still ? Then art thou dead ! Great God, I thank thee ! Mother, I Rejoice with thee, and thus to die." Slowly he falls. The clustering hair Rolls back and leaves that forehead bare. One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom, dead. MANUELA. BY BAYARD TAYLOR. From the doorway, Manuela, in the sunny April morn, Southward looks, along the valley, over leagues of gleaming corn ; Where the mountain's misty rampart, like the wall of Eden towers, And the isles of oak are sleeping on a painted sea of flowers. All the air is full of music, for the winter rains are o'er, And the noisy magpies chatter from the budding sycamore ; Blithely frisk unnumbered squirrels over all the grassy slope, Where the airy summits brighten nimbly leaps the antelope. Gentle eyes of Manuela! tell me, wherefore do ye rest, On the oak's enchanted islands, and the flowery ocean's breast ? Tell me, wherefore, down the valley, ye have traced the high- way's mark Far beyond the belts of timber, to the mountain-shadows dark? 1.14 pkobisher's serial readings. Ah, the fragrant bay may blossom and the sprouting verdure shine With the tears of amber diopping from the tassels of the pine, And the morning's breath of balsam lightly brush her sunny cheek — Little recketh Manuela of the tales of loye they speak. When the summer's burning solstice on the mountain-har- vests glowed, She had watched a gallant horseman riding down the valley road ; Many times she saw him turning, looking back with parting thrills, Till amid her tears she lost him in the shadow of the hills. Ere the cloudless moons were over he had passed the desert's sand, Crossed the rushing Colorado and the wild Apache land, And his laden mules were driven, when the time of rains began, With the traders of Chihuahua, to the Fair of San Juan. Therefore watches Manuela, — therefore lightly doth she start, When the sound of distant footsteps seems the beating of her heart ; Not a wind the green oak rustles or the redwood branches stirs, But she hears the silver jingle of his ringing bit and spurs. Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen day by day, But they come not as Bernardo — she can see it far away; Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled alazan, Light as any antelope upon the hills of G-avilan. She would knoxv him 'mid a thousand, by his free and gallant air ; By the featly-knit surape, such as wealthy traders wear; MANUELA. 115 By his broidered calzoneros and his saddle, gayly spread, With its can tie rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion's head. None like him the light riata on the maddened bnll can throw ; None amid the mountain-canons track like him the stealthy doe; And at all the mission festals, few indeed the revelers are Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay guitar. He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger still In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender thrill, When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands in corn, Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding morn. He has pictured the procession, all in holiday attire, And the laugh of bridal gladness, when they see the distant spire ; Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly fair, In the cool, delicious crystal of the summer morning air. Tender eyes of Manuela! what has dimmed your lustrous beam? 'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream. Ah, the eye of love must brighten, if its watches would be true, For the star is falsely mirrored in the rose's drop of dew ! But her eager eyes rekindle, and her breathless bosom thrills, As she sees a horseman moving in the shadow of the hills : Now in love and fond thanksgiving they may loose their pearly tides — 'Tis the alazan that gallops, 'tis Bernardo's self that rides! 116 ebobishee's seeial beadikgs. HOW THE BABY CAME. BY MAEY E. BEADLEY. The lady moon came down last night- She did, yon needn't donbt it — A lovely lady dressed in white, I'll tell yon all about it. They hurried Len and me to bed, And Aunty said, " Now maybe That pretty moon up overhead Will bring us down a baby. " You lie as quiet as can be ; Perhaps you'll catch her peeping Between the window-bars, to see If all the folks are sleeping. And then, if both of you keep still, And all the room is shady, She'll float across the window-sill, A bonnie white moon-lady. "Across the sill, along the floor, You'll see her shining brightly, Until she comes to mother's door, And then she'll vanish lightly. But in the morning you will find, If nothing happens, maybe, She's left us something nice behind — A beautiful star-baby." We didn't just believe her then, For Aunty's always chaffing ; The tales she tells to me and Len Would make you die a-laughing ; HOW THE BABY CAME. 117 And when she went out pretty soon, Len said, " That's Aunty's humming ; There aint a bit of a lady moon, Nor any baby coming." I thought myself it was a fib, And yet I wasn't certain ; So I kept quiet in the crib, And peeped behind the curtain. I didn't mean to sleep a wink. But all without a warning, I dropped right off— and don't you think, I never waked till morning ! Then there was Aunty by my bed, And when I climbed and kissed her, She laughed, and said, "You sleepy head! You've got a little sister ! What made you shut your eyes so soon ? I've half a mind to scold you — For down she came, that lady moon, Exactly as I told you !" And truly, it was not a joke, In spite of Len's denying, For just the very time she spoke, We heard the baby crying. The way we jumped and made a rush For mother's room that minute! But Aunty stopped us, crying, " Hush I Or else you shan't go in it." And so we had to tiptoe in, And keep an awful quiet, As if it was a mighty sin To make a bit of riot. 113 frobisbzer's serial readings. But there was baby, anyhow — The funniest little midget ! I just wish you could peep in now, And see her squirm and fidget. ' Len says he don't believe it's true, (He isn't such a gaby,) The moon had anything to do With bringing us that baby. But seems to me it's very clear, As clear as running water — Last night there was no baby here, So something must have brought her. CUBFEW. England's sun was setting o'er the hills so far away, And filled the land with misty beauty at the close of day ; And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair ; He with step so slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair ; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she with lips so cold and white, Struggled to keep back the murmur — " Curfew must not ring to-night ! " " Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls so tall and gloomy, walls so dark, and damp, and cold ; "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers — " Curfew T must not ring to-night ! " CURFEW. 119 " Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton ; every word pierced her young heart Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned darfc ; " Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower ; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old, I will not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings to- night ! " Wild her eyes, and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow; She had listened, while the judges read, without, a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood must die" And her breath came fast, and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright, One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring to-night ! " Then with light steps ran she forward, sprang within the old church door, Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before ; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro; Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light, Upward still, her pale lips saying — " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " She has reached the last topmost round, o'er her hangs the great dark bell, With the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell ; 120 frobisher's serial readings. See, the ponderous tongue is swinging ! 'tis the hour of Cur- few now, And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! her eyes flash with sud- den light, And she springs and grasps it, saying — " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny spot below ; There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro. And the old deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell), While he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell ; And the maiden, clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her heart's wild beating, moaning — "Giirfeiv shall not ring to-night ! " It was o'er, the bell ceased swinging, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for long, long years before, Human foot had not been planted. O'er the hills came Cromwell ; Bessie saw him, told her story, as at his feet she fell, Showed her strained hands all bleeding, bruised, and torn, And her young sweet face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light; " Go, your lover lives ! " cried Cromwell — " Gurfew shall not ring to-night ! " BALLAD OF THE WAE. 121 BALLAD OP THE WAR. ALICE CAET. I. Into the house ran Lettice, With hair so long and so bright, Crying, " Mother ! Johnny has 'listed ! He has 'listed into the fight ! " " Ah, that's a likely story ! Why, darling, don't you see, If Johnny had 'listed into the war He would tell your father and me ! " " But he is going to go, mother, Whether it's right or wrong ; He is thinking of it all the while, And he won't be with us long." " Our Johnny going to the war! " " Ay, ay, and the time is near ; He said, 'when the corn was once in the ground, We couldn't keep him here ! ' " " Hush, child ! your brother Johnny Meant to give you a fright." " Mother, he'll go — I tell you I know He's listed into the fight ! " Plucking a rose from the bush, he said, Before its leaves were black, He'd have a soldier's cap on his head, And a knapsack on his back ! " " A dream ! a dream ! little Lettice, A wild dream of the night : Go find and fetch your brother in, And he will set us right." 6 122 frobishek's serial readings. So out of the house ran Lefctice, Calling near and far, " Johnny, tell me, and tell me true, Are you going to go to the war ? " At last she came and found him In the dusty cattle-close, Whistling, Hail Columbia ! And beating time with his rose. The rose he broke from the bush when he said. Before its leaves were black, He'd have a soldier's cap on his head, And a knapsack on his back. Then all in gay, mock anger, He plucked her by the sleeve, Saying, " Dear little, sweet little rebel, I am going, by your leave ! " "0, Johnny! Johnny!" low he stooped 1 And kissed her wet cheeks dry, And took her golden head in his hands, And told her he would not die. "But, Letty, if anything happen — It won't, little Letty, I know — But if anything should, you mast be twice as good As you are to mother, you know! " Not but that you are good, Letty, As good as you can be ; But then you know it might be so You'd have to be good for me ! " . So straight to the house they went, his cheeks Flushing under his brim, And his two broad-shouldered oxen Turned their great eyes after him. BALLAD OF THE WAR. 123 That night in the good old farmstead Was many a sob of pain ; " Johnny, stay ! if you go away It will never be home again ! " But time its still sure comfort lent, Crawling, crawling past, And Johnny's gallant regiment Was going to go at last. And steadying up her stricken soul, The mother turned about, Took what was Johnny's from the drawer And shook the rose-leaves out. And brought the cap she had lined with silk, And strapped his knapsack on, And her heart, though it bled, was proud as she said, " You would hardly know our John ! " II. Another year, and the roses Were bright on the bush by the door ; And into the house ran Lettice, Her pale cheeks glad once more. "0 mother! news has come to-day! 'Tis flying all about ; Our John's regiment, they say, Is all to be mustered out ! " mother, you must buy me a dress, And ribbons of blue and buff! what shall we say to make the day Merry and mad enough ! " 124 And the mother put away her look Of weary waiting gloom, And a feast was set, and the neighbors met To welcome Johnny home. The good old father silent stood With his eager face at the pane, And Lettice was out at the door to shout When she saw him in the lane. And by-and-by a soldier Came o'er the grassy hill : It was not he they looked to see, And every heart stood still. He brought them Johnny's knapsack, 'Twas all that he could do ; And the cap he had worn, all grimed and torn, With a bullet-hole straight through ! MACLAINE'S CHILD. u Maclaine ! you've scourged me like a hound, You should have struck me to the ground : You should have played a chieftain's part — You should have stabbed me to the heart. " And for this wrong which you have done, I'll wreak my vengeance on your son." He seized the child with sudden hold, A smiling infant, three years old, And, leaping for its topmost ledge, He held the infant o'er the edge ; rt In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain ; No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine ! " maclaike's child. 125 With flashing eye and burning brow, The mother followed, heedless how; But, midway up the rugged steep, She found a chasm she could not leap ; And, kneeling on its brink, she raised Her supplicating hands, and gazed. " Oh ! spare my child, my joy, my pride : Oh ! give me back my child !" she cried. " Come, Evan," said the trembling chief — His bosom wrung with pride and grief — "Kestore the boy, give back my son, And I'll forgive the wrong you've done ! " " I scorn forgiveness, haughty man ! You've injured me before the clan, And naught but blood shall wipe away The shame I have endured to-day ! " And as he spoke he raised the child, To dash it 'mid the breakers wild : But, at the mother's piercing cry, Drew back a step and made reply : " Fair lady, if your lord will strip, And let a clansman wield the whip, Till skin shall flay, and blood shall run, I'll give you back your little son." The lady's cheek grew pale with ire, The chieftain's eyes flashed sudden fire: He drew a pistol from his breast, Took aim, — then dropped it, sore distressed. ei I might have slain my babe instead. Come, Evan, come," the father said, And through his heart a tremor ran, " We'll fight our quarrel man to man." 126 erobisher's serial readings. "You've heard my answer, proud Maclaine, I will not fight you, — think again." The lady stood in mute despair, With freezing blood and stiffening hair ; She moved no limb, she spoke no word, She could not look upon her lord. He saw the quivering of her eye, Pale lips and speechless agony. And, doing battle with his pride, " Give back the boy, — I yield ; " he cried. Thus love prevailed ; and bending low, He bared his shoulders to the blow. " I smite you/' said the clansman true, "Forgive me, chief, the deed I do ! For by yon heaven that hears me speak, My dirk in Evan's heart shall reek ! " But Evan's face beamed hate and joy ; Close to his breast he hugged the boy ; " Revenge is just, revenge is sweet, And mine, Lochbuy, shall be complete." Ere hand could stir, with sudden shock, He threw the infant o'er the rock, — Then followed with a desperate leap, Down fifty fathoms to the deep. They found their bodies in the tide ; And never till the day she died Was that sad mother known to smile : The Niobe of Mulla's isle. MURAD. 127 MURAD. EXPRESSLY FOR THE "SERIAL READINGS." (After the Danish of Christian Winther.) by john volck. I. Deep in the dreamy forest, beneath whose fragrant roof The stag is swiftly sweeping the greensward with his hoof, Near by the brook whose babbling the little birds arouse, By mighty beeches shaded there stands a hunter's house. Before the gate is growing a dark and lofty pine, The house is almost hidden beneath a creeping yine, Upon the door, long painted, some hunting scenes appear, Above it hangs a trophy, the antlers of a deer. The breezes softly sweep thro' the trees with whisp'ring sound, While in the distance echoes the baying of a hound ; And while the fawn goes grazing where dainty wood-flowers throng, Sounds from the leafy thicket the cuckoo's lonesome song. Within the house is silence, but peace has from it fled, In agony a woman is stretched upon her bed; Her eyes are fading fast, like the stars when night meets day, As if her soul were ready from earth to wing its way. A loyely maid is seated beside the sufferer's bed, Upon her hand is resting her drooping, golden head. Her cheek has lost its roses, but trembling on it lie The glittering pearls of sorrow fast falling from her eye. Stretched at his length before her, a dog of powerful size, As tawny as a lion, in quiet slumber lies ; But leaning 'gainst the door stands a tall, a handsome swain, His flashing eyes are fixed upon the maiden with disdain. 128 He firmly clasps his rifle ; his face is deadly white ; His gesture and his glances betray his heart's despite, And, as he nears the maiden, a smile defiant lies Around his lip, while whispered his threat'ning words arise. But just as he draws near her, although with cautious pace, The dog awakes and watches his wild and frowning face, As if he meant to listen, as if he seemed to guess What hate for one another man and woman may possess. " I care not for thy sorrow ! the tears that dim thine eyes Do touch my heart no more than the rain-drops from the skies. Thou hatest me, Agnete. I now return thy hate ! To-day we part forever — thy suitor shares my fate. " My love I humbly offered thee ; before thy feet I lay, But coldly, and with scorn, thou hast driven me away. All ties are rent asunder ! thy friendship I despise ! Henceforth to hate and vengeance my life I sacrifice. " Keen-loaded is my rifle, and whetted is my knife, This evening, in the forest, we battle life for life. I'll show that noble falcon that I his wings can clip ! He ne'er again shall drink the dew from off thy rosy lip. " Thy soft blue eye, Agnete, beseeches me in vain ; It stings my heart, and maddens me, it fills my breast with pain. For him its tears are falling; but in its azure sea He'll drown his glances never more ; he's ever lost to thee. "Ere sunset he shall wander the same dark road as I; Our fates are linked together, together we will die. So help me all the angels! To-day begins the chase, The dog that he has given thee shall aid me him to trace." MURAD. 129 He kicked the dog, and called him, stood still one moment more, Then turning round and whistling, he hurried thro' the door. The mastiff growled with anger, yet moved not from the maid, A wreath of snowy teeth he threat'ningly displayed. Like a broken fading rose down sank she in the chair, The shriek within her bosom was stifled by despair. She drooped her head and wept, but no solace could she find, For all the cruel thoughts that came rushing thro' her mind. Then yawned the mastiff slowly, disturbed was his repose, His powerful body stretching, up from the floor he rose, Then raised his eyes, and bending them upon the weeping maid, Down in her lap so fondly his massive head he laid. From inmost heart he breathed a sigh so long and deep, As if he meant to ask her: wherefore dost thou weep ? As if he only wished, that to him she would impart The cause of all the trouble that weighed upon her heart. His large, expressive eyes with their dark and lustrous hue Were sorrowfully resting on the maiden's soft and blue. Then crimsoned o'er her face, and her eyes grew full of light ; The star of hope was rising in her thought's gloomy night. With trembling lips she whispered : " By Murad will I try, To warn him and to save him, if not, with him I die." And, burning with excitement, she seized her pen and wrote To him for whom her heart throbbed, in haste, this little note : " I know thy life in danger, and, therefore, will I now No longer hide, that no one is dear to me as thou. What not for all the world I would yesterday have told, To-day my heart dictates me, and bids me to unfold. 6* 130 frobisher's serial readings. " Be guarded 'gainst thy foe ; in the wood he lies in wait ; He'll take thee by surprise, take thy life to quench his hate. I've none to send but Murad. My only hope is he. dearest love be watchful — and heaven be with thee." No sooner had she done, than the little note she placed Beneath the mastiff's collar, and bade him to make haste. He licked her hands and gamboled, her wish full well he knew, And off he went, and soon among the trees was lost to view. II. A little hill arises where, turning to the right, The path runs thro' the thicket, and there winds out of sight. Upon it grows a linden. The sun with all its skill Cannot disturb the shadow its leaves cast o'er the hill. There, gazing down the pathway with vacant eyes, stood he, The young and fiery hunter, beneath the linden-tree. With one hand on his rifle, to his heart the other pressed, He listened to the voices of hatred in his breast. Like marble was his face. In the forest's dim-lit gloom He looked as if he stood there a statue on a tomb. He stood as still and silent as were his soul at rest ; No glance betrayed the tempest that moved within his breast. In rapid, wild succession dark pictures of his fate Arose before his mind's eye and fed his burning hate. With deep and eager passion, quite maddening his brain, His wretched heart was draining a cup of bitter pain. His wretched heart was draining a cup of bitterest gall, As inner voices whispered, that gone were hope and all, That vanished was forever his best and brightest dream, That from incessant longing naught could his soul redeem. MUKAD. 131 Then footsteps broke the stillness ! a change passed o'er his face ! Adown the narrow path came a youth with hasty pace. And thro' the silent wood rang a gleeful melody, And merry, like the carol, the singer seemed to be. Then stopped the happy singer ! his heart stood still with dread ! A shout was heard, a rifle gleamed, and, aiming at his head, Before him stood the hunter, the fatal shot to fire — But take his life at once was no vengeance worth desire. No, lingering like a tiger that tarries with delight To trifle with his prey, ere he ends its deathly fright, The swain prolonged the dread — to the brim he would enjoy The cup full of revenge ere his foe he did destroy. Now! — now he was contented, no longer would delay. But swifter than a flash was the danger swept away ! Out rushed the savage dog, and, with one terrific bound, Full at the hunter's throat he sprang, and hm*led him to the ground. The bullet from his rifle flew whizzing to the sky ! He struggled, and he strove from the furious dog to fly. He writhed with pain and anguish, and fought with fearful ire, But vainly, till the youth bade the mastiff to retire. Up leapt he then defiantly, and cast upon his foe A glance in which lay gathered his hatred and his woe, Then flung away his rifle, cast his dagger in the air, And vanished in the copse with a cry of wild despair. The youth stood for an in stant as rooted to the spot, Awe-stricken was his heart, ev'n his saver he forgot, Then fell his eyes upon him, and no sooner he beheld The love-betraying letter, than was the dread dispelled. 132 EEOBISHER's SEEIAL EEADI"N"GS. With beaming eyes he read it, he kissed it, and he pressed It many many times to his lips, to his breast ; And filled with joy and longing he hastened to his love, While the dog played before him, and the birds sang above. III. Now was it almost eve, and the bright eye of day Sent thro' the whisp'ring greenwood its last golden ray. All seemed to be at rest, but a sweet nightingale Was ponring forth her notes in the still, listening vale. In the garden sat Agnete with sad and troubled mind, Of lilies and of roses a fragrant wreath she twined. Alas! her mother slumbered, her soul had gone to rest, But ere it winged to heaven the maiden she had blessed. Then entered from the forest the happy youth with haste, And knowing straight his footstep her tear-filled eyes she raised. He understood her sorrow, and why those tears she she d, And, sitting down beside her, he gently to her said : " O, weep no more, my darling ; 0, grieve not, fairest love ; Thy mother dear has gone to her brighter home above. And know'st thou not, savior, a heart belongs to thee, That both in joy and sorrow will love thee tenderly ? " Thus while the curfew tolled, and the twilight, like a veil, Descended from the heavens and shrouded wood and dale, The youth spoke words of comfort her sorrow to erase, And peace and hope and love spread their sunshine o'er her face. But at their feet sat Murad, their faithful friend and guide, He looked upon the youth and the maiden by his side With eyes so bright and beamy, as if he seemed to guess What love for another man and woman may possess. I FAIRY STORIES FOR LITTLE FOLKS. 133 FAIRY STORIES FOR LITTLE FOLKS.— TIBB JACKET. Tibb Jacket was the youngest of four children, and small for her. age ; and for some reason her mother did not love her as she did her sister Hetty, and her two great, stout, roaring boys. So Tibb was pushed on one side and ordered about from morning till night. Tibb always had the cold seat by the door. Tibb must trudge when none of the rest was willing to go. Tibb wore Hetty's old clothes, while the rest had new. Tibb staid at home when there was not room for four. Tibb was always forgotten when her mother came back from town with presents for the children, and Tibb was always to blame for everything that went wrong. So Tibb used to go away by herself and cry ; and one day she went out into the woods, and was about to sit down on the stone, when she saw that a wounded toad was lying on the stone. "Poor little thing!" said Tibb, and moved to another stone. " You are a good girl, Tibb," said the toad, raising its head to look at her. " Wait till the Christmas party and see what will happen." Tibb was so frightened to hear a toad speak, that she ran home at once ; but when she was safe there, she began to wonder at what the toad had said. Every year her grand- father gave a Christmas party, and invited all the children to his house ; but how would that help her, even if she should be allowed to go ? She was sorry that she did not ask the toad more questions, and went back to look for it, but it was gone ; so she was obliged to wait like the rest of the world, and see what would happen. As it came toward Christmas, the children began to talk of the party and what they should wear. " What shall I wear ? " asked Tibb. 134 erobisher's serial readings. " You won't go, Miss," said Hetty ; " there is not room in the sleigh for us all." But when her mother came in, Tibb, though half afraid, asked her mother if she could go, too. " It depends how you behave yourself," said her mother, crossly. She always spoke crossly to Tibb. Tibb made up her mind she would be the b^t girl in the world. She tried to be always good, but she determined to be so good that even her mother could not find fault with her ; and she flew about the house as busy as a bee, and all the time wondering how good would come to her of the Christmas party. So the time went on till the day before Christmas. On that day Hetty was tying her hair before the glass, to see how she could wear it, and stuck her mother's comb in her hair. Ud luckily, she pulled it out so roughly that it broke. Hetty was frightened, and after thinking a moment, she concluded to put the pieces in Tibb's little box. By- and-by her mother asked for the comb. " I saw the pieces in Tibb's box," said Hetty. " And how dared you touch my comb ? " cried the mother to Tibb. "Don't tell me you haven't touched it. Hetty- saw the pieces in your box. You are a meddler, and a wicked girl for having told a lie, and you shall not go to your grandfather's party." Tibb stood like one thunderstruck. She had so made up her mind that some great good would come to her this Christmas, that she could not believe she was to stay at home. She begged and prayed her mother, though to no purpose ; and when they drove away in the splendid great sleigh, wrapped up to their noses in furs, the bells jingling and the horses prancing, she threw herself flat on the floor, and cried as if her heart would break. While she lay there, came a knock at the door — a tiny little knock. " Come in ! " cried Tibb, but the door did not open. Then Tibb went to the door herself, and pat, pat, came some EAIRY ST0EIES FOR LITTLE POLES. 135 little footsteps into the kitchen, but Tibb could see nothing. " Good morning and a merry Christmas/' said a small voice. " Good morning back again/'' answered Tibb, staring, for still she could see nothing. "Where are you, whoever you are ? " " Here," squeaked the voice ; but Tibb was no wiser than before, and was going to sit down in the arm-chair to think what it should mean, when : " Mercy me ! " squeaked the voice again, " don't sit down here. I am in the chair, and you'll crush me. Get your mother's spectacles, my child." "So Tibb put on her mother's spectacles, and then she saw a little woman, hardly larger than a mouse, in a white cap and fur cloak. " Tibb," said the little figure, " I am a fairy, and you are a very good girl. Tibb's eyes grew as big as saucers. Tibb," said the fairy, " I have come to take dinner with you. Do you set the table, and I will cook the dinner." " But there ain't anything in the house but bread," said Tibb. " Give it me," said the fairy. Tibb brought the bread, and she put two pieces in the oven and one in the big pot, and one on the table. When the table was ready: " Now," said the fairy, " let us look after our dinner." And she took out from the oven a turkey and a fruit pie , and from the pot all sorts of eatables, at the same time the side-table turned into rolls and cakes. Tibb had never sat down at such meal in her life. When they had eaten : "Now," said the fairy, "as I told you before, you are a good girl, and I have brought you a Christmas-present. But first, what would you like best ? " "I should like," said Tibb, growing very desirous, "to be 136 fkoijisheb's seeial readings. like the rest of the family, and not always be put off in a corner; but I suppose it is no use use to wish that." " We will see," said the fairy. ' " From this time you shall have good luck with everything. That is my Christmas- present." Tibb was a little disappointed; but before she could answer, pat, pat, the fairy trotted out of the kitchen, and her mother and the rest of the children came home. At once they all noticed a change in Tibb. " What has come over Tibb ? " said they. Tibb felt it also in herself. She was not afraid now of doing things wrong, for she knew she would do them right. Her mother began to say : "Tibb has something in her after all." Hetty said : " Tibb has all the luck since I told that lie about her." And the neighbors said : " Tibb is the smartest of the whole of them." And by-and-by Tibb found herself no longer pushed into a corner, but an important person ; and she used to say to herself: " How lucky it was that I had to stay home that day ! If I had gone to grandpapa's, I should never have seen the fairy." THE FAIRY PRECEPT. 137 THE FAIRY PRECEPT. A DIALOGUE EOR LITTLE FOLKS. Mary. The Fairy Precept. Sarah. Red-Riding-Hood. Lizzie. Cinderella. Herbert. Aladdin. Frank. Jack The Giant-Killer. School- Room. — Curtain at lack. School children at study. Mary. — I declare it's real mean that we should have to work so hard, when we can do so many things a great deal nicer. Sarah. — Yes, and I was to spend the afternoon with Fan- nie Ray, and see her new doll, but I haven't learned half of this page of spelling ; so, of course, I can't go. Herbert. — Well, I shall throw this old slate out of the window, for I can't begin to do this sum. Lizzie. — Oh, it's easy enough to get your lessons; I learned mine right away ; but if you had to do all this sew- ing, and had pricked your fingers as often as I have, you would get mad too. Frakk.— I tell you what, this studying is a fraud; so I propose that we stop it, and have some fun. All. —Oh, yes! that will be much better. [ They put up things, looks, etc.] Mary. — Now, what shall we do ? Lizzie. — Yes, Frank, tell us. Herbert.— You proposed it, you know. Sarah. — Of course, you ought to lead off. Frank.— We'll play marbles. Girls.— Oh, we can't do that. 138 Sarah.— Get out our dolls! Boys. — That wouldn't be fun. Lizzie. — They shouldn't haye my doll, if it was ; the last time they played with it they pulled off one foot and broke its head. Frank. — Well, that was your fault ; you pulled it away from us. Lizzie.— I didn't. Herbert. — Yes, you did, too. Lizzie. — Well, I wasn't going to have you throw it around the room so. Mart. — Oh, boys don't know how to handle things, they are so rude. Herbert. — Don't you talk, Miss Mary ! Who broke my kite? Mary. — Bah ! Frank. — And who lost my top ? Sarah.— Well, if you call this fan, I don't. I think it's real " pokey ! " Frank. — Then why don't you play what we want you to ? Girls always ought to do what boys tell them. Lizzie. — Oh, had they? I guess when I grow up you shan't order me around. Frank. — Won't I though ? You'll have to do just what I want you to. All. — Well, what shall we do, anyhow ? {Enter Fairy.] Fairy. — Children ! All. — Oh, my gracious ! Fairy. — Do not be afraid : I am a child like the rest of you, only I have more power, for I can make others enjoy themselves. I am the Fairy Precept. All. — Oh ! a real Fairy ? Fairy. — What was the trouble when I came in ? Sarah. — We didn't know what to play. THE FAIRY PRECEPT. 139 Fairy.— Why, it isn't play-hour, is it ? Frank. — No, but you see we were tired- of study, and so we concluded to stop. Fairy. — And were you playing when I came ? Herbert. — Why, no, not exactly. We were just about to stop quarreling, and go to fighting. Fairy. — Oh, that is terrible ! Now, I came to show you something pleasant. You all like fairy stories. All. — Oh, yes ! Fairy. — Look there, then, and you shall see some of the children you haye read of so often. [She walks to the right and left of curtain, waving her wand.] [The curtain separates in the middle.] Little Ked-Riding-Hood is seen. I'm Little Eed-Eiding-Hood, happy and gay, Who went from my home on that dear summer day, And through the great wood tripped the mossy path o'er, To take some nice things to my grandmamma's door. But the birds sang so sweetly, the sky was so blue, That at last I forgot all about the poor dame, And that great ugly wolf up the forest path came ; Then how he found out all my errand from me, How he left me still playing beneath the great tree; How he made a fine meal off of poor grandmamma, And a good one of me, though more dainty by far; All this you well know, and you all understood That loitering to play killed Eed-Eiding-Hood. [Exit] [Fairy ivaves her wand. Enter Aladdin.] Aladdin. — I'm Aladdin, a scamp, Who once found a rare lamp, 140 frobisher's serial readings. Though 'twas done through no credit to me ; For my uncle, you know, Was too anxious to go, And I was more lazy than he. But when I found out What the fuss was about, I had riches and jewels in store, With a glorious treat Of nice goodies to eat, And the sweet princess Babron-badour. Then when I had built My grand palace of gilt, Of my lamp I was careless, you know, . My treasures so rare Were whirled through the air, And that was the end of my show. [Exit] [Fairy waves her wand. Enter Cinderella.] Cinderella's little story You must know, I'm very sure, How I worked from dawn to twilight, Made the tire, swept the floor ; Saw my sisters go to parties, While I never dared to roam ; Saw them dressed in silk and satin, While I slaved for them at home. How I never moped nor fretted, Nor their pleasure never marred, How at last my patient waiting Brought its bright and sure reward. Then, of course, you all remember How I dressed me for my ride, How I danced, and, oh, how sweetly, I became the Prince's bride, When he tried the crystal slipper, Kneeling gayly by my side. [Exit.] THE FAIRY PRECEPT. 141 [Fairy waves her wand. Enter Jack The Giant-Killer.] Jack The Giant-Killer am I, very valiant, very bold, And most certain all of you have heard the story told, How by pitfalls and by stratagems, and by many a curious plan, I have freed my merry England of the greatest curse of man. How those seven monstrous giants with my single hand I slew, Opened wide their castle gateways and their dungeons over- threw ; Gave their gold-chests and their jewels to the poor whom they oppressed, Gave their trembling captives freedom, and the troubled nation rest ; And at last, my combats over, I was honored with the hand Of the fairest and the noblest of the ladies in the land. [Fairy 'waves her wand — curtain closes.] Fairy. — These my pictures, children dear, Listen, now, and yon shall hear, "What from them I'd have you learn, That the truth you may discern. [Fairy waves her wand — curtain opens.] [Red-Riding-Hood and Aladdin.] Both. — In us you see the punishment That ever must arise, From carelessness and laziness, Which you shall all despise, Whilst forethought and obedience You should most highly prize. 142 frobisher's serial readings. [Fairy waves her wand. — Enter Cinderella and Jack.] Both. — And we would strive to show you How happy you may be, If you try to gain the virtues Which in us, we hope, you see, For by patience and by usefulness You all may nobler be. [Fairy exit Groups right and left.] SONG. We have a time to study, And we have a time to play, So we'll try by being useful To do all the good we may, For we learn from childhood fables, That 'tis much the better rule To do one's duty ever In our home and in our school. APPENDIX, VOICE CULTURE, etc.— READING.— TO TEACHERS. J. E. EROBISHEE. Those who teach, reading should thoroughly understand their work. They should excel, even to artistic skill, recog- nizing its highest developments, even though not obliged to directly make use of them, as in instructing younger pupils. By a comprehensive knowledge of the subject in its entirety, the easier it is found to impart information of its lesser parts. By the acquisition of the higher graces (expression, feeling, magnetism), one has a keener appreci- ation of, and can more readily impart to others the use of the simpler elements, as leading to an agreeable end. Prin- ciples, as mere principles, are barren of interest and tedious both to pupil and instructor, except when known to be the means that lead to those crowning glories of a beautiful art, and then they have a life and meaning and purpose. " It is a lamentable fact that not one in thousands can criti- cise the art, and that not one in hundreds of thousands can read well. Even an uneducated, vulgar ear, however, may perceive defects in the finest reading — but it takes a high degree of culture really to appreciate and sympathize with excellencies/' " The rules of criticism are not arbitrary. In the mind there is an innate power of appreciating the beau- tiful in any art. Taste needs exercise to develop it, but it is inherent in the mind." " In no department of education is there so great a likeli- hood of perversion of powers as in this by no means the least important." It has not unfrequently happened that 144 APPENDIX. faulty, erroneous instruction has entirely changed, if not absolutely ruined, habits of persons who otherwise, with their natural inclinations and tastes, would have proved at least acceptable if not superior in their style of reading. We constantly see such examples, and are forced to notice their painfully labored mannerisms as the result of such teaching. In the effort to improve voice, they are taught principles without afterwards being taught to do without them. Like persons learning to swim with corks and always after need them. They are not taught the difference be- tween the means and the end to be accomplished. Any one r it would seem, can readily see the teacher in such instances is not altogether blameless, for the pupil in reading, if at all tractable, learns more easily by imitating his teacher than by any almost other method, and rapidly acquires and tenaciously retains all the bad habits, as well as the good, of the model before him. It were even better that reading were never taught as reading than taught in the manner indicated. Far better were it to let each read in his own way, and especially so where one has a strong natural inclination to be in earnest. The effort should be to strengthen the voice, to make it pure, to have it well modulated, and to learn to speak dis- tinctly and not distortedly. The Nasal Okgans. And while thinking about distinctness and purity of tone of voice, let me remark that one great reason, and per- haps the greatest, that Americans as a nation are indistinct and impure in their tones of voice, is from an insufficient use of the nostrils in breathing. We constantly hear the objection that Americans speak through the nose. It is a most grievous mistake. We should by all means learn to speak in great part by means of that much-abused organ. The great trouble lies in the fact that we have such characteristically thin, small-sized APPENDIX. 145 breathing- tubes upon our faces. These very organs are Susceptible of strengthening enlargement, like any other muscular portion of the system, by exercise, especially that of deep lung-breathing in the open air. Mothers in this country keep in close rooms, take but little exercise, and our children are feeble-voiced, consump- tive, and show the outward signs in small, sharp noses, and thin, sunken faces. The nasal twang is the result of weakness and limited size of the muscles of the nostrils. Pinch the nose and then at- tempt to speak, and you have it still more satisfactorily illus- trated. Then take a deep breath, widen the nostrils, and pour out the voice freely alike through mouth and nose and hear the difference. Eemember this fact, if persons have a nasal twang, it is because they do not speak through the nose. Feelixg. " The capacity to feel a result is very different from having the power to produce the sensation of it in others by an imitative art. The great requisite is to feel, then to know how to produce it in others, then the feeling to tell you when you have done what you wished. With a regulated voice, the mind supplies that power, and the expression is instantaneous. It is not perceived in part, for all are re- solved into feeling. This can only be secured by careful cul- ture. The conscious observance of principles and rules must become unconscious and spontaneous. J^o degree of imagina- tion and feelino- alone will render the vocal organs flexible — they must have special culture. An education of the voice and a proper combination of feeling is a removal of the shackles and bad habits. It is a development of the natural powers." The great object of teachers should be to cultivate the voices of pupils, so as to enable them to work out feelings. Not to have them show their skilful command of mere drill- work, but to give the sense by reasoning and talking it out, 7 146 APPENDIX. in a highly cultivated manner to make language effective, and everything to be accomplished by the least discernible use of those very principles by which a finished reading is at- tained. The practice of principles is one thing, their ju- dicious application another. Not long since a review of the city troops took place in New York, and among the rest were regiments of the " re- turned veterans." I stood among the thousands of eager spectators upon one of the great squares of the metropolis, watching regiment after regiment as they passed. How regular their motions, how keenly accurate their interlocked steps; \\ow precise, how symmetrically beautiful every move- ment at the quick, prompt, word of command; how brilliant in appearance— especially " the glorious Seventh ! " But, oh ! when came " the Boys in Blue" I stood transfixed with emotion. To be sure they had returned from hard-fought battle-fields, and I felt all that. But it was their marching I There was glory in it. It was genuine. There was no parade, no display; it was real ; it was natural. They had been drilled. Their motions were regular and true, but easy and devoid of stiffness. There was a marching that meant something. It was such a relief, and so grateful to the eye, after witnessing the splendid exactness of the evolutions of the others. And their cheering, as they answered to the salutations, went to the inmost heart. I went slowly and pensively towards my home, revolving in my mind the application of the lesson I had so singularly received. At first the application of principles is difficult, but time will soften and mellow any harshness in this respect, and the result will be the one desired. When the sense is made the main object, the minor details will soon take care of them- selves. At all events, be natural. Eead, if possible, so easily as not to read but to reason. A sturdy Dutch musician stood watching Mozart playing some difficult air upon his instrument. " Good heavens ! " he exclaimed, " how easily he plays what costs me such labor!" "Because," said Mozart, "I have so thoroughly APPENDIX. 14? practised the spirit of the piece as to have the effort cost me no effort." Pitt, the orator, was early taught by his father, the Earl of Chatham, to clearly, distinctly utter, and then to recite, pas- sages from Shakespeare and the poets. He was so young that he was placed in a chair at the further end of the room, and thus taught to exercise, and so careful was the culture thus given that he eventually became one of England's greatest orators. Daniel Webster, when only ten years of age, was the de- light of the teamsters (railroads were comparatively unknown at that time). These men usually remained " over" Satur- day night at bis father's house. We are told they revelled in hearing " young Dan read the Bible" His father was his model. In Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe's recently published work, " Men of Our Time" occurs the following account of the boyhood of her brother, Kev. Henry Ward Beecher. Tt is, to say the least, encouraging to young speakers who are striving to overcome native physical defects : " Henry Ward was not marked out by the prophecies of partial friends for any brilliant future. He had precisely the organization that often passes for dullness, in early boy- hood. He had great deficiency in verbal memory, a defi- ciency marked in him through life. He was exceedingly sen- sitive to praise and blame, extremely diffident, and with a power of yearning, undeveloped emotion, which he neither understood nor could express. Bis utterance teas tliick and indistinct, partly from bashfulness, and partly from an en- largement of the tonsils of the throat, so that in speaking or reading he was with difficulty understood. " In forecasting his horoscope, had any one taken the trouble then to do it, the last success that ever would -have been predicted for him would have been that of an orator. " ' When Henry is sent to me with a message,' said a good aunt, 'I have always to make him say it three times ; the first time I have no manner of an idea more than if he spoke 148 APPENDIX. Choctaw ; the second, I catch now and then a word; by the third time I begin to understand.' "At Amherst, he was put through a strict drill in elocu- tion- by Professor John E. Lovell, now residing in New Haven, Conn. Of him, Mr. Beecher cherishes a grateful rec- collection, and never fails to send him a New Year's token of remembrance. " Mr. Beecher had many natural disabilities for the line of oratory, and their removal, so far as to make him an accept- able speaker, he holds due to the persevering drill of Mr. Lovell. His voice, naturally thick and husky, was devel- oped by the most persevering and systematic training. His gestures, and the management of his body went through a drill corresponding to that which the military youth goes through at West Point, to make his body supple to the exi- gencies of military evolution." BKEVITIES.— OKIGINAL AND SELECTED. J. E. FROBTSHER. Articulation clear, not loud; strong, true, appropriate. Niceties* come step by step. Diligence and practice with true artist. Life-time study, intense application, continued repetition of the same thing over and over strongly insisted upon. Fix attention ; repeat until seemingly perfect; second habit; patiently observe regularity. Manly, modest; deep abandonment to reality; set and studied manner until reality comes. Lose sight of self, be guided solely by the sentiment; full confidence in it never fails. Have your tones to monopolize the ear of your audience. Never strain lungs ; keep within limits. In most violent efforts keep in * The diligent student has only to practise faithfully, judiciously, and perseveringly, and he will soon prove the truthfulness of vocal gymnastics. APPENDIX. 149 reserve The tones of the voice, the looks of the eye, the movement of the hand, in deep passion betray something unspoken, yet comprehended. Feel any passion by quality of sound. The imagination ought to be strongly impressed with the idea of an object which naturally excites it before the body is brought to correspond by suitable voice and gesture. When you feel it, give the expression of a passion instantly, don't fret it at any time. The complete culture of the voice for the purpose of public speaking ranges from an almost inaudible whisper to the most vigorous shouting. Though neither of these extremes would ever be used in actual speaking, they serve the practice of the voice, and insure command in every degree of force. Shouting is of great value as a vocal exercise. It invigorates the organs of speech, and strengthens the voice in its lower notes. When indulged in frequently it gives volume and power to the voice. The sounds given at such a time should be pure in their quality ; all the breath emitted should be converted into musical tones, not allowing the least aspirated character; the pronunciation must be clear and penetrating. It is not as necessary in an extensive space to raise the pitch and increase the force of the voice as it is to speak distinctly. There should be more speaking and less bawl- ing. The best orators are the most natural. Do not seem to have studied the art, but do all you can to conceal the appearance of having done so. Many over-reach — they shoot too high. It is not done by extraordinary but by gentle means. To become glowing and truly eloquent, one must rise in keeping with the subject without appearance of effort or art. Even in the pulpit use the natural tone to convince. Thoroughly understand and observe principles and rules, but use them unconsciously and spontaneously. Imagina- tion and feeling will never render the vocal organs flexible without special culture. Training the voice is only develop- ing the natural powers ; a removal of bad, artificial habits, and supplanting them by better. 150 APPENDIX. The after-cultivation of expression, when the voice is formed, requires repeated communings and lonely hours of intense study to become truly great in the art of speaking. One must revel in the emotional and cultivate sensibility ; he must dream and fill his soul with luxurious sadness, and have wild and strange delights in desolation ; he must learn to have divine and rapturous joys through music, and learn what it is to stand rapt before a figure of ideal loveliness. He must cultivate all that ennobles taste, or his style will most likely incline to the passive and practical, and, consequently, be very one-sided in its character. The effects of such a course are very naturalizing and re- fining in their tendency. In its application we should always pursue the means best adapted to the subject and the occasion. Always in harmony with our own experience and observation. Nothing violent, no forced style for effect, but just as we would do under the most exciting situations. If one far-fetched expression is given the charm is gone. When the imagination, however, has been too much in- dulged, it is a struggle to descend to the simple elements of an art, but so is all duty. When a man plunges at once to the highest efforts, his deficiency of elementary knowledge will harass him all his life. With a fancy bordering on phrenzy, it is a mortification to his pride and a humiliation to his spirit to acknowledge his errors and submit like a child. Exaggeration of nature must be founded on common sense. The truly grand style is nature elevated, not dis- torted. It is the sublimity of poetic imagination, not the extravagance of wild mannerism. It is boldness of ex- ecution, resulting from practice, influenced by principles ; not the rashness of violence. Energy and force cease to be wonderful when they overstep the simplicity of nature. It is by a knowledge of principles that we acquire the faculty of feeling a result, and producing the sensation of it in others, by art. We must first feel and then know how to make others have the same feelings, and then to know when we have accomplished this. APPENDIX. 151 There is so much ignorance and delusion on this art that gross errors cannot be detected from subtle truths, and an almost imperceptible partition separates the fine from the absurd. The sense is mistaken and the idea is belied. The great aim should be on the higher excellencies. Exces- sive labor in detail has frequently been pernicious. There must be an attention to general effect of the whole, a careful blending of the graces with the elementary. Learn to be simple as well as grand. The mechanism of an art gives con- fidence to the artist, and he is fearless — for, guided by prin- ciples, he knows he is right. Everything intended for public effort should be raised and enlarged to receive and convey full effects. Deliberate and stately steps, even studied grace, proper in public, though ridiculous in private. Make trifles great. The great art of the orator is to make whatever he talks about appear of im- portance. After all your care and preparation, your utterance must be of genuine feeling. So evidently feel every word uttered, and so thoroughly give the spirit, that none will stop to think whether you read well or not. Let the meaning alone oc- cupy your thoughts. Let the audience supply part of the expression. This is suggestive reading. Do not magnify and crowd the manner into a higher place than that occu- pied by the matter. Let it be subordinate, because if atten- tion is attracted to it, you fail in proportion. Declamation is mere noise and is worse than useless. These things must be practiced a great many times before expression becomes thoroughly mellowed. There are no tricks to real eloquence, they belong only to the stage — a low practice of the stage. Character Keading. In reading or reciting selections that refer to a number of objects and characters, especially when changes from one to another frequently occur, the tendency with amateurs is 152 APPENDIX. an indiscriminate and variable localization. It should be the rule, that when you have, by the direction of the face or eyes, or by gestures of the hands, given a position to a character represented, or locality to an object which is men- tioned, that it should remain unchanged, unless a character in the progress of the piece is represented as in motion, and then to change and keep that position for that character, and so on until further movements are supposed to be effect- ed in any of the characters. To refer to an object or char- acter once as being in one direction, and shortly after to speak of it in another, without reason for the change, pre- sents a very obscure and confused picture to the hearer, and the effort should be to make everything as distinct as pos- sible. WENDELL PHILLIPS. " Dear Sir : — During my junior year in college, a discus- sion arose between myself and a number of my classmates in regard to the possibility of becoming a natural orator by practicing before the glass. In the course of the discussion, some one asserted that Wendell Phillips was accustomed to practice his orations before a long mirror. I replied that I did not believe it possible, and, partly as a joke, and partly in the hope of getting the desired information, I wrote to Mr. Phillips, asking him directly whether he was or was not accustomed to practice his speeches in the manner reported. ' | By return mail I received the following noble and elo- quent reply. The thoughts it contains are, too, so suggestive, so truthful, and are expressed in such felicitous diction, that it seems hardly right to keep them as private property. I therefore cheerfully accede to your request, to send you a copy for publication in your forthcoming serial. " It seems to me to contain the philosophy of eloquence in a nutshell : " " ' Dear Sir : — I have little experience to guide you. All I know of speaking was wrought into me by the earnest APPENDIX. 153 wish to impress unpopular truth, (dear to me) on unwilling hearts, and watching the chances of doing so in cold,' coun- try school-houses, before scanty audiences, who half hated me, and the other half trembled for their ease if they should be converted. "'As for declamation, I should judge it would be good to choose the finest extracts from ancient and modern orators — (say extracts two or three pages long), and accustom your- self alone in the open air to declare them, or before some confidential friend. Such a habit would store your mind with samples of vigorous eloquence, strengthen and famil- iarize your voice, aid you in obtaining entire control of your tones and compass, and give you confidence and ease in using it. " ' Earnestness and loved purposes, however, are the only things I know of to make a man eloquent. "Practice, like that I have described, will give you the tools. To use them naturally and efficiently is the final need — that art comes when you need it. " ' God does not allow so potent an instrument as eloquence to any hit those wliose whole heart is in some great issue. " < Yours truly, " < WENDELL PHILLIPS.' " Very truly yours, " GEO. M. BEAED. "Prof. Erobisher." PUBLIC READINGS. HEKRT WARD BEECHER. By public readers the young people in towns and villages may be made acquainted with the whole circle of English literature as they cannot be found in any other manner. A few will always be found who take the pains to seek out the 154 APPENDIX. works and carefully to study the best English classics. But the great majority of persons, who obtain a common edu- cation in our schools and academies, will have read only a few extracts from classic authors, such as school readers supply. They will have no conception of literature as a whole, very little of its chief lights, and none at all of the authors who, though less than chiefs, constitute the rank and file of the army of writers. In hundreds of villages there are gentlemen or ladies who, with some painstaking, could, in a series of winter evenings, go through a course of read- ings, with familiar information respecting the authors and their age, which would give to hundreds of young people a view of authors which they would never otherwise obtain. In larger places, we do not deem it chimerical to suppose that there will yet be permanent reading academies, whose busi- ness it shall be to carry classes through a thorough course of literature. But even if this should seem impracticable, it is not difficult for towns and villages to utilize talent which exists in their midst, and secure inexpensively, from edu- cated gentlemen, a vast amount of reading which the young would not have the means or the motive of securing in any other way. But it is not necessary to wait for a development of reading on so large a scale. Already family reading is in practice in thousands of household, and might be introduced into tens of thousands of others. The father, the mother, the elder children or sometimes the boarders, even the hired men, are competent to preside at the book in long winter evenings. It will surprise one not familiar with the facts to learn how much may be gone over in a single season, and how eagerly interested the young become. Plain people, of little culture, soon develop a taste for knowledge, which is at once a revela- tion and a life-long treasure. appendix. 155 The Uses of Keadixg. Extracts from Address at " The People's Headings."— Beecher. It seems very undesirable that the stores of literature should be locked up, gleaned only by those persons whose means and individual taste give them access to these treasures. It seems strange that we have not before thought of unlock- ing, bringing forth, and presenting, by the reader, to the people these inestimable beauties and excellencies of litera- ture. There is an unsurpassable wealth remaining almost unknown. Not one reader in a thousand takes the trouble now to look for things that he could well read and might well search for. It seems to me that this system of read- ing is susceptible of development to a degree that we have little conception of. It is not fair that a man having a light should put it under a bushel. It is not fair that a man who has received the gifts that constitute a good reader should let no one but himself have them. These gifts should be foi the community, and not for our own selfish appropriation. A good reader does not merely read to you what you knew before. He teaches you how to read ; that is, how to under- stand things that you have read a hundred times without understanding. A long step in the knowledge of literature might be taken, with very little expense, by the whole people by a judicious development of this system of popular reading. When you consider that it gives a great deal of popular information, and develops the literary tendencies of the whole age, I think that you will agree with me in saying that, though it be a day of small things as yet, the signs are auspicious that there may come a day of great things — of things patriotic, virtuous, and religious. 156 APPENDIX. FROM THE ARTS OF READING AND SPEAKING. m by e. w. cox (an English Barrister). Reading is the foundation of speaking. If you read badly, you will not speak well. How rare is a good reader ; how abundant are the positively bad readers. The cause of the neglect lies, not so much in ignorance of the value of the art when acquired, as in a strange prejudice that to read and to speak are natural gifts, not to be implanted, and scarcely to be cultivated, by art. In the church, the bad readers being the majority, have sought to deter from good reading by calling it theatrical. Among lawyers there is an equally fallacious notion that studied speaking must be stilted. Another cause of neglect is, that bad readers and speakers are unconscious of their incapacity. They do not think they read or speak badly, for they cannot see or hear them- selves. In reading we know what the words of the author are intended to express, and we suppose we express them accordingly; so in speaking, we know what we designed to say, and we think we are saying it properly. It is very diffi- cult to convince a reader or a speaker that to other ears he is a failure. Every man can read and speak after a fashion, however rudely, and therefore his imperfection is not made so apparent to himself — it is only a question of degree; being able to read and speak, and not being conscious how he reads and speaks, he cannot easily be satisfied that he reads and speaks badly, and that proficiency must be the work of some teaching, much study, and more practice. Not one educated person in ten can read so as to express the meaning of the words ; they pervert the sense by wrong emphasis, or deprive it of all sense by a monstrous gabble, and do everything except what should be done, that is, talk the words. It is an art, and must be learned like any other art. APPENDIX. 15? A Few Hixts. Bead rigidly or correctly. Read pleasantly. Express fully and truly the author's meaning; transmit to the mind of the listener the ideas he desired to impart. Bead them just as you would speak them if they were your own thoughts. This is the grand rule, the thorough under- standing of what you read. Without this you can never be a reader. You must grasp every word, every thought, in all its significance. It is one of the many benefits of the art that you must learn what you read. In reading Shakespeare aloud, you will find infinite subtleties of the poet's genius which you never had discovered. By long-continued habit you can and must acquire the faculty of perceiving the meaning of the language, as fast as the eye falls upon the words, and to instantly give expression to it. You cannot pause to reflect ; your hesitation would be seen and felt. It can come only from so much practice that the words suggest the thought at the moment they are pre- sented. If you do not already possess this power, you can practise alone at first. Pause at the end of each sentence and ask the author's meaning. If need be, put the thought into other words. This labor repays all the trouble that it may cost. Failing in the first attempt, try again and again and again, until you can express the thought as fast as the words occur. When you read silently, you can pause and search for the meaning and reperuse the matter. But in reading aloud, you have to proceed right or wrong. The meaning must be caught the instant } T our eye falls upon the words. Practice is the only rule for its acquirement. This is the foundation. You must now learn to read pleasantly to induce others to listen. Your reading may be correct, but it must also be pleasing. Shun mannerism and monotony. Do not change your tone and style when you read. Do not read in a tone. This is the first defect to be removed. You must thoroughly 158 APPENDIX. emancipate yourself from this bad habit of treating reading as an operation different from talking. To d'o this, you must first know that you have this bad habit. You must remember that you have more to i^learn than to learn. It is difficult to throw off a bad habit of slow growth, but firmness and persistency will conquer it. It will take time and determined practice however. Go into your room and read to the chairs, without the effort of trying to read well, but simply naturally. Think how you would tell it to the family circle. The perfection of such a reading would be, so to read that the eyes only of your audience, and not their ears, could tell them that you are reading. The practice may be slow but sure. Have no other care than how to read naturally. When you have made some manifest progress in this, and you are conscious that you are beginning to read as unaffectedly as you talk, you may begin to have regard to other features. But in all the pre- ceding efforts be sure to articulate distinctly and deliberately, giving all the sounds of the words full and true. The Actok and the Eeadee. The actor reads from his memory instead of reading from a book, and he adds action to expression. The reader should recite what he reads in precisely the same manner as does the actor. You have often heard it said of a man, that he reads in a theatrical manner, as if that were a fault ; but, before it is admitted to be a fault, we must understand pre- cisely in what sense the phrase is used. Some, who have never contemplated reading as an art, might ignorantly de- nounce as " theatrical " any reading that rises above gabbling, and all attempts to give natural expression to the thoughts. Such reading is " theatrical," indeed, but only in a commend- able sense. There is, however, a theatrical manner, that is called so reproachfully, and with justice, for it means read- ing like a bad actor — ranting, mouthing, etc. The same rules are to be observed by both ; the same effects APPENDIX. 159 studied; the same intonations used. You should so read that, if the listener's eyes were bandaged, he could not tell that you were not acting, except by perceiving that your voice is stationary. The foundations are understanding and feeling. These often lie dormant for want of cultivation and stimulus, unknown even to the possessor, until some acci- dent reveals to himself and others the capacities of which he was not before conscious. They may be cultivated into excellence. A person who feels an author can readily by practice learn to express him. Improve yourself by hear- ing good reading and seeing good acting. Reading must be more than tolerable, it must be good. The Management of the Voice. There is, first, the regulation of the breath. Yon cannot breathe, while reading, without a perceptible pause, and more or less of alteration in the tone of the voice, produced by the change from the empty to the full lungs, affecting the pressure upon the delicate organs of speech. Where sentences are not very long, there is no great difficulty; but sometimes periods are extended through many lines, and the sense requires that the voice should be evenly sustained from the beginning to the end. In such a case you must breathe before its conclusion. By the nature of the case breath is required by the speaker, and suspen- sion, but not break in the voice, by the hearer, in order to agreeably render and receive the meaning of the language. This adds efficiency to the reading, relieves the monotony, and gives time to the listener to follow the sense, which at such times is usually involved in a wilderness of words. Invariably breathe through the nostrils. This prevents spasmodic gasping. By this means the air is slowly admit- ted, the lungs expand, and the chest rises with an equable motion. Speak out, but keep a rein upon the voice. Practice at the full power of your voice, but do not strain it by over- 160 APPENDIX. exertion. Husband the breath. Cultivate intonation. The largest emotion would be dwarfed when expressed by a thin, small voice. The vocal organs may be strengthened by ju- dicious use, and the mind itself may be trained to a more rapid, as well as energetic, expression of its emotions. POETEY. Before you begin to read poetry, ascertain if you are in- fected by the evil habit of singing it, for until that is sub- dued, progress is hopeless. In the reading of poetry, as of prose, the sound must be subordinate to the sense. Although there is a measuring of words in poetry, there is no measure for the pauses ; you must pause wherever the sense demands a pause. If the pause so falls that it disturbs the melody of the verse, or the harmony of the rhyme, you should preserve them by so managing the voice that, after the pause, it shall resume in the self-same tone with which it rested, just re- minding the hearer of the music of the verse, as an added charm to the beauty of the thought. The best course of treatment, in addition to that already recommended, is to fill your mind with the meaning of the poet, and to resolve to give full expression to that meaning, forgetting, as far as you can, the metrical arrangement of the words in which the thoughts are conveyed. If your mind dwells too much upon the words, you will sing them ; but if it is filled with the ideas, you will read them. The gravest danger is monotony. Strive by all means to avoid this, and resort to every aid to give spirit and variety to your voice. Change its tone with every change in the thought to be expressed. Throw gayety into it when the theme is cheerful, and pathos when it is sad. Abandon your- self to the spirit of the poet, and let your utterance be the fruitful echo of his, even when he rises to rapture. Do not fear to over-act ; there is little chance of this becoming a fault in the reading of poetry. Mould your style to his. appendix. 161 Argumentative Reading. You must read yery much more slowly than is requisite for narrative, because the listener's mind has to go through a process of positive exertion before it can fully receive what you design to convey, and if you read rapidly, it cannot possibly keep pace with you. You should also make long pauses, especially at the close of each proposition or step in the argument. You should emphasize the commence- ment of each proposition, in order to direct attention to it, and the conclusion should be read with still greater em- phasis, and still more slowly, the more firmly to impress it upon the listener's mind and memory — that being the end and object of the previous argument. The foremost difficulty in the reading of all compositions of this class is to keep the attention of your audience, especially if the subject is more instructive than interesting. You must rely much upon yourself for this effect. The tempta- tion is sorely upon you to be tame and dull. This is the fault against which you will have to guard, and every de- vice must be employed to counteract the tendency. Try to be cheerful, even lively. Seize every opportunity afforded by the text to vary the strain, to change your tone, to alter your expression. Avail yourself of every help to keep your audience awake, and for the purpose of stimulating atten- tion you may even venture to make them more emphatic than would be altogether permissible elsewhere. Discard the didactic tone while an episode is on the lips, and when, in due course, you resume the argument, the effect will be the more impressive — the change will be in itself an attraction, and help you through another passage of labor and reason- ing. Even the argument itself is capable of being much enlivened by your manner. Avoid the dreary and dogmatic tone ; put it in the lightest and liveliest tones you can assume, but yet with that earnestness which gives so much weight to conviction. 162 appendix. Sentimental Heading. In this style of composition yon must feel what yon read. Tones are more sympathetic than words. G-ive to senti- ment the right expression, and vary that expresssion with every change in the sentiment, and your tone with every degree of emotion. When you feel what you read your hearers will also feel, and their feeling will react on you, ex- cite you more profoundly, and make your reading still more effective. Bat emotion will not bear too long a strain, and you should seize every opportunity for its relaxation. Pass rapidly from grave to gay, from the joyous to the sad, giving the full effect to each in its turn, that the effect of the other may be heightened by the contrast. Beading the Bible. In or out of the pulpit good reading of the Bible is very rarely heard. A very prevalent notion is, that the Bible requires to be read in different manner from other books. A tone is assumed that was originally intended to be reverential, as if the reader supposed that there was something holy in the words themselves, apart from the ideas they express. The supposed religious tone must be banished, so far as it. is applied to the book itself, or to the words printed in it ; but there is a reverential tone, properly applicable to the meaning conveyed by the words, which should be culti- vated. A mere narrative in the Bible demands no utterance differing from a narrative in any other book, unless the subject of it be solemn; but pious exhortations and religious sentiments have a manner of expression properly belonging to them, but very different indeed from the nasal twang and the intoned groans that are so much in vogue. The only remedy is the presence of an inexorable critic, who will stop you when faulty, and make you repeat the language until you read it rightly; or a professional teacher, APPENDIX. 163 who will not merely detect your errors, but show you how you ought to read. A special difficulty in reading the Bible is in its very in- correct and imperfect punctuation. Introduce your own pauses according to the requirements of the composition. Pay no heed to the verses. The sense does not require this breaking up into verses ; it is purely arbitrary. It does not exist in the original ; it was adopted in the translation for the convenience of reference, and for chanting. Try to forget or you cannot read well. The Bible is a magnificent study for the reader, and an admirable exercise. For practice read at first, as glibly, lightly, and rapidly as if it were a novel. Head it again more slowly; then again more seriously; then with proper feeling and proper tone and emphasis. Persons accustomed to the drone, which they imagine to be reverential, will at first complain; but they will soon find how much more effectively it is heard and remembered. Give the words the full expression, and nothing but the ex- pression. But you must learn to despise objections to this method till people learn that it is the true way. Follow your own dictates. Dramatic Beading. There is scarcely any kind of composition that does not contain something dramatic. Wherever there is dialogue there is drama. To be a good reader of dialogue yon must acquire the faculty of personation. It is capable of cultivation, and cer- tain to improve by practice. Bashfulness is a very frequent cause of failure, supposed to result from apparent lack of the power itself. Almost every reader shrinks at first from reading in character. Persevere, and you will be able to measure your improve- ment almost from day to day as you advance, and will not only learn how dialogue ought to be read, but you will acquire the confidence to read it rightly. 164 APPENDIX. Dialogue is the very best practice for students in the art of reading. Nothing so effectually destroys personal man- nerisms. You speak not as yourself, but as some other per- son, and often as half a dozen different persons, so that you are unconsciously stripped of your own mannerisms. You must infuse into it so much life and spirit, you must pass so rapidly from one style to another, that the most inveterate habits are shaken. All that is represented as spoken should be read precisely as such sentiments would have been uttered by the supposed speakers. The change must be instantaneous. There must be no pause to think who the next speaker is, but you must pass from one to the other without hesitation, and apparently without an effort. There must be no preparation, and the changes are often most abrupt. You must express not only the ideas, but the characteristic manner. At first study each character separately, until you can act it. Then try another, and so on until you can read a number. Then put them together, and read accordingly, and change rapidly from one to the other as you read the entire scene. Persevere, and you will find that you can succeed in this style of reading. It is not necessary to inform the audience as to each character after once pronouncing them, as your manner will indicate who is speaking. Dialogue comprises the whole art of reading. Witty and Humorous Headings. These are relished by the most highly educated and the most uninstructed with equal zest. The first great rule is to give full play to the fun. Humor is a clear sense of the ridiculous. Wit does not provoke laughter, but merely a smile. Humor is enjoyed by all persons, though varying in degrees. Laughter is its natural expression. In witty reading much depends upon the reader. Emphasize the witty points, and change the tone and manner as you utter them, speaking in a short, sharp, incisive tone. Imagine the witticism your own, and APPENDIX. 165 not as taken from a book. Be lively, light, and tripping in expression. Humor must be given with the utmost gravity of counte- nance, the effect being heightened by contrast of the ludicrous idea and the grave voice that utters it. You should not ap- pear conscious of the fan, much less share the laughter it provokes. When all around you are convulsed with it, let not a muscle of your face be moved, except, perhaps, for an expression of wonder. Public Reading. Public readings are so extensively useful, that it is a pub- lic duty to contribute to the common fund of entertainment, which those who have cultivated taste and sufficient leisure are enabled- so to do. By taking part in these readings, not only will you do good service to others, but you will reap pleasure and advantage for yourself. The occasions are self instructing. You learn more of the art of reading in one evening than you would ac- quire in twenty trials without an audience. There is a mental excitement in kindling the emotions of a mass of listeners which acts and reacts by mutual sympathies. You feel the more what you read because others share the same feeling ; because you feel more, the more vividly do you express your feelings, and the more you stir the emotions of the audience. * You should prepare for a public reading by frequent re- hearsals. Practice during the day your readings for the night, even those most familiar and most often practiced. Study how to utter each syllable and express each thought with the greatest effect. Read clearly and distinctly, better than loudness. Be sure that all can hear you easily, or the audience will become restless. Your eyes should glance from book to audience * Lord Brougham was the originator of the " Penny Headings/' so popular in England. 166 APPENDIX. continually to keep their attention. It requires practice. Look on the page to catch the sentence, and then, as the memory retains it, giye your attention to the audience. The importance of this process cannot be too strongly urged. In reading it is best to stand, as by this means only can you give full compass to your voice. Read slower than you converse, and articulate with great distinctness. Throw yourself heartily into the selection given, give reins to your emotions ; express what you feel, and try to feel what you read. Before an Audience It is better to read from a rest than to hold the book in the hand, as you are thus enabled to lay the left hand upon the leaf, the finger marking the line at which you are read- ing, when the eyes are turned to the audience, and subse- quently you wish to revert to the words last seen. Prepare your books by striking out superfluous words and passages that are dull, and not essential to the right understanding of the theme. In dialogue strike out all the "said he" "she answered" etc., and have them inferred by your tone and manner at the change. An excellent plan is to cut "readings" out of different volumes and *paste into neat blank-books, or what is still more advisable, copy into a large, portable, convenient- shaped blank-book the different selections that accumulate upon your hands. In this way you need but one book instead of a dozen or fifty, as the case may be. Platform Oratory. Your manner upon the platform should be deferential. An audience, whatever its composition, is more easily won than commanded. Under any imaginable provocation keep your temper; this will secure you the advantage. Lose your temper and you are lost; you give the victory to your opponents. APPENDIX. 167 Never exhibit fear. Maintain unflinching firmness. Learn to face hisses, hoo tings, groanings, and even more alarming expressions of hostility with unblanched cheek, with a bold front, with un quivering voice, and with that aspect of cool resolve which commands the respect of the strong and cows the weak. The language of the platform should be at once simple and forcible, pictorial, but unornamented. Choose the most familiar words, and prefer such as most powerfully express your meaning. The object of oratory is not to display your- self, but to persuade others, and that is the right manner of using it which does its work most effectively. » A business meeting you must- address in a business man- ner, merely talking upon your legs, strictly limiting your talk to the matter in hand, and saying all in the fewest words. Eschew the oratorical manner, study simplicity, and be well prepared with facts and figures. Political and religious meetings are treated differently aud according to circumstances. Never, however, descend to your audience, even to a mob. A mob likes best the speaker who stands above his audience, and keeps above them. The loftier the orator the more gratifying to the assembly is his deference to them. Opek-Air Speaking. Speak out. Speak up. Do not wait for the significant shout that will come to you if you speak small. Cultivate a clear, full voice. Out-of-door speaking to most persons is very difficult of accomplishment, very trying to the lungs, and very crazing to the voice. You cannot speak in the same voice you use in a room, for such tones will appear swallowed up in space, and no echo will come back to you. Straining will not effect the object, and still louder tones bring no echo. Pain ensues; then hoarsenes, which will not be cured for several days. When the voice is used in the open air there is no echo, and it will be heard only so far as you have the power to throw 168 APPENDIX. it. The voice may be vastly strengthened by judicious exer- cise, under instruction. Mere loudness will not succeed in the open air, and straining is in finitely worse. "When the effort becomes painful, the voice loses in force, and a sense of pain is the best warning that you have trespassed beyond your capacities. On the instant that the sensation occurs, moderate your tones, relax the exertion, and rather close your effort than continue at such risk of injury to your voice. Loudness will not answer. You will be heard further by clearness and fullness, and more than all by very distinct articulation. Speak slowly, looking at the most distant of the assembly, even though not heard by them. Thus the voice need not be strained, and yet used to its fullest capacities. The expression must be ruder, and the tones greatly exaggerated to be effective, and action is especially de- manded. It must be used liberally both in quantity and quality. In a room this would be out of place ; in the open air attractive, and even assists the voice. At such times, the expression, "Beating a speech into them," has a truth in it. Be very earnest. mm&i ■ W ■ mm LIBRARY OF CONGRESS ^ 027 250 775 2