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THE 
 
 Canadian Elocutionist 
 
 DESIGNED FOR THE USB OP 
 
 (JtoUegcB, §ckooljs itnb for §dt In&txuctxon. 
 
 TOGETHBE WITH 
 
 f.V PROSE AND POETRY, OF 
 
 PIECES ADAPTED FOR READING, RECITATION 
 AND PRACTICE. 
 
 • The manner of speaking is as important as the matter."— Ciiesteri'i eld. 
 
 AI^NA K. go WARD, LL.T3. 
 
 [Mrss Anna Halleok Kelsev]. 
 Teacher of Elocution and English Literature. 
 
 ROSE PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 1885. 
 
A 
 
 \ UHi^M- 
 
 Entered according to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one 
 thousand eight hundred and eighty-five, by Huntee, Rose & Co., in 
 the office of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The principal object the author had in view in the pre- 
 paration of this work, was to place in convenient form 
 for the use, both of teachers and others, the principles, 
 rules, illustrations and exercises, that she has found most 
 useful and practical for the purpose of instruction, and 
 best calculated to make good readers, and easy, graceful 
 and correct speakers. 
 
 For this purpose the rules and advices have been simpli- 
 fied and divested, as much as possible, of all abstruse 
 scientific terms, and made as simple and plain as could be 
 done, having a due regard to the proper explanations re- 
 quisite to make them easy to understand and not diffi- 
 cult to practise. 
 
 It is hoped that this system of instruction, which has 
 been for some years very successfully employed by the 
 compiler in her own practice, may prove a valuable aid to 
 those who wish to pursue the study of the art. 
 
 The examples chosen to illustrate the rules have been 
 taken with a due regard to their fitness to exemplify the 
 principles involved, and to show the various styles of 
 reading, declamation and oratory, and the selections have 
 been made in such a manner as to adapt them for use in 
 schools, colleges and for public reading. 
 
 ToKONTO, September 2Uh, 1885. 
 
U^TRODUCTION. 
 
 Of the importance of the study of Elocution as part of 
 a good education there can be no question. Almost every 
 one is liable to be called upon, perhaps at a few minutes 
 notice, to explain his views and give his opinions on sub- 
 jects of various degrees of importance, and to do so with 
 effect ease in speaking is most requisite. Ease implies 
 knowledge, and address in speaking is highly ornamen- 
 tal as well as useful even in private life. 
 
 The art of Elocution held a prominent place in ancient 
 education, but has been greatly neglected in modern 
 times, except by a few persons — whose fame as speak- 
 ers and orators is a sufficient proof of the value and ne- 
 cessity of the study. The Ancients — particularly the 
 Greeks and the Romans — were fully conscious of the 
 benefits resulting from a close attention to and the practice 
 of such rules as are fitted to advance the orator in his pro- 
 fession, and their schools of oratory were attended by all 
 classes ; nor were their greatest orators ashamed to ac- 
 knowledge their indebtedness to their training in the art 
 for a large portion of their success. The Welsh Triads 
 say " Many are the friends of the golden tongue," and, 
 how many a jury has thought a speaker's arguments 
 without force because his manner was so, and have found 
 a verdict, against law and against evidence, because they 
 
vi Introduction. 
 
 had been charmed into delusion by the potent fascination 
 of some gifted orator. 
 
 As Quintilian remarks : " A proof of the importance of 
 delivery may be drawn from the additional force which 
 the actors give to what is written by the best poets ; so 
 that what we hear pronounced by them gives infinitely 
 more pleasure than when we only read it. I think, I may 
 affirm that a very indifferent speech, well set off by the 
 speaker, will have a greater effect than the best, if desti- 
 tute of that advantage ; " and Henry Irving, in a recent 
 article, says : "In the practice of acting, a most important 
 point is the study of elocution ; and, in elocution one 
 great difficulty is the use of sufficient force to be gener- 
 ally heard without being unnaturally loud, and without 
 acquiring a stilted delivery. I never knew an actor who 
 brought the art of elocution to greater perfection than 
 the late Charles Mathews, whose utterance on the stage 
 was so natural, that one was surprised to find when near 
 him that he was really speaking in a very loud key.'' Such 
 are some of the testimonies to the value of this art. 
 
 Many persons object to the study of elocution because 
 they do not expect to become professional readers or pub- 
 lic speakers, but surely this is a great mistake, and they 
 might as well object to the study of literature because 
 they do not expect to become an author ; and still more 
 mischievous in its results is the fallacy, only too current 
 even among persons of intelligence, that those who dis- 
 play great and successful oratorical powers, possess a 
 genius or faculty that is the gift of nature, and which it 
 
Introdvjction. vii 
 
 would be in vain to endeavour to acquire by practice, as 
 if orators " were born, not made," as is said of poets. 
 
 The art of reading well is one of those rare accomplish- 
 ments which all wish to possess, a few think they have, 
 while others who see and believe that it is not the unac- 
 quired gift of genius, labour to obtain it, and it will be 
 found that excellence in this,as in everything else of value, 
 is the result of well-directed effort, and the reward of un- 
 remitting industry. A thorough knowledge of the princi- 
 ples of any art will enable a student to achieve perfection 
 in it, so in elocution he may add new beauties to his own 
 style of reading and speaking however excellent they may 
 be naturally. But it is often said " Our greatest orators 
 were not trained." But is this true ? How are we to 
 know how much and how laborious was the preliminary 
 training each effort of these great orators cost them, be- 
 fore their eloquence thrilled through the listening crowdS? 
 As Henry Ward Beecher says : " If you go to the land 
 which has been irradiated by parliamentary eloquence ; 
 if you go to the people of Grreat Britain ; if you go to the 
 great men in ancient times ; if you go to the illustrious 
 names that every one recalls — Demosthenes and Cicero — 
 they all represent a life of work. You will not find one 
 great sculptor, nor one great architect, nor one eminent 
 man in any department of art, whose greatness, if you 
 inquire, you will not find to be the fruit of study, and of 
 the evolution which comes from study." So much for 
 the importance of Elocution and the advantages of ac- 
 quiring a proficiency therein. 
 
Introduction. 
 
 A few remarks to those who are ambitious of excelling 
 in the art may now be given, sliowing how they may 
 best proceed in improving themselves therein. 
 
 The following rules are worthy of strict attention : — 
 1. Let your articulation be distinct and deliberate. 2. Let 
 your pronunciation be bold and forcible. 3. Acquire a 
 compass and variety in the height of your voice. 4. Pro- 
 nounce your words with propriety and elegance. 5. Pro- 
 nounce every word consisting of more than one syllable 
 with its proper accent. 6. In every sentence distinguish 
 the more significant words by a natural, forcible and 
 varied emphasis. 7. Acquire a just variety of pause and 
 cadence. 8. Accompany the emotions and passions which 
 your words express, by corresponding tones, looks and 
 gestures. 
 
 To follow nature is the fundamental rule in oratory, 
 \¥ithout regard to which, all other rules will only pro- 
 duce affected declamation not just elocution. Learn to 
 speak slowly and deliberately, almost all persons who 
 have not studied the art have a habit of uttering their 
 words too rapidly. It should be borne in mind that the 
 higher degrees of excellence in elocution are to be gained, 
 not by reading much, but by pronouncing what is read 
 with a strict regard to the nature of the subject, the 
 structure of the sentences, the turn of the sentiment, and 
 a correct and judicious application of the rules of the 
 science. It is an essential qualification of a good speaker 
 to be able to alter the height as well as the strength and 
 the tone of his voice as occasion requires, so accustom 
 
Introduction. 
 
 yourself to pitch your voice in diflferent keys, from the 
 highest to the lowest ; but this subject is of such a nature 
 that it is difficult to give rules for all the inflections of 
 the voice, and it is almost, if not quite impossible to 
 teach gesture by written instructions ; a few lessons from 
 a good and experienced teacher will do more to give a 
 pupil ease, grace, and force of action than all the books 
 and diagrams in the world. Action is important to the 
 orator, and changes of action must accord with the lan- 
 guage ; the lower the language the slower should be the 
 movements and vice versa, observing Shakespeare's rule : 
 " Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, 
 with this special observance — that you o'erstep not the 
 modesty of nature." Study repose, without it, both in 
 speech and action, the ears, eyes, and minds of the au- 
 dience, and the powers of the speaker are alike fatigued ; 
 follow nature, consider how she teaches you to utter 
 any sentiment or feeling of your heart. Whether you 
 speak in a private room or in a great assembly, remem- 
 ber that you still speak, and speak naturally. Conven- 
 tional tones and action have been the ruin of delivery in 
 the pulpit, the senate, at the bar, and on the platform. 
 
 All public speaking, but especially acting and reciting, 
 must be heightened a little above ordinary nature, the 
 pauses longer and more frequent, the tones weightier, 
 the action more forcible, and the expression more highly 
 coloured. Speaking from memory admits of the applica- 
 tion of every possible element of effectiveness, rhetorical 
 ^.nd elocutionary, and in the dejivery of a few great ac- 
 
Introduction. 
 
 tors the highest excellence in this art has been ex- 
 emplified. But speaking from memory requires the most 
 minute and careful study, as well as high elocutionary 
 abilitj'', to guard the speaker against a merely mechani- 
 cal utterance. Read in the same manner you would 
 speak, as if the matter were your own original sentiments 
 uttered directly from the heart. Action should not be 
 used in ordinary reading. 
 
 Endeavour to learn something from every one, either by 
 imitating, but not servilely, what is good, or avoiding 
 what is bad. Before speaking in public collect your 
 thoughts and calm yourself, avoiding all hurry. Be 
 punctual with your audience, an apology for being late 
 is the worst prologue. 
 
 Leave off before your hearers become tired, it is better 
 for you that they should think your speech too short 
 than too long. 
 
 Let everything be carefully finished, well-polished, and 
 perfect. Many of the greatest eff'ects in all arts have 
 been the results of long and patient study and hard 
 work, however simple and spontaneous they may have 
 appeared to be. 
 
 Remember that the highest art is to conceal art, that 
 attention to trifles makes perfection, and that perfection 
 is no trifle. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 r^KT I. 
 
 I.— PHYSICAL CULTURE. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Calisthenics, 17 
 
 Walking, 39 
 
 Sitting, 20 
 
 Kneeling, 20 
 
 IL— BREATHING EXERCISES. 
 
 Directions for Breathing, 21 
 
 IIL— ARTICULATION. 
 
 Articulation, 22 
 
 IV.— ELEMENTARY SOUNDS, ETC. 
 
 Elements, 24 
 
 Pronunciation and Accent 27 
 
 v.— QUALITIES OF VOICE. 
 
 I. Pure, 28 
 
 II. Orotund, 30 
 
 III. Guttural 34 
 
 IV. Tremor, 35 
 
 V. Aspirate, .37 
 
 VI. Falsetto, 39 
 
 VI.— FORCE. 
 I. Degeebs. 
 
 I. Gentle 41 
 
 II. Moderate 42 
 
 III. Heavy, 43 
 
xii Contents. 
 
 II. Variations of Force, or Stress. 
 
 I. Radical, ... 46 
 
 II. Median, 47 
 
 III. Vanishing 48 
 
 IV. Compound, 49 
 
 V. Thorough, . . 50 
 
 VI. Semitone, . . 51 
 
 VII. Monotone, . 51 
 
 VII.— TIME. 
 
 I. Moderate, 53 
 
 II. Quick, ... 54 
 
 III. Slow 55 
 
 VIII.-PITCH. 
 
 I. Middle 58 
 
 II. High, 59 
 
 III. Low, .... 60 
 
 IV. Transition, 02 
 
 IX.— PAUSES, INFLECTIONS, ETC. 
 
 I. Rhetorical pause, 64 
 
 II. Emphasis, . . 66 
 
 III. Climax 68 
 
 IV. Inflection 68 
 
 V. Circumflex or Wave, 69 
 
 X.— PERSONATION. 
 
 I. Personation, ... .... . . . . 70 
 
 II. Expression, . ... . .72 
 
 XI.— GESTURE. 
 
 I. Position of the Hand, 75 
 
 II. Direction, 76 
 
 XII.— INTRODUCTION TO AUDIENCE. 
 
 I. Introduction, . 79 
 
 II. Advice to Students 80 
 
 XIII. -GENERAL EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE. 83 
 
Contents. 
 
 !• A.KT II. 
 
 SELECTIONS FOR READING. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Child's First Impression of a Star JV. P. Willis. 233 
 
 A Legend of Bregenz Adelaide A. Procter. 318 
 
 A Modest Wit 329 
 
 A Prayer James Russell Loivell. 356 
 
 A Slip of the Tongue 112 
 
 A Tarryton Romance i . . . . 324 
 
 Advice to a Young Lawyer Story. 104 
 
 An Autumn Day Bryant. 353 
 
 An Order for a Picture Alice Gary. 258 
 
 Ask Mamma A. M. Bell. 281 
 
 Aunty Doleful's Visit 136 
 
 Baby's Visitor 355 
 
 Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata 247 
 
 Bells Across the Snow Frances Ridley Havergal. 328 
 
 Brutus on the Death of Csesar Shakespeare. 267 
 
 Calling a Boy in the Morning 257 
 
 Cataline's Defiance Bev'd. George Croly. 129 
 
 Christ Turned and Looked upon Peter.. Elizabeth B. Browning. 261 
 
 Cuddle Doon Alexander Anderson. 367 
 
 Curfew Must not Ring To-night 349 
 
 Dios Te Guarde 395 
 
 Domestic Love and Happiness Thomson. 90 
 
 Drifting T. Buchanan Read. 276 
 
 Elizabeth H. W. Longfellow. 278 
 
 E ve's Regrets on Quitting Paradise Milton. 234 
 
 Experience with European Guides Mark Twain. 219 
 
 Fashionable Singing 142 
 
 First Experience 223 
 
 Gertrude of Wyoming Campbell. 352 
 
 Ginevra Rogers. 269 
 
 God, the True Source of Consolation Mom-e. 312 
 
 Good-Bye Whyte Melville. 378 
 
 Guilty or Not Guilty 283 
 
 Hagar in the Wilderness N. P. Willis. 375 
 
 Hannah Binding Shoes Lucy Larcom. 326 
 
 Highland Mary Burm. 256 
 
 Home Song R. W. Longfellow. 357 
 
 How We Hunted a Mouse Joshua Jenkins. 150 
 
 How Women say Good-bye 237 
 
 I Remember, I Remember T. Hood. 125 
 
xiv Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I'll Take What Father Takes PF. Boyle. 307 
 
 In School Days WhiUier. 153 
 
 Jimmy Butler and the Owl 359 
 
 Keys Bessie Chandler. 275 
 
 King John Shakespeare. 200 
 
 Landing of Columbus Sogers. 266 
 
 Little Bennie Annie C. Ketchum. 294 
 
 Little Mary's Wish Mrs. L. M. -Blinn. 236 
 
 Love in Idleness Shakespeare. 95 
 
 Makin' an Editor Outen O' Him Will. M. CarUton. 379 
 
 Malibran and the Young Musician 100 
 
 Marmion and Douglas Sir W. Scott. 127 
 
 Mary Maloney 's Philosophy 332 
 
 Mary Stuart Schiller. 161 
 
 Memory's Pictures Alice Gary. 285 
 
 My Trundle Bed 300 
 
 Nay, I'll Stay With the Lad LiUie E. Barr. 330 
 
 Never Give Up 126 
 
 Niagara John G. C. Brai'nard. 226 
 
 No Kiss 275 
 
 Ocean W. Wetherald. 117 
 
 On His Blindness Milton. 92 
 
 On the Miseries of Human Life Thomson. 97 
 
 Only Sixteen 292 
 
 Oration Against Cataline Cicero. 399 
 
 Over the Hill from the Poor-House Will. M. Garleton. 251 
 
 Papa Can't Find Me 286 
 
 Passing Away Pierpont. 397 
 
 Paul's Defence before Agrippa Bible. 98 
 
 Per Pacem ad Lucem Adelaide A. Procter. 368 
 
 Poor Little Joe Feleg Arkivright. 224 
 
 Poor Little Stephen Girard Mark Twain. 147 
 
 Prayer Tennyson. 218 
 
 Reading the List 235 
 
 Reflections on the Tomb of Shakespeare Irving. 96 
 
 Rock of Ages F. L. Slanton. 245 
 
 Roll Call 133 
 
 Romeo and Juliet Shakespeare. 206 
 
 Sandalphon H. W. Longfellow. 374 
 
 Santa Claus in the Mines 312 
 
 Satisfaction 300 
 
 Saved Mary B. Sleight. 357 
 
 Scene at Niagara Falls Charles Tarson. 346 
 
 Scenes from Hamlet .Shakespeare. 186, 188 and 190 
 
 Scenes from Leah the Forsaken 166-169 
 
Contents. xv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Scenes from Macbeth Shakespeare. 194-198 
 
 Scenes from Pizarro Sheridan. 172 
 
 Scene from Richelieu Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer. 393 
 
 Sim's Little Girl Mary Hartwell. 216 
 
 Slander 296 
 
 Somebody's Mother 105 
 
 Song of Birds S. W. Longfellow. 359 
 
 Sonnet. . ...» James Russell Lowell. 355 
 
 St. Philip Neri and the Youth Br. Byrom. 274 
 
 Temperance Rev. John Ireland. 231 
 
 The Ague.. 339 
 
 The Approach to Paradise Milton. 94 
 
 The Armada Macaiilay. 381 
 
 The Bald-Headed Man 231 
 
 The Battle of Agincourt Shakespeare. 177 
 
 The Bishop's Visit Emily Huntington Miller. 325 
 
 The Bridal Wine- Cup Sidney Herbert. 158 
 
 The Chimes of S. S. Peter and Paul 138 
 
 TheDeadDoll : 134 
 
 The Death-Bed Thomas Hood. 265 
 
 The Engineer's Story 139 
 
 The Faithful Housewife 392 
 
 The Famine H. W. Longfellow. 107 
 
 The Field of Waterloo Lord Byron. 156 
 
 The Fireman George M. Baker. 240 
 
 The Foolish Virgins Tennyson. 105 
 
 The Hired Squirrel Laura Sanford. 264 
 
 The Hypochondriac 297 
 
 The Inexperienced Speaker , 400 
 
 The Jester's Choice Horace Smith. 261 
 
 The Kiss _. 103 
 
 The Last Hymn Marianne J<'p,rningham. 123 
 
 The Last Station 272 
 
 The Launch of the Ship H. W. Longfellow. 242 
 
 The Littre Hatchet Story B. N. BurdeUe. 119 
 
 The Little Hero 309 
 
 The Little Quaker Sinner .^. . 148 
 
 The Miniature 137 
 
 The Model Wife Buskin. 377 
 
 The Modern Cain B. Evans Edwards. 114 
 
 The Newsboy's Debt 369 
 
 The Old Man in the Model Church John H Yates. 341 
 
 The Old Soldier of the Regiment G. Newell Lovejoy. 143 
 
 The Opening of the Piano 0. W. Holmes. 263 
 
 The Painter of Seville Susan Wilson. 287 
 
xvi Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Patriot's Elysium Montgomery . 93 
 
 The Polish Boy Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens. 333 
 
 The Potion Scene (Romeo and Juliet) Shakespeare. 2]1 
 
 The Quaker Widow Bayard Taylor. 363 
 
 The Quarrel of Brutus and Cassius Shakespeare. 181 
 
 The Retort 294 
 
 The Rift of the Rock Annie Herbert. 302 
 
 The Seasons Thomson. 92 
 
 The Serenade 268 
 
 The Sioux Chief's Daughter Joaquin Miller. 303 
 
 The Sister of Charity Owen Meredith. 213 
 
 The Wedding Fee KM. Streeter. 238 
 
 The Whistler Robert Story. 228 
 
 The World from the Sidewalk 254 
 
 The Worn Wedding Ring W. C. Bennett. 130 
 
 The Young Gray Head Mrs. Southey. 343 
 
 There's Nothing True but Heaven Moore. 356 
 
 Though Lost to Sight to Memory Dear Buthven Jenkyns. 338 
 
 Three Words of Strength Schiller. 267 
 
 To Her Husband Anne Bradstreet. 396 
 
 Tom Constance Fenimore Woolsen. 229 
 
 Trial Scene from the Merchant of Venice Shakespeare. 385 
 
 Trusting 122 
 
 Wanted 31J 
 
 Waterloo Lady Morgan. 154 
 
 Wounded 227 
 
 Your Mission 299 
 
TESTIMONIALS. 
 
 Miss Kblbey haa given special attention to Beading and Elocution for a 
 number of years. She has a powerful voice, with variety of expression. 
 Miss Kelsey I know to be a lady of true Christian principles, ambitious to 
 excel, and set a good example in Elocution and Literature. I commend 
 her to those interested in this branch of learning. 
 
 ALLEN A, GRIFFITH, 
 
 Author of " Lessons in Elocution," 
 And Professor of Elocution at State Normal School at Ypsilanti, Mich, 
 
 I have long known Professor Grifiith, whose communication is enclosed. 
 Such is his ability in his profession, and so large are his aoquirenients, and 
 so just and broad his critical faculty, that I cannot commend Miss Kelsey 
 in any way so well as by saying that I accept the Professor's judgment as 
 most satisfactory. His opinion of her is reliable beyond (Question. 
 
 I have been pleased witn Miss Kelsey's views on Elocution, as far as i can 
 learn them from a single interview, and hope she may be successful in the 
 profession she has chosen. 
 
 W. HOGARTH, 
 Late Pastor of Jefferson Ave. Presbyterian Church, 
 
 Detroit, Michigan. 
 
 35 Union Squaee, New Yobk. 
 
 Miss Kblsby has been under my instruction in Elocution, and I take 
 pleasure in saying that she was so earnest in study, and so faithful in prac- 
 tice, that her proficiency was very great. I bespeak for her added success 
 as a teacher ; and from the repertoire which her recent study has given, new 
 triumphs as a public reader. 
 
 ANNA RANDALL DIEHL, 
 
 Author of "Randall's Elocution," and " The Quarterly 
 Elocutionist." 
 
 Ann Abbor, November 3rd, 1880. 
 To whom it may concern . 
 
 I have known Miss Kelsey (now Mrs. William .J. Howard) for upwards 
 of two years, and have a high respect for her as a conscientious, cultivated 
 
18 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 press them under the arm-pits, throwing the chest as 
 well forward as possible, shoulders down and back, head 
 erect; thrust the fists down the sides, and return, six 
 times, with the utmost energy. Now, keeping the head, 
 shoulders, and chest still the same, extend the hands for- 
 ward, palms open and facing, bring both back as far as 
 the bones and muscles of the shoulders will admit, with- 
 out bending arms at elbows. Now, thrust the body to 
 the right, knees and feet firm, and strike the left side 
 with open palms, vigorously, repeat with body to the 
 left. Now, with arms akimbo, thrust the right foot 
 forward (kicking) with energy, six times; left same. 
 Now, place the clenched fist in the small of the back 
 with great force ; throw the whole body backwards, feet 
 and knees firm, filling the lungs to the utmost and utter- 
 ing, as you go over, the alphabetical element, " a," then 
 long " 0," then long ■' e." If these movements have been 
 made with great energy and precision, the blood is circu- 
 lating freely, and the whole body is aglow, and you are 
 ready now for vocal exercises. 
 
 These should be repeated daily with increasing energy. 
 
 The best time for practicing gymnastic exercises is 
 either early in the morning or in the cool of the evening ; 
 but never immediately after meals. 
 
 As the feet and lower limbs are the foundation, we 
 shall begin by giving their different positions. The 
 student should be careful to keep the body erect. 
 
 A good voice depends upon the position, and the prac- 
 tice of Position and Gesture will prove a valuable aid 
 in physical culture, and in acquiring a graceful address. 
 There are two primary positions of the feet in speaking : 
 
 First. — The body rests on the left foot, right a little 
 advanced, right knee bent. 
 
 Second. — ^The body rests on the right foot, the left a 
 little advanced, left knee bent. 
 
 There are two other positions which are called second- 
 ary. They are assumed in argument, appeal or per- 
 
Physical Culture. 19 
 
 suasion. The first secondarjr position is taken from the 
 first primary by advancing the unoccupied foot, and 
 resting the body upon it, leaning forward, the left foot 
 brought to its support. The second secondary position 
 is the same as the first with the body resting on the left 
 foot. In assuming these positions the movements must 
 be made with the utmost simplicity, avoiding all display 
 or parade, and advancing, retiring or changing with ease 
 and gracefulness, excepting when the action demands 
 energy or marked decision. All changes must be made 
 as lightly and as imperceptibly as possible, without any 
 unnecessary sweep of the moving foot, and in all changes 
 that foot should be moved first which does not support 
 the weight of the body. All action should be graceful in 
 mechanism and definite in expressiveness. The speaker 
 should keep his place — all his motions may be easily 
 made in one square yard, but the stage or dramatic 
 action requires more extended movements. 
 
 WALKING. 
 
 In walking, the head and body should be carried 
 upright, yet perfectly free and easy, with the shoulders 
 thrown back, the knees should be straight, and the toes 
 turned out. In the walk or march, the foot should be 
 advanced, keeping the knee and instep straight, and the 
 toe pointing downward ; it should then be placed softly 
 on the ground without jerking the body ; and this 
 movement should be repeated with the left foot, and the 
 action continued until it can be performed with ease and 
 elegance. 
 
 " In a graceful human step," it has been well observed, 
 " the heel is always raised before the foot is lifted from 
 the ground, as if the foot were part of a wheel rolling 
 forward, and the weight of the body, supported by the 
 muscles of the calf of the leg, rests, for a time, on the fore 
 part of the foot and toes. There is then a bending of 
 the foot in a certain degree." 
 
20 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 SITTING. 
 
 In reading; the student should sit erect, with both feet 
 resting on the floor, and one foot slightly advanced, the 
 head up so as to be able to use the whole truak in respir- 
 ation. 
 
 KNEELING. 
 
 To kneel gracefully, assume the first standing position 
 resting the weight of the body on the right foot, then 
 place the left knee gently down on the floor keeping the 
 body perfectly erect, then bring the right knee down ; — in 
 rising, these motions are reversed, the right knee being 
 raised first, the full weight of the body resting on it 
 while rising, bring up the left knee and assume the first 
 standing position. To be effective these motions should 
 be very gracefully executed and a great deal of practice 
 must be given to acquire freedom of action. 
 
 HOLDING THE BOOK. 
 
 The book should be held in the right hand by the side, 
 standing in the first position then raise it and open it to 
 place, pass it to the left hand letting the right hand drop 
 by the side, the book being held so that the upper part 
 of it is below the chin, so as to show the countenance, 
 and permit the free use of the eyes, which should fre- 
 quently- be raised from the book and directed to those 
 who are listening. 
 
Breathing Exercises. 21 
 
 CHAPIER II. 
 
 BREATHING EXERCISES. 
 
 Deep breathing with the lips closed, inhaling as long as 
 possible, and exhaling slowly, is very beneficial. 
 
 Having inflated the lungs to their utmost capacity, 
 form the breath into the element of long o, in its escape 
 through the vocal organs. This exercise should be fre- 
 quently repeated, as the voice will be strengthened 
 thereby, and the capacity of the chest greatly increased. 
 Do not raise the shoulders or the upper part of the chest 
 alone when you breathe. Breathe as a healthy child 
 breathes, by the expansion and contraction of abdominal 
 and intercostal muscles. Such breathing will improve 
 the health, and be of great assistance in continuous read- 
 ing or speaking. Great care is necessary in converting 
 the breath into voice. Do not waste breath; use it 
 economically, or hoarseness will follow. Much practice 
 on the vocal elements, with all the varieties of pitch, then 
 the utterance of words, then of sentences, and finally of 
 whole paragraphs, is necessary in learning to use the 
 breath, and in acquiring judgment and taste in vocalizing. 
 Never speak when the lungs are exhausted. Keep them 
 well inflated. 
 
 SPECIAL DIRECTIONS FOE BREATHING. 
 
 1. Place yourself in a perfectly erect but easy posture; 
 the weight of the body resting on one foot ; the feet at a 
 moderate distance, the one in advance of the other ; the 
 arms akimbo ; the fingers pressing on the abdominal 
 muscles, in front, and the thumbs on the dorsal muscles, 
 on each side of the spine ; the chest freely expanded and 
 
22 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 fully projected ; the shoulders held backward and down- 
 ward ; the head perfectly vertical. 
 
 2. Having thus complied with the preliminary condi- 
 tions of a free and unembarrassed action of the organs, 
 draw in and give out the breath very fully and very 
 slowly, about a dozen times in succession. 
 
 3. Draw in a very full breath, and send it forth in a 
 prolonged sound of the letter h. In the act of inspira- 
 tion, take in as much breath as you can contain. In that 
 of expiration, retain all you can, and give out as little as 
 possible, merely sufficient to keep the sound of h audible. 
 
 4. Draw in a very full breath, as before, and emit it 
 with a lively, expulsive force, in the sound of h, but little 
 prolonged in the style of a moderate, whispered cough. 
 
 5. Draw in the breath, as already directed, and emit it 
 with a sudden and violent explosion, in a very brief sound 
 of the letter h, in the style of an abrupt and forcible, but 
 whispered cough. The breath is, in this mode of expira- 
 tion, thrown out with abrupt violence. 
 
 6. Inflate the lungs to their utmost capacity and exhale 
 the breath very slowly, counting rapidly up to ten, as 
 many times as possible with one l)reath. 
 
 Each of the above exercises should be repeated often, 
 by the student, in his room, or while walking ; and may 
 be given with the gymnastic exercises previously intro- 
 duced. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 ARTICULATION. 
 
 A GOOD articulation consists in a clear, full, and distinct 
 utterance of words, in accordance with the best standard 
 of pronunciation, and this constitutes the basis of every 
 other excellence in reading and oratory. 
 
Articulation. 23 
 
 Care and attention, with diligent practice, will keep 
 young persons from falling into the bad habit of imper- 
 fect articulation, for most voices are good until domestic 
 or local habits spoil them. Hence the great importance 
 of careful training in early childhood, for if parents and 
 instructors would direct their attention to this matter 
 a manifest improvement would quickly follow ; yet, to 
 acquire a good articulation is not so difficult a task " as 
 to defy the assaults of labour." 
 
 " The importance of a correct enunciation in a public 
 speaker is well known — ^for if he possesses only a moder- 
 ate voice, if he articulates correctly, he will be better 
 understood and heard with greater pleasure, than one 
 who vociferates without judgment. The voice of the 
 latter may indeed extend to a considerable distance, — but 
 the sound is dissipated in confusion ; of the former voice, 
 not the smallest vibration is wasted, every stroke is per- 
 ceived even at the utmost distance to which it reaches ; 
 and hence it often has the appearance of penetrating even 
 farther than one which is loud, but badly articulated." 
 
 In connection with this subject, a few words are neces- 
 sary concerning impediment of speech, for in cases where 
 a slight degree of hesitation breaks the fluent tenor of 
 discourse much may be accomplished by due care and 
 attention, and most defects of speech, voice, and manner 
 may be modified or remedied by cultivation and diligent 
 study and practice. 
 
 In seeking for a remedy the first thing to be considered 
 is the care of the health, for this is the foundation of 
 every hope of cure, and all excesses should be avoided 
 and all irregularities guarded against. 
 
 All the mental powers should be enlisted in the combat 
 with the defect, and the student should speak with delib- 
 eration and with an expiring breath, and when alone 
 practice frequently the words and letters that he finds 
 most difficult to pronounce, and should also furnish his 
 mind with a copious vocabulary of synonyms, so that if 
 
24 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 he finds himself unable to utter a particular word, he 
 may substitute some other in its place. But above all he 
 must maintain a courageous command over himself and 
 exert the energy of his own mind. By observing these 
 rules, if the defect is not entirely eradicated, it will at 
 least be palliated in a considerable degree. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ELEMENTARY SOUNDS OF THE ENGLISH 
 LANGUAGE. 
 
 The number of elements in the language is thirty- 
 eight. 
 
 They are divided into vowels, sub-vowels, and aspirates ; 
 or, as classified by Dr. Rush in his " Philosophy of the 
 Human Voice," into tonics, sub-tonics, and atonies. 
 
 There are fifteen voivels, fourteen sub-vowels, and nine 
 jxspirates. 
 
 Table of the Elements. 
 
 A as heard in ale, fate, may. 
 
 A " " " arm, farm, harm. 
 
 A " " " all, fall, orb. 
 
 A " " " an, idea, pan. 
 
 E " " " easy, imitate, me. 
 
 E " " " end, let, mend. 
 
 I " " " isle, ice, fli/, mine. 
 
 I " " " in, pin, England. 
 
 " " " old, more, oats. 
 
 P " " " opse, lose, to^ fool. 
 
Elementary Sounds of the English Language. 25 
 
 
 
 It 
 
 It 
 
 " on, lock, not. 
 
 u 
 
 t( 
 
 " 
 
 " mew, iew, tube, pupil. 
 
 u 
 
 " 
 
 (C 
 
 " up, tub, her, hurt. 
 
 u 
 
 « 
 
 (( 
 
 " full, pull, wolf. 
 
 ou 
 
 It 
 
 tt 
 
 " our, flour, pou;er. 
 
 STJB-VOWBLa. 
 
 B 
 
 as 
 
 heard 
 
 in 6ow, 6oat, 6arb. 
 
 D 
 
 ft 
 
 It 
 
 " day, hid, da,re. 
 
 G 
 
 11 
 
 it 
 
 " c/ay, %, grilt. 
 
 L 
 
 it 
 
 « 
 
 " Zight, Hberty, aM. 
 
 
 M 
 
 (( 
 
 " " mind, storm, mate. 
 
 N 
 
 (C 
 
 tt 
 
 " 710, on, nine. 
 
 NG 
 
 " 
 
 tt 
 
 " sing, &'nger, long. 
 
 
 R 
 
 it 
 
 " " roe, rare, orb. 
 
 TH 
 
 Cf 
 
 it 
 
 " then, with, henea,th. 
 
 V 
 
 as 
 
 heard 
 
 in vice, iiile, salwe. 
 
 W 
 
 'f 
 
 <( 
 
 " woe, u;ave, world. 
 
 Y 
 
 C( 
 
 (( 
 
 " yoke, ye, yonder. 
 
 Z 
 
 it 
 
 (c 
 
 " 0one, his, .^enophon. 
 
 ZH 
 
 a 
 
 U 
 
 " a2;ure, enclosure. 
 
 ASPIRATES. 
 
 F 
 
 as 
 
 heard 
 
 in /ame, if, lift. 
 
 H 
 
 c< 
 
 it 
 
 " he, hut. 
 
 K 
 
 " 
 
 " 
 
 " /citp, cafe. 
 
 P 
 
 " 
 
 it 
 
 " pit, up, apt. 
 
 S- 
 
 " 
 
 " 
 
 " sin, cell, yes. 
 
 SH 
 
 <; 
 
 ti 
 
 " s^de, sAine, flus/ied. 
 
 T 
 
 (f 
 
 11 
 
 ■' iake, oafa, it. 
 
 TH 
 
 (( 
 
 " 
 
 " thin, truth, months. 
 
 WH 
 
 ti 
 
 ." 
 
 " when, wAich, wha.t. 
 
 There are many words in which there are difficult copi- 
 binations of the elemerits ; they, as well as those in which 
 the combinations are easy, shou|d be pr3,cticed upon unti} 
 
26 
 
 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 the pupil is able to articulate each element correctly. The 
 following is a table of the analysis of words, in which 
 there are easy and difficult combinations of elements. 
 Let the pupil spell the words, uttering separately each 
 element, and not the namie of the word, as is the practice 
 which generally obtains in our schools. 
 
 Table of the Analysis of Words. 
 
 WOKDS. 
 
 ELEMENTS. 
 
 WORDS. 
 
 ELEMENTS. 
 
 ale, 
 
 a-1. 
 
 up. 
 
 u-p. 
 
 day, 
 
 d-a. 
 
 mouths. 
 
 m-ou-th-z. 
 
 fame, 
 
 f-a-m. 
 
 sty. 
 
 B-k-i. 
 
 crew, 
 
 k-r-u. 
 
 lamb. 
 
 1-a-m. 
 
 call, 
 
 k-a-1. 
 
 oak. 
 
 o-k. 
 
 deeds, 
 
 d-e-d-z. 
 
 eve. 
 
 e-v. 
 
 wool, 
 
 w-u-1. 
 
 once, 
 
 w-u-n-s. 
 
 isle, 
 
 i-1. 
 
 awe. 
 
 a. 
 
 dare, 
 
 d-a-r. 
 
 power. 
 
 p-ou-u-r. 
 
 ink. 
 
 i-ng-k. 
 
 mulcts, 
 
 m-u-1-k-t-s. 
 
 pause, 
 
 p-az. 
 
 John, 
 
 d-gh-a-n. 
 
 mow. 
 
 m-o. 
 
 objects, 
 
 o-b-d-jh-e-k-ts. 
 
 lose, 
 
 lo-z. 
 
 thousandth, 
 
 th-ou-z-a-n-d-th 
 
 pray, 
 
 p-r-a. 
 
 wives, 
 
 w-i-v-z. 
 
 speU, 
 
 s-p-e-1. 
 
 softness, 
 
 s-o-f-t-n-e-s. 
 
 twists, 
 
 t-W-i-3-t-S. 
 
 shrugged, 
 
 sh-r-u-g-d. 
 
 waste, 
 
 w-a-s-t. 
 
 themselves, 
 
 th-e-m-s-e-1-v-z. 
 
 awful, 
 
 a-f-u-1. 
 
 church, 
 
 t-sh-u-r-t-sh. 
 
 They were wrenched by the hand of violence. 
 The strength of his nostrils is terrible. 
 A gentle current rippled by. 
 Thou barb'd'st the dart by which he fell. 
 Arm'd, say ye ? Arm'd, my lord ! 
 He sawed six sleek, siim saplings. 
 It was strongly wrged upon him. 
 
 Amidst the miste, he thrusis his fisis againsi the posis. 
 The swan swam over the sea ; well swum, swan!' The 
 swan swam back again ; well swum, swan. 
 
Elementary Sounds of the English Language. 27 
 
 PRONUNCIATION AND ACCENT. 
 
 Pronunciation is the mode of enouncing certain words 
 and syllables. As pronunciation varies with the modes 
 and fashions of the times, it is sometimes fluctuating in 
 particular words, and high authorities are often so much 
 at variance, that the correct mode is hard to be deter- 
 mined ; hence to acquire a correct pronunciation, this 
 irregularity, whatever be the cause, must be submitted to. 
 
 Be very careful to give each letter its proper sound and 
 avoid omitting or perverting the sound of any letter or 
 syllable of a word, without some good authority. 
 
 The unaccentuated syllables of words are very liable to 
 be either omitted, slurred or corrupted, and there is no 
 word in the language more frequently and unjustly treated 
 in this respect than the conjunction — and. It is seldom 
 half articulated, although it is properly entitled to three 
 distinct elementary sounds. 
 
 Heaven and earth will witness. 
 If Rome must fall, that we are innocent. 
 
 The Assyrian came down, like the wolf on the fold, 
 And Ms cohorts were gleaming in purple ctnd gold. 
 
 The word and, in these and similar examples, is com- 
 monly pronounced as if written und or un, with an im- 
 perfect or partially occluded articulation of these elements ; 
 whereas, it ought always to be pronounced in such a 
 manner that each of its own three elementary sounds, 
 though in their combined state, may distinctly appear. 
 
 In pronouncing the phrase, " and his," not only the a, 
 but the h, is, also, frequently suppressed, and the sound 
 of the d is combined with that of the i following it ; 
 as if written thus, und diz cohorts, and so on. Many 
 pronounce the phrase " are innocent," in the first example, 
 as if written a rinesunt. This practice of suppressing 
 
28 
 
 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 letters, and as it were melting words into indistinct 
 masses, cannot be too cautiously guarded against. 
 
 Avoid the affectations and mis-pronunciations exem- 
 plified in the following list of words which are often mis- 
 pronounced. Do not say — 
 
 Git 
 
 for get. 
 
 Armst 
 
 for 
 
 arm'dst. 
 
 flev 
 
 " have. 
 
 Gen'ral 
 
 {( 
 
 gen'eral. 
 
 Ketch 
 
 ' ' catch. 
 
 Sep'rate 
 
 11 
 
 sep'arate. 
 
 Geth'er 
 
 ' ' gath'er. 
 
 Mis'ries 
 
 u 
 
 mis'eries. 
 
 Stid'y 
 
 ■ ' stead'y. 
 
 Dif'frence 
 
 it 
 
 difference. 
 
 Good'niss 
 
 ' •' good'ness. 
 
 Bx'lent 
 
 (t 
 
 ex'ceJlent. 
 
 Hon'iat 
 Hun'dwrd 
 
 hon'est. 
 ' ' hund'red. 
 
 Comp'ny 
 Liv'in 
 
 
 com'pany. 
 liVingf. 
 
 Sav'ij 
 Mawn'ing 
 
 ' ' sav'age. 
 " morn'ing. 
 
 Lenth'en 
 Chastisemunt 
 
 *' 
 
 Lejijrth'en. 
 chastisement 
 
 Cli'mil 
 
 '■ cli'mate. 
 
 Bereavemuat 
 
 It 
 
 bereavement 
 
 Si'lwnt 
 
 ' ' si'lent. 
 
 Contentmunt 
 
 (I 
 
 contentment 
 
 Souns 
 
 " sounds. 
 
 Offis 
 
 (( 
 
 office. 
 
 Fiels 
 
 ' ' fields. 
 
 Hevun 
 
 ( ( 
 
 heaven. 
 
 Sof'ly 
 Kindl'st 
 
 ' ' sof i'ly. 
 " kiadl'dst. 
 
 Curosity 
 Absolut 
 
 
 curiosity, 
 absolute, etc 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 QUALITIES OF VOICE. 
 
 By Quality of Voice is meant the kind of voice used to 
 express sentiment. 
 
 There are two general divisions of quality : PuiiE and 
 Impure. These are sub-divided into Pure, Deepened 
 or Orotund, Guttural, Tremor, Aspirate, and Falsetto 
 qualities. 
 
 PURE QUALITY. 
 
 The Pure or Natural tone is employed in ordinary 
 speaking or descriptive language, and is expressed with 
 
Qualities of Voice. 29 
 
 less expenditure of breath than any other quality of 
 voice. It is entirely free from any impure vocal sound. 
 
 1. 
 
 " How calm, how beautiful a scene is this, — 
 When Nature, waking from her silent sleep. 
 Bursts forth in light, and harmony, and joy ! 
 When earth, and sky, and air, are glowing all 
 With gayety and life, and pensive shades 
 Of morning loveliness are cast around ! 
 The purple clouds, so streaked with crimson light, 
 Bespeak the coming of majestic day ; — 
 Mark how the crimson grows more crimson still. 
 While, ever and anon, a golden beam 
 Seems darting out its radiance ! 
 Heralds of day ! where is that mighty form 
 Which clothes you all in splendour, and around 
 Your colourless, pale forms spreads the bright hues 
 Of heaven ? — He cometh from his gorgeous couch. 
 And gilds the bosom of the glowing east ! " 
 
 Margaret Davidson. 
 2. 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close 
 
 Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
 
 There, as I passed with careless steps and slow 
 
 The mingling notes came softened from below; 
 
 The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
 
 The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; 
 
 The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
 
 The playful children just let loose from school ; 
 
 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; 
 
 These all in sweet confusion sought the shade. 
 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
 
 But now the sounds of population fail, 
 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 
 
30 The GanadAcm Elocutionist. 
 
 For all the blooming flush of life is fled. 
 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing, 
 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; 
 
 She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread. 
 
 To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
 
 To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
 
 To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn — 
 
 She only left of all the harmless train. 
 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 OROTUND QUALITY. 
 
 The Orotund is a highly improved state of the Natural 
 voice, and is the quality most used, being far more ex- 
 pressive, as it gives grandeur and energy to thought and 
 expression. This voice is highly agreeable, and is more 
 musical and flexible than the common voice. 
 
 Dr. Rush defines the Orotund as that assemblage of 
 eminent qualities which constitute the highest character- 
 istic of the speaking voice. He describes it to be a full, 
 clear, strong, smooth, and ringing sound, rarely heard in 
 ordinary speech ; but which is never found in its highest 
 excellence, except by careful cultivation. He describes 
 the fine qualities of voice constituting the Orotund in the 
 following words : — 
 
 By a fullness of voice, is meant the grave or hollow 
 volume, which approaches to hoarseness. 
 
 By a freedom from nasal murmur and aspiration. 
 
 By a satisfactory loudness and audibility. 
 
 By smoothness, or a freedom from all reedy or guttural 
 harshness. 
 
 By a ringing sonorous quality of voice resembling cer- 
 tain musical instruments. 
 
 The possession of the power of this voice is greatly 
 dependent on cultivation and management, and experi- 
 ments have proved that more depends on cultivation than 
 on natural peculiarity. Much care and labour are 
 necessary for acquiring this improved condition of the 
 
Qualities of Voice. 31 
 
 speaking voice, the lungs must be kept well supplied 
 with breath, there must be a full expansion of the chest, 
 causing the abdomen gently to protrude, the throat and 
 the mouth must be kept well open so as to give free 
 course to the sound. Never waste the breath, every 
 pause must be occupied in replenishing the lungs, and the 
 inhalation should be done as silently as possible, and 
 through the nostrils as well as by the mouth. 
 
 Excellence in this quality of voice depends oh the 
 earaest and frequent practice of reading aloud with the 
 utmost degree of force. The voice may be exerted to a 
 great extent without fatigue or injury, but should never 
 be taxed beyond its powers, and as soon as this strong 
 action can be employed without producing hoarseness, it 
 should be maintained for half an hour at a time. 
 
 This practice is very beneficial to the health, especially 
 if prosecuted in the open air, or in a large, well ventilated 
 room, and if pursued regularly, energetically, and syste- 
 matically, the pupil will be surprised and delighted at his 
 rapid progress in this art, and his voice, from a condition 
 of comparative feebleness, will soon develop into one of 
 well-marked strength, fullness, and distinctness. 
 
 1. 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
 Beneath the keen, full moon ? Who bade the sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ! — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! — 
 And they, too, have a voice, — ^yon piles of snow. 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
32 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 2. 
 The hoarse, rough voice, should like a torrent roar. 
 
 3. 
 Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled 
 
 din 
 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring 
 
 culverin. 
 The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's 
 
 plain, 
 With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 
 Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of 
 
 France, 
 Charge for the golden lilies — upon them vrith the lance ! 
 A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears 
 
 in rest, 
 A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- 
 white crest, 
 And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a 
 
 guiding star. 
 Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of 
 
 Navarre. 
 
 Macaulay. 
 4. 
 
 " Up drawbridge, grooms ! — What, warder, ho ! 
 
 Let the portcullis fall." — 
 
 Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need ! — 
 
 And dashed the rowels in his steed. 
 
 Like arrow through the archway sprung ; 
 
 The ponderous gate behind him rung : 
 
 To pass there was such scanty room. 
 
 The bars, descending, razed his plume. , 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 5. 
 
 Fight, gentlemen of England ! fight, bold yeomen ! 
 Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head ! 
 
Qualities of Voice. 33 
 
 Spur your proud horses hard, aad ride in blood ! 
 
 Amaze the welkin with your broken staves ! 
 
 A thousand hearts are great within my bosom ! 
 
 Advance our standards, set upon our foes ! 
 
 Our ancient word of courage — fair Saint George — 
 
 Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons ! 
 
 Upon them ! Victory sits on our helms ! 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 6. 
 And reckon'st thou thyself with spirits of heaven, 
 Hell-doo'med, and bteath'st defiance here and scorn, 
 Where I reign king ? and to enrage the more 
 Thy King and Lord ! Back to thy pwnishment. 
 False fugitive, and to thy speed add wings. 
 Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue 
 Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart 
 Strange horrors seize thee, and pangs unfelt before. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 7. 
 
 These are Thy glorious works, Parent of Good ! 
 
 Almighty ! Thine this universal frame. 
 
 Thus wondrous fair ! — Thyself how wondrous, then ! 
 
 Unspeakable ! who sitt'st above these heavens. 
 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 
 Midst these, thy lowest works ! 
 
 Yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought. 
 
 And power divine ! 
 
 8. 
 
 An hour passed on : — the Turk awoke : — 
 
 That bright dream was his last ; — 
 He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 " To arms !— they come ! — the Greek, the Greek ! " 
 He woke — to die, 'midst flame and smoke. 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 
 And death-shots falling thick and fast. 
 
34 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Like forest-pines before the blast, 
 
 Or lightnings from the mountain -cloud ; 
 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band ; 
 " Strike — till the last armed foe expires, 
 Strike — for your altars and your fires. 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires. 
 
 Heaven— and your native land ! " 
 
 They fought like brave men, long and well. 
 They piled that ground with Moslem slain. 
 
 They conquered — -but Bozzaris fell 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 
 His smile, when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
 And the red field was won ; 
 
 They saw in death his eyelids close. 
 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Hallech. 
 
 GUTTURAL QUALITY. 
 
 The Guttural Quality is used in expressing the strongest 
 degree of contempt, disgust, aversion, revenge, etc. Its 
 characteristic is an explosive resonance in the throat, pro- 
 ducing a harsh and grating sound, and its expression can 
 be used in all the various tones, giving to them its own 
 peculiar character. 
 
 This quality, is, however, of rare occurrence, and needs 
 less cultivation than the other qualities. 
 
 1. 
 
 Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! 
 Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold : 
 Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 
 Which thou dost glare with ! 
 
 Hence, horrible shadow ! 
 Unreal mockery, hence ! Shakespeare, 
 
QvMlities of Voice. 35 
 
 2. 
 
 How like a fawning publican he looks ! 
 I hate him, for he is a Christian : 
 But more, for that, in low simplicity, 
 He lends out money gratis, and brings down 
 The rate of usance here with us in Venice : 
 If I can catch him once upon the hip, 
 I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. 
 He hates our sacred nation ; and he rails, 
 Even there where merchants most do congregate. 
 On me, my bargains, and my well- won thrift, 
 Which he calls interest : — Cursed be my tribe. 
 If I forgive him ! Shakespeare. 
 
 3. 
 
 Thou stands't at length before me undisguised — 
 Of all earth's grovelling crew, the most accursed. 
 Thou worm ! thou viper ! — to thy native earth 
 Eeturn ! Away ! Thou art too base for man 
 To tread upon ! Thou scum! thou reptile ! 
 
 4. 
 
 " And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 
 
 Even in thy pitch of pride, 
 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
 (Nay, never look upon your Lord, 
 
 And lay your hands upon your sword,) 
 
 I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! 
 And if thou said'st I am not peer — 
 To any lord in Scotland here. 
 Lowland or Highland, far or near. 
 
 Lord Angus, thou has't lied ! " 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 TREMOR QUALITY. 
 
 The T]-emor Quality is used in expressing pity, grief; 
 joy, mirth, etc., and its characteristic is a frequent rise and 
 
36 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 fall of the voice, and a more delicate exercise of that par- 
 ticular vibration in the throat, known as " gurgling." It 
 is apparent in extreme feebleness, in age, exhaustion, sick- 
 ness, fatigue, grief, and even joy, and other feelings in 
 which ardour or extreme tenderness predominate. 
 
 1. 
 
 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man 
 
 Whose trembling linibs have borne him to your door ; 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; — 
 
 Oh, give relief, and heaven will bless your store ' 
 
 2 
 
 The king stood still till the last echo died ; then, throw- 
 ing off the sackcloth from his brow, and laying back the 
 pall from the still features of his child, he bowed his head 
 upon him, and broke forth in the resistless eloquence of 
 woe : — 
 
 " Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou should'st die ! Thou, 
 who wert made so beautifully fair ! that death should 
 settle in thy glorious eye, and leave his stillness in thy 
 clustering hair ! How could he mark thee for the silent 
 tomb, my proud boy, Absalom ! 
 
 " Cold is thy brow, my son ! and I am chill, as to my 
 bosom I have tried to press thee ! How was I wont to 
 feel my pulses thrill, like a rich harp-string, yearning to 
 caress thee, and hear thy sweet ' My father ! ' from those 
 dumb and cold lips, Absolom! 
 
 " But death is on thee ! I shall hear the gush of music 
 and the voices of the young ; and life will pass me in the 
 mantling blush, and the dark tresses to the soft winds 
 Hung ; — but thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt 
 come to meet me, Absalom ! " 
 
 K P. Willis. 
 3. 
 
 Noble old man ! He did not live to see me, and I — I 
 — did not live to see hiTn. Weighed down by sorrow and 
 
Qualities of Voice. 37 
 
 disappointment, he died before I was born — six thousand 
 brief summers before I was born. 
 
 But let us try to bear it with fortitude. Let us trust 
 that he is better off where he is. Let us take comfort 
 in the thought that his loss is our gain. 
 
 Mark Twain. 
 
 4. 
 
 Forsake me not thus, Adam, witness heav'n 
 What love sincere, and reverence in my heart 
 I bear thee, and unweeting have offended. 
 Unhappily deceiv'd ; thy suppliant 
 I beg, and clasp thy knees ; bereave me not. 
 Whereon I live, thy gentle looks, thy aid. 
 Thy counsel in this uttermost distress. 
 My only strength and stay : forlorn of thee. 
 Whither shall I betake me, where subsist ? 
 While yet we live, scarce one short hour, perhaps 
 Between us two let there be peace, both joining, 
 As joined in injuries, one enmity, 
 Against a foe by doom express assign'd us. 
 That cruel serpent ! 
 
 Milton. 
 
 ASPIRATE QUALITY. 
 
 The Aspirate Quality is used in the utterance of secrecy 
 and fear, and discontent generally takes this quality. 
 
 Its characteristic is distinctness, therefore exercises on 
 this voice will prove invaluable to the pupil and deep in- 
 halations are indispensable. 
 
 The aspirate is usually combined with other qualities 
 and the earnestness and other expressive effects of aspira- 
 tion may be spread over a whole sentence or it may be 
 restricted to a single word. 
 
 The aspirate quality is entitled to notice as a powerful 
 agent in oratorical expression, and the whispered utter- 
 ances of any well disciplined voice will be heard in the 
 
38 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 remotest parts of a large theatre, and the voice is greatly- 
 strengthened by frequent practice in this quality. 
 
 Hark ! I hear the bugles of the enemy ! They are on 
 their march along the bank of the river ! We must re- 
 treat instantly, or be cut off from our boats ! T see the 
 head of their column already rising over the height ! Our 
 only safety is in the screen of this hedge. Keep close to 
 it — be silent — and stoop as you run ! For the boats ! 
 Forward ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Macbeth. 1 have done the deed : — Did'st thou not hear 
 a noise ? 
 
 Lady Macbeth. I heard the owl scream, and the crick- 
 ets cry. Did not you speak ? 
 
 Macb. When ? 
 
 Lad^ M. .Now. 
 
 Macb. As I descended ? 
 
 Lady M. Ay. 
 
 Macb. Hark ! Who lies i' the second chamber ? 
 
 Lady M. Donaldbain. 
 
 Macb. This is a sorry sight. [^Showing his hands. 
 
 Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 
 
 Macb. There's one did laugh in his sleep, and one 
 cried " Murder !" 
 
 That they did wake each other; I stood and heard them : 
 
 But they did say their prayers, and addressed them 
 
 Again to sleep. Shakespeare. 
 
 3. 
 
 " Pray you tread softly, — -that the blind mole may not 
 Hear a footfall : we are now near his cell. 
 
 Speak softly ! 
 All's hushed as midnight yet. 
 
 See'st thou here ? 
 This is the mouth o' the cell : no noise ! and enter." 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
Qualities of Voice. 3S 
 
 4. 
 Ah ! mercy on my soul ! What is that ? My old 
 friend's ghost? They say none but wicked folks walk; 
 I wish I were at the bottom of a coal-pit. See I how 
 long and pale his face has grown since his death : he 
 never was handsome ; and death has improved him very 
 much the wrong way. Pray do not come near me ! I 
 wish'd you very well when you were alive ; but I could 
 never abide a dead man, cheek by jowl with me. 
 
 FALSETTO QUALITY. 
 
 The Falsetto Quality is used in expressing terror, pain, 
 anger, affection, etc. Some people speak altogether in 
 ^alsetto, especially those who are not careful in pronuncia- 
 tion. It is harsh, rude, and grating, and is heard in the 
 whine of peevishness, in the high pitch of mirth, and in 
 the piercing scream of terror. 
 
 I was dozing comfortably in my easy-chair, and dream- 
 ing of the good times which I hope are coming, when 
 there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was 
 the voice of my Maria Ann in mortal agony. The voice 
 came from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The 
 idolized form of my Maria Ann was perched upon a chair, 
 and she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, 
 and shouting " Shoo — shoo," in a general manner to every- 
 thing in the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what 
 was the matter, she screamed, " 0, Joshua, a mouse, shoo 
 — wha—shoo — a great — shoo — horrid mouse, and it ran 
 right out of the cupboard— shoo — go away — shoo — Joshua 
 —shoo — kill it^-oh, my — shoo. 
 
 2. 
 
 Sir Peter. — Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it 
 Lady Teazle. — Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear ic or 
 
40 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 not, as you please ; but I ought to have in}' own way in 
 everything, and, what's more, I will, too. What though 
 I was educated in the country, I know very well that 
 women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody 
 after they are married. 
 
 Sir p. — Very well, ma'am, very well !— so a husband 
 is to have no influence, no authority ? 
 
 Lady T.- — Authority ! No, to be sure. If you wanted 
 authority over me, you should have adopted me, and not 
 married me ; I am sure you were old enough. 
 
 Sheridan. 
 3. 
 
 '' I've seen mair mice than you, guidman — 
 
 An' what think ye o' that ? 
 Sae baud your tongue an' say nae mair — 
 
 I tell ye, it was a rat." 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 FORCE. 
 
 Force refers to the strength or power of the voice, and 
 is divided into forms and degrees. Very particular atten- 
 tion should be given to the subject of force, since that 
 expression, which is so very important in elocution, is al- 
 most altogether dependent on some one or other modifi- 
 cation of this attribute of the voice. It may truly be 
 considered the light and shade of a proper intonation. 
 Force may be applied to sentences or even to single 
 words, for the purpose of energetic expression. 
 
 The degrees of force are Gentle, Moderate, and Heavy. 
 
Force. 41 
 
 GENTLE FORCE. 
 
 The Gentle Force is used in expressing tenderness, love, 
 secrecy, caution, etc., and the lungs must be kept thor- 
 oughly inflated, especially in reverberating sounds. 
 
 1. 
 
 '' Heard you that strain of music light, 
 Borne gently on the breeze of night, — 
 So soft and low as scarce to seem 
 More than the magic of a dream ? 
 
 Morpheus caught the liquid swell, — 
 Its echo broke his drowsy spell. 
 
 Hark ! now it rises sweetly clear, 
 Prolonged upon the raptured ear ; — 
 Sinking now, the quivering note 
 Seems scarcely on the air to float ; 
 It falls — 'tis mute, — nor swells again ; — 
 Oh ! what wert thou, melodious strain ? " 
 
 Mrs. J. H. Abbot. 
 2. 
 
 Was it the chime of a tiny bell. 
 
 That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, 
 Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell, 
 
 That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear. 
 When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 
 And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep. 
 She dispensing her silvery light, 
 And he his notes as silvery quite, 
 While the boatman listens and ships his oar, 
 To catch the music that comes from the shore 1 — 
 Hark ! the notes on my ear that play. 
 Are set to words : as they float, they say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 Pierpont. 
 
42 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — silver bells ! 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle in the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle all the heavens, seem 
 to twinkle 
 With a crystalline delight — 
 Keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 E. A. Poe. 
 
 MODERATE FORCE. 
 
 The Moderate Force is used in ordinary conversation 
 and unemotional utterances. 
 
 She stood before her father's gorgeous tent 
 
 To listen for his coming. Her loose hair 
 
 Was resting on her shoulders like a cloud 
 
 Floating around a statue, and the wind, 
 
 Just swaying her light robe, reveal'd a shape 
 
 Praxiteles might worship. She had clasp'd 
 
 Her hands upon her bosom, and had raised 
 
 Her beautiful dark Jewish eyes to heaven, 
 
 Till the long lashes lay upon her brow. 
 
 Her lips were slightly parted, like the cleft 
 
 Of a pomegranate blossom ; and her neck. 
 
 Just where the cheek was melting to its curve. 
 
 With the unearthly beauty sometimes there. 
 
 Was shaded, as if light had fallen off. 
 
 Its surface was so polish'd. She was stilling 
 
 Her light, quick breath, to hear ; and the white rose 
 
 Scarce moved upon her bosom, as it swell'd, 
 
 Like nothing but a lovely wave of light 
 
Force. 43 
 
 To meet the arching of her queenly neck. 
 Her countenance was radiant with love, 
 She looked like one to die for it — a being 
 Whose whole existence was the pouring out 
 Of rich and deep affections. 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 2. 
 
 Oh ! sing unto the Lord a new song, for He hath done 
 marvellous things : His right hand and His holy arm hath 
 gotten Him the victory. Make a joyful noise unto the 
 Lord, all the earth : make a loud noise, and rejoice, and 
 sing praise. Sing unto the Lord with the harp ; with 
 the harp, and the voice of a psalm. 
 
 3. 
 
 PoR. The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes ; 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
 The attribute to awe and majesty. 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings : 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway. 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings. 
 It is an attribute to God himself ; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 When mercy seasons justice. 
 
 ShxihesTpeare. 
 
 HEAVY FORCE. 
 
 Heavy Force, is used in giving the language of command, 
 exultation, denunciation, defiance, etc., and in using this 
 force the lungs must be inflated to their utmost capacity. 
 
44 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 In giving the accompanying examples the student 
 must exert every energy of the body and mind, and by 
 earnest practice he will increase the power and flexibility 
 of his voice to a surprising extent, and also acquire a dis- 
 tinctness of tone and earnestness of manner, that will 
 serve him well, as a public speaker. 
 
 1. 
 
 Banished from Rome ! What's banished, but set free 
 From daily contact with the things I loathe ? 
 "Tried and convicted traitor !" Who says this ? 
 Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head ? 
 
 Banished ! I thank you for't ! It breaks my chain ! 
 I held some slack allegiance till this hour — 
 But now, my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords ! 
 I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes. 
 Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs, 
 I have within my heart's hot cells shut up. 
 To leave you in your lazy dignities ! 
 But here I stand and scoif you ! here I fling 
 Hatred and full defiance in your face ! 
 Your Consul's merciful — for this, all thanks : 
 He dares not touch a hair of Cataline ! 
 
 " Traitor !" I go — but I return. This — trial ? 
 Here I devote your senate ! I've had wrongs 
 To stir a fever in the blood of age. 
 Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel ! 
 This day's the birth of sorrow ! This hour's work 
 Will breed prosciiptions ! Look to your hearths, my lords ! 
 For there henceforth shall sit, for household gods, 
 Shapes hot from Tartarus ! — all shames and crimes !— 
 Wan treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
 Suspicion, poisoning his brother's cup ; 
 Naked rebellion, with the torch and axe, 
 Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 
 
Force. 45 
 
 Till anarchy comes down on you like night, 
 And massacre seals Eome's eternal grave ! 
 
 George Croly. 
 2. 
 
 But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
 Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : 
 
 " My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
 Be open, at my sovereign's will, 
 To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
 Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
 My castles are my king's alone. 
 From turret to foundation stone ; — 
 The hand of Douglas is his own. 
 And never shall in friendly grasp, 
 The hand of such as Marmion clasp !" 
 Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire. 
 And shook his very frame for ire ; 
 And " This to me !" he said,— 
 
 " And 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
 Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 
 
 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 And first I tell thee, haughty peer, 
 He who does England's message here, 
 Although the meanest in her state. 
 May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ! " 
 
 Sir Walter S:ott. 
 
 What man dare, I dare ! 
 Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear. 
 The armed rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger. 
 Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves 
 Shall never tremble : or, be alive again, 
 And dare me to the desert with thy sword ! 
 Hence, horrible shadow ! Unreal mockery, hence ! 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
46 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 VARIATIONS OF FORCE OR STRESS. 
 
 These are known as the Radical, Median, Vanishing, 
 Compound, and Thorough stress. 
 
 RADICAL STRESS. 
 
 This is used in expressing lively description, haste, fear, 
 command, etc., and consists of an abrupt and forcible utter- 
 ance, usually more or less explosive, and falls on the first 
 part of a sound or upon the opening of a vowel, and its 
 use contributes much to distinct pronounciation. It is 
 not common to give a strong, full and clear radical stress, 
 yet this abrupt function is highly important in elocution, 
 and when properly used in public reading or on the stage 
 " will startle even stupor into attention." It is this tone 
 that prompts children to obedience, and makes animals 
 submissive to their masters. 
 
 1. 
 
 Out with you ! — and he went out. 
 
 There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower. 
 
 There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree. 
 There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower. 
 And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea ! 
 
 Bryant. 
 3. 
 
 But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm ! arm ! it is ! it is ! the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. 
 And gathering tears and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 
Force. 47 
 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ! Who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? 
 
 Byron. 
 
 MEDIAN STRESS. 
 
 The Median Stress is used in the expression of grandeur' 
 sublimity, reverence, etc., and smoothness and dignity are 
 its characteristics, for it gives emphasis without abrupt- 
 ness or violence. In using this stress, there is a gradual 
 increase and swell in the middle of a sound, and a sub- 
 sequent gradual decrease — thus giving a greater intensity 
 of voice and dignity of expression than Radical Stress. 
 
 1. 
 
 Roll on, thou dark and deep blue ocean, roll. 
 
 Byron. 
 2. 
 
 We praise thee, God, we acknowledge thee to be the 
 Lord. 
 
 3. 
 
 Father! Thy hand 
 Hath reared these venerable columns ; Thou 
 Didst weave this verdant roof ; Thou didst look down 
 Upon the naked earth ; and, forthwith, rose 
 All these fair ranks of trees. They in Thy sun 
 Budded, and shook their green leaves in Thy breeze. 
 And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow. 
 Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
 Among their branches, till, at last, thej'^ stood. 
 As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, — 
 Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
 Communion with his Maker ! 
 
 Bryant. 
 
48 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 4 
 
 How are the mighty fallen ! Saul and Jonathan were 
 lovely and pleasant in their lives ; and in their death they 
 were not divided ; they were swifter than eagles, they 
 were stronger than lions. Ye daughters of Israel, weep 
 over Saul, who clothed you in scarlet, with other delights; 
 who put on ornaments of gold upon your apparel ! How 
 are the mighty fallen in the midst of battle ! Jonathan ! 
 thou wast slain in thine high places ! How are the mighty 
 fallen, and the weapons of war perished ! 
 
 THE VANISHING STRESS. 
 
 The Vanishing Stress occurs as its name implies at the 
 end or closing of a sound or vowel, and is used in express- 
 ing disgust, complaint, fretfulness, ardour, surprise, etc. 
 The sound is guttural, and sometimes terminates in sob- 
 bing or hic-cough. It has less dignity and grace than the 
 gradual swell of the Median Stress. 
 
 1. 
 
 Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear 
 it ? But I don't care ; I'll go to mother's to-morrov/' ; I 
 will ; and what's more I'll walk every step of the way ; 
 and you know that will give me my death. Don't call me 
 a foolish woman ; 'tis you that's the foolish man. You 
 know I can't wear clogs ; and, with no umbrella, the wet's 
 sure to give me a cold : it always does : but what do you 
 care for that ? Nothing at all. I may be laid up for what 
 you care, as I dare say I shall ; and a pretty doctor's bill 
 there'll be. I hope there will. It will teach you to lend 
 your umbrellas again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my 
 death : yes, and that's what you lent the umbrella for. 
 
 Dovbijlas Jerrold. 
 2. 
 
 Cas. Brutus, bay not me ! 
 I'll not endure it. You forget yourself. 
 
Force. 49 
 
 To hedge me in : I am a soldier, I, 
 
 Older in practice, abler than yourself 
 
 To make conditions. 
 
 Bru. Go to ! you are not, Cassius. 
 
 Gas. I am. 
 
 Bku. I say you are not ! 
 
 Gas. Urge me no more : T shall forget myself: 
 
 Have mind upon your health ; tempt me no farther ! 
 
 Beu. You say you are a better soldier : 
 Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
 And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
 I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 
 
 Gas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus. 
 I said, an elder soldier, not a better. 
 Did I say better ? . 
 
 Beu. If you did, I care not ! 
 
 Gas. When Gsesar lived, he durst not thus have moved 
 me ! 
 
 Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him ? 
 
 Gas. I durst not ? 
 
 Bru. No. 
 
 Gas. What ! durst not tempt him ? 
 
 Bru. For your life, you durst not 1 
 
 Gas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
 I may do that I shall be sorry for. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 COMPOUND STRESS. 
 
 Compound Stress is the natural mode of expressing 
 surprise, and also — though not so frequently — of sar- 
 casm, contempt, mockery, etc. In using this stress the 
 voice, with more or less explosive force, touches strongly 
 and distinctly on both the opening and closing points of 
 a sound or vowel, and passes slightly and almost imper- 
 ceptibly over the middle part. 
 
50 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 1. 
 
 Gone to be married ! Gone to swear a peace ! 
 False blood to false blood joined ! Gone to be friends ! 
 Shall Lewis have Blanche, and Blanche these provinces ? 
 It is not so ; thou hast misspoke, misheard, — 
 Be well advised, tell o'er thy tale again : 
 It can not be ; — thou dost but say 'tis so. 
 
 Shahes'peare. 
 2. 
 
 Julia. Why ! do you think I'll work ? 
 Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife. 
 Julia. What, rub and scrub your noble palace clean ? 
 Duke. Those taper fingers will do it daintily. 
 Julia. And dress your victuals (if there be any) ? 0, I 
 shall go mad. 
 
 Tohin. 
 
 THOROUGH STEESS. 
 
 Thorough Stress is used in expressing command, denun- 
 ciation, bravado, braggadocio, etc. This stress has a degree 
 of force a little stronger than the compound stress, and it 
 is produced by a continuation of the full volume of the 
 voice throughout the whole extent of the sentence. When 
 the time is short the tone resembles that of uncouth rus- 
 tic coarseness. 
 
 1. 
 
 These abominable principles, and this more abominable 
 avowal of them, demand the most decisive indignation. 
 
 2. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
 A louder yet, and yet a louder strain' : 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder, 
 And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder'. 
 Hark ! hark ! the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head. 
 
Force. 51 
 
 As awaked from the dead ; 
 And amazed he stares around. 
 Revenge ! revenge. 
 
 Dryden. 
 
 SEMITONE. 
 
 The progress of pitch through the interval of a half 
 tone. It is called also the Chromatic melody, because it 
 expresses pity, grief, remorse, etc. It may colour a single 
 word, or be continued through an entire passage or selec- 
 tion. 
 
 1. 
 
 The New Fear comes to-night, mamma, " I lay me down 
 
 to sleep, 
 I pray the Lord " — tell poor papa — " my soul to keep. 
 If I "■ — how cold it seems, how dark, kiss me, I cannot^ 
 
 see, — 
 The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year dies^ 
 
 with me. 
 
 The Semitone is very delicate, and must be produced by 
 the nature of the emotion. An excess, when the mood or 
 language does not warrant it, turns pathos into burlesque,. 
 and the scale may very easily be turned from the sublime 
 to the ridiculous. Strength, flexibility, and melody of 
 voice are of little worth if the judgment and taste are 
 defective. 
 
 MONOTONE 
 
 Is a sameness of the voice,, indicating solemnity, power,, 
 reverence, and dread. It is a near approach to one con- 
 tinuous tone of voice, but must not be confounded with 
 monotony. Much of the reading we hear is monotonous- 
 in the extreme, while the judicious use of the monotone 
 would sufficiently vary it, to render it attractive. Mono- 
 tone is of great importance in reading the Bible, the 
 beautiful words of the Church Service, and in prayer, and 
 
52 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 the haste with which these solemn words are often slurred 
 over, is much to be deplored. Monotone is usually accom- 
 panied by slow time, and it is, in fact, a low Orotund. 
 
 1. 
 
 The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firma- 
 ment showeth His handy work. Day unto day uttereth 
 speech, and night unto night showeth knowledge. There 
 is no speech nor language, where their voice is not heard. 
 
 Bible. 
 2. 
 
 These, as they change. Almighty Father ! these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 
 Is full of Thee. 
 
 And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
 In Winter, awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
 Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled — 
 Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing, 
 Riding sublime, Thou bidd'st the world adore, 
 And humblest Nature, with Thy northern blast. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 o 
 o. 
 
 Now o'er the one-half world 
 Nature seems dead ; and wicked dreams abuse 
 The curtain'd sleep ; now witchcraft celebrates 
 Pale Hecate's off'rings ; and wither'd murder, 
 Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, 
 Whose howl's his watch, — thus with his stealthy pace, 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design 
 Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm-set earth ! 
 Hear not my steps, which way they walk ; for fear 
 The very stones prate of my whereabout. 
 And take the present horror for the time 
 Which now suits with it. Shakespare. 
 
t> 
 
 Time. 53 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TIME. 
 
 The varieties of movement in utterance are expressed 
 by Time, which is the measure of the duration of the 
 sounds heard in speech, and it is divided into three 
 general divisions ; Ariz. — Moderate, Quick and Slow time, 
 these being sub-divided by the reader, according to 
 the predominate feeling which the subject seems to re- 
 quire. 
 
 Time and Stress, properly combined and marked, 
 possesses two essential elementary conditions of agreeable 
 discourse, upon which other excellences may be engrafted. 
 If either be feebly marked, other beauties will not redeem 
 it. A well-marked stress, and a graceful extension of 
 time, are essential to agreeable speech, and give brilliancy 
 and smoothness to it. 
 
 MODERATE TIME. 
 
 1. Moderate is the rate used in narrative or conversa- 
 tional style. 
 
 1. 
 
 bright, beautiful, health-inspiring, heart-gladdening 
 water ! Every where around us dwelleth thy meek 
 presence — twin-angel sister of all that is good and precious 
 here ; in the wild forest, on the grassy plain, slumbering 
 in the bosom of the lonely mountain, sailing with viewless 
 wings through the humid air, floating over us in curtains 
 of more than regal splendour — home of the healing angel, 
 when his wings bend to the woes of this fallen world. 
 
 Mihu Burritt. 
 
54 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But thou, Hope ! with eyes so fair ! 
 What was thy delighted measure ? 
 Still it whispered promised pleasure, 
 And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. 
 Still would her touch the strain prolong ; 
 And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale. 
 She called on Echo still through all her song ; 
 And, where her sweetest theme she chose, 
 A soft, responsive voice, was heard at every close ; 
 And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair. 
 
 Collins. 
 3. 
 
 Tell him, for years I never nursed a thought 
 That was not his ; that on his wandering way. 
 Daily and nightly, poured a mourner's prayers. 
 Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share 
 His lowliest lot, — walk by his side, an outcast,— 
 Work for him, beg with him, — live upon the light 
 Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown 
 The Bourbon lost. 
 
 Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 QUICK TIME. 
 
 Quick Time is used in haste, joy, humour, also in anger, 
 and in exciting scenes of any kind. 
 
 1. 
 
 Look up ! look up, Pauline ! for I can bear 
 Thine ey&s, ! the stain is blotted from my name, 
 I have redeemed mine honour. I can call 
 On France to sanction thy divine forgiveness. 
 Oh, joy ! oh rapture ! by the midnight watchfires 
 Thus have I seen thee ! thus foretold this hour ! 
 And 'midst the roar of battle, thus have heard 
 The beating of thy heart against my own ! 
 
 Sir E. Bulwer Lytton, 
 
Time. 55 
 
 Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need ! — 
 And dashed the rowels in his steed, 
 Like arrow through the archway sprung ; 
 The ponderous gate behind him rung : 
 To pass there was such scanty room, 
 The bars, descending, razed his plume. 
 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies. 
 Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
 Not lighter does the swallow skim 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim ; 
 And when Lord Marmion reached his band, 
 He halts, and turns with clenched hand. 
 And shout of loud defiance pours, 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 3. 
 
 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 Away ! — away ! — my breath was gone, 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day. 
 And on he foamed — away ! — away ! 
 The last of human sounds which rose. 
 As I was darted from my foes, 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout : 
 
 Byron. 
 
56 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 SLOW TIME. 
 
 Slow Time is used in all subjects of a serious, deliberate, 
 and dignified character, in solemnity, and grandeur, re- 
 verential awe, earnest prayer, denunciation, and in all 
 the deeper emotions of the soul. 
 
 1. 
 
 Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
 
 The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee: — 
 
 I have thee not ! — and yet I see thee still ! 
 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 
 To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but 
 
 A dagger of the mind — a false creation, 
 
 Proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain ? 
 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 
 As this which now I draw ! 
 
 Thou marshll'st me the way that I was going ! 
 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses. 
 
 Or else worth all the rest. I see tliee still ! 
 
 And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood ! 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 2 
 
 Alon. (c.) For the last time, I have beheld the shadowed 
 ocean close upon the light. For the last time, through 
 my cleft dungeon's roof, I now behold the quivering lustre 
 of the stars. For the last time, O Sun ! (and soon the 
 hour) I shall behold thy rising, and thy level beams melt- 
 ing the pale mists of morn to glittering dew-drops. Then 
 comes my death, and in the morning of my day, I fall, 
 which — No, Alonzo, date not the life which thou hast run 
 by the mean reck'ning of the liours and days, which thou 
 hast breathed : a life spent worthily should be measured 
 by a nobler line ; by deeds, not years. Then would'st thou 
 murmur not, but bless the Providence, which, in so short 
 
Pitch. 57 
 
 a span, made thee the instrument of wide and spreading 
 blessings, to the helpless and oppressed ! Though sink- 
 ing in decrepit age, he prematurely falls, whose memory 
 records no benefit conferred by him on man. They only 
 have lived long, who have lived virtuously. 
 
 Sheridan. 
 
 O thou that roUest above, round as the shield of my 
 fathers ! whence are thy beams, sun ! thy everlasting 
 light ? Thou comest forth in thy awful beauty : the stars 
 hide themselves in the sky ; the moon, cold and pale, sinks 
 in the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone : 
 who can be a companion of thy course ? The oaks of the 
 mountains fall; the mountains themselves decay with 
 years ; the ocean shrinks and grows again ; the moon 
 herself is lost in the heavens ; but thou art forever the 
 same, rejoicing in the brightness of thy course. When 
 the world is dark with tempests, when thunders roll and 
 lightnings fly, thou lookest in thy beauty from the clouds, 
 and laughest at the storm. But to Ossian thou lookest 
 in vain ; for he beholds thy beams no more ; whether thy 
 3'^ellow hair floats on the eastern clouds, or thou tremblest 
 at the gates of the west. But thou art, perhaps, like me, 
 — for a season ; thy years will have an end. Thou wilt 
 sleep in thy clouds, careless of the voice of the morning. 
 
 Ossian, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 PITCH. 
 
 Pitch is the degree of elevation or depression of sound, 
 On the proper pitching of the voice depends much of 
 the ease of the speaker, and upon the modulation 
 
58 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 of the voice depends that variety which is so pleasing 
 and so necessary to relieve the ear, but no definite rules 
 can be given for the regulation of the pitch, — the nature 
 of the sentiment and discriminating taste must determine 
 the proper key note of delivery. He who shouts at the 
 top of his voice is almost sure to break it, and there is no 
 sublimity in shouting, while he who mutters below the 
 proper key note soon wearies himself, becomes inaudible, 
 and oppresses his hearers. Pitch is distinguished as Middle, 
 High, and Low. 
 
 MIDDLE PITCH. 
 
 The Middle Pitch is used in conversational language, 
 and is the note that predominates in good reading and 
 speaking. 
 
 1 
 
 A free, wild spirit unto thee is given. 
 
 Bright minstrel of the blue celestial dome ! 
 For thou wilt wander to yon upper heaven, 
 
 And bathe thy plumage in the sunbeam's home ; 
 And, soaring upward, from thy dizzy height, 
 On free and fearless wing, be lost to human sight. 
 
 Welby. 
 2 
 
 Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
 And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
 Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
 To pause from toU, and trim their evening fire : 
 Blest that abode, where want and pain repair. 
 And every stranger finds a ready chair : 
 Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned. 
 Where all the ruddy family around 
 Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
 Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
 Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
 And learn the luxury of doing good. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
Pitch. 59 
 
 HIGH PITCH. 
 
 High Pitch indicates command, joy, grief, astonishment, 
 etc. To obtain a good control of the voice in a high 
 pitch, practice frequently and energetically with the great- 
 est force and in the highest key you can command. Do 
 not forget to drop the jaw, so as to keep the mouth and 
 throat well open, and be sure to thoroughly inflate the 
 lungs at every sentence, and if the force requires it even 
 on words. Do not allow the voice to break into an im- 
 pure tone of any kind, but stop at once, rest for a short 
 time and then begin again. The following examples are 
 excellent for increasing the compass and flexibility of the 
 voice, and the pupil must practice them frequently and 
 with sustained force. 
 
 1. 
 
 " The game's afoot. 
 Follow your spirit, and upon this charge 
 Cry ' God for Harry, England and Saint George ! ' " 
 
 ShaJcespeare. 
 2. 
 Ring ! Ring ! ! Ring ! ! ! 
 
 Melnotte. Look you our bond is over. Proud conquer- 
 ors that we are, we have won the victory over a simple 
 girl — compromised her honour — embittered her life — 
 blasted in their very blossoms, all the flowers of her youth. 
 This is your triumph, — it is my shame ! Enjoy that 
 triumph, but not in my sight. I was her betrayer — I am 
 her protector ! Cross but her path — one word of scorn, 
 one look of insult — nay, but one quiver of that mocking 
 lip, and I will teach thee that bitter word thou hast 
 graven eternally in this heart — Repentance ! 
 
 Beauseant. His Highness is most grandiloquent. 
 
60 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Melnotte. Highness me no more ! Beware ! Remorse 
 has made me a new being. Away with you ! There is 
 danger in me. Away ! 
 
 Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. 
 
 4. 
 
 Up, comrades, up ! — in Rokeby's halls, 
 Ne'er be it said our courage falls ! 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 5. 
 
 To arms ! To arms ! ! a thousand voices cried. 
 
 6. 
 
 The combat deepens ! On ye brave ! 
 Who rush to glory or the grave. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 7. 
 Charcoal ! Charcoal ! Charcoal ! 
 
 8. 
 Hurrah ! Hurrah ! ! Hurrah ! ! ! 
 
 LOW PITCH, 
 
 Low Pitch is used to express grave, grand, solemn, and 
 reverential feelings, and is very effective in reading. 
 
 To obtain a good control of the voice in Low Pitch, 
 first practice the examples given under the High Pitch, 
 until you are fatigued, then after resting the lungs and 
 vocal organs, practice the lowest and deepest tone you 
 can command, giving, however, a full clear anij resonant 
 sound. 
 
 1. 
 
 Seems, Madam ! Nay, it is ; I know not ' seems,' 
 'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, 
 Nor customary suits of solemn black, 
 
Pitch. 61 
 
 Nor windy suspiration of forced breath ; 
 No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, 
 Nor the dejected 'haviour of the visage. 
 Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, 
 That can denote me truly : these indeed, seem, 
 For they are actions that a man might play ; 
 But I have that within that passes show ; 
 These but the trappings and the suits of woe. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 2. 
 
 Then the earth shook and trembled : the foundations 
 of Heaven moved and shook, because he was wroth. 
 There went up a smoke out of his nostrils ; and fire out 
 his mouth devoured; coals were kindled by it. He 
 bowed the heavens, also, and came down ; and darkness 
 was under his feet ; and he rode upon <a cherub, and did 
 fly ; and he was seen upon the wings of the wind ; and 
 he made darkness pavilions round about him, dark 
 waters, and thick clouds of the skies. The Lord thun- 
 dered from heaven, and the Most High uttered his voice ; 
 and he sent out arrows and scattered them ; lightning and 
 discomfited them. And the channels of the sea appeared ; 
 the foundations of the world were discovered at the re- 
 buking of the Lord, at the blast of the breath of his nos- 
 trils. 
 
 3. 
 
 I am thy father's spirit ; 
 Doomed for a certain term to walk the night. 
 And for the day confined to fast in fires. 
 Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature. 
 Are burned and purged away. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 4. 
 
 O Thou eternal -One ! whose presence bright 
 All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; 
 
62 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight ; 
 Thou only God ! There is no God beside ! 
 Being above all beings ! Three-in-One ! 
 Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; 
 Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone ; 
 Embracing all — supporting — ruling o'er — 
 Being whom we call God — and know no more ! 
 
 Derzhaver. 
 
 TRANSITION. 
 
 Transition signifies a sudden change in the force, 
 quality, movement, or pitch of the voice, as from a sub- 
 dued to a very high tone, from a slow to a rapid rate of 
 utterance, and also the reverse of these movements. It 
 also refers to changes in the style of delivery, as from 
 a persuasive to the declamatory, etc., and to the expres- 
 sion of passion or emotion, as from grief to joy, from fear 
 to courage, etc. 
 
 Transition thus forms a very important part in vocal 
 culture, and public speakers often ask the question : 
 " How can I modulate my voice ? " for they are well 
 aware that nothing relieves the ear more agreeably than 
 a well regulated transition, for who has not been bored 
 by listening to a speaker whose voice throughout has 
 been pitched in one monotonous tone, either too high or 
 too low ? A change of delivery is also necessary when a 
 new train of thought is introduced, for pitch, tone, quality, 
 time, and force should all be changed in conformity with 
 the changes of sentiment. No definite rules can be laid 
 down in relation to the proper management of the voice 
 in transition which would be intelligible without the 
 living teacher to exemplify them. Constant practice 
 must be persevered in to enable the pupil to make the 
 necessary transitions with skill and ease. 
 
 [This selection demands the entire range of the speak- 
 ing voice, in pitch — all qualities, and varied force.] 
 
Pitch. 63 
 
 Hark ! the alarm bell, 'mid the wintry storm ! 
 
 Hear the loud shout ! the rattling engines swarm. 
 
 Hear that distracted mother's cry to save 
 
 Her darling infant from a threatened grave ! 
 
 That babe who lies in sleep's light pinions bound, 
 
 And dreams of heaven, while hell is raging round ! 
 
 Forth springs the Fireman — stay ! nor tempt thy fate ! — 
 
 He hears not — heeds not, — nay, it is too late ! 
 
 See how the timbers crash beneath his feet ! 
 
 0, which way now is left for his retreat ? 
 
 The roaring flames already bar his way, 
 
 Like ravenous demons raging for their prey ! 
 
 He laughs at danger,— pauses not for rest, 
 
 Till the sweet charge is folded to his breast. 
 
 Now, quick, brave youth, retrace your path ; — but lo ! 
 
 A fiery gulf yawns fearfully below ! 
 
 One desperate leap ! — lost ! lost ! — the flames arise 
 
 And paint their triumph on the o'erarching skies ! 
 
 Not lost ! again his tottering form appears ! 
 
 The applauding shouts of rapturous friends he hears ? 
 
 The big drops from his manly forehead roll. 
 
 And deep emotions thriU his generous soul. 
 
 But struggling nature now reluctant yields ; 
 
 Down drops the arm the infant's face that shields. 
 
 To bear the precious burthen all too weak ; 
 
 When, hark ! — the mother's agonising shriek ! 
 
 Once more he's roused, — his eye no longer swims. 
 
 And tenfold strength reanimates his limbs ; 
 
 He nerves his faltering frame for one last bound, — 
 
 " Your child ! " he cries, and sinks upon the ground ! 
 
 And his reward you ask ; — reward he spurns ; 
 For him the father's generous bosom burns,^ — ■ 
 For him on high the widow's prayer shall go, — 
 For him the orphan's pearly tear-drop flow. 
 His boon, — the richest e'er to mortals given, — 
 Approving conscience, and the smile of Heaven 1 
 
64 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 PAUSES. 
 
 " A PAUSE is often more eloquent than words." The com- 
 mon pauses necessary to be made, according to the rules of 
 punctuation, are too well known to require any particular 
 notice here, they serve principally for grammatical distinc- 
 tions, but in public reading or speaking other and some- 
 what different pauses are required. 
 
 The length of the pause in reading must be regalated 
 by the mood and expression and consequently on the 
 movement of the voice, as fast or slow ; slow movements 
 being accompanied by long pauses, and livelier move- 
 ments by shorter ones, the pause, often occurring where 
 no points are found — the sense and sentiments of the 
 passage being the best guides. 
 
 " How did Garrick speak the soliloquy, last night ? " — 
 " Oh ! against all rule, my lord, most ungrammatically ! 
 Betwixt the substantive and the adjective, which should 
 agree together in- number, case, and gender, he made a 
 breach thus ■ stopping, as if the point wanted set- 
 tling; and betwixt the nominative case, which, your 
 ^ lordship knows, should govern the verb, he suspended his 
 voice in the epilogue a dozen times, three seconds and 
 three-fifths by a stop-watch, my lord, each time." " Admi- 
 rable grammarian ! — But, in suspending his voice, — was 
 the sense suspended ? — Did no expression of attitude or 
 countenance fill up the chasm ? — ^Was the eye silent ? 
 Did you narrowly look ? " — " I looked only at the stop- 
 watch, my lord ! " — " Excellent observer ! " 
 
 Sterne. 
 
 „ A Rhetorical Pause — is one not dependent on the gram- 
 matical construction of a sentence, but is a pause made 
 
Pauses. 65 
 
 to enable the speaker to direct attention to some particular 
 word or phrase, and is made by suspending the voice 
 either directly before or after the utterance of the import- 
 tant phrase. In humorous speaking the pause is gene- 
 rally before the phrase, as it awakens curiosity and excites 
 expectation ; while in serious sentiments it occurs after 
 and carries the mind back to what has already been said. 
 A pause of greater or less duration is always required 
 whenever an interruption occurs in the progress of a 
 thought, or the uniform construction of a sentence, as in 
 the case of the dash, the exclamation, the parenthesis, etc. 
 In these cases the mind is supposed to be arrested by the 
 sudden change of sentiment or passion. It is necessary 
 in most cases to make a short pause just before the par- 
 enthesis, which read more rapidly, and in a more subdued 
 tone ; when the parenthesis is concluded, resume your 
 former pitch and tone of voice. 
 
 EXAMPLES OF RHETORICAL PAUSES. 
 
 (1.) After the subject of a sentence : 
 Wine I is a mocker. 
 
 (2.) After the subject-phrase : 
 
 The fame of Milton | will live forever. 
 
 (3.) When the subject is inverted : 
 The best of books | is the Bible. 
 
 (4.) Before the prepositional phrase : 
 
 The boat is sailing | across the river. 
 
 (5.) After every emphatic word : 
 William | is an honest boy. 
 William is \ an honest boy. 
 William is an honest | boy. 
 
 (6.) Whenever an ellipsis occurs : 
 This I friend, that | brother, 
 Friends and brothers all. 
 
 (7.) In order to arrest the attention : 
 The cry was | peace, peace ! 
 D 
 
66 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 EMPHASIS. 
 
 Emphasis generally may be divided into two classes — 
 
 Emphasis of sense and Emphasis of feeling. Emphasis 
 
 relates to the mode of giving expression ; properly defined 
 
 it includes whatever modulation of the voice or expedient 
 
 the speaker may use, to render what he says significant 
 
 or expressive of the meaning he desires to convey, for we 
 
 may, by this means, give very different meanings to our 
 
 sentences, according to the application of emphasis. For 
 
 instance, take the sentence—" Thou art a man." When 
 
 delivered in a cool and deliberate manner, it is a very 
 
 plain sentence, conveying no emotion, nor emphasis, nor 
 
 interrogation. But when one of the words is emphasized, 
 
 the sentence will be very different froui what it was in 
 
 the first instance ; and very different, again, when another 
 
 word is made emphatic ; and so, again, whenever the 
 
 emphasis is changed, the meaning is also changed ; as, 
 
 " Thou art a man. ' That is thou in opposition to another, 
 
 or because thou hast proved thyself to be one. " Thou art 
 
 a MAN." That is a gentleman. " Thou art a man." That 
 
 is, in opposition to " thou hast been a man," or " thou tvilt 
 
 he one." " Thou art A man." That is, in opposition to the 
 
 man, or a particular man. 
 
 Then, again, the sentence may be pronounced in a very 
 low tone of voice, and with force or without force. It may 
 be raised uniting a good deal of stress, or without stress ; 
 and then, again, it may be heard with the greatest force, 
 or with moderate force. Each of these latter modes of 
 intonation will make a very different impression on an 
 audience, according to the employment of the other ele- 
 ments of expression, with that of the general pitch. 
 
 In addition to these, the sentence may be pronounced 
 in a very low and soft tone, implying kindness of feeling. 
 Then, in a whisper, intimating secrecy or mystery. It may 
 be heard on the semitone, high or low, to communicate 
 diflferent degrees of pathos. And then, again, the TREMOR 
 
Pauses. 67 
 
 may be heard on one or all of the words, to give greater 
 intensity to other elements of expression which may be 
 employed. As, also, a gjjttural emphasis may be applied 
 to express anger, scorn, or loathing. These are some 
 of the different meanings which may be given to this 
 sentence of four words by the voice. A good reader, or 
 speaker, then, ought not only to be able to sound every 
 word correctly ; he ought to know, always, the iXACT 
 meaning of what he reads, and feel the sentiment he 
 utters, and also to know how to give the intended mean- 
 ing and emotion, when he knows them. 
 
 By practice upon the different exercises herein, the 
 student will not fail to recognize the emotion from the sen- 
 timent, and will be able to give it. 
 
 Emphasis of feeling is suggested and governed entirely 
 by emotion, and is not strictly necessary to the sense, but 
 is in the highest degree expressive of sentiment. 
 
 1. On ! OK ! you noble English. 
 
 2. Slaves ! traitors ! have ye flown ? 
 
 3. To arms ! to arms ! ye braves ? 
 
 4. Be assured, be assured, that this declaration will 
 stand. 
 
 5. Rise, RISE, ye wild tempefsts, and cover his flight! 
 
 6. To arms ! to arms ! to ARMS ! they cry. 
 
 7. Hurrah for bright water ! hurrah ! HURRAH ! 
 
 8. I met him, faced him, SCORNED him. 
 
 9. Horse ! horse ! and CHASE ! 
 
 10. The charge is utterly, totally, MEANLY, false. 
 
 11. Ay, cluster there ! Cling to your master, judges, 
 ROMANS, SLATES. 
 
 1 2. 1 defy the honourable gentleman; I defy the govern- 
 ment ; I defy the WHOLE PHALANX. 
 
 13. He has allowed us to meet you here, and in the 
 name of the present generation, in the name of your 
 country, in the name of LIBERTY, to thank you. 
 
 14. They shouted France ! Spain ! ALBION ! VIC- 
 TORY! 
 
68 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 CLIMAX. 
 
 Climax or cumulative einphasis, consists of a series of 
 particulars or emphatic words or sentences, in which each 
 successive particular, word, or sentence rises in force and 
 importance to the last. 
 
 INFLECTIONS. 
 
 The inflections of the voice, consist of those peculiar 
 slides which it takes in pronouncing syllables, words, or 
 sentences. 
 
 There are two of these slides, the upward and the 
 downward. The upward is called the rising inflection, and 
 the downward the falling inflection, and when these are 
 combined it is known as the circumflex. 
 
 The rising inflection is used in cases of doubt and uncer- 
 tainty, or when the sense is incomplete or dependent on 
 something following. The falling inflection is used when 
 the sense is finished and completed, or is independent of 
 anything that follows. 
 
 Indirect questions usually require the falling inflection. 
 
 Falling inflections give power and emphasis to words. 
 Rising inflections give beauty and variety. Rising inflec- 
 tions may also be emphatic, but their effect is not so great 
 as that of falling inflections. 
 
 1 
 
 I am\ 
 
 Life is 8hort\ 
 Eternity is long\ 
 If they return'. 
 Forgive us our sins'. 
 Depart thou\ 
 
 What' though the field be lost' ? 
 Air is not' lost' : the uncon'querable will'. 
 And stud'y of revenge', immor'tal hate', 
 And cour'age nev'er to submit' or yield'. 
 
Inftectiowi. 69 
 
 3 
 
 And be thou instruc'ted, oh, Jeru\salem', lest my soul 
 depart' from thee ; lest I make thee' des'olate, a land not' 
 inhab'ited. 
 
 If the members of a concluding series are not emphatic, 
 they all take the rising inflection except the last, which 
 takes the falling inflection ; but if emphatic, they all take 
 tlie falling inflection except the last but one, which takes 
 the rising inflection. 
 
 The dew is dried up', the star is shot', the flight is past', 
 the man forgot'. 
 
 He tried each art', reproved each dull delay', allured to 
 brighter worlds' and led the way'. 
 
 They will celebrate it with thanksgiving', with festivity' 
 with bonfires', with illuminations'. 
 
 He was so young', so intelligent', so generous', so brave 
 so everything', that we are apt to like in a young man'. 
 
 My doctrine shall drop as the rain', my speech shall 
 distill as the dew', as the small rain upon the tender herb' 
 and as the showers upon the grass'. 
 
 THE CIRCUMFLEX OR WAVE. 
 
 The Circumflex is a union of the two inflections, and is 
 of two kinds ; viz., the Rising and the Falling Circumflex. 
 The rising circumflex begins with the falling, and ends 
 with the rising inflection ; the falling circumflex begins 
 with the rising, and ends with the falling inflection. 
 
 Positive assertions of irony, raillery, etc., have the fall- 
 ing circumflex, and all negative assertions of doubled 
 meaning will have the rising. Doubt, pity, contrast, gi'ief, 
 supposition, comparison, irony, implication, sneering, rail- 
 lery, scorn, reproach, and contempt, are all expressed by 
 the use of the wave of the circumflex. Be sure and get 
 the right feeling and thought, and you will find no difii- 
 culty in expressing them properly, if you have mastered 
 the voice. 
 
70 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Both these cii'cumflex inflections may be exemplified in 
 the word " so," in a speech of the clown, in Shakespeare's 
 " As You Like It : " 
 
 " I knew when seven justices could not take up a quar- 
 rel; but when the parties were met themselves, one of 
 them thought but of an If ; as if you said so, then I said 
 s6. Oh, h6 ! did you say fiS? So they shook hands, and 
 were sworn friends." 
 
 The Queen of Denmark, in reproving her son, Hamlet, 
 on account of his conduct towards his step-father, whom 
 she married shortly after the murder of the king, her hus- 
 band, says to him, " Hamlet, you have your father much 
 offended." To which he replies, with a circumflex on you, 
 "Madam, ySu have my father much offended." He meant 
 his own father ; she his siep-father. He would also inti- 
 mate that she was accessory to his father's murder ; and 
 his peculiar reply was like daggers in her soul. 
 
 In the following reply of Death to Satan, there is a 
 frequent occurrence of circumflexes, mingled with con- 
 tempt : " And reckon 's thou thyself with spirits of heaven, 
 hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here, and scorn where 
 I reign king ? — and, to enrage thee more, th^y king and 
 lord !" The voice is circumflexed on heaven, hell-doomed, 
 king, and thy, nearly an octave. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 PERSONATION. 
 
 Personation is the representation, by a single reader or 
 speaker, of the words, manners, and actions of one or 
 several persons. The change of voice in personation in 
 public reading is of great importance, but is generally 
 overlooked, or but little practiced. 
 
Personation. 71 
 
 The student must practice assiduouly upon such pieces 
 as require Personation in connection with narrative and 
 descriptive sentences, and he must use the Time, Pitch, 
 Force, and Gesture, which are appropriate to the expres- 
 sion of the required thought. For example, if it be the 
 words uttered by a dying child, the Pitch will be low, 
 Pure Voice, slightly Tremor, Time slow, with a pause be- 
 tween the narrative and the quoted words of the child, 
 these last being given very softly and hesitatingly. 
 
 i; 
 
 " Tell father, when he comes from work, I said good- 
 night to him ; and mother — now-I'll-go-to-sleep." 
 
 The last words very soft, and hesitating utterance. 
 
 Before this example, is another in the same selection, 
 not quite so marked, which we give from the third verse. 
 She gets her answer from the child ; softly fall the words 
 from him — 
 
 " Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim ! 
 I have no pain, dear mother, now, — but oh, I am so drj' ! 
 Just moisten poor Jim's lips again — and, mother, don't 
 
 you cry." 
 With gentle, trembling haste, she held the liquid to his 
 
 lips, 
 
 That which is quoted is supposed to be uttered by the 
 dying child, and can not be given effectively without the 
 changes in voice, etc., referred to above. 
 
 If, however, the climax of the narrative is a battle 
 scene, and the Personation represents an officer giving a 
 command, then a most marked change must be made in 
 the voice between the narrative and the personation, 
 which demands Full Force, Quick Time, High Pitch, and 
 Orotund Quality, and the narrative portion will commence 
 with Moderate Pitch and Time (increasing), and Medium 
 Force. 
 
72 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! 
 ' Charge for the guns !' he said, 
 Into the valley of death 
 
 Rode the Six Hundred." 
 
 2. 
 
 (desc.) And when Peter' saw it, he answered unto the 
 people : (per.) " Ye men of Israel, why marvel ye at this ? 
 or why look ye so earnestly. on us, as though by our own 
 power or holiness, we had made this man to walk ?" etc. 
 
 To read the Bible acceptably in public, requires the 
 application of every principle in elocution ; for nowhere 
 is Expression so richly rewarded, as in the pronunciation 
 of the sacred text. The Descriptive and Personation 
 should be so distinctly marked, that the attention will be 
 at once attracted to the different styles, and the meaning 
 understood. 
 
 EXPRESSION. 
 
 The study of Expression is one of the most important 
 parts of elocution, as it is the application of all the 
 principles that form the science of utterance. It is the 
 Art of elocution. Expression then should be the chief 
 characteristic of all public reading and speaking. The 
 student must forget self, and throw himself entirely into 
 the spirit of what he reads, for the art of feeling is the 
 true art which leads to a just expression of the features : 
 
 " To this one standard make you just appeal. 
 Here lies the golden secret, learn to feel." 
 
 The voice under the influence of feeling, gives the l)eauti- 
 ful colouring, and breathes life and reality to the mental 
 picture. Ever}' turn in the current of feeling should be 
 carefully observed and fully expressed. Not only the 
 
Personation . 73 
 
 varied changes of the voice, however, but the indications 
 by all the features of the countenance, contribute a share 
 to give a good expression, and by far the greatest is de- 
 rived from the eyes. The management of the eyes is, 
 therefore, the most important of all — 
 
 " A. single look more marks the eternal woe, 
 Than all the windings of the lengthened, oh ! 
 Up to the face the quick sensation flies, 
 And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes ; 
 Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair. 
 And all the passions, all the soul is there." 
 
 The eye of the orator, and the expressive movements of 
 the muscles of his face, often tell more than his words, 
 his body or his hands, and when the eye is lighted up and 
 glowing with meaning and intelligence, and frequently 
 and properly directed to the person or persons addressed, 
 it tends greatly to rivet the attention, and deepen the 
 interest of the hearer, as well as to heighten the 
 effect, and enforce the importance of the sentiments 
 delivered. To the eyes belong the effusion of tears, 
 and to give way to this pi'oof of feeling should not 
 be called a mark of weakness, but rather a proof of 
 sensibility, which is the test of sincerity. 
 
 Next to the eyes, the month is the most expressive 
 part of the countenance. "The Mouth," says Cresallius, 
 " is the vestibule of the soul, the door of eloquence, and 
 the place in which the thoughts hold their highest de- 
 bates." It is the seat of grace and sweetness ; smiles and 
 good temper play around it ; composure calms it ; and 
 discretion keeps the door of its lips. Every bad habit 
 defaces the soft beauty of the mouth, and leaves indelible 
 traces of its injury, they should, therefore, be carefully 
 avoided. The motion of the lips should be moderate, to 
 moisten them by thrusting the tongue between them is 
 very disagreeable, and biting the lips is equally unbecom- 
 ing. We should speak with the mouth, more than with 
 the lips. 
 
74 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Unless the pupil is very careful, he will find some diffi- 
 culty in keeping the mouth sufficiently wide, open, he 
 will gradually close the mouth until the teeth are brought 
 nearly together, before the sound is finished, the inevi- 
 table consequence of which is a smothered, imperfect and 
 lifeless utterance of the syllable or word. A good open- 
 ing of the mouth is absolutely indispensable in giving the 
 voice the full eiFect of round, smooth and agreeable tone. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 GESTURE. 
 
 As more or less action must necessarily accompany the 
 words of every speaker who delivers his sentiments in 
 earnest, as they ought to be to move and persuade, it is of 
 the utmost importance to him that that action be appro- 
 priate and natural — never forced and awkward, but easy 
 and graceful, except where the nature of the subject re- 
 quires it to be bold and vehement. If argument were 
 necessarj'' to enforce the importance of cultivation in 
 gesticulation, one sufficiently cogent might be drawn from 
 the graceful skill and power displayed in this art by the 
 best actors on the stage. No truth is clearer than that 
 their excellence in this is due to their own industry. 
 
 But, in applying art to the aid of Oratory, and 
 especially in copying the gesture of those who excel in 
 it, great caution is to be observed. No true orator can be 
 formed after any model. He that copies or borrows from 
 any one, should be careful in the first place, not to copy 
 his peculiarities or defects : and whatever is copied, should 
 be so completely brought under command, by long prac- 
 tice, as to appear perfectly natural. Art should never be 
 
Gesture. 75 
 
 allowed to put any restraint upon nature ; but should be 
 so completely refined and subdued as to appear to be tbe 
 work of nature herself ; for whenever art is allowed to 
 supersede nature, it is immediately detected, shows affec- 
 tation, and is sure to disgust, rather than please and im- 
 press, the hearer. 
 
 In general terms, force and grace may be considered 
 the leading qualities of good action. In pleasing emo- 
 tions the eye of the speaker follows the gesture, but in 
 negative expressions the head is averted. The stroke of 
 the hand terminates on the emphatic word. Be careful 
 not to " saw the air " with the hands, but to move them 
 in graceful curved lines. They should move steadily, and 
 rest on the emphatic word, returning to the side after the 
 emotion is expressed that called them into action. 
 
 The following positions And directions are as good as 
 any, that can be expressed in a small compass, and they 
 are given here for practice. One caution must be noted, 
 which is, that excess of action is nearly as detrimental in 
 oratory as no action It becomes the speaker, therefore, 
 in this, as well as in everything else, that pertains to elo- 
 cution and oratory, to avoid extremes. 
 
 I. POSITION OF THE HAND. 
 
 1. Supine ; open hand, fingers relaxed, palm upward > 
 used in appeal, entreaty, in expressing light, joyous emo- 
 tions, etc. 
 
 2. Prone ; open hand, palm downward ; used in nega- 
 tive expressions, etc. 
 
 3. Vertical ; open hand, palm outward ; for repelling, 
 warding off, etc. 
 
 4. Clenched; hand tightly closed; used in defiance, 
 courage, threatening, etc. 
 
 5. Pointing; prone hand, loosely closed, with index 
 finger extended ; used in pointing out, designating, etc. 
 
76 
 
 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 II. DIRECTION. 
 
 1. Front; the hand descending below the hip, extend- 
 ing horizontally, or ascending to a level or above the 
 head, at right angles with the speaker's body. 
 
 2. Oblique ; at an angle of forty -five degrees from the 
 speaker's body. 
 
 3. Extended ; direct from the speaker's side. 
 
 4. Backward ; reverselj^ corresponding to the oblique. 
 
 B 
 
 H 
 
 S. 
 
 R 
 
 H. 
 
 P. 
 
 R.H. 
 
 V. 
 
 B 
 
 H. 
 
 s, 
 
 B 
 
 H. 
 
 p. 
 
 B 
 
 H. 
 
 V. 
 
 
 D. 
 
 f. 
 
 
 H. 
 
 f. 
 
 
 A. 
 
 f. 
 
 
 D. 
 
 0. 
 
 
 H. 
 
 0. 
 
 
 A. 
 
 0. 
 
 
 D. 
 
 e. 
 
 
 H. 
 
 e. 
 
 
 A. 
 
 e. 
 
 
 D. 
 
 b. 
 
 
 H. 
 
 b. 
 
 
 A.. 
 
 b. 
 
 DiEBCTIONS. 
 
 The dotted words indicate 
 where the hand is to be raised 
 in preparation. 
 
 The gesture is made upon the 
 words in capitals. 
 
 The hand drops upon the 
 italicized word or syllable fol- 
 lowing the word in capitals. 
 If italicized words precede the 
 word in capitals, it indicates 
 that the hand is to follow the 
 line of gesture. 
 
 Abbkeviations. 
 Right Hand Supine. 
 Right Hand Prone. 
 Right Hand Vertical. 
 Both Hands Supine. 
 Both Hands Prone. 
 Both Hands Vertical. 
 Descending Front. 
 Horizontal Front. 
 Ascending Front. 
 Descending Oblique. 
 Horizontal Oblique. 
 Ascending Oblique. 
 Descending Extended. 
 Horizontal Extended. 
 Ascending Extended. 
 Descending Backward. 
 Horizontal Backward. 
 Ascending Backward. 
 
 The following examples have appeared in several works 
 on Elocution — " The New York Speaker," " Reading and 
 Elocution," etc. 
 
 E. H. s. 
 
 D. f. This sentiment I will maintain | with the last 
 breath of LIFE. 
 
 //. /. I appeal | to you, sir, for your de cis ion. 
 
 A. f. t appeal | to the great Searcher of hearts for 
 the truth of what I ut ter. 
 
Gesture. 77 
 
 D. 0. Of all mistakes | NONE are so /« tal as those 
 which we incur through prejudice. 
 
 H. 0. Truth, honour, | JUS tice were his mo tives. 
 
 A. 0. Fix your eye | on the prize of a truly no ble am- 
 hi tion. 
 
 D. e. Away | with an idea so absurd ! 
 
 H. e. The breeze of morning | wafted in cense on the 
 air. 
 
 A. e. In dreams thro' camp and coui't he bore | the 
 trophies of a con queror. 
 
 D. b. Away | with an idea so abhorrent to humanity! 
 
 H. b. Search the records of the remotest an Ti quity for 
 a parallel to this. 
 
 A. b. Then rang their proud HURRAH ! 
 
 E. H. p. 
 
 D. f. Put DOWN I the unworthy feeling ! 
 H. f. Ee STRAIN the unhallowed pro pen sity. 
 i). 0. Let every one who would merit the Christian name 
 I re PRESS I such a feeling. 
 H. 0. I charge you as men and as Christians | to lay a 
 re STRAINT on all such dispo si tions! 
 
 A. o. Ye gods 1 with hold your ven geance ! 
 
 D. e. The hand of affection | shall smooth the turf for 
 
 your last -pil low ! 
 
 H. e. The cloud of adver | sity threw its gloom over all 
 
 his PROS pects. 
 
 A. e. So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud that swathes 
 
 I as with a purple shroud Benledi's distant hill. 
 
 R. H. V. 
 
 H. f. Arise ! meet | and re PEL your foe ! 
 
 A. f. For BID it, Almighty God ! 
 
78 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 H. 0. He generously extended the arm of power | to 
 ward OFF the blow. 
 
 A. o. May Heaven a veet the cal am ity ! 
 H. e. Out of my SIGHT, | thou serpent ! 
 
 H. h. Thou tempting fiend, a VAUNT ! 
 
 B. H. s. 
 
 B. f. All personal feeling he de pos ited on the al tar 
 of his country's good. 
 
 H. f. Listen, 1 im PLORE you, to the voice of rea son ! 
 
 A. f. Hail, universal Lord ! 
 
 D. 0. Every personal advantage | he sur ken dered to 
 the common good. 
 
 H. 0. Welcome ! once more to your early home ! 
 
 A. 0. Hail ! holy Light ! 
 
 D. e. I utterl}' re NOUNCE | all the supposed advantages 
 of such a station. 
 
 H. e. They yet slept | in the wide a byiss of possi bil ity. 
 
 A. e. Joy, joy | for ever. 
 
 B. H. p. 
 
 D. f. Lie LIGHT ly on him, earth — his step was light on 
 
 thee. 
 
 H. f. Now all the blessings of a glad father light on 
 
 thee ! 
 
 A. f. Blessed be Thy name, Lord Most High. 
 
 D. o. We are in Thy sight | but as the worms of the 
 
 DUST ! 
 
 H. o. May the grace of God | abide luith you for ever. 
 A. 0. And let the triple rainbow rest | o'er all the 
 
 mountain tops. 
 
 D. e. Here let the tumults of passion | forever CEASE / 
 H. e. Spread wide a round the heaven-breathing calm ! 
 A. e. Heaven | opened wide her ever-during gates. 
 
Gesture. 79 
 
 B. H. V. 
 
 H. f. Hence, hideous spectre ! 
 
 A. /. Avert, God, the frown of Thy indignation ! 
 
 H. 0. Far from our hearts be so inhuman a feeling. 
 
 A. o. Let me not | name it to you, ye chaste stars ! 
 
 H. e. And if the night have gathered aught of evil or 
 concealed, dis peuse it. 
 A. e. Melt and dis pel, ye spectre doubts ! 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO AN AUDIENCE. 
 
 The speaker shoiild present himself to the audience with 
 modesty, and without any show of self-consequence, and 
 should avoid everything opposed to true dignity and self 
 respect ; he should feel the importance of his subject and 
 the occasion. He should be deliberate and calm, and 
 should take his position with his face directed to the 
 audience. 
 
 A bow, being the most marked and appropriate symbol 
 of respect, should be made on the last step going to his 
 place on the platform. In making a graceful bow, there 
 should be a gentle bend of the whole body, the eyes 
 should not be permitted to fall below the person ad- 
 dressed, and the arms should lightly move forward, and a 
 little inward. On raising himself into an erect position 
 from the introductory bow, the speaker should fall back 
 into the first position of the advanced foot. In this 
 position he commences to speak. In his discourse let 
 him appear graceful, easy, and natural, and when warmed 
 and animated by the importance of his subject, his 
 
80 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 dignity and mien should become still more elevated and 
 commanding, and he should assume a somewhat lofty and 
 noble bearing. 
 
 ADVICE TO STUDENTS. 
 
 The student must ever bear in mind that there is no 
 royal road of attaining excellence in Elocutionary art with- 
 out labour. No matter under what favourable circum- 
 stances he may have been placed for observing good 
 methods, or how much aid he may receive from good 
 teachers, he never can make any real improvement, unless 
 he does the work for himself, and by diligence and perse- 
 verance he may achieve a great measure of success, and 
 free himself from many blemishes and defects. 
 
 As the highest attainment of art, is the best imitation 
 of nature, to attain to excellence in art the student must 
 study nature as it exists in the manner of the age, — 
 
 " And catch the manners, living as they rise." 
 
 The rules of every science, as far as they are just and 
 useful, are founded in nature, or in good usage ; hence 
 their adoption and application tend to free us from our 
 artificial defects, all of which may be regarded as depart- 
 ures from the simplicity of nature. Let the student, 
 therefore, ever bear in mind that whatever is artificial is 
 unnatural, and that whatever is unnatural is opposed to 
 genuine eloquence. 
 
 Good reading is exactly like good talking — ^one, there- 
 fore, who would read well or who would speak well, who 
 would interest, rivet the attention, convince the under- 
 standing, and excite the feelings of his hearers — need not 
 expect to do it by any extraordinary exertion or desper- 
 ate effort ; for genuine eloquence is not to be wooed and 
 won by any such boisterous course of courtship, but by 
 more gentle means. But, the pupil must not be tied 
 down to a too slavish attention to rules, for one flash of 
 genuine emotion, one touch of real nature, will produce 
 
Introduction to an Audience. 81 
 
 a greater effect than the application of all the studied 
 rules of rhetorical art. 
 
 " He who in earnest studies o'er his part, 
 Will find true nature cling around his heart, 
 The modes of grief are not included all 
 In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl." 
 
 Before attempting to give a piece in public the pupil 
 must practice it well in private, until the words and ideas 
 are perfectly familiar, and it must be repeated o'er and 
 o'er again, with perfect distinctness and clear articulation, 
 — for more declaimers break down in consequence of for- 
 getting the words of their piece, than from any other 
 cause, and the pupil must practice assiduously until there 
 is no danger of failure from this source. 
 
 Do not be discouraged if your early attempts are not very 
 successful ones, but persevere ; the most renowned actors 
 and orators were not at all remarkable in the commance- 
 ment of their career, they all, with scarcely an exception, 
 attained to eminence by untiring perseverence. 
 
 Never rest satisfied with having done as you think — - 
 " well " — ^but be constantly trying to improve and to do 
 better, and do not let the flattery of injudicious friends 
 lead you to imagine you have a remarkable genius for 
 oratory or for reading — such a foolish notion will be pro- 
 ductive of great harm and effectually stop your further 
 improvement, and those who are led to believe they are 
 great geniuses and above the necessity of being guided 
 by the rules suited for more commonplace mortals, rarely, 
 if ever, attain to eminence, or become useful members of 
 society. 
 
 Do not rely too much on others for instruction or ad- 
 vice as to the way of reading or speaking a passage, think 
 for yourself, read it over carefully until you have formed 
 a definite opinion as to how it ought to be delivered, then 
 declaim it according to your own idea of its meaning and 
 character. 
 
82 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Avoid everything like affectation; think of your sub- 
 ject and its requirements, not of yourself, and do not try 
 to make a great display. Let your tone, look and ges- 
 tures be all in harmony — be deliberate, yet earnest and 
 natural ; let nature be the mistress with art for her hand- 
 maiden. 
 
 Do not be such a slavish imitator of others, that it can 
 be said of you, as it is of many — " Oh ! I know who 
 taught him Elocution. Every gesture and every move- 
 ment is in accordance with some specific rule, and a slav- 
 ish mannerism that never breaks into the slightest origi- 
 nality, marks his whole delivery, and all of 's pupils 
 
 do exactly the same way." 
 
 Remember always that the Golden Rule of Elocution 
 is : — 
 
 BE ITA'l'UEAL AND BE IN EARNEST. 
 
GENERAL EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE. 
 
 QUICK TIME — INCREASE — HIGH PITCH — OROTUND. 
 
 Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, 
 
 The dust like the smoke from the cannon's mouth. 
 
 Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, 
 
 Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. 
 
 The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
 
 Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
 
 Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; 
 
 Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play. 
 
 With Sheridan only ten miles away ! 
 
 Under his spuming feet, the road 
 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed ; 
 
 And the landscape sped away behind. 
 
 Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 
 
 And the steed, like a barque fed with furnace ire. 
 
 Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire ; — 
 
 But, lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ! 
 
 He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. 
 
 With Sheridan only five miles away ! 
 
 MIDDLE PITCH — PURE. 
 
 How peaceful the grave — its quiet, how deep ! Its 
 zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep, and flowerets 
 perfume it with ether ! 
 
 ASPIRATE. 
 
 How ill this taper burns ! 
 
 Ha ! who comes here ? 
 I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 
 That shapes this monstrous apparition. 
 
84 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 It comes upon me ! Art thou any thing ? 
 Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil. 
 That makest my blood cold, and my hair to stare ? 
 Speak to me what thou art. 
 
 OROTUND — HIGH AND VARIED PITCH. 
 
 Confusion reigned below, and crowds on deck 
 With ashen faces and wild questionings 
 Rushed to her fated side ; another crash 
 Succeeded, then a pause, an awful pause 
 Of terror and dismay. They see it all ! 
 There floats the direful cause 'longside them now ! 
 " Ahoy ! " the seamen cry ; " Ahoy ! ahoy ! 
 Four hundred souls aboard ! Ahoy ! ahoy ! " 
 " All will be well ! " " No, no, she heeds us not ! " 
 And shrieks of awful frenzy fill the air— 
 ■■' We sink ! we sink ! " but lo ! the aid so near 
 Slinks like a recreant coward out of sight. 
 
 No sign of succour — none ! Now wild despair 
 And cowardice, thy reign has come ; the strong 
 Are weak, the weak are strong. 
 The captain cries aloud — " Launch yonder boat ! " 
 The maddened crowd press toward it, but he shouts : 
 " Stand back, and save the women ! " They but laugh 
 With curses their response. Behold the waves 
 Are gaping to receive them ! still he cries 
 " Back, back, or I will fire ! " — their reply 
 Comes in a roar of wild defiant groans. 
 
 PLAINTIVE — PURE. 
 
 Pauline. Thrice have I sought to speak : my courage 
 fails me. 
 Sir, is it true that you have known — nay, are you 
 The friend of— Melnotte ? 
 
 Melnotte. Lady, yes ! — Myself 
 And Misery know the_man'! 
 
General Examples for Practice. 85 
 
 Pauline. And you will see him, 
 And you will bear to him — ay — word for word, 
 All that this heart, which breaks in parting from him 
 Would send, ere still for ever. 
 
 Melnotte. He hath told me 
 You have the right to choose from out the world 
 A worthier bridegroom ; — he foregoes all claim 
 Even to murmur at his doom. Speak on ! 
 
 Pauline. Tell him, for years I never nursed a thought 
 That was not his ; that on his wandering way 
 Daily and nightly poured a mourner's prayers. 
 Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share 
 His lowliest lot, — walk by his side, an outcast, — 
 Work for him, beg with him, — live upon the light 
 Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown 
 The Bourbon lost ! 
 
 Melnotte {aside). Am I already mad ? 
 And does delirium utter such sweet words 
 Into a dreamer's ear ? {aloud) You love him thus 
 And yet desert him ? 
 
 Pauline. Say, that, if his eye 
 Could read this heart, — its struggles, its temptations — 
 His love itself would pardon that desertion ! 
 Look on that poor old man — he is my father ; 
 He stands upon the verge of an abyss ; 
 He calls his child to save him ! Shall I shrink 
 from him who gave me birth ? Withhold my hand 
 And see a parent perish ? Tell him this. 
 And say — that we shall meet again in Heaven ! 
 
 SLOW — LOW OROTUND. 
 
 The stars - shall fade away, -the sun -himself - 
 Grow dim - with age, - and Nature - sink - in years ; 
 But thou - shalt flourish - in immortal youth,- 
 Unhurt - amidst the war of elements,- 
 The wreck of matter, - and the crash of worlds. 
 
86 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 MODERATE. — PUKE. 
 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man, 
 With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children followed, with endearing wile, 
 And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile : 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 ASTONISHMENT AND SURPRISE. 
 
 Whence and what art thou, execrable shape ! 
 That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance 
 Thy miscreated front athwart my way 
 To yonder gates 1 Through them, I mean to pass — 
 That be assured — without leave asked of thee ! 
 Retire, or taste thy folly ; and learn by proof, 
 Hell-born ! not to contend with spirits of heaven ! 
 
 ANGER. 
 
 Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire ; in lightnings 
 owned his secret stings ; with one rude clash he struck 
 the lyre, and swept with hurried hand, the strings. 
 
 PITY. 
 
 The Duchess marked his weary pace, his timid mien, 
 and reverend face ; and bade her page the menials tell, 
 that they should tend the old man well ; for she had 
 
General Examples for Practice. 87 
 
 known adversity, though born in such a high degree ; in 
 pride of power, in beauty's bloom, had wept o'er Mon- 
 mouth's bloody tomb. 
 
 EBVENGE. 
 
 And longer had she sung — but, with a frown. Revenge 
 impatient rose ; he threw his blood-stained sword in 
 thunder down ; and, with a withering look, the war- 
 denouncing trumpet took, and blew a blast — so loud and 
 dread, were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. 
 
 COT7RAGE. 
 
 " Fight on !" quoth he, undaunted, but our war-ships steered 
 
 away; 
 " She will burst," they said, " and sink us, one and all, 
 
 beneath the bay;" 
 But our captain knew his duty, and we cheered him as 
 
 he cried, 
 " To the rescue ! We are brothers — let us perish side by 
 
 side !" 
 
 HORROR. 
 
 Avaunt ! and quit my sight ! Let the earth hide thee ! 
 
 Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold : 
 
 Thou hast no speculation in those eyes 
 
 Which thou dost glare with ! Hence, horrible shadow, 
 
 Unreal mockery, hence ! 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 All's for the best ! set this on your standard, 
 
 Soldier of sadness, or pilgrim of love. 
 Who to the shores of Despair may have wandered, 
 
 A way- wearied swallow, or heart-stricken dove ; 
 All's for the best ! — be a man but confiding. 
 
 Providence tenderly governs the rest. 
 And the frail barque of his creature is guiding 
 
 Wisely and warily, all for the best. 
 
88 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 MERCY. 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 
 
 It droppeth as the gentle rain' from heaven 
 
 Upon the place beneath ; it is twice blessed ; 
 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 
 'Tis mightiest — in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 
 The throned monarch — better than his crown ; 
 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
 
 The attribute to awe — and majesty, 
 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
 
 But mercy — is above this sceptered sway. 
 
 It is enthroned — in the hearts of kings. 
 
 It is an attribute — to God himself : 
 
 And earthly power — doth then show likest God's, 
 
 When mercy — seasons justice. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed ; 
 
 In war, he mounts the warrior's steed ; 
 
 In halls, in gay attire is seen ; 
 
 In hamlets, dances on the green. 
 
 Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, 
 
 And men below, and saints above ; 
 
 For love is heaven, and heaven is love. 
 
 AWE, EXTENDING TO FEAR. 
 
 It thunders ! Sons of dust, in reverence bow ! 
 
 Ancient of Days ! thou speakest from above ! 
 Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now — 
 
 That hand which scatters peace and joy and love. 
 Almighty ! trembling, like a timid child, 
 
 I hear Thy awful voice ! — alarmed, afraid, 
 I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild. 
 
 And in the very grave would hide my head ! 
 
General Examples for Practice. 
 
 EEVERENOE. 
 
 Lord, our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in 
 all the earth ! who hast set Thy glory above the heavens. 
 When I consider the heavens, the work of Thy fingers ; 
 the moon and the stars, which Thou hast ordained ; what 
 is man that Thou art mindful of him ? and the son of man, 
 that Thou visitest him ? 
 
 For Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, 
 and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou 
 madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy 
 hands : Thou hast put all things under his feet. Lord, 
 our Lord, how excellent is Thy name in all the earth ! 
 
SELECTIONS. 
 
 J)OMESTIC LOVE AND HAPPINESS. 
 
 happy they ! the happiest of their kind ! 
 
 Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate 
 
 Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend. 
 
 'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws. 
 
 Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, 
 
 That binds their peace, but harmony itself. 
 
 Attuning all their passions into love ; 
 
 Where friendship full exerts her softest power. 
 
 Perfect esteem, enliven'd by desire 
 
 Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ; 
 
 Thought meeting thought, and will preventing will, 
 
 With boundless confidence ; for nought but love 
 
 Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
 
 Let him, ungenerous, who, alone intent 
 
 To bless himself, from sordid parents buys 
 
 The loathing virgin, in eternal care. 
 
 Well-merited, consume his nights and days : 
 
 Let barbarous nations, whose inhuman love 
 
 Is wild desire, fierce as the sun they feel ; 
 
 Let eastern tyrants from the light of Heaven 
 
 Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possess'd 
 
 Of a mere lifeless, violated form : 
 
 While those whom love cements in holy faith, 
 
 And equal transport, free as nature live. 
 
 Disdaining fear. What is the world to them. 
 
 Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all ? 
 
 Who in each other clasp whatever fair 
 
 High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish, 
 
Selections. . 91 
 
 Something than beauty dearer, should they look 
 
 . Or on the mind, or mind-illumin'd face ; 
 Truth, goodness, honour, harmony and love. 
 The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven. 
 Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, 
 And mingles both their graces. By degrees 
 The human blossom blows ; and every day. 
 Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm, 
 The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom. 
 Then infant reason grows apace, and calk 
 For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
 Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. 
 To teach the young idea how to shoot, 
 To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind. 
 To breathe th' enlivening spirit, and to tix 
 The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 
 Oh, speak the joy ! ye, whom the sudden tear 
 Surprises often, while you look around, 
 And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss. 
 All various nature pressing on the heart : 
 An elegant sufficiency, content. 
 Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books. 
 Ease and alternate labour, useful life. 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven. 
 These are the matchless joys of virtuous love : 
 And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus, 
 As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, 
 Still find them happy ; and consenting spring 
 Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : 
 Till evening comes at last, serene and mild-; 
 When, after the long vernal day of life, 
 Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells 
 With "many a proof of recollected love. 
 Together down they sink in social sleep ; 
 Together freed, their gentle spirits fly 
 To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
92 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 THE SEASONS. 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling 3'ear 
 Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring 
 Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round : the forest smiles ; 
 And every sense, and every heart is joy. 
 Then comes Thy glory in the Summer months. 
 With light and heat refulgent. 'J hen Thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year, 
 And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks : 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks, and groves, in hollow-whispering gales 
 Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd. 
 And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
 In Winter, awful Thou ' with clouds and storms 
 Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd. 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing, 
 Riding sublime. Thou bids't the world adore, 
 And humblest- Nature with Thy northern blast. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 
 And that one talent which is death to hide 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 
 My true account, lest he returning chide — 
 '' Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? " 
 I fondly ask ; but Patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not need 
 Either man's work, or his own gifts ; who best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best ; his state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding speed. 
 
Selections. 93 
 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 Milton. 
 
 THE PA.TRIOT'S ELYSIUM. 
 
 There is a land, of every land the pride, 
 
 Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside ; 
 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 
 And milder moons imparadise the night : 
 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth. 
 
 Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. 
 
 The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores ; 
 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair. 
 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ! 
 
 In every clime, the magnet of his soul. 
 
 Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ;j 
 
 For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace, 
 
 The heritage of nature's noblest race. 
 
 There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
 
 Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
 
 ^is .sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride ; 
 
 While, in his softened looks, benignly blend 
 
 The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend. 
 
 Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. 
 
 Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life. 
 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye. 
 
 An angel guard of loves and graces lie ; 
 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet. 
 
 And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 
 Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? 
 
 Art thou a man ? — a patriot ? — look around ! 
 
 Oh ! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam. 
 
 That land thy countky, and that spot thy home. 
 
 Montgomeri/. 
 
94 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 THE APPROACH TO PARADISE. 
 
 So on he fares ; and to the border comes 
 Of Eden, where delicious Paradise, 
 Now nearer, crowns, with her enclosure green. 
 As with a rural mound, the champaign head 
 Of a steep wilderness, whose hairy sides. 
 With thicket overgrown, grotesque and wild. 
 Access denied ; and overhead up grew 
 Insuperable height of loftiest shade. 
 Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm, — 
 A sylvan scene ; and, as the ranks ascend, 
 Shade abov.e shade, a woody theatre 
 Of stateliest view. Yet higher than their tops 
 The verd'rous wall of Paradise up sprung ; 
 Which to our general sire gave prospect large 
 Into his nether empire neighbouring round : 
 And, higher than that wall, a circling row 
 Of goodliest trees, laden with fairest fruit. 
 Blossoms and fruits, at once, of golden hue, 
 Appeared, with gay enamelled colours mixed ; 
 On which the Sun more glad impressed his beams 
 Than in fair evening cloud, or humid bow. 
 When God hath showered the earth; so lovely seejned 
 That landscape : and of pure, now purer air 
 Meets his approach, and to the heart inspires 
 Vernal delight and joy, able to drive 
 All sadness but despair : now gentle gales, 
 Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense 
 Native perfumes, and whisper whence they stole 
 Those balmy spoils ;— as when, to them who sail 
 Beyond the Cape of Hope, and now are past 
 Mozambique, off at sea north-east winds blow 
 Sabean odours from the spicy shore 
 Of Araby the blest ; with such delay 
 Well pleased they slack their course ; and, many a league, 
 Cheered with the grateful smell, old Ocean smiles. 
 
 Milton. 
 
Selections. 95 
 
 LOVE IN IDLENESS. 
 
 Obe. Well, go thy way ; thou shalt not from this grove, 
 Till I torment thee for this injury. 
 My gentle Puck, come hither: Thou remember'st 
 Since once I sat upon a promontory, 
 And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back. 
 Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath. 
 That the rude sea grew civil at her song ; 
 And certain stars shot madly from their spheres. 
 To hear the sea-maid's music. Pv,ck. I remember. 
 
 Obe. That very time I saw (but thou could'st not). 
 Flying between the cold moon and the earth; 
 Cupid, all armed : a certain aim he took 
 At a fair vestal, throned by the west ; 
 And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow. 
 As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts : 
 But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 
 Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon ; 
 And the imperial votaress passed on. 
 In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 
 Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell : 
 It fell upon a little western flower, — 
 Before, milk-white, now purple with love's wound, — 
 And maidens call it love-in-idleness. 
 Fetch me that flower ; the herb I show'd thee once ; 
 The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid. 
 Will make or man or woman madly dote 
 Upon the next live creature that it sees. 
 Fetch me this herb : and be thou here again. 
 Ere the leviathan can swim a league. 
 
 Puck. I'll put a girdle round about the earth 
 In forty minutes. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
96 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON THE TOMB OF SHAKES- 
 PEARE. 
 
 As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, 
 I paused to contemplate the distant church in which 
 Shakespeare lies buried, and could not but exult in the 
 malediction, 
 
 " Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear. 
 To dig the dust enclosed here. 
 Blest be the man that spares these stones ; 
 And cursed be he who moves my bones," 
 
 which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and 
 hallowed vaults. What honour could his name have de- 
 rived from being mingled in dusty companionship, with 
 the epitaphs, and escutcheons, and venal eulogiums of a 
 titled multitude ? What would a crowded corner in 
 Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this 
 reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneli- 
 ness as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the 
 grave, may be but the offspring of an overwrought sensi- 
 bility ; but human nature is made up of foibles and pre- 
 judices; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled 
 with these factitious feelings. He who has sought re- 
 nown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of 
 worldly favour, will find, after all, there is no love, no 
 admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that 
 which springs up in his native place. It is there that he 
 seeks to be gathered in peace and honour, among his 
 kindred and his early friends. And when the weary 
 heart and the failing head begin to warn him that the 
 evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does 
 the infant to its mother's arms, to sink to sleep in the 
 bosom of the scenes of his childhood. 
 
 How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
 bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 
 world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal 
 
Selections. 97 
 
 home, could he have foreseen, that, before many years, 
 he should return to it covered with renown ; that his 
 name would become the boast and the glory of his native 
 place ; that his ashes would be religiously guarded as its 
 most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on 
 which his eyes were fixed with tearful contemplation, 
 would one day become the beacon, towering amidst the 
 gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every 
 nation to his tomb ! 
 
 Irving. 
 
 ON THE MISERIES OF HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Ah ! little think the gay licentious proud, 
 
 "Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;. 
 
 They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth. 
 
 And wanton, often cruel, riot waste ; 
 
 Ah ! little think they, while they dance along. 
 
 How many feel, this very moment, death 
 
 And all the sad variety of pain. 
 
 How many sink in the devouring flood. 
 
 Or more devouring flame ; how many bleed. 
 
 By shameful variance betwixt man and man. 
 
 How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms, 
 
 Shut from the common air and common use 
 
 Of their own limbs ; how many drink the cup 
 
 Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 
 
 Of misery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds. 
 
 How many shrink into the sordid hut 
 
 Of cheerless poverty ; how many shake 
 
 With all the fiercer tortures of the mind. 
 
 Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse ; 
 
 Whence tumbling headlong fiom the height of life. 
 
 They furnish matter for the tragic Muse. 
 
 Even in the vale, where Wisdom loves to dwell. 
 
 With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd. 
 
 How many rack'd, with honest passions droop 
 
98 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 In deep retir'd distress ; how many stand 
 Around the death-bed of their dearest friends 
 And point the parting anguish. — Thought fond Man 
 Of these, and all the thousaud nameless ills, 
 That one incessant struggle render life 
 One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, 
 Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, 
 And heedless rambling Impulse learn to think ; 
 The conscious heart of Charity would warm, 
 And her wide wish Benevolence dilate ; 
 The social tear would rise, the social sigh 
 And into clear perfection, gradual bliss. 
 Refining still, the social passions, work. 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 PAUL'S DEFENCE BEFORE AGRIPPA. 
 
 Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Thou art permitted to 
 speak for thyself. Then Paul stretched forth his hand, 
 and answered for himself : I think myself happy. King 
 Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself this day before 
 thee touching all the things whereof I am accused of the 
 Jews : especially because I know thee to be expert in 
 all customs and questions which are among the Jews : 
 wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently. 
 
 My manner of life from my youth, which was at the 
 first among mine own nation at Jerusalem, know all the 
 Jews ; which knew me from the beginning, if they would 
 testify, that after the most sti-aightest sect of our religion 
 I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for 
 the hope of the promise made of God unto our fathers : 
 unto which promise our twelve tribes, instantly serving 
 God day and night, hope to come. For which hope's 
 sake, King Agrippa, I am accused of the Je ws. 
 
 Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, 
 that God should raise the dead ? I verily thought with 
 myself, tliat I ought to do many things contrary to the 
 
Selections. 99 
 
 name of Jesus of Nazareth. Which thing I also did in 
 Jerusalem : and many of the saints did T shut up in prison, 
 having received authority from the chief priests ; and 
 when they were put to death, I gave my voice against 
 them. And I punished them oft in every synagogue, and 
 compelled them to blaspheme ; and being exceedingly 
 mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange 
 cities. 
 
 Whereupon as I went to Damascus with authority and 
 commission from the chief priests, at mid-day, king, I 
 saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness 
 of the sun, shining round about me and them which 
 journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the 
 earth, I heard a voice speaking unto me, and saying in the 
 Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me ? it 
 is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And I said. 
 Who art thou. Lord ? And he said, I am Jesus whom 
 thou persecutest. But rise, and stand upon thy feet : for 
 I have appeared unto thee for this purpose, to make thee 
 a minister and a witness both of these things which thou 
 hast seen, and of those things in the which I will appear 
 unto thee ; delivering thee from the people, and from the 
 Gentiles, unto whom now I send thee, to open their eyes, 
 and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the 
 power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgive- 
 ness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanc- 
 tified by faith that is in me. 
 
 Whereupon, King Agrippa, I was not disobedient 
 unto the heavenly vision ; but shewed first unto them of 
 Damascus, and of Jerusalem, and throughout all the coasts 
 of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should re- 
 pent and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. 
 For these causes the Jews caught me in the temple, and 
 went about to kill me. Having therefore obtained help 
 of God, I continue unto this day witnessing both to small 
 and great, saying none other things than those which the 
 prophets and Moses did say should come ; that Christ 
 should suffer, and that he should be the first that should 
 
100 Ttie Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 rise from the dead, and should shew light unto the people, 
 and to the Gentiles. 
 
 And as he thus spake for himself, Festus said with a 
 loud voice, Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learning 
 doth make thee mad. 
 
 But he said, I am not mad, most noble Festus ; but 
 speak forth the words of truth and soberness. For the 
 king knoweth of these things, before whom also I speak 
 freely : for I am persuaded that none of these things are 
 hidden from him ; for this thing was not done in a corner. 
 King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets ? I know that 
 thou believest. Then Agrippa said unto Paul, Almost 
 thou persuadest me to be a Christian. And Paul said, I 
 would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear 
 me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I 
 am, except these bonds. 
 
 And when he had thus spoken, the king rose up, and 
 the governor, and Bernice, and they that sat with them : 
 and when they were gone aside, they talked between 
 themselves, saying. This man doeth nothing worthy of 
 death or of bonds. Then said Agrippa unto Festus, This 
 man might have been set at liberty, if be had not ap- 
 pealed unto Csesar. Bible. 
 
 MALIBRAN AND THE YOUNG MUSICIAN. 
 
 In a humble room, in one of the poorest streets of Lon- 
 don, Pierre, a fatherless French boy, sat humming by the 
 bed-side of his sick mother. There was no bread in the 
 closet, and for the whole day he had not tasted food. Yet 
 he sat humming, to keep up his spirits. Still, at times, 
 he thought of his loneliness and hunger, and he could 
 scarcely keep the tears from his eyes; for he knew 
 nothing would be so grateful to his poor invalid mother 
 as a good sweet orange, and yet he had not a penny in 
 the world. 
 
 The little song he was singing was his own — one he 
 
Selectionn. 101 
 
 had composed with air and words ; for the child was a 
 genius. 
 
 He went to the window, and looking out saw a man 
 putting up a great bill with yellow letters, announcing 
 that Madame Malibran would sing that night in public. 
 
 " Oh, if I could only go ! " thought little Pierre ; and 
 then, pausing a moment, he clasped his hands ; his eyes 
 lighted with a new hope. Eunning to the little stand, he 
 smoothed down his yellow curls, and taking from a little 
 box some old stained paper, gave one eager glance at his 
 mother, who slept, and ran speedily from the house. 
 * * * * * 
 
 " Who did you say is waiting for me ? " said the lady 
 to her servant. " I am already worn out with company." 
 
 " It is only a very pretty little boy, with yellow curls, 
 who says if he can just see you, he is sure you will not be 
 sorry, and he will not keep you a moment." 
 
 " Oh ! well, let him come," said the beautiful singer, 
 with a smile ; " I can never refuse children." 
 
 Little Pierre came in, his hat under his arm, and in his 
 hand a little roll of paper. With manliness unusUal for a 
 child, he walked straight to the lady, and bowing said, 
 " I came to see you because my mother is very sick, and 
 we are too poor to get food and medicine. I thought that, 
 perhaps, if you would only sing my little song at some of 
 your grand concerts, may be some publisher would buy it 
 for a small sum, and so I could get food and medicine for 
 my mother." 
 
 The beautiful woman rose from her seat ; very tall and 
 stately she was ; she took the little roll from his hand, 
 and Hghtly hummed the air. 
 
 " Did you compose it ? " she asked, — " you, a child ! And 
 the words ? Would you like to come to my concert ? " 
 she asked, after a few moments of thought. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " and the boy's eyes grew bright with happi- 
 ness ; " but I couldn't leave my mother." 
 
 " I will send somebody to take care of your mother for 
 the evening ; and here is a crown, with which you may 
 
102 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 go and get food and medicine. Here is also one of my 
 tickets ; come to-night ; that will admit you to a seat 
 near me." 
 
 Almost beside himself with joy, Pierre bought some 
 oranges, and many a little luxury besides, and carried 
 them home to the poor invalid, telling her, not without 
 tears, of his good fortune. 
 
 ***** 
 
 When evening came, and Pierre was admitted to the 
 concert-hall, he felt that never in his life had he been in 
 so grand a place. The music, the myriad lights, the 
 beauty, the flashing of diamonds and rustling of silk, be- 
 wildei'ed his eyes and brain. 
 
 At last she came, and the child sat with his glance 
 riveted upon her glorious face. Could he believe that the 
 grand lady, all blazing with jewels, and whom everybody 
 seemed to worship, would really sing his little song 1 
 
 Breathless he waited, — the band, the whole band,struck 
 up a little plaintive melody ; he knew it, and clapped his 
 hands for joy. And oh, how she sang it ! It was so sim- 
 ple, so niournful, so soul-subduing ; — many a bright eye 
 dimmed with tears, and naught could be heard but the 
 touching words of that little song, — oh, so touching ! 
 
 Pierre walked home as if he were moving on the air. 
 What cared he for money now ? The greatest singer in 
 all Europe had sung his little song, and thousands had 
 wept at his grief. 
 
 The next day he was frightened at a visit from Madame 
 Malibran. She laid her hand on his yellow curls, and 
 turning to the sick woman said, " Your little boy, madam, 
 has brought you a fortune. I was offered, this morning, 
 by the best publisher in London, three hundred pounds 
 for his little song : and after he has realized a certain 
 amount from the sale, little Pierre, here, is to share the 
 profits. Madam, thank God that your son has a gift from 
 heaven." 
 
 The noble-hearted singer and the poor woman wept to- 
 gether. As to Pierre, always mindful of Him who watches 
 
Selections. 103 
 
 over the tried and tempted, he knelt down by his mother's 
 bedside, and uttered a simple but eloquent prayer, asking 
 God's blessing on the kind lady who had deigned to notice 
 their affliction. 
 
 The memory of that prayer made the singer even more 
 tender-hearted, and she who was the idol of England's 
 nobility went about doing good. And in her early, happy 
 death he who stood by her bed, and smoothed her pillow, 
 and lightened her last moments by his undying affection, 
 was the little Pierre of former days- — now rich, accom- 
 plished, and the most talented composer of the day. 
 
 All honour to those great hearts who, from their high 
 stations, send down bounty to the widow and to the 
 fatherless child. 
 
 THE KISS. 
 
 He kissed me — and I knew 'twas wrong, 
 For he was neither kith nor kin ; 
 
 Need one do penance very long 
 For such a tiny little sin ? 
 
 He pressed my hand — that was not right ; 
 
 Why will men have such wicked ways ? 
 It was not for a moment quite. 
 
 But in it there were days and days ! 
 
 There's mischief in the moon, I know ; 
 
 I'm positive I saw her wink 
 When I requested him to go ; 
 
 I meant it, too — I think. 
 
 But, after all, I'm not to blame 
 He took the kiss ; I do think men 
 
 Are born without a sense of shame 
 I wonder when he'll come again ! 
 
104 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 ADVICE TO A YOUNG LA.WYER. 
 
 Whene'er you speak, remember every cause 
 Stands not on eloquence, but stands on laws — 
 Pregnant in matter, in expression brief, 
 Let every sentence stand with bold relief; 
 On trifling points nor time nor talents waste, 
 A sad offence to learning and to taste ; 
 Nor deal with pompous phrase, nor e'er suppose 
 Poetic flights belong to reasoning prose. 
 
 Loose declamation may deceive the crowd, 
 And seem more striking as it grows more loud ; 
 But sober sense rejects it with disdain. 
 As nought but empty noise, and weak as vain. 
 
 The froth of words, the schoolboy's vain parade, 
 Of books and cases — all his stock in trade — 
 The pert conceits, the cunning tricks and play 
 Of low attorneys, strung in long array, 
 The unseemly jest, the petulant reply, 
 That chatters on, and cares not how, or why, 
 Strictly avoid — unworthy themes to scan. 
 They sink the speaker and disgrace the man. 
 Like the false lights, by flying shadows cast. 
 Scarce seen when present and forgot when past. 
 
 Begin with dignity; expound with grace 
 Each ground of reasoning in its time and place ; 
 Let order reign throughout — each topic touch. 
 Nor urge its power too little, nor too much ; 
 Give each strong thought its most attractive view. 
 In diction clear and yet severely true, 
 And as the arguments in splendour grow, 
 Let each reflect its light on all below ; 
 When to the close arrived, make no delays 
 By petty flourishes, or verbal plays, 
 
Selections. 105 
 
 But sum the whole in one deep solemn strain, 
 Like a strong current hastening to the main. 
 
 Judge Story. 
 
 THE FOOLISH VIRGINS. 
 
 Late, late, so late ! and dark the night, and chill ! 
 Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. — 
 Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now ! 
 
 No light had we — for that do we repent ; 
 And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent. — 
 Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now ! 
 
 No light ! so late ! and dark and chill the night ! 
 Oh, let us in, that we may find the light ! — 
 Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now ! 
 
 Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet ? 
 Oh, let us in, though late, to kiss His feet ! — 
 No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now ! 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 
 
 The woman was old, and ragged, and grey. 
 And bent with the chill of the winter's day ; 
 
 The street was wet with a recent snow, 
 And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 
 
 She stood at the crossing and waited long 
 Alone, uncared for, amid the throng 
 
 Of human beings who passed her by. 
 Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 
 
106 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Down the street, with laughter and shout, 
 Glad in the freedom of school let out. 
 
 Came the boys, like a flock of sheep. 
 Hailing the snow piled white and deep, 
 
 Past the woman so old and grey. 
 Hastened the children on their way, 
 
 Nor offered a helping hand to her. 
 So meek, so timid, afraid to stir. 
 
 Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 
 Should crowd her down in the slippery street. 
 
 At last came one of the merry troop — 
 The gayest laddie of all the group ; 
 
 He paused beside her, and whispered low, 
 " I'll help you across if you wish to go." 
 
 Her aged hand on his strong, young arm 
 She placed, and so, without hurt or harm. 
 
 He guided her trembling feet along. 
 Proud that his own were firm and strong. 
 
 Then back again to his friends he went. 
 His young heart happy and well content. 
 
 " She's somebodj^'s mother, boys, you know, 
 For all she's old, and poor, and slow; 
 
 / 
 " And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
 To help my mother, you understand, 
 
 " If ever so poor, and old, and grey. 
 When her own dear boy is far away." 
 
 And " somebody's mother " bowed low her head 
 In her home that night, and the prayer she said 
 
 Was — " God be kind to the noble boy. 
 Who is somebody's son, and pride, and joy!" 
 
Selections. 107 
 
 THE FAMINE. 
 
 O the long and dreary Winter ! 
 
 the cold and cruel Winter ! 
 
 Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, 
 
 Froze the ice on lake and river; 
 
 Ever deeper, deeper, deeper, 
 
 .Fell the snow o'er all the landscape. 
 
 Fell the covering snow, and drifted 
 
 Through the forest, round the village. 
 
 Hardly from his buried wigwam 
 
 Could the hunter force a passage ; 
 
 With his mittens and his snow-shoes 
 
 Vainly walk'd he through the forest. 
 
 Sought for bird or beast and found none ; 
 
 Saw no track of deer or rabbit, 
 
 In the snow beheld no footprints. 
 
 In the ghastly, gleaming forest 
 
 Fell, and could not rise from weakness, 
 
 Perish 'd there from cold and hunger. 
 
 the famine and the fever ! 
 
 the wasting of the famine ! 
 
 the blasting of the fever ! 
 
 the wailing of the children ! 
 
 O the anguish of the women ! 
 
 All the earth was sick and famished ; 
 
 Hungry was the air around them. 
 
 Hungry was the sky above them. 
 
 And the hungry stars in heaven. 
 
 Like the eyes of wolves glared at them ! 
 
 Into Hiawatha's wigwam 
 Came two other guests, as silent 
 As the ghosts were, and as gloomy, 
 Waited not to be invited. 
 Did not parley at the doorway, 
 
108 > The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Sat there without word of welcome 
 In the seat of Laughing Water ; 
 Looked with haggard eyes and hollow 
 At the face of Laughing Water. 
 And the foremost said : " Behold me ! 
 I am Famine, Bukadawin !" 
 And the other said : " Behold me ! 
 I am Fever, Ahkosewin ! " 
 And the lovely Minnehaha 
 Shudder'd as they look'd upon her, 
 Shudder'd at the words they uttered, 
 Lay down on her bed in silence, 
 Hid her face, but made no answer ; 
 Lay there trembling, freezing, burning 
 At the looks they cast upon her. 
 At the fearful words they utter'd. 
 
 Forth into the empty forest 
 
 Rush'd the madden'd Hiawatha ; 
 
 In his heart was deadly sorrow, 
 
 In his face a stony firmness. 
 
 On his brow the sweat of anguish 
 
 Started, but it froze and fell not. 
 
 Wrapp'd in furs and arm'd for hunting, 
 
 With his mighty bow of ash-tree. 
 
 With his quiver full of arrows. 
 
 With his mittens, Minjekahwun, 
 
 Into the vast and vacant forest, 
 
 On his snow-shoes strode he forward. 
 
 " Gitche Manito, the Mighty !" 
 Cried he, with his face uplifted 
 In that bitter hour of anguish, 
 " Give your children food, Father ! 
 Give us food, or we must perish ! 
 Give me food for Minnehaha, 
 For my dying Minnehaha ! " 
 
Selections. 109 
 
 Through the far-resounding forest, 
 Through the forest vast and vacant, 
 Rang that cry of desolation ; 
 But there came no other answer 
 Than the echo of his crying, 
 Than the echo of the woodlands, 
 " Minnehaha ! Minnehaha ! " 
 
 All day long roved Hiawatha 
 
 In that melancholy forest. 
 
 Through the shadow of whose thickets, 
 
 In the pleasant days of summer. 
 
 Of that ne'er forgotten summer. 
 
 He had brought his young wife homeward 
 
 From the land of the Dakotahs ; 
 
 When the birds sang in the thickets. 
 
 And the streamlets laugh'd and glisten'd. 
 
 And the air was full of fragrance. 
 
 And the lovely Laughing Water 
 
 Said with voice that did not tremble, 
 
 " I will follow you, my husband !" 
 
 In the wigwam with Nokomis, 
 
 With those gloomy guests that watch'd her. 
 
 With the Famine and the Fever, 
 
 She was lying, the beloved, 
 
 She the dying Minnehaha. 
 
 " Hark !" she said, " I hear a rushing, 
 
 Hear a roaring and a rushing. 
 
 Hear the Falls of Minnehaha 
 
 Calling to me from a distance ! " 
 
 " No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
 
 '"Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees !" 
 
 " Look ! " she said ; " I see my father 
 
 Standing lonely in his doorway. 
 
 Beckoning to me from his wigwam 
 
 In the land of the Dakotahs ! " 
 
110 The GanacUcm Elocutionist. 
 
 " No, my child ! " said old Nokomis, 
 
 " 'Tis the smoke that waves and beckons ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " she said, " the eyes of Pauguk 
 Glare upon me in the darkness, 
 I can feel his icy fingers 
 Clasping mine amid the darkness ! 
 Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 
 And the desolate Hiawatha, 
 Far away amid the forest. 
 Miles away among the mountains. 
 Heard that sudden cry of anguish, 
 Heard the voice of Minnehaha 
 Calling to him in the darkness, 
 " Hiawatha ! Hiawatha ! " 
 
 Over snow-fields waste and pathless. 
 Under snow-encumber'd branches, 
 Homeward hurried Hiawatha, 
 Empty-handed, heavy-hearted. 
 Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing ; 
 " Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! 
 Would that I had perish'd for you, 
 Would that I were dead as you are ! 
 Wahonowin ! Wahonowin ! " 
 And he rush'd into the wigwam. 
 Saw the old Nokomis slowly 
 Rocking to and fro and moaning. 
 Saw his lovely Minnehaha 
 Lying dead and cold before him, 
 And his bursting heart within him 
 Utter'd such a cry of anguish 
 That the forest moan'd and shudder'd, 
 That the very stars in heaven 
 Shook and trembled with his anguish. 
 
 Then he sat down still and speechless, 
 On the bed of Minnehaha, 
 
Selections. Ill 
 
 At the feet of Laughing Water, 
 At those ■willing feet, that never 
 More would lightly run to meet him, 
 Never more would lightly follow. , 
 With both hands his face he cover'd, 
 Seven long days and nights he sat there. 
 As if in a swoon he sat there, 
 Speechless, motionless, unconscious 
 Of the daylight or the darkness. 
 Then they buried Minnehaha ; 
 In the snow a grave they made her. 
 In the forest deep and darksome. 
 Underneath the moaning hemlocks ; 
 Cloth'd her in her richest garments : 
 Wrapp'd her in her robes of ermine, 
 Cover'd her with snow like ermine : 
 Thus they buried Minnehaha. 
 And at night a fire was lighted. 
 On her grave four times was kindled. 
 For her soul upon its journey 
 To the Islands of the Blessed. 
 From his doorway Hiawatha 
 Saw it burning in the forest. 
 Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks ; 
 From his sleepless bed uprising, 
 From the bed of Minnehaha, 
 Stood and watch'd it at the doorway. 
 That it might not be extinguish'd, 
 Might not leave her in the darkness. 
 
 " Farewell !" said he, " Minnehaha ! 
 Farewell, my Laughing Water ! 
 All my heart is buried with you, 
 All my thoughts go onward with you ! 
 Come not back again to labour. 
 Come not back again to suffer. 
 Where the Famine and the Fever 
 
112 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Wear the heart and waste the body. 
 Soon my task will be completed, 
 Soon your footsteps I shall follow 
 To the Islands of the Blessed, 
 To- the Kingdom of Ponemah, 
 To the Land of the Hereafter !" 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 A SLIP OF THE TONGUE. 
 
 It chanced one day, so I've been told 
 
 (The story is not very old). 
 
 As Will and Tom, two servants able. 
 
 Were waiting at their master's table, 
 
 Tom brought a fine fat turkey in, 
 
 The sumptuous dinner to begin : 
 
 Then Will appeared — superbly cooked, 
 
 A tongue upon the platter smoked ; 
 
 When, oh ! sad fate ! he struck the door. 
 
 And tumbled flat upon the floor ; 
 
 The servants stared, the guests looked down, 
 
 When quick uprising with a frown. 
 
 The master cried, " Sirra ! I say 
 
 Begone, nor wait a single day. 
 
 You stupid cur ! you've spoiled the feast, 
 
 How can another tongue be dressed !" 
 
 While thus the master stormed and roared. 
 
 Will, who with wit was somewhat stored 
 
 (For he by no means was a fool 
 
 Some Latin, too, he'd learned at school). 
 
 Said (thinking he might change disgrace 
 
 For laughter, and thus save his place), 
 
 " Oh ! call me not a stupid cur, 
 
 'Twas but a lapsus Ungues, sir." 
 
 " A lapsus linguae V one guest cries, 
 
 " A pun !" another straight replies. 
 
Selections. 113 
 
 The joke was caught — the laugh went round ; 
 Nor could a serious face be found. 
 The master, when the uproar ceased, 
 Finding his guests were all well pleased, 
 Forgave the servant's slippery feet, 
 And quick revoked his former threat. 
 Now Tom had all this time stood still ; 
 And heard the applause bestowed on Will ; 
 Delighted he had seen the fun 
 Of what Bis comrade late had done, 
 And thought, should he but do the same, 
 An equal share of praise he'd claim. 
 As soon as told the meat to fetch in. 
 Bolted like lightning to the kitchen, 
 And seizing there a leg of lamb 
 (I am not certain, perhaps 'twas ham, 
 No matter which), without delay- 
 Off to the parlour marched away, 
 And stumbling as he turned him round. 
 Twirled joint and dish upon the ground. 
 For this my lord was ill-prepared ; 
 Again the astonished servants stared. 
 Tom grinned — but seeing no one stir, 
 " Another lapsvs linguae, sir !" 
 Loud he exclaimed. No laugh was raised. 
 No " clever fellow's" wit was praised. 
 Confounded, yet not knowing why 
 His wit could not one laugh supply, 
 And fearing lest he had mistook 
 The words, again thus loudly spoke 
 (Thinking again it might be tried) : 
 " 'Twas but a lapsus linguae," cried. 
 My lord, who long had quiet sat, 
 Now clearly saw what he was at. 
 In wrath this warning now he gave — 
 " When next thou triest, unlettered knave, 
 
114 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 To give, as thine, another's wit, 
 
 Mind well thou knowest what's meant by it ; 
 
 Nor let a lapsus lingucB slip 
 
 From out thy pert assuming lip. 
 
 Till well thou knowest thy stolen song. 
 
 Nor think a leg of lamb a tongue," 
 
 He said — and quickly from the floor 
 
 Straight kicked him through the unlucky door. 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Let each pert coxcomb learn from this 
 True wit will never come amiss ! 
 But should a borrowed phrase appear, 
 Derision's always in the rear. 
 
 THE MODERN CAIN. 
 
 " Am I my brother's keeper ?" 
 
 Long ago, 
 When first the human heart-strings felt the touch 
 Of Death's cold fingers — when upon the earth 
 Shroudless and coffinless Death's first-bom lay, 
 Slain by the hand of violence, the wail 
 Of human grief arose : — " My son, my son ! 
 Awake thee from this strange and awful sleep ; 
 A mother mourns thee, and her tears of grief 
 Are falling on thy pale, unconscious brow ; 
 Awake and bless her with thy wonted smile." 
 
 In vain, in vain ! that sleeper never woke. 
 His murderer fled, but on his brow was fixed 
 A stain which bafi3.ed wear and washing. As he fled 
 A voice pursued him to the wilderness : 
 " Where is thy brother, Cain ?" 
 
 " Am I my brother's keeper ?" 
 
Selections. 115 
 
 O black impiety ! that seeks to shun 
 
 The dire responsibility of sin — 
 
 That cries with the ever-warning voice : 
 
 " Be still — away, the crime is not my own — 
 
 My brother lived — is dead, when, where, 
 
 Or how, it matters not, but he is dead. 
 
 Why judge the living for the dead one's fall ?" 
 
 " Am I my brother's keeper ?" 
 
 Cain, Cain, 
 
 Thou art thy brother's keeper, and his blood 
 
 Cries up to Heaven against thee ; every stone 
 
 Will find a tongue to curse thee ; and the winds 
 
 Will ever wail this question in thy ear : 
 
 " Where is thy brother ?" Every sight and sound 
 
 Will mind thee of the lost. 
 
 I saw a man 
 Deal death unto his brother. Drop by drop 
 The poison was distilled for cursSd gold; 
 And in the wine cup's ruddy glow sat Death, 
 Invisible to that poor trembling slave. 
 He seized the cup, he drank the poison down, 
 -Rushed forth into the streets — home had he none — 
 ■Staggered and fell and miserably died. 
 They buried him — ah ! little recks it where 
 -His bloated form was given to the worms. 
 No stone marked that neglected, lonely spot ; 
 No mourner sorrowing at evening came, 
 To pray by that unhallowed mound ; no hand 
 Planted sweet flowers above his place of rest. 
 Years passed, and weeds and tangled briers grew 
 -Above that sunken grave, and men forgot 
 Who slept there. 
 
 Once had he friends, 
 -A happy home was his, and love was his. 
 His J&ary loved him, and around him played 
 His smiling children. Oh, a dream of joy 
 
116 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Were those unclouded years, and, more than all, 
 
 He had an interest in the world above. 
 
 The big " Old Bible " lay upon the stand. 
 
 And he was wont to read its sacred page 
 
 And then to pray : " Our Father, bless the poor 
 
 And save the tempted from the tempter's art ; 
 
 Save us from sin, and let us ever be 
 
 United in Thy love, and may we meet, 
 
 When life's last scenes are o'ei', around the throne." 
 
 Thus prayed he — thus lived he — years passed. 
 
 And o'er the sunshine of that happy home, 
 
 A cloud came from the pit ; the fatal bolt 
 
 Fell from that cloud. The towering tree 
 
 Was shivered by the lightning's vengeful stroke. 
 
 And laid its coronal of glory low. 
 
 A happy home was ruined ; want and woe 
 
 Played with his children, and the joj'' of youth 
 
 Left their sweet faces no moi'e to return. 
 
 His Mary's face grew pale and paler still. 
 
 Her eyes were dimmed with weeping, and her soul 
 
 Went out through those blue portals. Mary died. 
 
 And yet he wept not. At the demon's call 
 
 He drowned his sorrow in the maddening bowl. 
 
 And when they buried her from sight, he sank 
 
 In drunken stupor by her new-made grave ! 
 
 His friend was gone — he never had another. 
 
 And the world shrank from him, all save one. 
 
 And he still plied the bowl with deadly drugs 
 
 And bade him drink, forget his God, and die ! 
 
 He died. 
 
 Cain ! Cain ! where is thy brother now ? 
 Lives he still — if dead, still where is he ? 
 Where ? In Heaven ? Go read the sacred page : 
 " No drunkard ever shall inherit there." 
 Who sent him to the pit ? Who dragged him down ? 
 Who bound him hand and foot? Who smiled and smiled 
 
Selections. 117 
 
 While yet the hellish work went on ? Who grasped 
 His gold — his health — his life— his hope — his all ? 
 Who saw his Mary fade and die ? Who saw 
 His beggared children wandering in the streets ? 
 Speak — Coward — if thou hast a tongue, 
 Tell why with hellish art you slew A man. 
 
 " Where is my brother ?" 
 
 " Am I my brother's keeper ?" 
 
 Ah, man ! A deeper mark is on your brow 
 Than that of Cain. Accursed was the name 
 Of him who slew a righteous man, whose soul 
 Was ripe for Heaven ; thrice accursed he 
 Whose art malignant sinks a soul to hell. 
 
 E. Evans Edwards. 
 
 OCEAN. 
 
 In Sunshine. 
 
 My window overlooks thee, — and thy sheen of silver glory. 
 In musical monotony advances and recedes ; 
 
 Till I dimly see the " shining ones " of ancient song and 
 story, 
 With aureoles of ocean-haze invite to distant meads, 
 
 Where summer song and sunshine on placid waters play; — 
 Drifting dreamily, insensibly, on fragrance - laden 
 breeze — 
 
 Floating onward on the wavelets, without hurry or delay, 
 I reach some blissful haven in the bright Hesperxdes. 
 
 Overcast. 
 
 How wearily and drearily the mist hangs over all \\ 
 And dismally the fog-horn shrieks its warning o'er the 
 wave ! 
 
118 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 How sullenly the billows heave, beneath the funeral pall I 
 An impenetrable solitude ! — a universal grave ! 
 
 In Storvfi. 
 
 ! measureless and merciless ! vindictive, wild, and stern ! 
 Fire, Pestilence and Whirlwind all yield the palm to. 
 
 thee! 
 Roar on in bad pre-eminence — a worse thou canst not earn,, 
 Than clings in famine, wreck, and death, to thee, O cruel 
 Sea! 
 
 Oceans Lessons. 
 
 1 have seen thee in thy gladness, thy sullenness and wrath — 
 
 What lesson has thou taught, O Sea ! to guide my daily 
 path ? 
 I hear thy massive monotone, to me it seems to say, 
 " When summer skies are over thee, dream not thy life 
 away. 
 
 " In days of dark despondency, when either good or ill 
 " Seems scarcely worth the caring for, then wait and 
 trust Him still ; 
 " Though mist and cloud surround thee, thou art safe by 
 sea or land, v 
 
 " For thy Father holds the waters in the hollow of His 
 hand. 
 
 " Perchance a storm in future life thy fragile bark may toss, 
 " And every struggle, cry, or prayer, bring nought but 
 
 harm and loss, 
 " tempest-tossed and stricken one ! He comes His own 
 
 to save, 
 '' For not on Galilee alone, did Jesus walk the wave." 
 
 W. Wetherald. 
 
Seiecnons. 119 
 
 THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY. 
 
 And so, smiling, we went on. 
 
 " Well, one day, George's father — " 
 
 " George who ?" asked Clarence. 
 
 " George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just 
 like you. One day his father — " 
 
 " Who's father ?" demanded Clarence, with an encour- 
 aging expression of interest. 
 
 " George Washington's ; this great man we are telling 
 you of. One day George Washington's father gave him 
 a little hatchet for a — " 
 
 " Gave who a little hatchet ?" the dear child inter- 
 rupted, with a gleam of bewitching intelligence. Most 
 men would have got mad, or betrayed signs of impatience, 
 but we didn't. We know how to talk to children. So 
 we went on : 
 
 " George Washington. His — " 
 
 " Who gave him the little hatchet ?" 
 
 " His father. And his father — " 
 
 " Whose father ?" 
 
 " George Washington's." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 "Yes, George Washington. And his father told 
 him—" 
 
 " Told who ?" 
 
 " Told George." 
 
 " Oh, yes, George." 
 
 And we went on, j ust as patient and as pleasant as you 
 could imagine. We took up the story right where the 
 boy interrupted, for we could see he was just crazy to 
 hear the end of it. We said : 
 
 " And he was told — " 
 
 " George told him f queried Clarence. 
 
 " No, his father told George — " 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
120 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 "Yes, told him he must be careful with the hatchet — " 
 
 " Who must he careful V 
 
 " George must." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " Yes, must be careful with his hatchet — " 
 
 " What hatchet ?" 
 
 " Why, George's." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " With the hatchet, and not cut himself with it, or drop 
 it in the cistern, or leave it out in the grass all night. So 
 George went round cutting everything he could reach 
 with his hatchet. And at last he came to a splendid 
 apple-tree, his father's favourite, and cut it down, and — " 
 
 " Who cut it down ?" 
 
 " George did." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " But his father came home and saw it the first thing, 
 and — " 
 
 " Saw the hatchet ?" 
 
 " No, saw the apple-tree. And he said, ' Who has cut 
 down my favourite apple-tree ?' " 
 
 " What apple-tree ?" 
 
 " George's father's. And everybody said they did n't 
 know anything about it, and — " 
 
 " Anything about what ?" 
 
 '' The apple-tree." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " And George came up and heard them talking about 
 it — 
 
 " Heard who taking about it ?" 
 
 " Heard his father and the men." 
 
 " What were they talking about ?" 
 
 " About this apple-tree." 
 
 '' What apple-tree ?" 
 
 " The favourite tree that George cut down," 
 
 " George who ?" 
 
 " George Washington," 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
SelectioTis. 121 
 
 " So George came up and heard them talking about it, 
 and he — " 
 
 " What did he cut it down for ?" 
 
 " Just to try his little hatchet." 
 
 " Whose little hatchet 1" 
 
 " Why, his own, the one his father gave him." 
 
 " Gave who V 
 
 " Why, George Washington." 
 
 « Oh !" 
 
 " So, George came up, and he said, ' Father, I cannot 
 tell a lie, I—'" 
 
 " Who couldn't tell a lie 1" 
 
 " Why, George Washington. He said, ' Father, I can- 
 not tell a lie. It was—' " 
 
 " His father couldn't ?" 
 
 " Why, no; George couldn't." 
 
 " Oh ! George ? oh, yes !" 
 
 " ' It was I cut down your apple tree ; I did — ' " 
 
 " His father did ?" 
 
 " No, no ; it was George said this." 
 
 " Said he cut his father ?" 
 
 " No, no, no ; said he cut down his apple-tree." 
 
 " George's apple-tree ?" 
 
 " No, no ; his father's." 
 
 " Oh !" 
 
 " He said—" 
 
 " His father said ?" 
 
 " No, no, no ; George said, ' Father, I cannot tell a lie, 
 1 did it with my little hatchet' And his father said, 
 ' Noble boy, I would rather lose a thousand trees than 
 have you tell a lie.' " 
 
 " George did 1" 
 
 " No, his father said that." 
 
 " Said he'd rather have a thousand apple-trees ?" 
 
 " No, no, no ; said he'd rather lose a thousand apple- 
 trees than — " 
 
 " Said he'd rather George would ?" 
 
122 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 " No, said he'd rather he would than have him lie." 
 " Oh ! George would rather have his father lie ?" 
 We are patient and we love children, but if Mrs. 
 Caruthers hadn't come and got her prodigy at that 
 critical juncture, we don't believe all Burlington could 
 have pulled us out of the snarl. And as Clarence Alen- 
 con de Marchemont Caruthers pattered down the stairs, 
 we heard him telling his ma about a boy who had a 
 father named George, and he told him to cut down an 
 apple-tree, and he said he'd rather tell a thousand lies 
 than cut down one apple-tree. 
 
 R. N. Burdette. 
 
 TRUSTING. 
 
 I do not ask that God will always make 
 
 My pathway light ; 
 I only pray that He will hold my hand 
 
 Throughout the night. 
 I do not hope to have the thorns removed 
 
 That pierce my feet, 
 I only ask to find His blessed arms 
 
 My safe retreat. 
 
 If He afflict me, then in my distress 
 
 Withholds His hand ; 
 If all His wisdom I cannot conceive 
 
 Or understand. 
 I do not think to always know His why 
 
 Or wherefore, here ; 
 But sometime He will take my hand and make 
 
 His meaning clear. 
 
 If in His furnace He refine my heart 
 
 To make it pure, 
 I only ask for grace to trust His love — 
 
 Strength to endure ; 
 
Selections. 123 
 
 And if fierce storms beat round me, 
 And the heavens be overcast, 
 
 I know that He will give His weary one 
 Sweet peace at last. 
 
 THE LAST HYMN. 
 
 The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea. 
 
 The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, 
 
 And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing lighted 
 West 
 
 And then hasten to their dwellings for God's blessed boon 
 of rest. 
 
 But they looked across the waters and a storm was raging 
 there. 
 
 A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild spirit of the 
 air, 
 
 And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thun- 
 dered, groaned, and boomed, 
 
 But alas ! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed. 
 
 Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of 
 Wales, 
 
 Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling 
 awful tales. 
 
 When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast upon 
 the shore 
 
 Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done hereto- 
 fore. 
 
 With the rough winds blowing round her a brave woman 
 strained her eyes. 
 
 And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. 
 
 Oh ! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must 
 be, 
 
 For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on such a 
 sea. 
 
124 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and 
 
 thronged the beach. 
 Oh, for power to cross the waters, and the perishing to 
 
 reach. 
 Helpless hands were wrung in terror, tender hearts grew 
 
 cold with dread, 
 As the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore 
 
 sped. 
 She has parted in the middle ! Oh, the half of her goes 
 
 down ! 
 God have mercy ! Is His heaven far to seek for those who 
 
 drown ? 
 So when next the white shocked faces looked with terror 
 
 on the sea, 
 Only one last clinging figure on a, spar was seen to be. 
 Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by 
 
 the wave. 
 And the man still clung and floated, though no power on 
 
 earth could save. 
 " Could we send him a short message ! Here's a trumpet, 
 
 shout away ! " 
 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered 
 
 what to say. 
 Any memory of his sermon ? Firstly ? Secondly ? Ah, no. 
 There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of 
 
 woe. 
 So he shouted through the trumpet, " Look to Jesus ! 
 
 Can you hear ?" 
 And " Aye, aye, sir ! " rang the answer o'er the waters 
 
 loud and clear, 
 Then they listened, " He is singing, ' Jesus, lover of my 
 
 soul,' " 
 And the winds brought back the echo, " While the nearer 
 
 waters roll." 
 Strange indeed it was to hear him, " Till the storm of life 
 
 is past." 
 Singing bravely o'er the waters, " Oh, receive my soul at 
 
 last," 
 
Selections. 125 
 
 He could have no other refuge, " Hangs my helpless soul 
 
 on thee ; " 
 " Leave, oh, leave me not ! "■ — the singer dropped at last 
 
 into the sea. 
 And the watchers looking homeward, through their eyes 
 
 by tears made dim. 
 Said, " He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that 
 
 hymn." 
 
 Marianne Farningham. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The house where I was born — 
 The little window where the sun 
 Came peeping in at morn ; 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 Nor brought too long a day. 
 But now I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, T remember 
 The roses red and white, 
 The violets and the lily-cups, 
 Those flowers made of light ; 
 The lilacs where the robin built. 
 And where my brother set 
 The laburnum on his birthday — 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing. 
 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
126 The Canadian Elocxdionist. 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 That is so heavy now, 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 The fever on my brow. 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky ; 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm further off" from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 Thomas Hood, 
 
 NEVER GIVE UP. 
 
 Never give up ! it is wiser and better 
 
 Always to hope than once to despair : 
 Fling off the load of Doubt's cankering fetter, 
 
 And break the dark spell of tyrannical care ;. 
 Never give up ! or the burden may sink you — 
 
 Providence kindly has mingled the cup ; 
 And, in all trials or trouble, bethink you 
 
 The watchword of life must be — Never give up !' 
 
 Never give up ! — there are chances and changes 
 
 Helping the hopeful a hundred to one, 
 And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges 
 
 Ever success — if you'll only hope on ; 
 Never give up ! — for the wisest is boldest. 
 
 Knowing that Providence mingles the cup ; 
 And of all maxims the best, as the oldest, 
 
 Is the true watchword of — Never give up ! 
 
Selections. 127 
 
 Never give up ! — though the grapeshot may rattle. 
 
 Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst, 
 Stand like a rock — and the storm or the battle 
 
 Little shall harm you, though doing their worst. 
 Never give up ! — ^if adversity presses. 
 
 Providence wisely has mingled the cup ; 
 And the best counsel, in all your distresses. 
 
 Is the stout watchword of — Never give up. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 MAEMION AND DOUGLAS. 
 
 Not far advanced was morning day, 
 When Marmion did his troop array 
 
 To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
 He had safe-conduct for his band, 
 Beneath the royal seal and hand, 
 
 And Douglas gave a guide : 
 The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
 Would Clara on her palfrey place. 
 And whispered in an undertone, 
 " Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." — 
 The train from out the castle drew, 
 But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : — 
 " Though something I might plain," he said, 
 " Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
 Sent hither by your King's behest. 
 While in Tantallon's towers I stayed, 
 Part we in friendship from your land, 
 And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — 
 But Douglas around him drew his cloak, 
 Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — 
 " My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
 Be open, at my Sovereign's will. 
 To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
 Unmeet to be the OAvner's peer. 
 
128 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 My castles are my King's alone, 
 From turret to foundation-stone, — 
 The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
 And never shall in friendly grasp 
 The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 
 
 Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
 And shook his very frame for ire. 
 
 And — " This to me ! " he said, — 
 " An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
 Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 
 
 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
 He who does England's message here. 
 Although the meanest in her state, 
 May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : 
 And, Douglas, more I tell thee here. 
 
 Even in thy pitch of pride. 
 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
 (Nay never look upon your lord. 
 And lay your hands upon your sword,) 
 
 I tell thee, thou'rt defied ! 
 And if thou saidst I am not peer 
 To any lord in Scotland here. 
 Lowland or Highland, far or near. 
 
 Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " — 
 On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
 O'ercame the ashen hue of age : 
 Fierce he broke forth, — " And dar'st thou then 
 To beard the lion in his den, 
 
 The Douglas in his hall ? 
 And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go ? — 
 No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
 Up drawbridge, grooms, — what, Warder, ho ! 
 
 Let the portcullis fall." — 
 Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need ! — 
 And dashed the rowels in his steed, 
 
Selections. 
 
 129 
 
 Like arrow through the archway sprung ; 
 The ponderous gate behind him rung : 
 To pass there was such scanty room, 
 The bars descending, razed his plume. 
 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
 
 Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
 
 Nor lighter does the swallow skim 
 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim ; 
 
 And when Lord Marmion reached his band. 
 
 He halts, and turns with clenched hand. 
 
 And shout of loud defiance pours, 
 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 
 " Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, " and chase ! " 
 
 But soon he reined his fury's pace : 
 
 " A royal messenger he came. 
 
 Though most unworthy of the name. 
 
 St. Mary, mend my fiery mood ! 
 
 Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
 
 I thought to slay him where he stood. ' 
 
 'Tis pity of him, too," he cried ; 
 
 " Bold can he speak, and fairly ride : 
 
 I warrant him a warrior tried." 
 
 With this his mandate he recalls. 
 
 And slowly seeks his castle halls. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 CATILINE'S DEFIANCE. 
 
 Banished from Eome ! What's banished, but set free 
 From daily contact of the things I loathe ? 
 " Tried and convicted traitor I " Who says this ? 
 Who'll prove it, at his peril on my head ? 
 Banished ? I thank you for't. It breaks my chain I 
 I held some slack allegiance till this hour ; 
 
130 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords ; 
 
 I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, 
 
 Strong provocation, bitter, burning wrongs, 
 
 I have within my heart's hot cells shut up. 
 
 To leave you in your lazy dignities. 
 
 But here I stand and scoff you ! here I fling 
 
 Hatred and full defiance in your face ! 
 
 Your Consul's merciful. For this all thanks : — 
 
 He dares not touch a hair of Catiline ! 
 
 " Traitor ! " 1 go ; but I return. This^trial I 
 
 Here I devote your Senate ! I've had wrongs 
 
 To stir a fever in the blood of age. 
 
 Or make the infant's sinews strong as steel. 
 
 This day's the birth of sorrow ! This hour's work 
 
 Will breed proscriptions ! Look to your hearths, my lords ! 
 
 For there, henceforth, shall sit for household gods, 
 
 Shapes hot from Tartarus ! — all shames and crimes j"— 
 
 Wan Treachery, with his thirsty dagger drawn ; 
 
 Suspicion poisoning his brother's cup ; 
 
 Naked Rebellion, with the torch and axe, 
 
 Making his wild sport of your blazing thrones ; 
 
 Till Anarchy comes down on you like night, 
 
 And Massacre seals Rome's eternal grave. 
 
 I go ; but not to leap the gulf alone. 
 
 I go ; but when I come, 'twill be the burst 
 
 Of ocean in the earthquake, — rolling back 
 
 Jn swift and mountainous ruin. Fare you well ! 
 
 You build my funeral-pile ; but your best blood 
 
 Shall quench its flame, 
 
 Rev. George Groly. 
 
 THE WORN WEDDING-RING. 
 
 Your wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife ; ah, summei's 
 
 not a few. 
 Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me 
 
 and you ; 
 
Selections. 131 
 
 And, love, what changes we have seen — what cares and 
 
 pleasures too — 
 Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 blessings on that happy day, the happiest in my life. 
 When, thanks to God, your low sweet " Yes " made you 
 
 my loving wife ; 
 Your heart will say the same, I know, that day's as dear 
 
 to you. 
 That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old 
 
 ring was new. 
 
 How well do I remember now, your young sweet face 
 
 that day ; 
 How fair you were — how dear you were — my tongue could 
 
 hardly say ; 
 Nor how I doted on you ; ah, how proud I was of you ; 
 But did I love you more than now, when this old ring 
 
 was new ? 
 
 No — no ; no fairer were you then than at this hour to me. 
 And dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be? 
 As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis 
 
 true. 
 And did I know your heart as well when this old ring 
 
 was new ! 
 
 O partner of my gladness, wife, what care, what grief is 
 
 there. 
 For me you would not bravely face, — with me you would 
 
 not share ? 
 what a weary want had every day if wanting you, 
 Wanting the love that God made mine when this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife — young voices 
 
 that are here. 
 Young faces round our iire that make their mother's yet 
 
 more dear, 
 
132 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Young loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more 
 
 like to you, 
 More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring 
 
 was new,. 
 
 And bless'd be God all He has given are with us yet ; 
 
 around 
 Our table, every little life lent to us, still is found ; 
 Though cares we've known, with hopeful hearts the worst 
 
 we've struggled through ; 
 Blessed be His name for all His love since this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 The past is dear; its sweetness still our memories treasure 
 
 yet; 
 The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now 
 
 forget ; 
 Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart still 
 
 true, 
 We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to 
 
 grow old. 
 We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine 
 
 grow cold ; 
 Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to 
 
 you. 
 And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 And when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest, 
 May I die looking in those eyes, and leaning on that 
 
 breast ; 
 may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight 
 
 of you, 
 Of those fond eyes — fond as they were when this old ring 
 
 was new. 
 
 W. C. Bennett. 
 
Selections. 133 
 
 ROLL-GALL. 
 
 The battle was over — the foemen were flying, 
 
 But the plain was strewn with the dead and the dying, 
 
 For the dark angel rode on its sulphurous blast. 
 
 And had reaped a rich harvest of death, as he passed ; 
 
 For, as grass he mowed down the blue and the gray, 
 
 With the mean and the mighty that stood in his way, 
 
 While the blood of our bravest ran there as water, 
 
 And his nostrils were filled with the incense of slaughter. 
 
 The black guns were silent — hushed the loud ringing 
 
 cheers, — 
 
 And the pale dead were buried, in silence and tears ; 
 And the wounded brought in on stretchers so gory. 
 Broken and mangled but covered with glory. 
 Whilst the surgeons were clipping with expertness and 
 
 vim. 
 From the agonised trunk each bullet-torn limb. 
 And the patient, if living, was carefully sent 
 To the cool open wards of the hospital tent. 
 
 Within one of those wards a brave Highlander lay. 
 With the chill dews of death on his forehead of clay. 
 For a shell had struck him in the heat of the fray. 
 And his right arm and shoulder were carried away ; 
 No word had he spoken — not a sound had he made, 
 Yet a shiver, at times, had his anguish betrayed, 
 And so calmly he lay without murmur or moan, 
 The gentle-voiced sister thought his spirit had flown. 
 
 The lamps burning dimly an uncertain light shed. 
 While the groans of the wounded, the stare of the dead. 
 Made an age of a night to the. gentle and true. 
 That had waited and watched half its long hours through; 
 
134 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 When the surgeon came in with a whisper of cheer, 
 And a nod and a glance at the cot that stood near, 
 When — "Here ■'" like a bugle blast, the dying man cried, 
 "It is roll-call in Heaven f" He answered and died. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 THE DEAD DOLL. 
 
 You needn't be trying to comfort me — I tell you my dolly 
 
 is dead ! 
 There's no use in saying she isn't — with a crack like that 
 
 in her head. 
 It's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my 
 
 tooth out that day ; 
 And then when the man most pulled mj' head off, you 
 
 hadn't a word to say. 
 
 And I guess you must think I'm a baby, when you say 
 
 you can mend it with glue ! 
 As if I didn't know better than that ! Why, just suppose 
 
 it was you ? 
 You might make her look all mended — but what do I care 
 
 for looks ? 
 Why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys, and the backs 
 
 of books ! 
 
 My dolly ! my own little daughter ! Oh, but it's the 
 
 awfuUest crack ! 
 It just makes me sick to think of the sound when her 
 
 poor head went whack 
 Against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little 
 
 shelf. 
 Now, Nursey, what makes you remind me ? I know 
 
 that I did it myself ? 
 
 I think you must be crazy — you'll get her another head ! 
 What good would forty heads do her ? I tell you my 
 dolly is dead ! 
 
Selections. ^ 35 
 
 And to think I hadn't quite finished her elegant New 
 
 Year's hat ! 
 And I took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that 
 
 horrid cat ! 
 
 When my mamma gave me that ribbon — I was playing 
 
 out in the yard^ 
 She said to me most expressly : " Here's a ribbon for 
 
 Hildegarde." 
 And I went and put it on Tabby, and Hildegarde saw me 
 
 do it; 
 But I said to myself, " Oh, never mind, I don't believe she 
 
 knew it ? " 
 
 But I know that she knew it now, and I just believe, I 
 
 do, 
 That her poor little heart was broken, and so her head 
 
 broke too. 
 Oh, my baby ! my little baby ! I wish my head had been 
 
 hit ! 
 For I've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit. 
 
 But since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried of 
 
 course ; 
 We will take my little wagon, Nurse, and you shall be 
 
 the horse ; 
 And I'll walk behind and cry ; and we'll put her in this— 
 
 you see, 
 This dear httle box — and we'll bury them under the 
 
 maple tree. 
 
 And papa will make a tombstone, like the one he made for 
 
 'my bird ; 
 And he'll put what I tell him on it— yes, every single 
 word ! 
 
136 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 I shall say : " Here lies Hildegarde, a beautiful doll who 
 
 is dead ; 
 She died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her 
 
 head." 
 
 St. Nicholas. 
 
 AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT. 
 
 How do you do, Cornelia ? I heard you were sick and 
 I stepped in to cheer you up a little. My friends often 
 say, '■ It's such a comfort to see you. Aunty Doleful. 
 You have such a flow of conversation, and are so lively." 
 Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs, " Per- 
 haps it's the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive." 
 
 You don't mean to die yet, eh ? Well, now, how do 
 you know ? You can't tell. You think you are getting 
 better ; but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and 
 every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden 
 she was taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like 
 a flash. But you must be careful, and not get anxious or 
 excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret about anything. 
 Of course, things can't go on just as if you were down 
 stairs ; and I wondered whether you knew your little 
 Billy was sailing about in a tub on the mill-pond, and 
 that your little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy 
 down from the verandah roof in a clothes-basket. 
 
 Gracious goodness ! what's the matter ? I guess Provi- 
 dence'll take care of 'em. Don't "look so. You thought 
 Bridget was watching them ? Well, no, she isn't. I saw 
 her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like 
 a burglar. No doubt she let him take the impression of 
 the door-key in wax, and then he'll get in and murder you 
 all. There was a family at Kobble Hill all killed last 
 week for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so , it will be 
 bad for the baby. 
 
 Poor little dear ! How singular it is, to be sure, tha 
 you can't tell whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb 
 
Selections. 137 
 
 or a cripple a.t that age. It might be all, and you'd never 
 know it. 
 
 Most of them that have their senses make bad use of 
 them though ; that ought to be your comfort, if it does 
 turn out to have anything dreadful the matter with it. 
 And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's funeral down 
 the street as I came along. 
 
 How is Mr. Kobble 1 Well, but finds it warm in town, 
 eh ? "Well, I should think he would. They are dropping 
 down by hundreds there with sun-stroke. You must 
 prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. 
 Anyhow, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking 
 your life every time you take one. Back and forth every 
 day as he is, it's just trifling with danger. 
 
 Dear ! dear ; now to think what dreadful things hang 
 over us all the time ! Dear ! dear ! 
 
 Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. 
 Little Isaac Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing 
 with him last Saturday. 
 
 Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick 
 friend, and I shan't think my duty done unless I cheer 
 her up a little before I sleep. Good-bye. How pale you 
 look, Cornelia. I don't believe you have a good doctor. 
 Do send him away and try some one else. You don't look 
 so well as you did when I came in. But if anything hap- 
 pens, send for me at once. If I can't do anything else, I 
 can cheer you up a little. 
 
 THE MINIATURE. 
 
 William was holding in his hand 
 The likeness of his wife — 
 
 Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, 
 With beauty, grace, and life. 
 
138 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 He almost thought it spoke— he gazed, 
 
 Upon the treasure still ; 
 Absorbed, delighted, and amazed 
 
 He view'd the artist's skill. 
 
 This picture is yourself, dear Ann, 
 
 Tis' drawn to nature true ; 
 I've kissed it o'er and o'er again. 
 
 It is so much like you." 
 " And has it kiss'd you back, my dear ? " 
 
 " Why — no — my love," said he ; 
 " Then, William, it is very clear, 
 
 'Tis not at all like me ! " 
 
 THE CHIMES OF S. S. PETER AND PAUL. 
 
 Ring out, sad bells, ring out 
 Melody to the twilight sky. 
 
 With echoes, echoing yet 
 As along the shore they die ; 
 Chiming, chiming. 
 
 Sweet toned notes upon the heart 
 
 That one can ne'er forget. 
 
 Ring louder ! O louder ! 
 
 Until the distant sea 
 Shall send thy clear vibrations 
 
 Dying back to me ; 
 
 Tolling, tolling, 
 Beautiful, trembling notes 
 Of sad sweet melody. 
 
 Ring, ring, ring, a merry Christmas 
 
 And a glad New Year ; 
 Ring on Easter morning 
 
 And at the May-day dear ; 
 
Selections. 139 
 
 Fing, fling 
 Thy tones over woodland ways 
 All the hills adorning. 
 
 At the joyous marriage, 
 
 And at the gladsome birth 
 Fling thy silvery echoes 
 
 Over all the earth, 
 
 But knell, knell 
 When death, the shadowy spectre 
 
 Shall kiss the lips of mirth. 
 
 blessed bells, silver bells. 
 Thy notes are echoing still 
 
 Like the song of an ebbing tide, 
 Or a mournful whip-poor-will. 
 As he sings, sings, 
 
 In the crimson sunset light 
 
 That dies on the burnished hill. 
 
 Then ring, O softly ring 
 
 Musical deep-toned bells ; 
 Till harmony, sweet harmony 
 Throughout the woodland swells. 
 To bring, faintly bring, 
 Thy dying echoes back to me. 
 Over fields and fells, 
 
 Bells, bells, bells. 
 
 THE ENGINEER'S STORY. 
 
 No, children, my trips are over. 
 
 The engineer needs rest ; 
 My hand is shaky ; I'm feeling 
 
 A tugging pain i' my breast ; 
 
140 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But here, as the twilight gathers, 
 I'll tell you a tale of the road, 
 
 That'll ring in my head forever 
 Till it rests beneath the sod. 
 
 We were lumbering along in the twilight, 
 
 The night was dropping her shade, 
 And the " Gladiator " laboTired — 
 
 Climbing the top of the grade ; 
 The train was heavily laden. 
 
 So I let my engine rest, 
 Climbing the grading slowly. 
 
 Till we reached the upland's crest. 
 
 I held my watch to the lamplight — 
 . Ten minutes behind time ! 
 Lost in the slackened motion 
 
 Of the up grade's heavy climb ; 
 But I knew the miles of the prairie 
 
 That stretched a level track, 
 So I touched the gauge of the boiler. 
 
 And pulled the lever back. 
 
 Over the rails a gleaming. 
 
 Thirty an hour, or so. 
 The engine leaped like a demon, 
 
 Breathing a fiery glow ; 
 But to me — a-hold of the lever — 
 
 It seemed a child alway. 
 Trustful and always ready 
 
 My lightest touch to obey. 
 
 I was proud, you know, of my engine. 
 
 Holding it steady that night, 
 And my eye on the track before us, 
 
 Ablaze with the Drummond light. 
 
Selections. 141 
 
 We neared a well-known cabin, 
 
 Where a child of three or four, 
 As the up train passed, oft called me, 
 
 A-playing around the door. 
 
 My hand was firm on the throttle 
 
 As we swept around the curve. 
 When something afar in the shadow. 
 
 Struck fire through every nerve. 
 I sounded the brakes, and crashing 
 
 The reverse lever down in dismay. 
 Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces 
 
 Ahead was the child at its play ! 
 
 One instant — one, awful and only, 
 
 The world flew round in my brain. 
 And I smote my hand hard on my forehead 
 
 To keep back the terrible pain ; 
 The train I thought flying forever. 
 
 With mad, irresistible roll, 
 While the cries of the dying night wind 
 
 Swept into my shuddering soul. 
 
 Then I stood on the front of the engine — 
 
 How I got there I never could tell— 
 My feet planted down on the crossbar. 
 
 Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, — 
 One hand firmly locked on the coupler. 
 
 And one held out in the night. 
 While my eye gauged the distance, and measured 
 
 The speed of our slackening flight. 
 
 My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady ; 
 
 I saw the curls of her hair, 
 And the face that, turning in wonder, 
 
 Was lit by the deadly glare. 
 
1142 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 I know little more, but I heard it — 
 The groan of the anguished wheels — 
 
 And remember thinking, the engine 
 In agony trembles and reels. 
 
 One rod ! To the day of my dying 
 
 I shall think the old e'ngine reared back. 
 And as it recoiled, with a shudder, 
 
 I swept my hand over the track ; 
 Then darkness fell over my eyelids, 
 
 But I heard the surge of the train, 
 And the poor old engine creaking, 
 
 As racked by a deadly pain. 
 
 They found us, they said, on the gravel. 
 
 My fingers enmeshed in her hair, 
 And she on my bosom a- climbing. 
 
 To nestle securely there. 
 We are not much given to crying — 
 
 We men that run on the road — 
 But that night, they said, there were faces, 
 
 With tears on them, lifted to God. 
 
 For years in the eve and the morning, 
 
 As I neared the cabin again, 
 My hand on the lever pressed downward 
 
 And slackened the speed of the train. 
 When my engine had blown her a greeting, 
 
 She always would come to the door, 
 And her look with the fullness of heaven 
 
 Blesses me evermore. 
 
 FASHIONABLE SINGING. 
 
 Miss Julia was induced to give a taste of her musical 
 powers, and this is how she did it. She flirted up her 
 
Selections. 143 
 
 panniers, coquettishly wiggle-waggled to the piano and 
 sang — 
 
 " When ther moo-hoon is mi-hild-ly be-ahming 
 O'er ther ca-halm and si-hi-lent se-e-e-e, 
 Its ra-dyance so-hoftly stre-heara-ing 
 Oh ! ther-hen, Oh ! ther-hen, 
 
 I thee-hink 
 Hof thee-hee, 
 I thee-hink, 
 I thee-hink, 
 I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink hof thee-e-e-e-e ! " 
 
 " Beautiful, Miss Julia ! Beautiful!" and we all clapped 
 our hands. " Do sing another verse — it's perfectly divine^ 
 Miss Julia," said Eugene Augustus. Then Julia raised her 
 golden (dyed) head, touched the white ivory with her jew- 
 elled fingers, and warbled — 
 
 " When ther sur-hun is bri-hight-ly glow-ing-how-ing 
 O'er the se-hene so de-hear to me-e-e. 
 And swe-heat the wie-hind is blow-how-ing. 
 Oh ! ther-hen, oh ! ther-hen, 
 
 I thee-hink 
 Hof thee-hee, 
 I thee-hink 
 I thee-hink 
 I thee-he-he-he-he-he-he-hink-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-hof 
 the-e-e-e-e-e ! " — Baltimore Elocutionist. 
 
 THE OLD SOLDIER OF THE REGIMENT. 
 
 From the bold heights of the island, far up in the Huron 
 
 Sea, 
 Proudly waved that Summer morning the qld fi^g of 
 
 liberty ; 
 
144 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 While close under that fair banner, which to him was love 
 
 and law, 
 Sat that hour a veteran soldier of the guard at Mackinaw. 
 
 Bowed and wrinkled, thin and hoary, sat he there that 
 
 Summer day, 
 His form leaning 'gainst the flagstaff, while he watched 
 
 the sunlight play 
 On the waters of that inland ocean which, in beauty 
 
 purled. 
 Were to him — the scarred old soldier — fairest waters of 
 
 the world. 
 
 In the days when Peace no longer walked the land, a 
 
 beauteous queen. 
 Fragrance dropping from her garments, gladness beaming 
 
 in her mien ; 
 When grim war strode forth thro' valley, and o'er hill from 
 
 sea to sea. 
 All along her pathway shedding, woe in its infinity. 
 
 Although time and gallant service, for the land he loved 
 
 the best, 
 Had upon his manhood told already, and he needed rest ; 
 Brave, and trusting still, and loving, as a knight of ancient 
 
 days. 
 Forth he went with other comrades, caring not for fame or 
 
 praise. 
 
 Only eager, aye, for duty, as God made it plain to all, 
 When upon the breath of Zephyrus, patriot heroes heard 
 
 him call ; 
 Anxious to beat back the dread one, and thro' war bring 
 
 sweet release, 
 From the demon of the tempest, usher in the reign of 
 
 peace ! 
 
Selections. 1 45 
 
 0, the hot and bloody conflicts, hour by hour, and day by 
 
 day, 
 'Mid those years of which the memory can ne\er pass 
 
 away ! 
 0, at last the hard -won triumph, aye, but glorious we may 
 
 say, 
 Since thro' tears and loss God's blessing comes to-day to 
 
 " Blue and Gray !" 
 
 And the soldier, the old soldier, sitting there that hour 
 
 alone. 
 Gazing out upon the waters, thought of those years long 
 
 since flown, 
 And, on many a field of strife, his humble part — his part 
 
 sublime — 
 When his comrades fell around him like leaves in the 
 
 Autumn time ! 
 
 Sitting there that summer morning he thought, too, how' 
 
 since his youth. 
 His whole life had ever been, as 'twere, a lone one, how in 
 
 sooth 
 He had never since that hour — and his years how great 
 
 the sum ! — 
 He had never known the blessing of a wife, or child, or 
 
 home. 
 
 And, ah, now he fast was nearing — sad old man ! — the 
 
 end of life. 
 Soon he should lay by his armour and go forth beyond 
 
 the strife. 
 And he tho't — " 0, ere I go hence, if the one who gave me 
 
 birth 
 Could but come from yonder Heaven, only come once 
 
 more to earth ; 
 
146 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 " That again, as in my childhood, I might look upon her 
 face. 
 
 Feel once more, once more, the pressure of her loving, 
 dear embrace. 
 
 Hear her speak, ah, as she used to, those sweet words I so 
 much miss. 
 
 Feel upon my cheek and forehead the touch of her frag- 
 rant kiss !" 
 
 And the sad old soldier's eyelids closed, his lips they 
 
 moved no more ; 
 He had gone to sleep where often he had gone to sleep 
 
 before ! — 
 So his comrades tho't that hour as they saw him sitting 
 
 there, 
 Leaning fondly 'gainst the flagstaff, on his face a look 
 
 most fair ! 
 
 A-nd they left him to his slumbers, with no wish to break 
 the spell 
 
 Which had come to him so gently — the old soul they 
 loved so well ! 
 
 And the breezes so delightful played among his locks so 
 white, 
 
 While above him proudly floated the old flag of his de- 
 light. 
 
 But ere long, when loved ones round him called the name 
 
 of " Sergeant Gray," 
 Not a word the veteran answered, for his life had passed 
 
 away. — 
 Though a tear was on each pale cheek of the dead one 
 
 whom they saw — 
 The old soldier of the regiment on guard at Mackinaw. 
 
 Geo. Newell Lovejoy. 
 
Selections. 
 
 POOR LITTLE STEPHEN GERARD. 
 
 The man lived in Philadelphia who, when young and 
 poor, entered a bank, and says he, " Please, sir, don't you 
 want a boy ?" And the stately personage said : " No, 
 little boy, I don't want a little boy." The little boy, whose 
 heart was too full for utterance, chewing a piece of liquorice 
 stick he had bought with a cent stolen from his good and 
 pious aunt, with sobs plainly audible, and with great glob- 
 ules of water rolling down his cheeks, glided silently down 
 the marble steps of the bank. Bending his noble form, 
 the bank man dodged behind a door, for he thought the 
 little boy was going to shy a stone at him. But the little 
 boy picked up something, and stuck it in his poor but 
 ragged jacket. " Come here, little boy," and the little boy 
 did come here ; and the bank man said : " Lo, what pickest 
 thou up ?" And he answered and replied : " A pin." 
 And the bank man said : " Little boy, are you good ?" and 
 he said he was. And the bank man said : " How do you 
 vote ? — excuse me, do you go to Sunday school ?" and he 
 said he did. Then the bank man took down a pen made 
 of pure gold, and flowing with pure ink, and he wrote on 
 a piece of paper, " St. Peter ;" and he asked the little boy 
 what it stood for, and he said " Salt Peter." Then the 
 bank man said it meant " Saint Peter." The little boy 
 said: "Oh!" 
 
 Then the banjf man took the little boy to his bosom, 
 and the little boy said " Oh !" again, for he squeezed him. 
 Then the bank man took the little boy into partnership, 
 and gave him half the profits and all the capital, and he 
 married the bank man's daughter, and now all he has is 
 all his, and all his own, too. 
 
 My uncle told me this story, and I spent six weeks in 
 picking up pins in front of a bank. I expected the bank 
 man would call me in and say : " Little boy, are you 
 good ?" and I was going to say " Yes ;" and when he asked 
 
148 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 me what " St. John " stood for, I was going to say " Salt 
 John." But the bank man wasn't anxious to have a part- 
 ner, and I guess the daughter was a son, for one day says 
 he to me : " Little boy, what's that you're picking up ?" 
 Says I, awful meekly, " Pins." Says he : " Let's see 'em." 
 And he took 'em, and 1 took off my cap, all ready to go in 
 the bank, and become a partner, and marry his daughter. 
 But I didn't get an invitation. He said : " Those pins be- 
 long to the bank, and if I catch you hanging around here 
 any more I'll set the dog on you!" Then I left, and the 
 mean old fellow kept the pins. Such is life as I find it. 
 
 Mark Ttvain. 
 
 THE LITTLE QUAKER SINNER. 
 
 A little Quaker maiden, with dimpled cheek and chin, 
 Before an ancient mirror stood, and viewed her form 
 
 within ; 
 She wore a gown of sober grey, a cape demure and prim, 
 With only simple fold and hem, yet dainty, neat, and trim. 
 Her bonnet, too, was grey and stiff; its only line of grace 
 Was in the lace, so soft and white, shirred round her 
 
 rosy face. 
 
 Quoth she, " Oh, how I hate this hat ! I hate this gown 
 
 and cape ! 
 I do wish all my clothes were not of such outlandish 
 
 shape ! 
 The children passing by to school have ribbons on their 
 
 hair ; 
 The little girl next door wears blue ; oh, dear, if I could 
 
 dare 
 I know A\hat I should like to do ?" — (The words were 
 
 whispered low. 
 Lest such tremendous heresy should reach her aunts 
 
 below). 
 
Selections. 149 
 
 Calmly reading in the parlour sat the good aunts, Faith 
 
 ' and Peace, 
 Little dreaming how rebellious throbbed the heart of their 
 
 young niece. 
 All their prudent humble teaching wilfully she cast aside, 
 And, her mind now fully conquered by vanity and pride, 
 She, with trembling heart and fingers, on a hassock, sat 
 
 her down. 
 And this little Quaker sinner sewed a tuck into her gown I 
 
 " Little Patience, art thou ready ? Fifth-day meeting 
 
 time has come, 
 Mercy Jones and Goodman Elder with his wife have left 
 
 their home." 
 'Twas Aunt Faith's sweet voice that called her, and the 
 
 naughty little maid — 
 Gliding down the dark old stairway — hoped their notice 
 
 to evade. 
 Keeping shyly in their shadow as they went out at the 
 
 door, 
 Ah, never little Quakeress a guiltier conscience bore ! 
 
 Dear Aunt Faith walked looking upward; all her thoughts 
 
 were pure and holy ; 
 Aiid Aunt Peace walked gazing downward, with a humble 
 
 mind and lowly. 
 But "tuck — tuck!" chirped the sparrows, at the little 
 
 maiden's side ; 
 And, in passing Farmer Watson's, where the barn-door 
 
 opened wide, 
 Every sound that issued from it, every grunt and every 
 
 cluck, 
 Seemed to her affrighted fancy like " a tuck !" "a tuck !" 
 
 " a tuck !" 
 
 In meeting Goodman Elder spoke of pride and vanity. 
 While all the Friends seemed looking round that dreadful 
 tuck to see. 
 
150 The Ca/nadian Elocutionist. 
 
 How it swelled in its proportions, till it seemed to fill the 
 
 air, 
 And the heart of little Patience grew heavier with her 
 
 care. 
 Oh, the glad relief to her, when, prayers and exhortations 
 
 ended. 
 Behind her two good aunts her homeward way she 
 
 wended ! 
 
 The pomps and vanities of life she'd seized with eager 
 
 arms. 
 And deeply she had tasted of the world's alluring 
 
 charms — 
 Yea, to the dregs had drained them and only this to find; 
 All was vanity of spirit and vexation of the mind. 
 So repentant, saddened, humbled, on her hassock she sat 
 
 down. 
 And this little Quaker sinner rip-ped the tuck out of her 
 
 gown ! 
 
 St. Nicholas. 
 
 HOW WE HUNTED A MOUSE. 
 
 I was dozing comfortably in my easj^ chair, and dream- 
 ing of the good times which I hope are coming, when 
 there fell upon my ears a most startling scream. It was 
 the voice of my Maria Ann in agony. The voice came 
 from the kitchen, and to the kitchen I rushed. The 
 idolized form of my Maria was perched on a chair, and 
 she was flourishing an iron spoon in all directions, and 
 shouting " shoo," in a general manner at everything in 
 the room. To my anxious inquiries as to what was the 
 matter, she screamed : " ! Joshua, a mouse, shoo — wha 
 — shoo — a great — ya, shoo — horrid mouse, and — -she — ew 
 — it ran right out of the cupboard — shoo — go way — 
 I^ord — Joshua — shoo — kill it, oh, my — shoo." 
 
Selections. 151 
 
 All that fuss, you see, about one little, harmless mouse. 
 Some women are so afraid of mice. Maria is. I got the 
 poker and set myself to poke that mouse, and my wife 
 jumped down and ran off into another room. I found 
 the mouse in a corner under the sink. The first time I 
 hit it I didn't poke it any on account of getting the poker 
 all tangled up in a lot of dishes in the sink ; and I did 
 not hit it any more because the mouse would not stay 
 still. It ran right toward me, and I naturally jumped, as 
 anybody would, but I am not afraid of mice, and when 
 the horrid thing ran up inside the leg of my pantaloons, 
 I yelled to Maria because I was afraid it would gnaw a 
 hole in my garment. There is something real disagree- 
 able about having a mouse inside the leg of one's panta- 
 loons, especially if there is nothing between you and the 
 mouse. Its toes are cold, and its nails are scratch}'-, and 
 its fur tickles, and its tail feels crawly, and there is 
 nothing pleasant about it, and you are all the time afraid 
 it will try to gnaw out, and begin on you instead of on 
 the cloth. That mouse was next to me. I could feel its 
 every motion with startling and suggestive distinctness. 
 For these reasons I yelled to Maria, and as the case 
 seemed urgent to me I may have yelled with a certain 
 degree of vigour ; but I deny that I yelled fire, and if I 
 catch the boy who thought that I did, I shall inflict pun- 
 ishment on his person. 
 
 I did not lose my presence of mind for an instant. I 
 caught the mouse just as it was clambering over my 
 knee, and by pressing firmly on the outside of the cloth, 
 I kept the animal a prisoner on the inside. I kept jump- 
 ing around with all my might to confuse it, so that it 
 would not think about biting, and I yelled so that the 
 mice would not hear its squeaks and come to its as- 
 sistance. A man can't handle many mice at once to 
 advantage. 
 
 Maria was white as a sheet when she came into the 
 kitchen, and asked what she should do — ^as though I could 
 hold the mouse a,nd plan a campaign at the same time. 
 
152 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 I told her to think of something, and she thought she 
 would throw things at the intruder ; but as there was no 
 earthly chance for her to hit the mouse, while every shot 
 took effect on me, I told her to stop, after she had tried 
 two flat-irons and the coal scuttle. She paused for breath, 
 but I kept bobbing around. Somehow I felt no inclina- 
 tion to sit down anywhere. " Oh, Joshua," she cried, " I 
 wish you had not killed the cat." Now, I submit that 
 the wish was born of the weakness of woman's intellect. 
 How on earth did she suppose a cat could get where that 
 mouse was ? — rather have the mouse there alone, anyway, 
 than to have a cat prowling around after it. I reminded 
 Maria of the fact that she was a fool. Then she got the 
 tea-kettle and wanted to scald the mouse. I objected to 
 that process, except as a last resort. Then she got some 
 cheese to coax the mouse down, but I did not dare to let 
 go for fear it would run up. Matters were getting des- 
 perate. I told her to think of something else, and I kept 
 jumping. Just as I was ready to faint with exhaustion, 
 I tripped over an iron, lost my hold, and the mouse fell 
 to the floor very dead. I had no idea a mouse could be 
 squeezed to death so easy. 
 
 That was not the end of trouble, for before I had re- 
 covered my breath a fireman broke in one of the front 
 windows, and a whole company followed him through, 
 and they dragged hose around, and mussed things all 
 over the house, and then the foreman wanted to thrash 
 me because the house was not on fire, and I had hardly 
 got him pacified before a policeman came in and arrested 
 me. Some one had run down and told him I was drunk 
 and was killing Maria. It was all Maria and I could do, 
 by combining our eloquence, to prevent him from march- 
 ing me off in disgrace, but we finally got matters quieted 
 and the house clear. 
 
 Now, when mice run out of the cupboard I go out 
 doors, and let Maria " shoo " them back again. I can 
 kill a mouse, but the fun don't pay for the trouble. 
 
 Joshua Jenkins. 
 
Selections. 153 
 
 IN SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 Still sits the school-house by the road, 
 
 A ragged beggar sunning ; 
 Around it still the sumachs grow, 
 
 And blackberry vines are running. 
 
 Within, the master's desk is seen, 
 Deep scarred by raps official ; 
 
 The warping floor, the battered seats. 
 The jack-knife's carved initial ; 
 
 The charcoal frescoes on its wall ; 
 
 Its door's worn sill, betraying 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school. 
 
 Went storming out to playing ! 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 
 Shone over it at setting ; 
 Lit up its western window panes. 
 
 And low eaves' icy fretting. 
 
 It touched the tangled golden curls, 
 And brown eyes full of grieving. 
 
 Of one who still her steps delayed 
 When all the school were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little boy 
 Her childish favour singled : 
 
 His cap pulled low upon a face 
 
 Where pride and shame were mingled. 
 
 Pushing with restless feet the snow 
 To right and left, he lingered ; — 
 
 As restlessly her tiny hands 
 
 The blue-checked apron fingered. 
 
1 54 The Canadian Elocutionist 
 
 He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
 
 The soft hand's tight caressing, 
 And heard the tremble of her voice, 
 
 As if a fault confessing. 
 
 " I'm sorry that I spelt the word : 
 
 I hate to go above you. 
 Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — 
 " Because, you see, I love you !" 
 
 Still memory to a gray-haired man 
 That sweet child-face is showing. 
 
 Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
 Have forty years been growing. 
 
 He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
 
 How few who pass above him 
 Lament their triumphs and his loss. 
 
 Like her, — because they love him. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 It struck my imagination much, while standing on th® 
 last field fought by Bonaparte, that the battle of Waterloo 
 should have been fought on a Sunday. What a different 
 scene did the Scotch Grays and English Infantry present, 
 from that which, at that very hour, was exhibited by their 
 relatives, when over England and Scotland each church- 
 bell had drawn together its worshippers ! While many a 
 mother's heart was sending up a prayer for her son's pre- 
 servation, perhaps that son was gasping in agony. Yet, 
 even at such a period, the lessons of his early days might 
 give him consolation ; and the maternal prayer might pre- 
 pare the heart to support maternal anguish. It is religion 
 alone which is of universal application, both as a stimu- 
 lant and a lenitive, throughout the varied heritage which 
 
Selections. 155 
 
 falls to the lot of man. But we know that many thous- 
 ands rushed into this fight, even of those who had been 
 instructed in our religious principles, without leisure for 
 one serious thought ; and that some officers were killed in 
 their ball dresses. They made the leap into the gulf 
 which divides two worlds — the present from the immu- 
 table state, without one parting prayer, or one note of 
 preparation ! 
 
 As I looked over this field, now green with growing 
 com, I could mark, with my eye, the spots where the most 
 desperate carnage had been marked out by the verdure of 
 the wheat. The bodies had been heaped together, and 
 scarcely more than covered : and so enriched is the soil, 
 that, in these spots, the grain never ripens. It grows 
 rank and green to the end of harvest. This touching 
 memorial, which endures when the thousand groans have 
 expired, and when the stain of human blood has faded 
 from the ground, stiU seems to cry to Heaven that there 
 is awful guilt somewhere, and a terrific reckoning for those 
 who caused destruction which the earth could not conceal. 
 These hillocks of superabundant vegetation, as the wind 
 rustled through the corn, seemed the most aflecting monu- 
 ments which nature could devise, and gave a melancholy 
 animation to this plain of death. 
 
 When we attempt to measure the mass of suffering 
 which was here inflicted, and to number the individuals 
 that fell, considering each who suffered as our fellow-man, 
 we are overwhelmed with the agonizing calculation, and re- 
 tire from the field which has been the scene of our reflec- 
 tions, with the simple, concentrated feeling — these armies 
 once lived, breathed, and felt like us, and the time is at 
 hand v/^hen we shall be like them. Lady Morgan. 
 
156 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry ; and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose, with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, 
 And all vent merry as a marriage bell : — 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? No ; 'twas but the wind 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet 
 To chase the glo wing hours with flying feet — - 
 But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more. 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — -the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 Within a windowed niche of that high hall 
 Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain : he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival. 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
 And when they smiled because he deemed it neai', 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretched his father on a bloody bier. 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; 
 He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell ! 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago. 
 Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
 
Selections. 1 57 
 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated : Who could guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since, upon night so sweet, such awful morn could rise ! 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste ; the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
 And swiftly forming in the i-anks of war ; 
 And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star ; 
 While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering with white lips — " The foe ! they come, 
 they come ! " 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " rose — 
 The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard — and heard too have her Saxon foes — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring, which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years ; 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass 
 Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves — 
 Over the unreturning brave — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass, 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure ; when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe. 
 And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and 
 low ! 
 
158 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay ; 
 The midnight brought the signal sound of strife ; 
 The morn the marshalling of arms; the day 
 
 Battle's magnificently stern array 
 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent. 
 The earth is covered thick with other clay. 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent. 
 Rider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 THE BRIDAL WINE-CUP. 
 
 Scene — Parlour, with wedding party, consisting of 
 Judge Otis ; Marion, his daughter, the bride ; Harry 
 Wood, the bridegroom ; a few relatives and friends ; 
 all gathered around the centre table, on which are de- 
 canters and wine-glasses. 
 
 One of the company — Let us drink the health of the 
 newly-wedded pair. {Turns to Harry) Shall it be in 
 wine ? (turns to Marion) or in sparkling cold water ? 
 
 Harry — Pledge in wine, if it be the choice of the com- 
 pany. 
 
 Several voices — Pledge in wine, to be sure. 
 
 Marion — {With great earnestness.) — O no ! Harry; not 
 wine, 1 pray you. 
 
 Judge Utis — Yes, Marion, my daughter ; lay aside your 
 foolish prejudices for this once ; the company expect it, 
 and you should not so seriously infringe upon the rules 
 of etiquette. In your own house you may act as you 
 please ; but in mine, which you are about to leave, for 
 this once please me, by complying with my wishes in this 
 matter. 
 
 [J. glass of wine is handed to Marion, which she slowly 
 and reluctantly raises to her lips, but just as it 
 reaches them she exclaims, excitedly, holding out the 
 glass at arm's length, and staring at it,] 
 
Selections. 159 
 
 Marion — Oh ! how terrible. 
 
 Several voices — (Eagerly) — What is it ? What do you 
 see ? 
 
 Marion — Wait — wait, and I will tell you. I see (point- 
 ing to the glass with her finger) a sight that beggars all 
 description ; and yet listen, and I will paint it for you, 
 if I can. It is a lonely spot ; tall mountains, crowned 
 with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around ; a river 
 runs through, and bright flowers in wild profusion grow 
 to the water's edge. There is a thick, warm mist, that 
 the sun vainly seeks to pierce ; trees, lofty and beautiful, 
 wave to the airy motion of the birds ; and beneath them 
 a group of Indians gather. They move to and fro with 
 something like sorrow upon their dark brows, for in 
 their midst lies a manly form, whose cheek is deathly 
 pale, and whose eye is wild with the fitful fire of fever. 
 One of his own white race stands, or rather kneels, beside 
 him, pillowing the poor sufferer's head upon his breast 
 with all a brother's tenderness. Look ! {she speaks with 
 renewed energy) how he starts up, throws the damp curls 
 back from his high and noble brow, and clasps his hands 
 in agony of despair; hear his terrible shrieks for life; 
 and mark how he clutches at the form of his companion, 
 imploring to be saved from despair and death. 0, 
 what a terrible scene ! Genius in ruins, pleading for 
 that which can never be regained when once lost. Hear 
 him call piteously his father's name ; see him clutch his 
 fingers as he shrieks for his sister — his only sister, the 
 twin of his soul — now weeping for him in his distant 
 home ! See ! his hands are lifted to heaven ; he prays — 
 how wildly ! — for mercy, while the hot fever rushes 
 through his veins. The friend beside him is weeping in 
 despair; and the awe-stricken sons of the forest move 
 silently away, leaving the living and the dying alone 
 together. (The judge, overcome with emotion, falls into 
 a chair, ivhile the rest of the. company seem awe-stnick, 
 as Marion's voice grows softer and more sorrowful in its 
 
160 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 tones, yet remains distinct and clear.] It is evening now ; 
 the great, white moon, is coming up, and her beams fall 
 gently upon his forehead. He moves not; for his eyes 
 are set in their sockets, and their once piercing glance is 
 dim. In vain his companion whispers the name of 
 father and sister ; death is there to dull the pulse, to 
 dim the eye, and to deafen the ear. Death ! stern, terri- 
 ble, and with no soft hand, no gentle voice, to soothe his 
 fevered brow, and calm his troubled soul and bid it hope 
 in God. {Harry sits down and covers his face with his 
 hands.) Death overtook him thus ; and there, in the 
 midst of the mountain forest, surrounded by Indian 
 tribes, they scooped him a grave in the sand ; and with- 
 out a shroud or coffin, prayer or hymn, they laid him 
 down in the damp earth to his final slumber. Thus 
 died and was buried the only son of a proud father ; the 
 only, idolized brother of a fond sister. There he sleeps 
 to-day, undisturbed, in that distant land, with no stone 
 to mark the spot. There he lies — ')ny father's son — MY 
 OWN TWIN BROTHER ! A victim to this (holds up the 
 glass before the company) deadly, damning poison ! 
 Father ! (turning to the judge,) father, shall I drink it 
 now ? 
 
 Judge Otis — (Raising his bowed head and speaking 
 with faltering voice) — No, no, my child ! in God's name, 
 cast it away. 
 
 Marion — (Letting her glass fall and dash to pieces) — 
 Let no friend who loves me hereafter tempt me to peril 
 my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills than 
 my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that 
 terrible poison. And he (turning to Harry,) to whom I 
 have this night given my heart and hand, who watched 
 over my brother's dying form in that last sad hour, and 
 buried the poor wanderer there by the river, in that land 
 of gold, will, I trust, sustain me in this resolve. Will 
 you not, (offers him her hand, which he takes,) my hus- 
 band ? 
 
Selections. 161 
 
 Harry — With the blessing of heaven upon my efforts, 
 I will ; and I thank you, beyond expression, for tha 
 solemn lesson you have taught us all on this occasion. 
 
 Judge Otis — God bless you (taking Marion and 
 Harry by the hand and speaking ivith deep emotion,) my 
 children ; and may I, too, have grace given me to help 
 you in your efforts to keep this noble resolve. 
 
 One of the company — Let us honour the firmness and 
 nobleness of principle of the fair bi'ide, by drinking her 
 health in pure, sparkling water, the only beverage which 
 the great Creator of the Universe gave to the newly- 
 wedded pair in the beautiful Garden of Eden. 
 
 Dramatized by Sidney Herbert. 
 
 MARY STUART. 
 Act in. Scene IV. 
 
 THE PARK AT FOTHERINGAY. 
 
 Mary. Farewell high thought, and pride of noble mind ! 
 I will forget my dignity, and all 
 My sufferings ; I will fall before her feet. 
 Who hath reduced me to this wretchedness. 
 
 \_Slie turns towards Elizabeth. 
 The voice of Heaven decides for you, my sister. 
 Your happy brows are now with triumph crown'd, 
 I bless the Power Divine, which thus hath rais'd 
 you. 
 
 [She kneels. 
 But in your turn be merciful, my sister ; 
 Let me not lie before you thus disgraced ; 
 Stretch forth your hand, your royal hand, to raise 
 Your sister from the depths of her distress. 
 
162 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Eliz. {stepping hack). 
 
 You are where it becomes yon, Lady Stuart ; 
 And thankfully I prize my God's protection, 
 Who hath not suffer'd me to kneel a suppliant 
 Thus at your feet, as you now kneel at mine. 
 
 Mary, {with increasing energy of feeling). 
 
 Think on all earthly things, vicissitudes. 
 
 Oh ! there are gods who punish haughty pride : 
 
 Respect them, honour tbem, the dreadful ones 
 
 Who thus before thy feet have humbled me ! 
 
 * * * * Dishonour not 
 
 Yourself in me ; profane not, nor disgrace 
 
 The royal blood of Tudor. 
 
 Eliz, {cold and severe). 
 
 What would you say to me, my Lady Stuart ? 
 You wish'd to speak with me ; and I, forgetting 
 The Queen, and all the wrongs I have sustained. 
 Fulfil the pious duty of the sister, 
 And grant the boon you wished for of my presence. 
 Yet I, in yielding to the gen'rous feelings 
 Of magnanimity, expose myself 
 To rightful censure, that I stoop so low, 
 For well you know, you would have had me 
 murder'd. 
 
 Maey, ! how shall I begin ? 0, how shall I 
 So artfully arrange my cautious words, 
 That they may touch, yet not offend your heart 1 — 
 I am a Queen, like you, yet you have held me 
 Confin'd in prison. As a suppliant 
 I came to you, yet you in me insulted 
 The pious use of hospitality ; 
 Slighting in me the holy law of nations, 
 Immur'd me in a dungeon — tore from me 
 My friends and sei'vants ; to unseemly want 
 I was exposed, and hurried to the bar 
 Of a disgraceful, insolent tribunal. 
 No more of this; — in everlasting silence 
 
Selections. 163 
 
 Be bui-ied all the cruelties I suffer'd ! 
 See — I will throw the blame of all on fate, 
 'Twas not your fault, no more than it was mine, 
 An evil spirit rose from the abyss. 
 To kindle in our hearts the flames of hate. 
 By which our tender youth had been divided. 
 
 [Approaching her confidently, and with a 
 flattering tone. 
 Now stand we face to face ; now sister, speak ; 
 Name but my crime, I'll fully satisfy you, — 
 Alas ! had you vouchsaf'd to hear me then, 
 When I so earnest sought to meet your eye. 
 It never would have come to this, nor would. 
 Here in this mournful place, have happen'd now 
 This so distressful, this so mournful meeting. 
 
 Eliz. My better stars preserved me. I was warn'd. 
 And laid not to my breast the pois'nous adder ! 
 Accuse not fate ! your own deceitful heart 
 It was, the wild ambition of your house. 
 But God is with me. The blow was aim'd 
 Full at my head, but your's it is which falls ! 
 
 Mary. I'm in the hand of Heav'n. You never will 
 Exert so cruelly the pow'r it gives you. 
 
 Eliz. Who shall prevent me ? Say, did not your uncle 
 Set all the Kings of Europe the example 
 How to conclude a peace with those they hate. 
 Force is my only surety ; no alliance 
 Can be concluded with a race of vipers. 
 
 Mary. You have constantly regarded me 
 But as a stranger, and an enemy. 
 Had you declared me heir to your dominions, 
 As is my right, then gratitude and love 
 In me had Sxed, for you a faithful friend 
 And kinswoman. 
 
 Eliz. Your friendship is abroad. 
 
 Name you my successor ! The treach'rous snare ! 
 That in my life you might seduce my people ; 
 
164 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 And, like a sly Armida, in your net 
 Entangle all our noble English youth ; 
 That all might turn to the new rising sun, 
 Andl— 
 
 Maky, sister, rule your realm in peace. 
 
 I give up ev'ry claim to these domains — 
 Alas ! the pinions of my soul are lam'd ; 
 Greatness entices me no more ; your point 
 Is gained ; I am but Mary's shadow now — 
 My noble spirit is at last broke down 
 By long captivity : — You've done your worst 
 On me ; you have desti'oy'd me in my bloom ! 
 Now, end your work, my sister ; — speak at length 
 The word, which to pronounce has brought you 
 
 hither ; 
 For I will ne'er believe, that you are come, 
 To mock unfeelingly your hapless victim. 
 Pronounce this word ; — say, " Mary, you are free ; 
 You have already felt my pow'r, — Learn now 
 To honour too my generosity." 
 Say this, and I will take my life, will take 
 My freedom, as a present from your hands. 
 One word makes all undone ; — I wait for it ; — 
 let it not be needlessly delay'd. 
 Woe to you, if you end not with this word ! 
 For should you not, like some divinity. 
 Dispensing noble blessings, quit me now. 
 Then, sister, not for all this island's wealth, 
 For all the realms encircled by the deep. 
 Would I exchange my present lot for yours. 
 
 Eliz. And you confess at last, that you are conquer'd : 
 Are all you schemes run out ? No more assassins 
 Now on the road ? Will no adventurer 
 Attempt again for you the sad achievement ? 
 Yes, madam, it is over : — You'll seduce 
 No mortal more — The world has other cares ; — 
 None is ambitious of the dang'rous honour 
 Of being your fourth husband. 
 
Selections. 165 
 
 Mary (starting angrily). Sister, sister ! — 
 
 Grant me forbearance, all ye pow'rs of heaven ! 
 
 Eliz. (regards her long with a look of proud contempt). 
 These then, are the charms 
 Which no man with impunity can view, 
 Near which no woman dare attempt to stand ? 
 In sooth, this honour has been cheaply gain'd, 
 
 Mart. This is too much ! 
 
 Eliz. (laughing insultingly). 
 
 You show us, now indeed, 
 Your real face ; till now 'twas but the mask. 
 
 Mary, (burning with rage, yet dignified and noble). 
 My sins were human, and the faults of youth ; 
 Superior force misled me. I have never 
 Denied or sought to hide it ; I despis'd. 
 All false appearance as became a Queen. 
 The worst of me is known, and I can say, 
 That I am better than the fame I bear. 
 Woe to you ! when, in time to come, the world 
 Shall draw the robe of honour from your deeds. 
 With which thy arch-hypocrisy has veil'd 
 The raging flames of lawless secret lust. 
 Virtue was not your portion from your mother ; 
 "W^ell know we what it was which brought the head 
 Of Anne Boleyn to the fatal block. 
 
 I've supported 
 What human nature can support ; farewell. 
 Lamb-hearted resignation, passive patience, 
 Fly to thy native heaven ; burst at length 
 Thy bonds, come forward from thy dreary cave. 
 In all thy fury, long-suppressed rancour ! 
 And thou, who to the anger'd basilisk 
 Impart' st the murd'rous glance, O, arm my tongue 
 With poison'd darts ! 
 
 (raising her voice). ' A pretender 
 
 Profanes the English throne ! The gen'rous Britons 
 Are cheated by a juggler, [whose whole figure 
 
166 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Is false and painted, heart at well as face !] 
 If right prevail'd, you now would in the dust 
 Before me lie, for I'm your rightful monarch ! 
 [Elizabeth hastily retires. 
 Mary. At last, at last, 
 
 A fter whole years of sorrow and abasement, 
 One moment of victorious reveuT-e 1 
 
 SCENE FROM LEAH, THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 Act IV. Scene III. 
 
 Scene. — Niyld. The Village Churchyard. Eoitn- Leah 
 sloioly, her hair streaming over her sh ulders. 
 
 Leah — \solus\ — What seek I here ? I know not ; yet 
 I feel I have a mission to fulfil. I feel that the cords of 
 my I eing are stretched to their utmost effort. Already 
 seven days ! So long ! As the dead lights were placed 
 about the body of Abraham, as the friends sat nightly at 
 his feet and watched, so have I sat, for seven days, and 
 wept over the corpse of my love. What have I done ? 
 Am I not the child of man ? Is not love the right of all, 
 — like the air, the light ? And if I stretched my hands 
 towards it, was it a crime ? When I first saw him, first 
 heard the sound of his voice, something wound itself 
 around my heart. Then first I knew why I was created, 
 and for the first time, was thankful for my life. Collect 
 thyself, mind, and think ! What has happened ? I saw 
 him yesterday — no ! eight days ago ! He was full of love. 
 " You'll come," said he. I came. I left my people. I 
 tore the cords that bound me to my nation, and came to 
 him. He cast me forth into the night. And yet, my 
 heart, you throb still. The earth still stands, the sun 
 still shines, as if it had not gone down forever, for me. By 
 his side stood a handsome maid, and drew him away with 
 
Selections. 167 
 
 caressing hands. It is she he loves, and to the Jewess he 
 dares offer gold. I will seek him ! I will gaze on his 
 face — that deceitful beautiful face. [Church iUuininated. 
 Organ plays softly^ I will ask him what I have done 
 that — [Hides face in, her hands . and weeps. Organ 
 swells louder and then subsides again.} Perhaps he has 
 been misled by some one — some false tongue ! His looks, 
 his words, seem to reproach me. Why was I silent ? 
 Thou proud mouth, ye proud lips, why did you not speak ? 
 Perhaps he loves me still. Perhaps his soul, like mine, 
 pines in nameless agony, and yearns for reconciliation. 
 \Music soft^ Why does my hate melt away at this soft 
 voice with which heaven calls to me ? That grand music ! 
 I hear voices. It sounds like a nuptial benediction ; per- 
 haps it is a loving bridal pair. Amen — amen ' to that 
 prayer, whoever you may be. [Music stops.'] I, poor 
 desolate one, would like to see their happy faces — I must 
 — this window. Yes, here I can see into the church. 
 [Loolcs into the window. Screams.'] Do I dream? Kind 
 Heaven, that prayer, that amen, you heard it not. I call 
 it back. You did not hear my blessing. You were deaf. 
 Did no blood-stained dagger drop upon them ? 'Tis he ! 
 
 Eevenge ! No! Thoushaltjudge ! Thine, Jehovah, 
 
 is the vengeance. Thou, alone, canst send it. [Rests her 
 arm upon a broken column.] 
 
 Enter Rudolf from tJiC sacristy door, with wreath in 
 hand. 
 
 E.UD. — I am at last alone. I cannot endure the joy 
 and merriment around me. How like mockery soundea 
 the pious words of the priest ! As I gazed towards the 
 church windows I saw a face, heard a muffled cry. I 
 thought it was her face, — her voice. 
 
 Leah. — {coldly!) Did you think so ? 
 
 RuD. — Leah ! Is it you 1 
 
 Leah. — Yes. 
 
 RuJJ. — (tenderly.) Leah 
 
168 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Leah. — Silence, perjured one ! Can the tongue that 
 lied, still speak ? The breath that called me wife, now 
 swear faith to another ! Does it dare to mix with the 
 pure air of heaven ? Is this the man I worshipped ? 
 whose features I so fondly gazed upon ! Ah ! [shudder- 
 ing] No — no ! The hand of heaven has crushed, beaten 
 and defaced them ' The stamp of divinity no longer rests 
 there ! [Walks aiuay.] 
 
 EuD. — Leah ! hear me ! 
 
 Leah. — [turning fiercely.] Ha! You call me back? 
 I am pitiless now. 
 
 RuD. — You broke faith first. You took the money. 
 
 Leah. — Money ! What money ? 
 
 RuD. — The money my father sent you. 
 
 Leah. — Sent me money ? For what ? 
 
 RuD. — [hesitating.] To induce you to release me — 
 to 
 
 Leah.— That I might release you ? And you knew it? 
 You permitted it ? 
 
 Rtjd. — I staked my life that you would not take it. 
 
 Leah. — And you believed I had taken it ? 
 
 RiTD. — How could I believe othei'wise ? I 
 
 Leah. — [with rage ] And you believed I had taken it. 
 Miserable Christian, and you cast me oft'! Not a que.stion 
 was the Jewess worth. This, then, was thy work; this 
 the eternity of love you promised me. Forgive me. 
 Heaven, that I forgot my nation to love this Christian. 
 Let that love be lost in hate. Love is false, unjust — 
 hate endless, eternal. 
 
 RuD. — Cease these gloomy woi'ds of vengeance — I have 
 wronged you. I feel it without your reproaches. I have 
 sinned ; but to sin is human, and it would be but human 
 to forgive. 
 
 Leah. — You would tempt me again i I do not know 
 that voice. 
 
 RuD. — I will make good the evil I have done ; aye, an 
 hundredfold. 
 
Selections. . 169 
 
 Leah. — Aye, crush the flower, grind it under foot, then 
 make good the evil you have done. No ! no ! an eye for 
 an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a heart for a heart ! 
 
 RuD. — Hold, fierce woman, I will beseech no more ! 
 Do not tempt heaven ; let it be the judge between us ! If 
 I have sinned through love, see that you do not sin 
 through hate. 
 
 Leah. — Blasphemer ! and you dare call on heaven ! 
 What commandant hast thou not broken ? Thou shalt 
 not swear falsely — you broke faith with me ! Thou shalt 
 not steal — you stole my heart. Thou shalt not kill — 
 what of life have you left me? 
 
 RuD. — Hold, hold ! No more ! [Advancing.] 
 
 Leah. — [repelling him.] The old man who died be- 
 cause I loved you, the woman who hungered because I 
 followed you, may they follow you in dreams, and be a 
 drag upon your feet forever. May you wander as I wan- 
 der, suffer shame as I now suffer it. Cursed be the land 
 you till : may it keep faith with you as you have kept 
 faith with me. Cursed, thrice cursed, may you be ever- 
 more, and as my people on Mount Ebal spoke, so speak I 
 thrice ' Amen ! Amen ! Amen ! 
 
 [Rudolf drops on his knees as the curtain descends on 
 the tableau.] 
 
 SCENE FROM LEAH. 
 
 Act V. Scene I. 
 
 RuD. — {Leah comes down stage gently and sad, listen- 
 ing). Think, Madalena, of her lot and mine. While I clasp 
 a tender wife, and a lovely child ; she wanders in foreign 
 lands, suffering and desolate. It is not alone her curse 
 that haunts me, it is her pale and gentle face, which I 
 seem to see in my dreams, and which so sadly says to me. 
 
] 70 Ihe Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 " I have forgiven ! " Oh, Madalena, could I but hear her 
 say this, and tell her how deeply I feel that I have wronged 
 her — could I but wet her hands with my repentent tears, 
 then would I find peace. 
 
 Mad. — Rudolf, a thought ! In yonder valley camps a 
 company of Jews who are emigrating to America ; per- 
 haps one of them may be able to give you news of Leah, 
 and if you find her, she shall share the blessings of our 
 home. She shall be to me a dear sister ! (Leah hastily con- 
 ceals herself.) Ha, that beggar woman, where is she ? 
 {Looks around.) Perhaps she belongs to the tribe ; per- 
 haps she may tell you of her. 
 
 RuD.— How say you ? A beggar woman ? 
 
 Mad. — Yes, a poor Jewess, whom I rescued to-day. 
 She must now be in the house. Oh, come, Rudolf, let 
 us find her. All may yet be well ! [Exeunt in house. 
 
 Enter Leah from behind a hayrick. 
 
 Leah. — Have I heard aright ? The iron bands seem 
 melting, the cold dead heart moves, and beats once more ! 
 The old life returns. Rudolf! (tears.) My Rudolf. No, 
 no, he is no longer mine ! The fiame is extinguished, and 
 onl}' the empty lamp remains above the sepulchre of my 
 heart. No, Madalena, no, I shall not remain to be a re- 
 proach to you both. I will wander on with my people ; 
 but the hate I have nourished has departed. I may not 
 love, but I forgive — yes, I forgive him. But his child. 
 Oh, I should so like to see his ehild ! 
 
 Child comes to doorway from house. 
 
 Fear not, little one, come hither. 
 
 Child. — (coming towards her). Is it you ? Father 
 seeks you. 
 
 Leah. — His very image, (kisses her,) What is your 
 name, my darling ? 
 
 Child. — ^Leah. 
 
 Leah. — What say you ? Leah ? 
 
Selections. 171 
 
 Child. — Did you know the other Leah ? — she whom 
 mother and father speak of so often, and for whom every 
 night I must pray ? 
 
 Leah. — (With em.otion, kissing her, and giving her a 
 withered rose-wreath, which she takes from inside her 
 dress.) Take this, my pretty one. 
 
 Child. — A rose-wreath ? 
 
 Leah. — Take it, and give it your father. Say to him 
 your little prayer has been heard, and that Leah — (emo- 
 tion) — Leah forgives, {going, returns again, kisses child, 
 and with extended arms and choking voice.) Bless, you, 
 darling ! (extending arms to house.) And you, and you — 
 and all — and all ! (goes to fence, totters, and sinks doivn, 
 endeavouring to exit.) 
 
 Enter Rudolf and Madalena from house. 
 
 RuD. — Not here ! 
 
 Child, (running to Madalena) See, mother, see what 
 the strange woman gave me. (showing wreath) 
 
 Mad. (not noticing child) Where is she ? 
 
 Child. — She has gone away (running to Rudolf with 
 wreath) See, father. ^ 
 
 RuD. (taking wreath) A rose-wreath. Great heaven, 
 Madalena, it must have been Leah ; it is my wreath. 
 Leah ! 
 
 Mad. — It was she ! 
 
 RuD. — Yes, it was Leah. By this token we are recon- 
 ciled. (Leah moans.) Ha, what sound is that ? 
 
 Mad. — (going to the prostrate figure.) Quick, Rudolf ! 
 It is she. [they run to her, raise her up, and hear her to 
 front) 
 
 Leah. — (feebly) I tried to go, but my strength forsook 
 me. I shall, at least, then, die here ! 
 
 RuD. — Die! No, no; speak not of dying, you shall 
 live ! 
 
 Leah. — No ; I am too happy to live. See, Madalena, 
 I take his hand, but it is to place it in yours. All is over. 
 (sinks into their arms) 
 
172 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 SCENE FROM PIZARRO. 
 
 Scene I. — A Dungeon. 
 
 Alonzo in chains — A sentinel walking near. 
 
 Alonzo. (c.) — For the last time, I have beheld the qui- 
 vering lustre of the stars. For the last time, O, sun ! 
 (and soon the hour), I shall behold thy rising, and thy 
 level beams melting the pale mists of morn to glittering 
 dew drops. Then comes my death, and in the morning of 
 my day, I fall, which — no, Alonzo, date not the life which 
 thou hast run, by the mean reckoning of the hours and 
 days, which thou has breathed : — a life spent worthily 
 should be measured by a nobler line ; by deeds, not years. 
 They only have lived long, who have lived virtuously. 
 Surely, even now, thin streaks of glimmering light steal 
 on the darkness of the East. If so, my life is but one hour 
 more. I will not watch the coming dawn ; but in the 
 darkness of my cell, my last prayer to thee, Power Su- 
 preme ! shall be for my wife and child ! Grant them to 
 dwell in innocence and peace ; grant health and purity of 
 mind — all else is worthless. 
 
 [Enters the cavern, R. u. E. 
 
 Sen. — Who's there ? answer quickly ! Who's there ? 
 
 RoL. — (tvithin.) A friar come to visit your prisoner. 
 (enters, L. u. e. disguised as a monk.) Inform me, friend, 
 is not Alonzo, the Spanish prisoner, confined in this 
 dungeon ? 
 
 Sen. — (c.) He is. 
 
 RoL. — -I must speak with him. 
 
 Sen. — You must not. (stopping him ti'ith his spear.) 
 
 RoL. — He is my friend. 
 
 Sen. — Not if he were your brother. 
 
 RoL. — What is to be his fate ? 
 
 Sen. — He dies at sunrise. 
 
Selections. 173 
 
 RoL. — Ha ! Then I am come in time. 
 
 Sen. — Just — to witness his death. 
 
 RoL. — Soldier, I must speak to him. 
 
 Sen. — Back, back — It is impossible. 
 
 RoL.— I do entfeat you, but for one moment. 
 
 Sen. — You entreat in vain — my orders are most strict. 
 
 RoL. — Look on this wedge of massive gold — look on 
 these precious gems. In thy own land they will be 
 wealth for thee and thine — beyond thy hope or wish. 
 Take them — they are thine. Let me but pass one minute 
 with Alonzo. 
 
 Sen. — Away ! — wouldst thou corrupt me ? Me ! an old 
 Castilian ! I know my duty better. 
 
 RoL. — Soldier ! — hast thou a wife ? 
 
 Sen. — I have. 
 
 RoL. — Hast thou children ? 
 
 Sen. — Four — honest, lovely boys. 
 
 RoL. — Where didst thou leave them ? 
 
 Sen. — In my native village ; even in the cot where my- 
 self was born. 
 
 RoL. — Dost thou love thy children and thy wife ? 
 
 Sen. — ^Do I love them ! God knows my heart — I do. 
 
 RoL. — Soldier ! imagine thou wert doomed to die a 
 cruel death in this strange land. What would be thy 
 last request ? 
 
 Sen. — That some of my comrades should carry my 
 dying blessing to my wife and children. 
 
 RoL. — Oh ! but if that comrade was at thy prison 
 gate, and should there be told — thy fellow-soldier dies at 
 sunset, yet thou shalt not for a moment see him, nor 
 shalt thou bear his dying blessing to his poor children or 
 his wretched wife, what would'st thou think of him, who 
 thus could drive thy comrade from the door ? 
 
 Sen. — How ? 
 
 RoL. — Alonzo has a wife and child. I am come but to 
 receive for her, and for her babe, the last blessing of my 
 friend. 
 
174 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Sen. — Go in. [Shoulders his spear and walks to 
 h. u. E. 
 
 RoL. (c.) — Oh, holy Nature ! thou dost never plead in 
 vain. There is not of our earth a creature bearing form, 
 and life — human or savage — native of the forest wild, or 
 giddy air — around whose parent bosom thou hast not a 
 cord entwined of power to tie them to their offspring's 
 claims, and at thy will to draw them back to thee. On 
 iron pinions borne, the blood-stained vulture cleaves the 
 storm, yet is the plumage closest to her heart soft as the 
 cygnet's down, and o'er her unshelled brood the murmur- 
 ing ring-dove sits not more gently. — Yes, now he is be- 
 yond the porch, barring the outer gate ! Alonzo ! Alonzo, 
 my friend ! Ha ! in gentle sleep ! Alonzo — rise ! 
 
 Alon. — How, is my hour elapsed ? Well, (Returning 
 from the recess R. u. E.) I am ready. 
 
 RoL. — Alonzo, know me. 
 
 Alon. — What voice is that ? 
 
 RoL. — 'Tis Rolla's. [jTa/ces off his disguise. 
 
 Alon. — Rolla, my friend {Embraces him) Heavens ! — 
 how could'st thou pass the guard ? — Did this habit — 
 
 RoL. — There is not a moment to be lost in words. 
 This disguise I tore from the dead body of a friar as I 
 passed our field of battle ; it has gained me entrance to 
 thy dungeon : now, take it thou and fly. 
 
 Alon. — And Rolla — 
 
 RoL. — Will remain here in thy place. 
 
 Alon. — And die for me ? No ! Rather eternal tor- 
 tures rack me. 
 
 RoL. — I shall not die, Alonzo. It is thy life Pizarro 
 seeks, not Rolla's ; and from thy prison soon will thy 
 arm deliver me. Or, should it be otherwise, I am as a 
 blighted plantain standing alone amid the sandy desert — 
 nothing seeks or lives beneath my shelter. Thou art — a 
 husband and a father ; the being of a lovely wife and 
 helpless infant hangs upon thy life. Go ! go, Alonzo ! 
 Go, to save, not thyself, but Cora and thy child ' 
 
Selections. 175 
 
 Alon. — Urge me not thus, my friend ! I had prepared 
 to die in peace. 
 
 RoL. — To die in peace ! devoting her thou'st sworn t.o 
 live for to madness, misery, and death ! For, be assured, 
 the state I left her in forbids all hope, but from thy 
 quick return. 
 
 ALON.^Oh, God ! 
 
 RoL.^ — If thou art yet irresolute, Alonzo, now heed me 
 well. I think thou hast not known that RoUa ever 
 pledged his word, and shrunk from its fulfilment. And 
 iDy the heart of truth, I swear, if thou art proudly ob- 
 stinate to deny thy friend the transport of preserving 
 Cora's life, in thee ; no power that sways the will of man 
 shalt stir me hence ; and thoul't but have the desperate 
 triumph of seeing Rolla perish by thy side, with the 
 assured conviction that Cora and thy child — are lost for- 
 ever. 
 
 Alon. — Oh, Rolla ! you distract me ! 
 
 RoL. — Begone ! A moment's further pause, and all is 
 lost. The dawn approaches. Fear not for me ; I will 
 treat with Pizarro, as for surrender and submission. I 
 shall gain time, doubt not, whilst thou, with a chosen 
 band, passing the secret way, may'st at night return, 
 release thy friend, and bear him back in triumph. Yes, 
 hasten, dear Alonzo ! Even now I hear the frantic Cora 
 call thee ! Haste, Alonzo ! Haste ! Haste ! 
 
 Alon. — Rolla, I fear thy friendship drives me from 
 honour and from right. 
 
 RoL. — Did Rolla ever counsel dishonour to his friend ? 
 
 Alon. — Oh ! my preserver ! [ETnbracing him. 
 
 RoL. — I feel thy warm tears dropping on my cheek. — 
 Go! I am rewarded. (Throwing the Friar's garment over 
 him.) There, conceal thy face ; and that they may not 
 clank, hold fast thy chains. Now, God be with thee ! 
 
 Alon. — At night we meet again. Then, so aid me 
 Heaven ! I return to save or perish with thee. [Exit l.u.e 
 
 Rol. (Looking after him.) —He has passed the oute^ 
 porch — he is safe ! He will soon embrace his wife em^ 
 
176 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 child ! Now, Cora, did'st thou not wrong me ? This is 
 the first time throughout my life, I ever deceived man. 
 Forgive me, God of Truth ! if I am wrong. Alonzo flat- 
 ters himself that we shall meet again ! Yes, there ! 
 {Lifting his hands to heaven.) — assuredly we shall meet 
 again ; there, possess in peace, the joys of everlasting 
 love, and friendship— ^on earth imperfect and embittered. 
 I will retire, lest the guard return before Alonzo may 
 have passed their lines. [^Retires into the cavern. 
 
 Acr v. 
 
 Scene I. — A thick forest. A dreadful btorm. Coka /tas 
 covered her child in a bed of leaves and moss, R. u. E. 
 
 Cora. {Sitting on hank by child, R.) — Oh, Nature ' 
 thou hast not the strength of love. My anxious spirit is 
 untired in its march ; my wearied shivering frame sinks 
 under it. And for thee, my boy, when faint beneath 
 thy lovely burden, could I refuse to give thy slumbers 
 that poor bed of rest ! Oh, my child ' were I assured 
 thy poor father breathes no more, how quickly would I 
 lay me down by thy dear side ! — but down — down for- 
 ever ! {Thunder and lightning.) I ask thee not, un- 
 pitying storm to abate thy rage, in mercy to poor Cora's 
 misery ; nor while thy thunders spare his slumbers, will 
 I disturb my sleeping cherub, though Heaven knows I 
 wish to hear the voice of life, and feel that life is near 
 me. But I will endure all while what I have of reason 
 holds. {Thunder and lightning.) Still, still implacable ! 
 — unfeeling elements ! yet still dost thou sleep, my smil- 
 ing innocent ! Oh, Death ! when wilt thou grant to this 
 babe's mother such repose ? Sure I may shield thee bet- 
 ter from the storm : my veil may — 
 
 Alon. {Without L.) — Cora! 
 
 Cora {Buns to c.) Ha ! 
 
 Alon. — Cora ! 
 
Selections. 177 
 
 CoEA— Oh, my heart. Sweet Heaven, deceive me not. 
 Is it not Alonzo's voice ? 
 Alon. (Louder) — Cora ! 
 Cora (l. c.)— It is — it is Alonzo ! 
 Alon. ( Very loud) Cora ! my beloved ! 
 CoBA (l.) Alonzo ! Here ! — here ! — Alonzo ! 
 
 [Runs out. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF AGINCOURT. 
 
 The King is reported to have dismounted before the 
 battle commenced, and to have fought on foot. 
 
 Hollinshed states that the English army consisted of 
 15,000, and the French of 60,000 horse and 40,000 infan- 
 try — in all, 100,000. Walsingham and Harding represent 
 the English as but 9,000, and other authors say tliat the 
 number of French amounted to 150,000. Fabian says the 
 French were 40,000, and the English only 7,000. The 
 battle lasted only three hours. 
 
 The noble Duke of Gloucester, the king's brother, push- 
 ing himself too vigorously on his horse into the conflict, 
 was grievously wounded, and cast down to the earth by 
 the blows of the French, for whose protection the King 
 being interested, he bravely leapt against his enemies in 
 defence of his brother, defended him with his own body, 
 and plucked and guarded him from the raging malice of 
 the enemy, sustaining perils of war scarcely possible to 
 be borne. — Nicolas's History of Agincourt. 
 
 During the battle the Duke of Alengon most valiantly 
 broke through the English lines, and advanced fighting 
 near the King — inasmuch that he wounded and struck 
 down the Duke of York. King Henry seeing this stepped 
 forth to his aid, and as he was leaning down to aid him 
 the Duke of Aleneon gave him a blow on his helmet that 
 struck off part of his crown. The King's guards on this 
 surrounded him, when seeing he could no way escape 
 death but by surrendering, he lifted up his arms and said 
 
 K 
 
178 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 to the Kin^, " I am the Duke of Aleagon, and yield my- 
 self to you." But as the King was holding out his hand 
 to receive his pledge he was put to death by the guards. 
 — Monstrelet. 
 
 Gloster, Bedford, Exeter, Salisbury, Erpinqham, 
 and Westmoreland discovered. ' 
 
 Glo. Where is the king ? 
 
 Bed. The king himself is rode to view their battle. 
 
 West. Of fighting men they have full threescore thou- 
 sand. 
 
 ExE. There's five to one ; besides thej''re all fresh. 
 'Tis a fearful odds. 
 
 If we no more meet till we meet in heaven. 
 Then joyfully my noble lord of Bedford, 
 My dear Lord Gloster, and my good Lord Exeter 
 And my kind kinsman, warriors all — adieu ! ' 
 
 West. that we now had here 
 
 Enter King Henry, attended. 
 
 But one ten thousand of those men in England 
 That do no work to-day ! 
 
 K. Hen. What's he that wishes so ? 
 
 My cousin Westmoreland ? — No, my fair cousin : 
 If we are mark'd to die, we are enow 
 To do our country loss ; and if to live, 
 The fewer men the greater share of honour. 
 0, do not wish one more ; 
 
 Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, 
 That he which hath no stomach to this fight 
 Let him depart ; his passport shall be made. 
 And crowns for convoy put into his purse ; 
 We would not die in that man's company 
 That fears his fellowship to die with us. 
 This day is call'd the feast of Crispian : 
 He that outlives this day, and comes safe home. 
 Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd. 
 
Selections. 1 79 
 
 And rouse him at the name of Crispian, 
 
 He that outlives this day, and sees old age, 
 
 Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 
 
 And say to-morrow is Saint Crispian : 
 
 Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars ; 
 
 And say, these wounds I had on Crispin's day 
 
 Then shall our names, 
 
 Familiar in their mouths as household words, — 
 
 Harry, the king, Bedford and Exeter, 
 
 Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster, — 
 
 Be in their flowing cups freshly remeuiber'd : 
 
 This story shall the good man teach his son : 
 
 And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by. 
 
 From this day to the ending of the world. 
 
 But we in it shall be remember'd : 
 
 We few, we happy few, we band of brothers : 
 
 For he to-'day that sheds his blood with me 
 
 Shall be my brother ; be he ne'er so vile 
 
 This day shall gentle his condition ; 
 
 And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, 
 
 Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here ; 
 
 And hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks 
 
 That fought with us upon St. Crispin's day. 
 
 Enter GowER. 
 
 GOWER. My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed 
 The French are bravely in their battles set, 
 And will with all expedience charge on us. 
 
 K. Hen. All things are ready, if our minds be so. 
 
 West. Perish the man whose mind is backward now ! 
 
 K. Hen. Thou dost not wish more help from England, 
 coz ? 
 
 West. Heaven's will, my liege, 'would you and I alone, 
 Without more help could fight this royal battle ! 
 
 K. Hen. Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand 
 men ; 
 Which likes me better than to wish us one. — 
 You know your places : God be with you all ! 
 
180 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Enter MoNTJoy and attendants. 
 
 Mont. Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry 
 If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, 
 Before thy most assured overthrow : 
 For, certainly, thou art so near the gulf 
 Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy, 
 The Constable desires thee thou wilt mind 
 Thy followers of repentance ; that their souls 
 May make a peaceful and a sweet retire 
 From off these fields, where (wretches) their poor bodies 
 Must lie and fester. 
 
 K. Hen Who hath sent thee now ? 
 
 Mont. The Constable of France. 
 
 K. Hen. I pray thee, bear my former answer back ? 
 Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones. 
 Good God ! why should they mock poor fellows thus ? 
 The man that once did sell the lion's skin 
 While the beast liv'd, was kill'd with hunting him. 
 Let me speak proudly : — ^Tell the Constable, 
 We are but warriors for the working-day ; 
 Our gayness and our gilt, are all besmirch'd 
 With rainy marching in the painful held ; 
 There's not a piece of feather in our host 
 (Good argument, I hope, we will not fly), 
 And time hath worn us into slovenry ; 
 But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim : 
 And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night 
 They'll be in fresher robes ; or they will pluck 
 The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads. 
 And turn them out of service. If they do this, 
 (As if God please, they shall), my ransom then 
 Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour ; 
 Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald ; 
 They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints ; 
 Which if they have as I will leave 'em them 
 Shall yield them little, tell the Constable. 
 
Selections. 181 
 
 Mont. I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well : 
 Thou never shalt hear herald any more. {Exit. 
 
 K. Hen. I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom. 
 
 Enter the Duke of York. 
 
 York. My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg 
 The leading of the vaward. 
 
 K. Hen. Take it, brave York — Now, soldiers, march 
 away : — 
 And how, thou pleasest God, dispose the day ! 
 
 (Exeunt. 
 
 THE QUAEREL OF BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. 
 
 Cassius. That you have wronged me doth appear in 
 this : 
 You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella 
 For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
 Wherein my letters (praying on his side, 
 Because 1 knew the man) were slighted of. 
 
 Brutus. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. 
 
 Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet 
 That every nice offence should bear its comment. 
 
 Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
 Are much condemned to have an itching palm ; 
 To sell and mart your offices for gold 
 To undeservers. 
 
 Gas. I an itching palm ? 
 You know that you are Brutus that speak this. 
 Or, by the gods ! this speech were else your last. 
 
 Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption, 
 And chastisement doth therefore, hide its head. 
 
 Cas. Chastisement ! 
 
 Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember ! 
 Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake ? 
 What ! shall one of us 
 That struck the foremost man of all this world 
 
182 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But for supporting robbers — shall we now 
 Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, 
 And sell the mighty space of our large honours 
 For so much trash as may be grasped tlnis ? 
 I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
 Than such a Roman. 
 
 Cas. Brutus, bay not me. 
 I'll not endure it. You forget yourself 
 To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, 
 Older in practice, abler than yourself 
 To make conditions. 
 
 Brit. Go to, you are not, Cassius. 
 
 Cas. I am. 
 
 Bru. I say you are not. 
 
 Cas. Urge me no more : I shall forget myself: 
 Have mind upon your health ; tempt me no farther. 
 
 Bru. Away, slight man ! 
 
 Cas. I'st possible ? 
 
 Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. 
 Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? • 
 Shall I be frightened when a madman stares ? 
 
 Cas. Must I endure all this ? 
 
 Bru. All this ! ay, more. Fret till your proud heart 
 break. 
 Go show your slaves how choleric you are. 
 And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
 Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
 Under your testy humour ? By the gods ! 
 You shall digest the venom of 3'our spleen. 
 Though it do split you ; for from this day forth 
 I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
 When you are wa.spish. 
 
 Cas. Is it come to this ? 
 
 Bru. You say you are a better soldier : 
 Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true ; 
 And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
 I shall be glad to learn of noble men. 
 
Selection^. 183 
 
 Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus ; 
 I said an elder soldier, not a better. 
 Did I say better ? 
 
 Bru. If you did, I care not. 
 
 Cas. When Csesar lived, he durst not thus have moved 
 me. * 
 
 Bru. Peace, peace ! You durst not so have tempted 
 him. 
 
 Cas. I durst not ? 
 
 Bru. No. 
 
 Cas. What durst not tempt him ? 
 
 Bru. For your life you durst not. 
 
 Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love ; 
 I may do that I shall be sorry for. 
 
 Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
 There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, 
 For I am arm'd so strong in honesty. 
 That they pass by me as the idle wind 
 Which I respect not. I did send to you 
 For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ; 
 For I can raise no money by vile means. 
 By heavens ! I had rather coin my heart, 
 And drop my blood for drachmas, than wring 
 From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 
 By any indirection. I did send 
 To you for gold to pay my legions, 
 Which you denied me ! Was that done like Cassius ?. 
 Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, 
 To lock such rascal counters from his friends. 
 Be ready, gods ! with all your thunderbolts 
 Dash him to pieces. 
 
 Cas. I denied you not. 
 
 Bru. You did. 
 
 Ca. I did not : he was but a fool 
 That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my 
 " heart. 
 
184 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ; 
 But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 
 
 Bru. I do not till you practise them on me. 
 
 Cas. You love me not. 
 
 Bru. I do not like your faults. 
 
 Cas. a friendly eye could never see such faults. 
 
 Bru. a flatterer's would not, though they did appear 
 As huge as high Olympus. 
 
 Cas. Come, Antony ! and young Octavius, come ! 
 Revenge yourself alone on Cassius, 
 For Cassius is a-weary of the world^ — 
 Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
 Check'd like a bondman ; all his faults observed, 
 Set in a note-book, learn'd and conn'd by rote, 
 To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
 My spirit from mine eyes ! There is my dagger. 
 And here my naked breast — within, a heart 
 Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold : 
 If that thou need'st a Roman's, take it forth ! 
 I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. 
 Strike as thou didst at Csesar; for I know- 
 When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better 
 Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. 
 
 Bru. Sheath your dagger ; 
 Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
 Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. 
 O,' Cassius, you are yokdd with a man 
 That carries anger as the flint bears fire. 
 Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, 
 And straight is cold again. 
 Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
 To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
 When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? 
 Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 
 Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 
 Bru. And my heart too. {Embracing) 
 Cas. O, Brutus ! 
 
Selections. 185 
 
 Bru. "What's the matter ? 
 
 Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me, 
 When that rash humour which my mother gave me 
 Makes me forgetful ? 
 
 Bru. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth. 
 When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
 He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 SCENES FROM HAMLET. 
 
 Hamlet and Ghost discovered. 
 
 Hamlet, (c) Whither wilt thou lead me ? speak ! 
 I'll go no further. 
 
 Ghost, (l. c.) Mark me. 
 
 Ham. (r. c.) I will. 
 
 Ghost. My hour is almost come 
 When I to sulph'rous and tormenting flames 
 Must render up myself 
 
 Ham. Alas, poor ghost ! 
 
 Ghost. Pity me not ; but lend thy serious hearing 
 To what I shall unfold. 
 
 Ham. Speak, I am bound to hear. 
 
 Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear 
 
 Ham. What ? 
 
 Ghost. I am thy father's spirit: 
 Doomed for a certain term to walk the night ; 
 And, for the day, confined to fast in fires. 
 Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature. 
 Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid 
 To tell the secrets of mj' prison-house, 
 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
 Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young blood; 
 Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres. 
 Thy knotted and combined locks to part. 
 And each particular hair to stand on end, 
 
186 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine : 
 
 But this eternal blazon must not be 
 
 To ears of flesh and blood : List, list, oh, list ! — 
 
 If thou didst ever thy dear father love — 
 
 Ham. Oh, heaven ! 
 
 Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder. 
 
 Ham. Murder! 
 
 Ghost. Murder most foul, as in the best it is ; 
 But this most foul, strange, and unnatural. 
 
 Ham. Haste me to know it, that I, with wings as swift 
 As meditation, or the thoughts of love, 
 May sweep to my revenge. 
 
 Ghost. I find thee apt. 
 Now, Hamlet, hear : 
 
 'Tis given out, that sleeping in my orchard, 
 A serpent stung me ; so that the whole ear of Denmark 
 Is, by a forged process of my death, 
 Rankly abused : but know, thou noble youth, • 
 The serpent that did sting thy father's life 
 Now wears his crown. 
 
 Ham. Oh, my prophetic soul ! my uncle ? 
 
 Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, 
 With witchcraft of his wit, witli traitorous gifts, 
 Won to his shameful lust 
 The will of my most seeming- virtuous queen: 
 Oh, Hamlet, what a falling off was there ! 
 From me, whose love was of that dignity, 
 That it went hand in hand, even with the vow 
 I made to her in marriage ; and to decline 
 Upon a wretch, whose natural gifts were poor 
 To those of mine ! — 
 
 But, soft, methinks I scent the morning air — 
 Brief let me be : — sleeping within mine orchard. 
 My custom always of the afternoon. 
 Upon 'my secure hour thy uncle stole. 
 With juice of cursed hebenon in a phial, 
 And in the porches of mine ears did pour 
 
Selections. 1 87 
 
 The leperous distilment : whos eeff'ect 
 
 Holds such an enmity with blood of man, 
 
 That swift as quicksilver it courses through 
 
 The natural gates and alleys of the body ; 
 
 So it did mine. 
 
 Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand, 
 
 Of life, of crown, of queen, at once despatched ! 
 
 Cut off, even in the blossoms of my sin. 
 
 No reck'ning made, but sent to my account 
 
 With all my imperfections on my head. 
 
 Ham. Oh, horrible ! Oh, hori-ible ! most horrible?! 
 
 Ghost. It thou hast nature in thee, bear it not ; 
 Let not the royal bed of Denmark be 
 A couch for luxury and damned incest. 
 But, howsoever thou pursu'st this act. 
 Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive 
 Against thy mother aught ; leave her to Heaven, 
 And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge. 
 To goad and sting her. Fare thee well at once ! 
 The glow-worm shows the matin to be near. 
 And 'gins to pale his unefFeetual fire. 
 Adieu, adieu, adieu ! remember me. ( Vanishes, h. C.) 
 
 Ham. (e.) Hold, hold, my heart ; 
 And you my sinews, grow not instant old. 
 But bear me stiffly up. (c.) - Remember thee ? 
 Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat 
 In this distracted globe. Remember thee ? 
 Yea, from the table of my memory 
 I'll wipe away all forms, all pressures past, 
 Aii'd'thy'commandment all alone shall live 
 Within the book and volume of my brain. 
 Unmixed with baser matter ; yes; by heaven, 
 I have sworn it. Shakespeare. 
 
188 -The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYEHS. 
 
 Hamlet and Player discovered. 
 
 Hamlet. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc- 
 ed it to you, trippingly on the tongue ; but if you niouth 
 it, as many of our players do, I had as lieve the town-crier 
 spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your 
 hand thus ; but use all gently : for in the very torrent, 
 tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, 
 you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give 
 it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul, to hear a 
 robustious, periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, 
 to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings ; who, 
 for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable 
 dumb shows, and noise ' I would have such a fellow 
 whipped for o'erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod : 
 pray you avoid it. 
 
 1st Act. (r.) I warrant your honour. 
 
 Ham. Be not too tame, neither ; but let your own dis- 
 cretion be your tutor : suit the action to the word, and 
 the word to the action ; with this special observance, that 
 you o'erstep not the modesty of nature : for anything so 
 overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both 
 at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the 
 mirror up to nature ; to show virtue her own feature, 
 scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the 
 time, his form and pressure. Now this, over done, or 
 come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, can 
 not but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of which 
 one, must, in your allowance, o'er weigh a whole theatre of 
 others. Oh, there be players that I have seen play — and 
 heard others praise, and that highly — not to speak it pro- 
 fanely, that neither having the accent of Christians, nor 
 the gait of Christian, Pagan, or man, have so strutted, 
 and bellowed, that I have thought some of nature's joui'- 
 
Selections. ■ 189 
 
 neymen had made men, and not made them well, they 
 imitated humanity so abominably. 
 
 1st Act. I hope we have reformed that indifferently 
 with us. 
 
 Ham. (c.) Oh, reform it altogether. And let those that 
 play your clowns speak no more than is set down for 
 them : for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to 
 set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too ; 
 though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the 
 play be then to be considered : that's villainous ; and shows 
 a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go, make 
 you ready. Horatio ! {Exit 1st Actor, L.) 
 
 Enter Horatio, r. 
 
 Horatio, (r.) — Here, sweet lord, at your service. 
 Ham. — Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man 
 As e'er my conversation coped withal. 
 -HoR. — Oh, my dear lord ! — 
 Ham. — Nay, do not think I flatter : 
 For what advancement may T hope from thee, 
 That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits, 
 To feed and clothe thee ? Why should the poor be flattered? 
 No, let the candid tongue lick absurd pomp, 
 And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, 
 Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear ? 
 Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice. 
 And could of men distinguish her election, 
 She hath sealed thee for herself ; for thou hast been 
 As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing ; 
 A man, that fortune's buffets and rewards 
 Hast tae'n with equal thanks : and blessed are those 
 Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled. 
 That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger 
 To sound what stop she please ; give me that man 
 That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him 
 In my heart's core, aye, in my heart of heart. 
 As I do thee. Something too much of this. 
 
190 • The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 There is a play to-night before the king : 
 One scene of it comes near the circumstance 
 Which I have told thee of my father's death. 
 I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot, 
 Even with the very comment of thy soul 
 Observe mine uncle ; if his occulted guilt 
 Do not itself unkennel in one speech, 
 It is a damned ghost that we have seen ; 
 And my imaginations are as foul 
 As Vulcan's stithy ; give him heedful note . 
 For I mine eyes will rivet to his face ; 
 And, after, we will both our judgments join 
 In censure of his seeming. 
 
 Hoe. — Well, my lord. 
 
 Ham. — They are coming to the play ; I must be idle. 
 Get you a place. (Goes and stands, k.) 
 
 HAMLET AND HIS MOTHER. 
 
 Hamlet. — Leave wringing of your hands : peace, sit 
 you down. 
 And let me wring your heart ; for so I shall. 
 If it be made of penetrable stuff; 
 If damned custom have not brassed it so, 
 That it be proof and bulwark against sense. 
 
 Queen. — What have I done, that thou dar'st wag thy 
 tongue 
 In noise so rude against me ? 
 
 Ham. — Such an act, 
 
 That blurs the grace and blush of modesty ; 
 Calls virtue, hypocrite ; takes off the rose 
 From the fair forehead of an innocent love. 
 And sets a blister there ; makes marriage-vows 
 As false as dicers' oaths : O, such a deetl 
 As from the body of contraction plucks 
 The very soul ; and sweet religion makes 
 
Selections. 191 
 
 A rhapsody of words : Heaven's face doth glow ; 
 Yea, this solidity and compound mass, 
 With tristful visage, as against the doom, 
 Is thoughb-sick at the act. 
 
 Queen. — Ah me, what act. 
 
 That roars so loud, and thunders in the index ? 
 
 Ham. — Look here, upon this picture, and on this ; 
 The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. 
 See, what a grace was seated on this brow : 
 Hyperion's curls ; the front of Jove himself ; 
 An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; 
 A station like the herald Mercury 
 New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; 
 A combination, and a form, indeed. 
 Where every god did seem to set his seal. 
 To give the world assurance of a man : 
 This was your husband. — Look you now, what follows : 
 Here is your husband ; like a mildewed ear, 
 Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes ? 
 Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed. 
 And batten on this moor ? Ha ! have you eyes ? 
 You cannot call it love : for, at your age. 
 The hey-day in the blood is tame, it's humble. 
 And waits upon the judgment : and what judgment 
 Would step from this to this ? Sense, sure, you have. 
 Else, could you not have motion : but, sure, that sense 
 Is apoplexed : for madness would not err ; 
 Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thralled. 
 But it reserved some quantity of choice, 
 To serve in such a difference. What devil was'fc 
 That thus hath cozened you at hoodman-blind ? 
 Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, 
 Ears without hands or eyes, smelling, sans all, 
 Or but a sickly part of one true sense 
 Could not so mope. 
 
 O shame ! where is thy blush ? Rebellious hell, 
 If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, 
 
192 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, 
 And melt in her own fire : proclaim no shame, 
 When the compulsive ardour gives the charge ; 
 Since frost itself as actively doth burn. 
 And reason panders will. 
 
 Queen. — O Hamlet, speak no more : 
 
 Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very soul ; 
 And there I see such black and grained spots 
 As will not leave their tinct. 
 
 (), speak to me no more : 
 These words, like daggers, enter in mine ears ; 
 No more, sweet Hamlet ! 
 
 Ham. — A murderer, and a villain : 
 
 A slave, that is not twentieth part the tithe 
 Of your precedent lord ; a vice of kings ; 
 A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, 
 That from a shelf the precious diadem stole, 
 And put it in his pocket. 
 
 Queen. — No more. 
 
 Enter Ghost. 
 
 Ham. — A king of shreds and patches, — 
 Save me, and hover o'er me with your wings. 
 You heavenly guards ! — What would your gracious figure ? 
 
 Queen. Alas, he's mad ! 
 
 Ham. Do you not come your tardy son to chide. 
 That, lapsed in time and passion, lets go by 
 The important acting of your dread command ? 
 O, say ! 
 
 Ghost. Do not forget : this visitation 
 Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. 
 But look ! amazement on thy mother sits : 
 O, step between her and her fighting soul, 
 Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. 
 Speak to her, Hamlet. 
 
 Ham. How is it with you, lady ? 
 
 .Queen. Alas, how is 't with you, 
 That you do bend your eye on vacancy. 
 
Selectionn. 193 
 
 And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ? 
 Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep ; 
 And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, 
 Your bedded hair, like life in excrements, 
 Starts up, and stands on end. O gentle son. 
 Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper 
 Sprinkle cool patience. Whereon do you look ? 
 
 Ham. On him ! on him ! Look you, how pale he glares ! 
 His form and cause conjoined, preaching to stones, 
 Would make them capable. — Do not look upon me ; 
 Lest, with this piteous action, you convert 
 My stern effects : then what I have to do 
 Will want true colour ; tears, perchance for blood. 
 
 Queen. To whom do you speak this ? 
 
 Ham. Do you see nothing there ? 
 
 Queen. Nothing at all ; yet all, that is, I see. 
 
 Ham. Nor did you nothing hear ? 
 
 Queen. No, nothing, but ourselves. 
 
 Ham. Why, look you there ! look, how it steals away ! 
 My father, in his habit as he lived ! 
 Look, where he goes, even now, out at the portal ! 
 
 [Uxit Ghost. 
 
 Queen. This is the very coinage of your brain : 
 This bodiless creation ecstasy 
 Is very cunning in. 
 
 Ham. Ecstasy! 
 My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, 
 And makes as healthful music : it is not madness 
 That I have uttered : bring me to the test, 
 And I the matter will re- word ; which madness 
 Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, 
 Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, 
 That not your trespass, but my madness, speaks : 
 It will but skin and film the ulcerous place. 
 Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, 
 Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven ; 
 Repent what 's past ; avoid what is to come ; 
 
194 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 And do not spread the compost on the weeds 
 
 To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue ; 
 
 For in the fatness of these pursy times, 
 
 Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, 
 
 Yea, curb and woo, for leave to do him good. 
 
 Queen. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain ! 
 
 Ham. 0, throw away the worser part of it. 
 And live the purer with the other half. 
 Good night : but go not to mine uncle's room ; 
 Assume a virtue, if you have it not. 
 Once more, good night: 
 And when you are desirous to be blessed, 
 I'll blessing beg of you. 
 I must be cruel, only to be kind : 
 Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. 
 
 Shakespcur( . 
 
 MACBETH. 
 Act II. — Scene I. 
 
 Macbeth. Is this a dagger which I see before me, 
 
 The handle toward my hand ? Come, let me clutch thee; — 
 
 I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 
 
 Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 
 
 To feeling, as to sight ? or art thou but 
 
 A dagger of the mind, a false creation, 
 
 Proceeding from a heat-oppressed brain ? 
 
 I see thee yet, in form as palpable 
 
 As this which now I draw. 
 
 Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going, 
 
 And such an instrument I was to use. 
 
 Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses 
 
 Or else worth all the rest : I see thee still ; 
 
 And on thy blade, and dudgeon, gouts of blood. 
 
 Which was not so before, — There's no such thing : 
 
 It is the bloody business, which informs 
 
Selections. 195 
 
 Thus to mine eyes. — Now o'er the one-half world 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse 
 The curtain'd sleep : witchcraft celebrates 
 Pale Hecate's ofi'erings : and wither 'd murder, 
 Alarpm'd by his sentinel, the wolf, 
 Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
 With Tarquin's ravishing strides, toward his design 
 Moves like a ghost. — Thou sure and firm-set earth. 
 Hear not ray steps, which way they walk, for fear 
 The very stones prate of my where about. 
 And take the present horror from the time, 
 Which now suits with it. — Whilst I threat, he lives : 
 Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. 
 
 [A bell ririfjs. 
 I go, and it is done ; the bell invites me. 
 Hear it not, Duncan ; for it is a knell 
 That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. [Exit, 
 
 Scene II. — The same. 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady M. That which hath made th§m drunk hath 
 made me bold : 
 What hath quench'd them hath given me fire : — 
 Hark ! Peace ! It was the owl that shriek'd, 
 The fatal bellman which gives the stern'st good night. 
 He is about it : The doors are open ; 
 And the surfeited grooms do mock their charge with 
 
 snores : 
 I have drugged their possets. 
 That death and nature do contend about them, 
 Whether they live, or die, 
 
 Macs. [Within,] Who's there ? — what, hoa! 
 
 Lady M. Alack ! I am afraid they have awak'd, 
 And 'tis not done : — the attempt, and not the deed, 
 Confound us : — Hark ! — I laid their daggers ready. 
 He could not miss them. — Had he not resembled 
 My father as he slept I had done 't — My husband ! 
 
196 Tke Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Enter Macbeth. 
 
 Macb. I have done the deed : — Didst thou not hear a 
 noise ? 
 
 Lady M. I heard the owl scream, and the crickets cry. 
 Did you not speak ? Macb. When ? 
 
 Lady M. Now. 
 
 Macb. As I descended ? 
 
 Lady M. Ay. Macb. Hark 1 — 
 
 Who lies i' the second chamber 1 
 
 Lady M. Donalbain. 
 
 Macb. This is a sorry sight. [Looking o:i his hands. 
 
 Lady M. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. 
 
 Macb. There 's one did laugh in his sleep, 
 And one cried " murther !" that they did wake each other; 
 I stood and heard them : but they did say their prayers, 
 And address'd them again to sleep. 
 
 Lady M. There are two lodg'd together. 
 
 Macb. One cried, " God bless us !" and " Amen," the 
 other ; 
 As they had seen me, with these hangman's hands. 
 Listening their fear, I could not say, " Amen," 
 When they did say, God bless us. 
 
 Lady M. Consider it not so deeply. 
 
 Macb. But wherefore could I not pronounce, "Amen ? " 
 I had most need of blessing, and " Amen " 
 Stuck in my throat. 
 
 Lady M. These deeds must not be thought 
 
 After these ways ; so, it will make us mad. 
 
 Macb. Methought, I heard a voice cry, " Sleep no 
 more ! 
 Macbeth does murther sleep," — the innocent sleep ; 
 Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care. 
 The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, 
 Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course. 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast. 
 
 Lady M. What do you mean ? 
 
 Macb. Still it cried, " Sleep no more !" to all the house : 
 " Glamis hath murther'd sleep : and therefore Cawdor 
 
Selections. 197 
 
 Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more !" 
 
 Lady M. Who was it that thus cried 1 Why, worthy- 
 thane, 
 You do unbend your noble strength, to think 
 So brainsickly of things. — Go, get some water, 
 And wash this filthy witness from your hand. — 
 Why did you bring these daggers from the place ? 
 They must lie there : go, carry them ; and smear 
 The sleepy grooms with blood. 
 
 Maob. I'll go no more 
 
 I am afraid to think what I have done ; 
 Look on 't again I dare not. 
 
 Lady M. Infirm of purpose ! 
 
 Give me the daggers : the sleeping, and the dead. 
 Are but as pictures : 'tis the eye of childhood 
 That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, 
 I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal. 
 For it must seem their guilt. 
 
 [Exit. Knocking within. 
 
 Macb. Whence is that knocking ? 
 
 How is 't with me, when every noise appals me ? 
 What hands are here ? Ha ! they pluck out mine eyes ! 
 Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand ? No ; this my hand will rather 
 The multitudinous seas incarnardine. 
 Making the green one red. 
 
 Re-enter Lady Macbeth. 
 
 Lady M. My hands are of your colour ; but I shame 
 To wear a heart so white. [Kmclc^ I hear a knocking 
 At the south entry : — retire we to our chamber : 
 A little water clears us of this deed : 
 How easy is it then ! Your constancy 
 Hath left you unattended. — {Knocking^ Hark ! more 
 
 knocking : 
 Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, 
 And show us to be watchers : — Be not lost 
 So poorly in your thoughts, 
 
198 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Macb. To know my deed, 'twere best not to know my- 
 self. [Knocking. 
 Wake Duncan with thy knocking ; I would thou could'st ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 SLEEP-WALKING SCENE FROM MACBETH. 
 
 ACT V. 
 
 Scene i. — Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. 
 
 Enter a Doctor of Physic, and a waiting Gentle- 
 woman. 
 
 DocT. I have two nights watched with you, but can 
 perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last 
 walked ? 
 
 Gent. Since his majesty went into the field, I have 
 seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon 
 her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon 
 it, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed ; 
 yet all this while in a most fast sleep. 
 
 DocT. A great perturbation in nature ! to receive at 
 once the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. 
 — In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and 
 other actual performances, what, at any time, have you 
 heard her say ? 
 
 Gent. That, sir, which I will not report after her. 
 
 DoCT. You may to me ; and 'tis most meet you 
 should. 
 
 Gent. Neither to you, nor any one ; having no witness 
 to confirm my speech. 
 
 Enter Lady Macbeth, with a taper. 
 
 Lo you, here she comes ! This is her very guise ; and, 
 upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her : stand close. 
 
 DocT. How came she by that light ? 
 
 Gent. Why, it stood by her: she has light by her 
 continually ; 'tis her command. 
 
Selections. 199 
 
 DocT. You see, her eyes are open. 
 
 Gent. Ay, but their sense is shut. 
 
 DocT. What is it she does now ? Look how she rubs 
 her hands. 
 
 Gent. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem 
 thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in 
 this a quarter of an hour. 
 
 Lady M. Yet here 's a spot. 
 
 DocT. Hark, she speaks : I will set down what comes 
 from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. 
 
 Lady M. Out, damned spot ! out, I say ! — One ; Two : 
 Why, then 'tis time to do 't !^ — Hell is murky ! — Fie, my 
 lord, fie ! a soldier, and afeard ! What need we fear 
 who knows it, when none can call our power to account ? 
 — Yet who would have thought the old man to have had 
 so much blood in him ! 
 
 DocT. Do you mark that 1 
 
 Lady M. The thane of Fife had a wife : where is she 
 now ? — What, will these hands ne'er be clean ? — No more 
 o' that, my lord, no more o' that : you mar all with this 
 starting. 
 
 DocT. Go to, go to; you have known what you should 
 not. 
 
 Gent. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure 
 of that : Heaven knows what she has known. 
 
 Lady M. Here's the smell of the blood still ; all the 
 perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. 
 Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 
 Doct. What a sigh is there ! The heart is sorely 
 charged. 
 
 Gent. I would not have such a heart in my bosom, 
 for the dignity of the whole body. 
 
 Doct. Well, well, well, — 
 
 Gent. Pray God it be, sir. 
 
 Doct. This disease is beyond my practice : yet I 
 have known those which have walked in their sleep who 
 have died holily in their beds. 
 
200 The Canadian Elocu^tionist. 
 
 Lady M. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown ; 
 look not so pale : — I tell you yet again, Ban quo 's buried; 
 he cannot come out on 's grave. 
 
 DocT. Even so ? 
 
 Lady M. To bed, to bed ; there 's knocking at the gate. 
 Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What 's 
 done cannot be undone : To bed, to bed, to bed. 
 
 Exit Lady Macbeth. , 
 
 KING JOHN. 
 
 Act in. Scene III. 
 
 King John and Hubert. 
 
 K. John. Come hither, Hubert. my gentle Hubert. 
 We owe thee much ; within this wall of flesh 
 There is a soul counts thee her creditor. 
 And with advantage means to pay thy love : 
 And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath 
 Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. 
 Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say, — 
 But I will fit it with some better time. 
 By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd 
 To say what good respect I have of thee. 
 
 Hub. I am much bounden to your majesty. 
 
 K. John. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so 
 
 yet; 
 
 But thou shalt have ; and creep time ne'er so slow, 
 
 Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. 
 
 I had a thing to say, — but let it go : 
 
 The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day. 
 
 Attended with the pleasures of the world, 
 
 Is all too wanton and too full of gauds. 
 
 To give me audience : — If the midnight bell 
 
 Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth, 
 
 Sound on into the drowsy race of night ; 
 
Selections. 201 
 
 If this same were a church-yard where we stand, 
 
 And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs ; 
 
 Or if that surly spirit, melancholy. 
 
 Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy — thick, 
 
 (Which else, runs tickling up and down the veins, 
 
 Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes, 
 
 And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, 
 
 A passion hateful to my purposes ;) 
 
 Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes, 
 
 Hear me without thine ears, and make reply 
 
 Without a tongue, using conceit alone, 
 
 Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words ; 
 
 Then, in despite of brooded, watchful day, 
 
 I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts : 
 
 But ah, I will not : — Yet I love thee well : 
 
 And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well. 
 
 Hub. So well, that what y^u bid me undertake. 
 Though that my death were adjunct to my act, 
 By heaven, I would do it. 
 
 K. John. Do not I know thou would'st ? 
 
 Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye 
 On yon young boy ; I'll tell thee what, my friend, 
 He is a very serpent in my way ; 
 And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread 
 He lies before me : Dost thou understand me ? 
 Thou art his keeper. Hub. And I'll keep him so, 
 That he shall not offend your majesty. 
 
 K. John. Death. Hub. My lord ? 
 
 K. John. A grave. Hub. He shall not live. 
 
 K. John. Enough. 
 
 I could be merry ijow : Hubert, I love thee. 
 Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee : 
 Remember. — 
 
 Act IV. Scene I. 
 
 Hubert and Arthur. 
 
 Hub. Heat me these irons hot ; and look thou stand 
 Within the arras ; when I strike my foot 
 
202 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth, 
 And bind the boy, which you will find with me. 
 Fast to the chair : be heedful : hence, and watch. 
 
 1. Attend. I hope your warrant will bear out the 
 
 deed. 
 Hub. Uncleanly scruples ! Fear not you : look to't. — 
 
 Exeunt Attendants. 
 Young lad, come forth ; I have to say with you. 
 
 Enter Arthur. 
 
 Arth. Good morrow, Hubert. 
 
 Hub. Good morrow, little prince. 
 
 Arth. As little prince (having so great a title 
 To be more prince), as may be. — You are sad. 
 
 Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier. 
 
 Arth. Mercy on me ! 
 
 Methinks, nobody should be sad but I : 
 Yet, I T'emember, when I was in France, 
 Young gentlemen would be as sad as night. 
 Only for wantonness. By my Christendom, 
 So I were out of prison, and kept sheep, 
 I should be as merry as the day is long; 
 And so I would be here, but that I doubt 
 My uncle practises more harm to me : 
 He is afraid of me, and I of him : 
 Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son ? 
 No, indeed, is 't not ; And I would to heaven 
 I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert 
 
 Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate 
 He will awake my mercy, which lies dead : 
 Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [yl.sicZe. 
 
 Arth. Are you sick, Hubert ? you look pale to-day : 
 In sooth, I would you were a little sick ; 
 That I might sit all night, and watch with you ; 
 I wari'ant I love you more than you do me. 
 
 Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom. — 
 Eead here, young Arthur [Shewing a paper. 
 
Selections. 203 
 
 How now, foolish rheum. [Aside. 
 
 Turning dispiteous torture out of door ! 
 I must be brief ; lest resolution drop 
 Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears. 
 Can you not read it ? is it not fair writ ? 
 
 Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect : 
 Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes ? 
 
 Hub. Young boy, I must. Ahth. And will you ? 
 
 Hub. And I will. 
 
 Aeth. Have you the heart ? When your head did 
 but iike, 
 I knit my hand-kercher about your brows, 
 (The best I had, a princess wrought it me), 
 And I did never ask it you again ; 
 And with my hand at midnight held your head ; 
 And, like the watchful minutes to the hour. 
 Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time ; 
 Saying, What lack you ? and. Where lies your grief ? 
 Or, What good love may I perform for you ? 
 Many a poor man's son would have lain still, 
 And ne'er have spoke a loving word to j-^ou ; 
 But you at your sick service had a prince. 
 Nay, you may think my love was crafty love. 
 And call it cunning ; do, an if you will ; 
 If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill. 
 Why, then you must. — Will you put out ndne eyes ? 
 These eyes, that never did, nor never shall, 
 So much as frown on you ? 
 
 Hub. I have sworn to do it ; 
 
 And with hot irons must I burn them out. 
 
 Aeth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it ! 
 The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, 
 Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears. 
 And quench his fiery indignation. 
 Even in the matter of mine innocence ; 
 Nay, after that, consume away in rust. 
 But for containing fire to harm mine eye. 
 
204 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron ? 
 And if an angel should have come to me, 
 And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes, 
 I would not have believ'd him. No tongue but Hubert's — 
 Hub. Come forth. [Stamps. 
 
 Re-enter Attendants, with Cords, Irons, etc. 
 
 Do as I bid you do. 
 
 Arth. 0, save me, Hubert, save me ? my eyes are out. 
 Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. 
 
 Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. 
 
 Arth. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough ? 
 I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. 
 For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound ! 
 Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men awaj^, 
 And I will sit as quiet as a lamb ; 
 I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, 
 Nor look upon the iron angerly : 
 Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, 
 Whatever torment you do put me to. 
 
 Hub. Go, stand within ; let me alone with him. 
 
 1st. Attend. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed. 
 
 [Exeunt Attendants. 
 
 Arth. Alas ! I then have chid away my friend ; 
 He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart : — 
 Let him come back, that his compassion may 
 Give life to yours. 
 
 Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself. 
 
 Arth. Is there no remedy ? 
 
 Hub. None, but to lose your eyes. 
 
 Arth. heaven! — that there were but a mote in yours, 
 A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, 
 Any annoyance in that precious sense ! 
 Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there, 
 Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. 
 
 Hub. Is this your promise ? go to, hold your tongue. 
 
 Abth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues 
 
Selections. 205 
 
 Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes ; 
 Let me not hold my tongue ; let me' not, Hubert ! 
 Or, Hu bert, if you will, cut out my tongue, 
 So I may keep mine eyes. 0, spare mine eyes ; 
 Though to no use, but still to look on you ! 
 Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold. 
 And would not harm me. 
 
 Hub. I can heat it, boy. 
 
 Arth. No, in good sooth ; the fire is dead with grief. 
 Being create for comfort, to be us'd 
 In undeserv'd extremes : See else yourself ; 
 There is no malice in this burning coal ; 
 The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, 
 And strew'd repentant ashes on his head. 
 
 Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. 
 
 Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush, 
 And glow with shame of your' proceedings, Hubert : 
 Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes ; 
 And, like a dog that is compelled to fight. 
 Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. 
 All things that you should use to do me wrong 
 Deny their' ofiice ; only you do lack 
 That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, 
 Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. 
 
 Hub. Well, see to live ; I will not touch thine eyes 
 For all the treasure that thine uncle owes ; 
 Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, 
 With this same very iron to burn them out. 
 
 Arth. 0, now you look like Hubert ! all this while 
 You were disguised. 
 
 Hub. Peace : no more. Adieu ; 
 
 Your uncle must not know but you are dead ; 
 I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports. 
 And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure. 
 That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world. 
 Will not offend thee. 
 
206 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Arth. heaven ! — I thank you, Hubert. 
 
 Hub. Silence ; no more : Go closely in with me. 
 Much danger do I undergo for thee. [Exeunt. 
 
 ROMEO AND JULIET. 
 
 BALCONY SCENE. 
 
 Romeo. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. 
 
 [Juliet appears on the Balcony, and sits dotvn. 
 
 But soft ! What light through yonder window breaks ! 
 
 It is the east, and Juliet is the sun ! 
 
 Ai-ise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon. 
 
 Who is already sick and pale with grief. 
 
 That thou her maid, art far more fair than she. 
 
 " It is my lady ; Oh ! it is my love : 
 
 Oh, that she knew she were ! " 
 
 She speaks, yet she says nothing : what of that ? 
 
 Her eye discourses : I will answer it. 
 
 I am too bold. Oh, were those eyes in heaven. 
 
 They would through the airy region stream so bright. 
 
 That birds would sing, and think it were not night. 
 
 See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! 
 
 Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand. 
 
 That I might touch that cheek ! 
 
 Juliet. Ah, me ! 
 
 Romeo. She speaks, she speaks ! 
 Oh, speak again, bright angel ! for thou art 
 As glorious to this night, being o'er my head. 
 As is a winged messenger of heaven 
 To the upturned wond'ring eyes of mortals, 
 When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds, 
 And sails upon the bosom of the air. 
 
 Juliet. Oh, Romeo, Romeo ! wherefore art thou Romeo ? 
 Deny thy father, and refuse thy name : 
 
Selections. 207 
 
 Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, 
 And I'll no longer be a Capulet. 
 
 EoMEO. Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this ? 
 
 Juliet. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy ! 
 What's in a name ? that which we call a rose. 
 By any other name would smell as sweet ; 
 So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called, 
 Retain that dear perfection which he owes 
 Without that title ! Romeo, doff thy name ; 
 And for that name, which is no part of thee. 
 Take all myself. 
 
 Romeo. I take thee at thy word ! 
 Call me but love, I will forswear my name 
 And never more be Romeo. 
 
 Juliet. What man art thou, that, thus bescreened in 
 night 
 So stumblest on my counsel ? 
 
 Romeo. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I 
 am ! 
 My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, 
 Because it is an enemy to thee. 
 
 Juliet. My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words 
 Of that tongue's uttering, yet I know the sound ! 
 Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague ? 
 
 Romeo. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. 
 
 Juliet. How cam'st thou hither ? — tell me — and for 
 what ? 
 The orchard walls are high, and hard to climb ; 
 And the place, death, considering who thou art, 
 If any of my kinsmen find thee here. 
 
 Romeo. With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these 
 walls ; 
 For stony limits cannot hold love out ; 
 And what love can do, that dares love attempt ; 
 Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me. 
 
 Juliet. If they do see thee here, they'll murder thee. 
 
 Romeo. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye. 
 
208 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Than twenty of their swords ! look thou but sweet, 
 And I am proof against their enmity. 
 
 Juliet. I would not, for the world, they saw thee here. 
 By whose direction found'st thou out this place ? 
 
 Romeo. By love, who first did prompt me to inquire ; 
 He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. 
 I am no pilot ; yet wert thou as far 
 As that vast shore washed by the farthest sea, 
 T would adventure for such merchandise. 
 
 Juliet. Thou know'st, the mask of night is on my 
 face, 
 Else ■would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek. 
 For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night ! 
 Fain would I dwell on form; fain, fain deny 
 What I have spoke ! But farewell compliment ! 
 Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say — Ay; 
 And I will take thy word ! yet, if thou swear'st. 
 Thou may'st prove false ; at lover's perjuries, 
 They say, Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo, 
 If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully ! 
 Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, 
 I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, 
 So thou wilt woo ! but else, not for the world. 
 In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond : 
 And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour light ! 
 But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
 Than those that have more cunning to be strange. 
 I should have been more strange, I must confess. 
 But that thou overheard'st ere I was ware, 
 My true love's passion ; therefore, pardon me. 
 And not impute this yielding to light love, 
 Which the dark night has so discovered. 
 
 Romeo. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear — 
 
 Juliet. Oh ! swear not by the moon, the inconstant 
 moon 
 That monthly changes in her circled orb ; 
 Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. 
 
Selections. 209 
 
 Romeo. What shall I swear by 1 
 
 Juliet. Do not swear at all ; 
 Of, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self. 
 Which is the god of my idolatry, 
 And I'll believe thee. 
 
 E.OMEO. If my true heart's love — 
 
 Juliet. Well, do not swear ! Although I joy in thee, 
 I have no joy of this contract to-night ; 
 It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. 
 Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, 
 Ere one can say — ' It lightens.' Sweet, good-night ! 
 This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath. 
 May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. 
 Good-night, good-night! — as sweet repose and rest 
 Come to thy heart, as that within my breast ! 
 
 Romeo. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied ? 
 
 Juliet. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night ? 
 
 Romeo. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for 
 mine. 
 
 Juliet. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; 
 And yet I would it were to give again. 
 
 Romeo. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, 
 love? 
 
 Juliet. But to be frank, and give it thee again. 
 My bounty is as boundless as the sea, 
 My love as deep ; the more I give to thee. 
 The more I have ; for both are infinite. - 
 I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu ! 
 
 Nurse. [ Within] — Madam ! 
 
 Juliet. Anon, good Nurse ! Sweet Montague, be true. 
 Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit from balcony]. 
 
 Romeo. Oh ! blessed, blessed night ! I am afeard. 
 Being in night, all this is but a dream. 
 Too flattering sweet to be substantial. 
 
 Re-enter Juliet, above. 
 
 Juliet. Three words, dear Romeo, and good-night 
 indeed. 
 
210 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 If that thy bent of love be honourable, 
 
 Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, 
 
 By one that I'll procure to come to thee. 
 
 Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ; 
 
 And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay ; 
 
 And fdllow thee, my lord, throughout the world. 
 
 Nurse. [Within] — Madam! 
 
 Juliet. I come anon ! But, if thou mean'st not well, 
 I do beseech thee — 
 
 ]SI UBS E. [ Within] — Madam ! 
 
 Juliet. By and by, I come ! — 
 To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. 
 To-morrow will I send. 
 
 Romeo. So thrive my soul — 
 
 JoLtBT. A thousand times good-night ! [Exit] 
 
 Romeo. A thousand times the worse to want thy 
 light. 
 
 Re-enter Juliet. 
 
 Juliet. Hist ! Romeo, hist ! Oh, for a falconer's voice, 
 To lure this tassel-gentle back again ! 
 Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud ; 
 Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies. 
 And make her airy tongue more hoarse than miue. 
 With repetition of my Romeo's name. 
 
 Romeo. It is my love that calls upon my name ! 
 How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night. 
 Like softest music to attending ears ! 
 
 Juliet. Romeo ! 
 
 Romeo. My dear ! 
 
 Juliet. At what o'clock to-morrow. 
 Shall I send to thee ? 
 
 Romeo. At the hour of nine. 
 
 Juliet. I will not fail : 'tis twenty years till then. 
 I have forgot why I did call thee back. 
 
 RoMKO. Let me stand here till thou remember it. 
 
 JuLib-T. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, 
 Rememberiug how I love thy company, 
 
Selections. 211 
 
 Romeo. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, 
 Forgetting any other home but this. 
 
 Juliet. 'Tis almost morning ; I would have thee gone, 
 And yet no further than a wanton's bird ; 
 Who lets it hop a little from her hand, 
 And with a silk thread plucks it back again. 
 So loving-jealous of its liberty. 
 
 Romeo. I would I were thy bird. 
 
 Juliet. Sweet, so would I ! 
 Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. 
 Good-night, good-night ! Parting is such sweet sorrow 
 That I shall say — Good-night, till it be morrow. 
 
 [Exit from balconi/.] 
 
 Romeo. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy 
 breast ! 
 Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest i 
 Hence will 1 to my ghostly father's cell ; 
 His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 THE POTION SCENE. 
 
 (Romeo and Juliet.) 
 
 Juliet's chamber. 
 
 Enter Juliet and Nurse. 
 
 Juliet. Ay, those attires are best ;— but gentle nurse. 
 I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night ; 
 For I have need of many orisons 
 To move the heavens to smile upon my state ; 
 Which, well thou know'st, is cross and full of sin. 
 
 Enter Lady Gapulet. 
 Lady G. What are you busy ? Do you need my help ? 
 Juliet. No, madam ; we have culled such necessaries. 
 As are behoveful for our state to-morrow : 
 
212 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 So please you, let me now be left alone, 
 And let the nurse this night sit up with you ; 
 For, I am sure, you have your hands full all, 
 In this so sudden business. 
 
 Lady C. Then, good-night 1 
 Get thee to bed, and rest ! for thou hast need. 
 
 l^Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse, 
 
 Juliet. Farewell ' — Heaven knows when we shall meet 
 again — 
 I have a faint cold fear, thrills through my veins. 
 That almost freezes up the heat of life ; 
 I'll call them back again to comfort me. 
 Nurse ! — What should she do here ? 
 My dismal scene I needs must act alone. 
 
 [Takes out the 'phial. 
 Come, phial — 
 
 What if this mixture do not work at all ? 
 Shall I of force be married to the Count ? 
 No, no ; — this shall forbid it ! — {JDraios a dagger.] — Lie 
 
 thou there. — 
 What, if it be a poison which the friar 
 Subtly hath ministered to have me dead, 
 Lest in this marriage he should be dishonoured. 
 Because he married me before to Romeo ? 
 I fear it is ; and yet, methinks it should not ; 
 For he hath still been tried a holy man. 
 I will not entertain so bad a thought. — 
 How, if, when I am laid into the tomb, 
 I wake before the time that Romeo 
 Come to redeem me ? there's a fearful point ! 
 Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, 
 To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in. 
 And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes ? 
 Or, if I live, is it not very like. 
 The horrible conceit of death and night 
 Together with the terror of the place, — 
 As in a vault, an ancient receptacle, 
 
Selections. 218 
 
 Where, for these many hundred years, the bones 
 Of all my buried ancestors are packed, 
 Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, 
 Lies fest'ring in his shroud ; where, as they say, 
 At some hours in the night spirits resort ; — - 
 Oh, if I wake, shall I not be distraught. 
 Environed with all these hideous fears. 
 And madly play with my forefathers' joints,^ 
 And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud ? 
 And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone, 
 As with a club, dash out my desperate brains ? — 
 Oh, look ! methinks, I see my cousin's ghost 
 Seeking out Romeo : — Stay, Tybalt, stay ! — 
 Romeo, I come ; this do I drink to thee. — 
 
 [Bnnks the contents of the phial. 
 Oh, potent draught, thou hast chilled me to the heart ! — 
 My head turns round ;^my senses fail me. — 
 Oh, Romeo ! Romeo ! — [Throws herself on the bed. 
 
 THE SISTER OF OffARITY. 
 
 " Oh, is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ? 
 
 A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight ? 
 
 The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain 
 
 Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain, 
 
 To and fro, up and down. 
 
 But it is not the wind 
 That is lifting it now ; and it is not the mind 
 That hath moulded that vision. 
 
 A pale woman enters, 
 As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres 
 Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer. 
 There, all in a slumb'rous and shadowy glimmer, 
 The sufferer sees that still form floating on, 
 And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. 
 
214 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands 
 By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands 
 On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing 
 Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-.stained 
 
 dressing 
 Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals 
 Thro' the racked weary frame ; and throughout it.he ieeh 
 The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood. 
 Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray 
 
 hood 
 Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him, 
 And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before 
 
 him, 
 It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping ! 
 A soft voice says — ' Sleep ! ' 
 
 And he sleeps : he is sleeping. 
 " He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : 
 Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care 
 Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering 
 The aspect of all things around him. 
 
 Revering 
 Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd 
 In silence the sense of salvation. And rest 
 Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly 
 Sigh'd — ' Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly 
 ' And minist'ring spirit ! 
 
 A whisper serene 
 Slid softer than silence — ' The Sceur Seraphine, 
 ' A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 
 ' Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, 
 ' For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. 
 ' Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 'Tis more 
 
 brave 
 To live than to die. Sleep ! ' 
 
 He sleeps : he is sleeping. 
 " He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping 
 The skies with chill splendour. And there, never Hitting, 
 Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. 
 
Selections. 215 
 
 As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning 
 Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning, 
 Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak. 
 
 He said : 
 ' If thou be of the living, and not of the dead, 
 ' Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 
 ' Of that balmy voice ; if it may be, revealing 
 ' Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou ? 
 
 '0 son 
 ' Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not ! One 
 ' Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead ; 
 ' To thee, and to others, alive yet ' — she said — 
 ' So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 
 ' Of this ministration ; to them, and to thee, 
 ' Dead in all things beside. A French nun, whose vocation 
 ' Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 
 ' Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe, 
 ' There her land ! there her kindred I ' 
 
 She bent down to smooth 
 The hot pillow, and added — ' Yet more than another 
 ' Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 
 ' I know them — I know them.' 
 
 ' Oh can it be ? you ! 
 ' My dearest, dear father ! my mother ! you knew, 
 ' You know them ? ' 
 
 She bow'd, half averting her head 
 In silence. 
 
 He brokenly, timidly said, 
 ' Do they know I am thus ? ' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' — she smiled as she drew 
 From her bosom two letters ; and — can it be true ? 
 That beloved and familiar writing ! 
 
 He burst 
 Into tears — ' My poor mother, — my father ! the worst 
 ' Will have reached them ! ' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' she exclaimed with a smile, 
 ' They know you are living ; they know that meanwhile 
 
216 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 ' I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not ' ' 
 But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot 
 Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. 
 There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest ; 
 And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, 
 The calm voice say — ' Sleep ! ' 
 
 And he sleeps, he is sleeping." 
 
 SIM'S LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 Come out here, George Burks. Put that glass down — 
 can't wait a minute. Business particular — concerns the 
 Company. 
 
 I don't often meddle in other folks' business, do I ? 
 When a tough old fellow like me sets out to warn a body, 
 you may know its because he sees sore need of it. 
 
 Just talcin drinks for good fellowship ? Yes, I know 
 all 'bout that. Been there myself Sit down on the edge 
 of the platform here. 
 
 Of all the men in the world, I take it, engineers ought 
 to be the last to touch the bottle. We have life and pro- 
 perty trusted to our hands. Ours is a grand business — I 
 don't think folks looks at it as they ought to. Remember 
 when I was a young fellow, like you, just set up with an 
 engine, I used to feel like a strong angel, or somethin', 
 rushin' over the country, makin' that iron beast do just 
 as I wanted him to. The power sort of made me think 
 fast. 
 
 I was doin' well when I married, and I did well long 
 afterwards. We had a nice home, the little woman and 
 me : our hearts were set on, each other, and she was a 
 little proud of her engineer — she used to say so, anyhow. 
 She was sort of mild and tender with her tongue. Not 
 one of your loud ones. And pretty, too. But you know 
 what it is to love a woman, George Burks — I saw you 
 walking with a blue-eyed little thing last Sunday. 
 
Selections. 217 
 
 After a while we had the little girl. We talked a 
 good deal about what we should call her, my wife and I. 
 We went clean through the Bible, and set down all the 
 fine story names we heard of. But nothin' seemed to suit. 
 I used to puzzle the whole length of my route to find a 
 name for that little girl. My wife wanted to call her En- 
 dora Isabel. But that sounded like folderol. Then we 
 had up Rebeccar, and Maud, and Amanda Ann, and what 
 not. Finally, whenever I looked at her,. I seemed to see 
 " Katie." She looked Katie. I took to calling her Katie, 
 and she learned it — so Katie she was. 
 
 I tell you, George, that was a child to be noticed. She 
 was rounder and prettier made'n a wax figger ; her eyes 
 was bigger and blacker'n any grown woman's you ever 
 saw, set like stars under her forehead, and her hair was 
 that light kind that all runs to curls and glitter. 
 
 Soon's she could toddle, she used to come dancin' to 
 meet me. I've soiled a-many of her white pinafores 
 buryin' my face in them before I was washed, and sort of 
 prayin' soft like under the roof of my heart, " God bless 
 my baby ! God bless my little lamb !" 
 
 As she grew older, I used to talk to her about engin' — 
 even took her into my cab, and showed the 'tachments of 
 the engin', and learned her signals and such things. She 
 tuk such an interest, and was the smartest little thing ! 
 Seemed as if she had always knowed 'em. She loved the 
 road. Remember once hearing her say to a playmate : 
 " There's my papa. He's an engineer. Don't you wish 
 he was your papa ?" 
 
 My home was close by the track. Often and often the 
 little girl stood in our green yard, waving her mite of a 
 hand as we rushed by. 
 
 Well, one day I started on my home trip, full of that 
 good fellowship you was imbibin' awhile ago. Made the 
 engine whizz ! We was awful jolly, the fireman and me. 
 Never was drunk when I got on my engine before, or the 
 Company would have shipped me. Warn't no such time 
 
218 The. Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 made on that road before nor since. I had just sense 
 enough to know what I was about, but not enough to 
 handle an emergency. We fairly roared down on the 
 trestle that stood at the entrance of our town. 
 
 I had a tipsy eye out, and, George, as we was flyin' 
 through the suburbs, I see my little girl on the track 
 ahead, wavin' a red flag and standin' stock still ! 
 
 The air seemed full of Katies. I could have stopped 
 the engine if I'd only had sense enough to know what to 
 take hold of to reverse her ! But I was too drunk ! And 
 that grand little angel stood up to it, trying to warn us 
 in time, and we just swept right along into a pile of ties 
 some wretch had placed on the track ! — right over my 
 baby ! Oh, my baby ! Go away, George. 
 
 There ! And do you want me to tell you how that 
 mangled little mass killed her mother ? And do you 
 want me to tell you I walked alive a murderer of my 
 own child, who stood up to save rae ? And do you want 
 me to tell you the good fellowship you were drinkin' 
 awhile ago brought all this on me ? 
 
 You'll let this pass by, makin' up your mind to be 
 moderate. Hope you will. I was a moderate un. 
 
 (Oh, God ! Oh, my baby !) 
 
 Mary Hartwell. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 More things are wrought by prayer 
 
 Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 
 
 Rise like a fountain for me night and day ; 
 
 For what are men better than sheep or goats, 
 
 That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
 
 If, knowing God, they lift not hands of praver 
 
 Both for themselves and those who call them friends ? 
 
 For so the whole round earth is every way 
 
 Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
 
 Tennyson, 
 
Selections. 219 
 
 EXPERIENCE WITH EUROPEAN GUIDES. 
 
 European guides know about enough English to tangle 
 everything up so that a man can make neither head nor 
 tail of it. They know theii' story by heart, — the history 
 of every statue, painting, cathedral, or other wonder they 
 show you. They know it and tell it as a parrot would, 
 — and if you interrupt and throw them oflF the track, 
 they have to go back and begin over again. All their 
 lives long they are employed in showing .strange things 
 to foreigners and listening to their bursts of admiration. 
 
 It is human nature to take delight in exciting admira- 
 tion. It is what prompts children to say " smart " things 
 and do absurd ones, and in other ways " show off " when 
 company is present. It is what makes gossips turn out 
 in rain and storm to go and be the first to tell a startling 
 bit of news. Think, then, what a passion it becomes 
 with a guide, whose privilege it is, every day, to show to 
 strangers wonders that throw them into perfect ecstacies 
 of admiration ! He gets so that he could not by any 
 possibility live in a soberer atmosphere. 
 
 After we discovered this, we never went into ecstacies 
 any more, — we never admired anything, — we never 
 showed anything but impassable faces and stupid indif- 
 ference in the presence of the sublimest wonders a guide 
 had to display. We had found their weak point. We 
 have made good use of it ever since. We have made 
 some of those people savage at times, but we never lost 
 our serenity. 
 
 The doctor asks the questions generally, because he 
 can keep his countenance, and look more like an inspired 
 idiot, and throw more imbecility into the tone of his voice 
 than any man that lives. It comes natural to him. 
 
 The guides in Genoa are delighted to secure an Ameri- 
 can party, because Americans so much wonder, and deal 
 so much in sentiment and emotion before any relic of 
 
220 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Columbus. Our guide there fidgeted about as if he had 
 swallowed a spring mattress. He was full of animation, 
 — full of impatience. He said ; — 
 
 " Come wis me, genteelmen ! — come ! I show you ze 
 letter writing by Christopher Colombo ! — write it him- 
 self ! — write it wis his own hand ! — come ! " 
 
 He took us to the municipal palace. After much im- 
 pressive fumbling of keys and opening of locks, the 
 stained and aged document was spread before us. The 
 guide's eyes sparkled. He danced about us and tapped 
 the parchment with his finger : — 
 
 " What I tell you, genteelmen ! Is it not so ? See ! 
 handwriting Christopher Colombo ! — write it himself! " 
 
 We looked indifferent, — unconcerned. The doctor ex- 
 amined the document very deliberately, during a painful 
 pause. Then he said, without any show of interest, — 
 
 " Ah, — Ferguson, — what — what did you say was the 
 name of the party who wrote this ? " 
 
 " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Co- 
 lombo ! " 
 
 Another deliberate examination. 
 
 " Ah, — did he write it himself, or, — or, how 1 " 
 
 " He write it himself ! — Christopher Colombo ! he's own 
 handwriting, write by himself ! " 
 
 Then the doctor laid the document down and said, — 
 
 " Why, I have seen boys in America only fourteen years 
 old that could write better than that." 
 
 " But zis is ze great Christo — " 
 
 " I don't care who it is ! It's the worst writing I ever 
 saw. Now you mustn't think you can impose on us be- 
 cause we are strangers. We are not fools, \>j a good 
 deal. If you have got any specimens of penmanship of 
 real merit, trot them out ! — and if you haven't, drive 
 on ! 
 
 We drove on. The guide was considerably shaken up, 
 but he made one more venture. He had something which 
 lie thought would overcome us. He said, — 
 
Selections. 221 
 
 " Ah, genteelmen, you come wis us ! I show you beau- 
 tiful, oh, magnificent bust Christopher Colombo ! — splen- 
 did, grand, magnificent ! " 
 
 He brought us before the beautiful bust, — for it was 
 beautiful, — and sprang back and struck an attitude, — 
 
 " Ah, look, genteelmen ! — beautiful, grand, — bust Chris- 
 topher Columbo ! — beautiful bust, beautiful pedestal ! " 
 
 The doctor put up his eye-glass, — procured for such 
 occasions : — 
 
 " Ah, — what did you say this gentleman's name was ? " 
 
 " Christopher Colombo ! ze great Christopher Co- 
 lombo ! " 
 
 " Christopher Colombo,^ — the great Christopher Co- 
 lombo. Well, what did he do ? " 
 
 " Discover America [—discover America — oh,ze diable ! " 
 
 " Discover America ? No, — that statement will hardly 
 wash. We are just from America ourselves. Christo- 
 pher Colombo, — pleasant name, — is — is he dead ? " 
 
 " Oh, corpo di Bacco !— three hundred year ! " 
 
 " What did he die of ? " 
 
 " I do not know. I cannot tell." 
 
 " Small-pox, think ? " 
 
 " I do not know, genteelmen, — I do not know what he 
 die of ! " 
 
 "Measles, likely ?" 
 
 " Maybe, — maybe. I do not know, — I think he die of 
 something." 
 
 " Parents living ? " 
 
 " Im-posseeble " 
 
 " Ah, — which is the bust and which is the pedestal ? " 
 
 " Santa Maria ! — zis ze bust ! — zis ze pedestal ! " 
 
 " Ah, I see, I see, — happy combination, — very happy 
 combination, indeed. Is — is this the first time this gen- 
 tleman was ever on a bust." 
 
 That joke was lost on the foreigner, — guides cannot 
 master the subtleties of the American joke. 
 
 We have made it interesting for this Roman guide. 
 
222 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Yesterday we spent three or four hours in the Vatican 
 again, that wonderful world of curiosities. We came 
 very near expressing interest sometimes, even admiration. 
 It was hard to keep from it. We succeeded, though. 
 Nobody else ever did in the Vatican museums. The 
 guide was bewildered, nonplussed. He walked his legs 
 off, nearly, hunting up extraordinary things, and ex- 
 hausted all his ingenuity on us, but it was a failure ; we 
 never showed any interest in anything. He had reserved 
 what he considered to be his greatest wonder till the last, 
 —a royal Egyptian mummy, the best preserved in the 
 world, perhaps. He took us there. He felt so sure this 
 time that some of his old enthusiasm came back to him : — 
 
 " See, genteelmen ! — Mummy ! Mummy 1 " 
 
 The eye-glass came up as calmly, as deliberately as 
 ever. 
 
 " Ah, — Ferguson, — what did I undei'stand you to say 
 the gentleman's name was ? " 
 
 "Name? — he got no name! — Mummy! — 'Gyptian 
 mummy ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes. Born here ? " 
 
 " No. 'Gyptian mummy ! " 
 
 " Ah, just so. Frenchman, I presume ? " 
 
 " No ! Not Frenchman, not Roman ! Born in Egypta ! " 
 
 " Born in Egypta. Never heard of Egypta before. 
 Foreign locality, likely. Mummy, — mummy. How calm 
 he is, how self-possessed ! Is — ah ! — is he dead ? " 
 
 " Oh, sacr^ bleu I been dead three thousan' year ! " 
 
 The doctor turned on him savagely :— 
 
 " Here, now, what do you mean by such conduct as 
 this ? Playing us for Chinamen, because we are strangers 
 and trying to learn ! Trying to impose your vile second- 
 hand carcasses on us 1 Thunder and lightning ! I've a 
 notion to — to — if you've got a nice, fresh corpse fetch 
 him out ! — or we'll brain you 1 " 
 
 However, he has paid us back partly, and without 
 knowing it. He came to the hotel this morning to ask 
 
Selections. 223 
 
 if we were up, and he endeavoured, as well as he could, to 
 describe us, so that the landlord would know which per- 
 sons he meant. He finished with the casual remark that 
 we were lunatics. The observation was so innocent and 
 so honest that it amounted to a very good thing for a guide 
 to say. 
 
 Our Roman Ferguson is the most patient, unsuspect- 
 ing, long-suffering subject we have had yet. We shall be 
 sorry to part with him. We have enjoyed his society 
 very much. We trust he has enjoyed ours, but we are 
 harassed with doubts. 
 
 Mark Twmn. 
 
 FIRST EXPERIENCE. 
 
 A very intelligent Irishman tells the following incident 
 of his experience in America : I came to this country 
 several years ago, and, as soon as I arrived, hired out to a 
 gentleman who farmed a few acres. He showed me over 
 the premises, the stables, the cow, and where the corn, hay, 
 oats, etc., were kept, and then sent me in to my supper. 
 After supper, he said to me : " James, you may feed the 
 cow, and give her corn in the ear." I went out and 
 walked about, thinking, " what could he mean ? Had I 
 understood him ? " I scratched my head, then resolved I 
 would enquire again; so I went into the library where my 
 master was writing very busily,and he answered me with- 
 out looking up : "I thought I told you to give the cow 
 some corn in the ear." 
 
 I went out more puzzled than ever. What sort of an 
 animal must this Fankee cow be ? I examined her mouth 
 and ears. The teeth were good, and the ears like those 
 of kine in the old country. Dripping with sweat, I en- 
 tered my master's presence once more. " Please, sir, you 
 bid me give the cow some corn in the ear, but didn't you 
 mean the mouth ? " He looked at me a moment, and theq 
 
224 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 burst into such a convulsion of laughter, that I made for 
 the stable as fast as my feet could take me, thinking I 
 was in the service of a crazy man. 
 
 POOR LITTLE JOE. 
 
 Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey, 
 
 Fur I've brought you sumpin great. 
 Apples ? No, a deal sight better ! 
 
 Don't you take no interest, wait ! 
 Flowers, Joe, — I know'd you'd like 'em — 
 
 Ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high ? 
 Tears, my boy, what's them fur, Joey ? 
 
 There — poor little Joe — don't cry. 
 
 I was skippin' past a winder, 
 
 Where a bang-up lady sot. 
 All amongst a lot of bushes — 
 
 Each one climbin' from a pot. 
 Every bush had flowers on it; 
 
 Pretty ! Mebbe not ! Oh no ! 
 Wish you could a-seen 'm growin'. 
 
 It was such a stunnin show. 
 
 Well, I thought of you, poor feller, 
 
 Lyin' here so sick and weak, 
 Never knowin' any comfort. 
 
 And I puts on lots o' cheek ; 
 '' Missus," says I, " if yo please, mum. 
 
 Could I ax you for a rose ? 
 For my little brother, missus. 
 
 Never seed one, I suppose." 
 
 Then I told her all about you- — 
 How I bringed you up, — poor Joe ! 
 
 (Lackin' women-folks to do it) 
 Sich a imp you was, you know — 
 
Selections. 225 ' 
 
 Till yer got that awful tumble, 
 
 Jisb as I had broke yer in 
 (Hard work, too), to earn yer livin' 
 
 Blackin' boots for honest tin. 
 
 How that tumble crippled of yon— 
 
 So's you couldn't hyper much — 
 Joe, it hurted when I see yon 
 
 For the first time with your crutch. 
 " But," I says, " he's laid up now, mum. 
 
 Tears to weaken every day." 
 Joe, she up and went to cuttin' — 
 
 That's the how of this bokay. 
 
 Say ! it seems to me, ole feller. 
 
 You is quite yourself to-night ; 
 Kind o' chirk, it's been a fortnight 
 
 Sence your eyes have been so bright. 
 Better ! well, I'm glad to hear it ! 
 
 Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe, 
 Smellin' of them's made you happy ? 
 
 Well, I thought it would, you know. 
 
 Never see the country did you ? 
 
 Flowers growin' everywhere ! 
 Sometime when you're better, Joej', 
 
 Mebbe I kin take you there. 
 Flowers in heaven ! 'M — I spose so ; 
 
 Dunno much about it though ; 
 Ain't as fly as wot I might be 
 
 On them topics, little Joe. 
 
 But I've heerd it hinted somewheres 
 That in heaven's golden gates. 
 
 Things is everlastin' cheerful, 
 B'lieve that's wot the Bible states. 
 
226 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Likewise, there folks don't get hungry ; 
 
 So good people when they dies, 
 Finds themselves well-fixed for ever — 
 
 Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes ? 
 
 Thought they looked a little singler. 
 
 Oh no ! don't you have no fear ; 
 Heaven was made for such as you is — 
 
 Joe, what makes you look &o queer ? 
 Here — wake up ! Oh, don't look that way ! 
 
 Joe, my boy, hold up your head ! 
 Here's your flowers you dropped 'em, Joey. 
 
 Oh, my Joe ! can he be dead ? 
 
 Peleg Arkwright. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd upon my brain 
 
 As I look upward to thee ! It would seem 
 
 As if God poured thee from His hollow hand. 
 
 And hung His bow upon thine awful front. 
 
 And spake in that loud voice that seemed to him 
 
 Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake. 
 
 The sound of many waters ; and had bade 
 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
 
 And notch His centuries in the eternal rock ! 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep, and what are we 
 
 That hear the questions of that voice sublime ? 
 
 what are all the notes that ever rung 
 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? 
 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make. 
 
 In his short life, to thine unceasing roar 1 
 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him 
 
Selections. 227 
 
 Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far 
 Above its loftiest mountains ? A light wave 
 That runs and whispers of thy Maker's might ! 
 
 John G. G. Brainard. 
 
 WOUNDED. 
 
 Let me lie down, 
 Just here in the shade of this cannon-torn tree. 
 Here low on the trampled grass, where I may see. 
 The surge of the combat, and where I may hear, 
 The glad cry of Victory, cheer upon cheer, 
 
 Let me lie down. 
 
 Oh ! it was grand ! 
 Like the tempest we charged in the triumph to share. 
 The tempest, its fury and thunder were there, 
 On ! on ! o'er entrenchments, o'er living, o'er dead. 
 With the foe under our feet, and our flag overhead. 
 
 Oh ! it was grand ! 
 
 Weary and faint. 
 Prone on the soldier's couch, ah ! how can I rest. 
 With this shot-shattered head, and sabre-pierced breast ? 
 Comrades, at roll-call, when I shall be sought. 
 Say I fought till I fell, and fell where I fought, — 
 
 Wounded and faint. 
 
 Dying at last ! 
 My Mother, dear Mother, with meek tearful eye, 
 Farewell ! and God bless you, forever and aye ! 
 Oh, that I now lay on your pillowing breast. 
 To breathe my last sigh on the bosom first prest : 
 
 Dying at last ! 
 
228 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 I am no saint ! 
 But, boys, say a prayer. There's one that begins, — 
 " Our Father ; " and then says, " Forgive us our sins,"- 
 Don't forget that part, say that strongly, and then 
 I'll try to repeat it, and you'll say. Amen ! 
 
 Ah, I'm no saint ! 
 
 Hark ! there's a shout ! 
 Raise me up, comrades, we've conquered, I know. 
 Up, up, on my feet, with my face to the foe. 
 Ah ! there flies our flag with its star-spangles bright. 
 The promise of victory, the symbol of might. 
 
 Well ! may we shout. 
 
 I'm mustered out ! 
 Oh ! God of our Fathers, our freedom prolong. 
 And tread down oppression, rebellion, and wrong. 
 Oh ! land of earth's hope, on thy blood-reddened sod, 
 I die for the Nation, the Union, and God. 
 
 I'm mustered out ! 
 
 Anon. 
 
 THE WHISTLER. 
 
 "■ You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, who 
 stood ■ 
 
 While he sat on a corn sheaf, at daylight's decline, — • 
 " You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood : 
 
 I wish that the Danish boj^'s whistle were mine." 
 
 " And what would you do with it ? Tell me," she said, 
 While an arch smile played over her beautiful face, 
 
 ' T would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair maid 
 Would fly to my side and would there take her place." 
 
 " Is that all you wish for ? Why, that may be yours 
 Without any magic ! " the fair maiden cried : 
 
Selections. 229 
 
 " A favour so slight one's good-nature secures ; " 
 And she playfully seated herself by his side. 
 
 " I would blow it again," said the youth ; "' and the charm 
 Would work so that not even modesty's check 
 
 Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." 
 She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck. 
 
 " Yet once more T would blow ; and the music divine 
 Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss, — 
 
 You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine ; 
 And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss." 
 
 The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, — 
 
 " What a fool of yourself with the whistle you'd make ! 
 
 For only consider how silly 'twould be 
 
 To sit there and whistle for what you might take." 
 
 Robert Story. 
 
 TOM. 
 
 Yes, Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew. 
 
 Just listen to this : — 
 When the old mill took fire, and the flooring fell through. 
 And I with it, helpless there, full in my view 
 What do you think my eyes saw through the fire 
 That crept along, crept along, nigher and nigher ? 
 But Robin, my baby-boy, laughing to see 
 The shining. He must have come there after me, 
 Toddled alone from the cottage without 
 
 Any one's missing him. Then, what a shout — 
 
 Oh ! how I shouted, " For Heaven's sake, men, 
 
 Save little Robin ! " Again and again 
 
 They tried, but the fire held them back like a wall. 
 
 I could hear them go at it, and at it, and call, 
 
 " Never mind, baby, sit still like a man ! 
 
 We're coming to get you as fast as we can." 
 
230 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 They could not see him but I could. He sat 
 Still on a beam, his little straw hat 
 Carefully placed by his side ; and his eyes 
 
 Stared at the flame with a baby's surprise, 
 
 Calm and unconscious, as nearer it crept, 
 
 The roar of the fire up above must have kept 
 
 The sound of his mother's voice shrieking his name 
 
 From reaching the child. But I heard it. It came 
 
 Again and again. God, what a cry ! 
 
 The axes went faster : I saw the sparks fly 
 
 Where the men worked like tigers, nor minded the heat 
 
 That scorched them,- — when, suddenly, there at their feet 
 
 The great beams leaned in — they saw him — then, crash, 
 Down came the wall ! The men made a dash,^ 
 Jumped to get out of the way, — and I thought, 
 " All's up with poor little Robin ! " and brought 
 Slowly the arm that was least hurt to hide 
 The sight of the child there, — when swift, at my side, 
 Some one rushed by and went right through the flame, 
 Straight as a dart — caught the child — and then came 
 Back with him, choking and crying, but — saved ! 
 Saved safe and sound ! 
 
 Oh, how the men raved, 
 Shouted, and cried, and hurrahed ! Then they all 
 Rushed at the work again, lest the back wall 
 Where I was lying, away from the fire. 
 Should fall in and bury me. 
 
 Oh ! you'd admire. 
 To see Robin now : he's as bright as a dime. 
 Deep in some mischief too, most of the time. 
 Tom, it was saved him. Now, isn't it true 
 Tom's the best fellow that ever you knew ? 
 There's Robin now ! See he's strong as a log ! 
 And there comes Tom too — 
 
 Yes, Tom is our dog. 
 
 Constance Fenimore Woolsen. 
 
Selections. 231 
 
 TEMPERANCE. 
 
 The need of the hour is a grand tidal wave of total ab- 
 stinence sweeping over the land. The strongest protest 
 possible must be made against intemperance. Total ab- 
 stinence is the protest. Will it be made with sufficient 
 force to save the people ? This is the vital question for 
 the future of America, and I might add for the future of 
 religion. What is to be done ? I speak to those who by 
 position, influence, talent, or office ought to take an in- 
 terest in the people. In the name of humanity, of coun- 
 try, of religion, by all the most sacred ties that bind us 
 to our fellow-men, for the love of Him who died for souls, 
 I beseech you, declare war against intemperance ! Arrest 
 its onward march ! If total abstinence does not appear 
 to you the remedy, adopt some other. If you differ from 
 me in the means you propose, I will not complain. But 
 I will complain in the bitterness of my soul if you stand 
 by, arms folded, while this dreadful torrent is sweeping 
 over the land, carrying with it ruin and misery. The 
 brightest minds and the noblest hearts are numbered 
 among the victims. Human wrecks whose fortune it has 
 dissipated, whose intellect it has stifled, are strewn over 
 the land as thick as autumnal leaves in the forest. Al- 
 cohol directly inflames the passions ; it is oil poured on 
 the burning fire. It turns man into an animal ; it makes 
 him the demon incarnate. One week's perusal of the 
 daily paper fills the mind with horror at the shocking 
 accidents, the suicides, the murders, the ruin of innocence, 
 and the crimes of all kinds caused by intemperance. 
 
 Rt. Rev. John Ireland. 
 
 THE BALD-HEADED MAN. 
 
 The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very 
 small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The woman 
 
232 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 had a careworn expression hanging over her face like a 
 tattered veil, and many of the rapid questions asked by 
 the boy were answered by unconscious sighs. 
 
 " Ma," said the boy, " that man's like a baby, ain't he ?" 
 pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in front of 
 them. 
 " Hush !" 
 
 " Why must I hush ?" 
 
 After a few moments' silence : " Ma, what's the matter 
 with that man's head ? 
 
 " Hush, I tell you. He's bald." 
 " What's bald ?" 
 
 " His head hasn't got any hair on it." 
 " Did it come off ?" 
 " I guess so." 
 " ^Vill mine come off?" 
 "Some time, may be," 
 " Then I'll be bald, won't I ?" 
 <' Yes." 
 
 " Will you care ?" 
 " Don't ask so many questions." 
 
 After another silence, the boy exclaimed : " Ma, look at 
 that fly on that man's head." 
 
 " If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home." 
 " Look ! There's another fly. Look at 'em tight ; look 
 at 'em !" 
 
 '■ Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and 
 looking around, " what's the matter with that young 
 hyena ?" 
 
 The woman blushed, stammered out something, and 
 attempted to smooth back the boy's hair. 
 
 " One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy, innocently, 
 following with his eyes a basket of oranges carried by a 
 newsboy. 
 
 " Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed 
 m«n, " if .you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put you 
 off the train," 
 
Selections. 233 
 
 The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed 
 the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him 
 from crying. 
 
 '' Ma, have I got red marks on my head ?" 
 
 " I'll whip you again, if you don't hush." 
 
 " Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, " does it 
 hurt to be bald-headed ?" 
 
 " Youngster," said the man, " if you'll keep quiet, I'll 
 give you a quarter." 
 
 The boy promised, and the money was paid over. 
 
 The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading. 
 
 " This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. " When 
 I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys monej'. Mister, 
 have all bald-headed men got money ?" 
 
 The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and 
 exclaimed : " Madam, hereafter when you travel, leave 
 that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought 
 that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears 
 to kill the children for making sport of his head, but now 
 I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If 
 your boy had been in the crowd, he would have died first. 
 If I can t find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the 
 cow-catcher rather than remain here." 
 
 " The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy ; and as 
 the woman leaned back a tired sigh escaped from her lips. 
 
 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. 
 
 She had been told that God made all the stars 
 That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 
 Watching the coming of the twilight on. 
 As if it were a new and perfect world. 
 And this were its first eve. How beautiful 
 Mubt be the work of nature to a child 
 In its first fresh impression ! Laura stood 
 
234 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 By the low window, with the silken lash 
 Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
 Half parted with the new and strange delight 
 Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
 That look'd so still and delicate above, 
 Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the eve 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 Stood looking at the west with that half smile, 
 As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
 Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
 Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
 To the first golden mellowness, a star 
 Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
 Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands. 
 Her simple thought broke forth expressively, — 
 " Father, dear father, God has made a star." 
 
 Willis. 
 
 EVE'S REGRETS ON QUITTING PARADISE. 
 
 Must I thus leave thee. Paradise ? thus leave 
 
 Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades. 
 
 Fit haunt of gods ? where I had hope to spend. 
 
 Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day 
 
 That must be mortal to us both ! flowers. 
 
 That never will in other climate grow. 
 
 My early visitation and my last 
 
 At even, which I bred up with tender hand 
 
 From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! 
 
 Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank 
 
 Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ? 
 
 Thee, lastly, nuptial bower ! by me adorn'd 
 
 With what to sight or smell was sweet ! from thee 
 
Selections. 235 
 
 How shall I part, and whitlier wander down 
 Into a lower world, to this obscure 
 And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air 
 Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits ? 
 
 Milton. 
 
 READING THE LIST. 
 
 " Is there any news of the war ?" she said, 
 " Only a list of the wounded and dead," 
 
 Was the man's reply. 
 
 Without lifting his eye 
 
 To the face of the woman standing by. 
 " 'Tis the very thing I want," she said ; 
 " Read me a list of the wounded and dead." 
 
 He read her the list — 'twas a sad array 
 
 Of the wounded and killed in the fatal fray : 
 
 In the very midst was a pause to tell 
 
 Of a gallant youth, who had fought so well 
 
 That his comrades asked, " Who is he, pray ?" 
 
 " The only son of the widow Gray," 
 
 Was the proud reply 
 
 Of his captain nigh. 
 What ails the woman standing near ? 
 Her face has the ashen hue of fear. 
 
 " Well, well, read on : is he wounded ? be quick 
 
 God ! but my heart is sorrow-sick !" 
 
 " Is he wounded ? no ! he fell, they say. 
 
 Killed outright on that fatal day !" 
 
 But see ! the woman has swooned away ! 
 
 Sadly she opened her eyes to the light ; 
 Slowly recalled the event of the fight ; 
 Faintly she murmured, " Killed outright ; 
 It has caused the death of my only son ; 
 
236 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But the battle is fought and the victory won ; 
 The will of the Lord, let it be done !" 
 God pity the cheerless widow Gray, 
 And send from the halls of eternal day 
 The light of His peace to illumine her way ! 
 
 LITTLE MARY'S WISH. 
 
 " I have seen the first robin of spring, mother dear, 
 And have heard the brown darling sing ; 
 
 You said, ' Hear it and wish, and 'twill surely come true ; 
 So I've wished such a beautiful thing ! 
 
 " I thought I would like to ask something for you, 
 But 1 couldn't think what there could be 
 
 That you'd want while you had all those beautiful things ; 
 Besides, you have papa and me. 
 
 " So I wished for a ladder, so long that 'twould stand 
 
 One end by our own cottage door, 
 And the other go up past the moon and the stars 
 
 And lean against heaven's white floor. 
 
 " Then I'd get you to put on my pretty white dress. 
 With my sash and my darling new shoes ; 
 
 Then I'd find some white roses to take up to God — 
 The most beautiful ones I could choose. 
 
 " And you and dear papa would sit on the ground 
 
 And kiss me, and tell me ' Good-bye ! ' 
 Then I'd go up the ladder far out of your sight. 
 
 Till I came to the door in the sky. 
 
 " I wonder if God keeps the door fastened tight ? 
 
 If but one little crack I could see, 
 I would whisper, ' Please, God, let this little girl in. 
 
 She's as tired as she can be ! 
 
Selections. 237 
 
 " ' She came all alone from the earth to the sky, 
 
 For she's always been wanting to see 
 The gardens of heaven, with their robins and flowers; 
 
 Please, God, is there room there for me ? ' 
 
 " And then, when the angels had opened the door, 
 God would say, ' Bring the little child here,' 
 
 But he'd speak it so softly I'd not be afraid ; 
 And he'd smile just like you, mother dear. 
 
 " He would put His kind arms round your dear little girl, 
 And I'd ask Him to send down for you. 
 
 And papa, and cousin, and all that I love — 
 
 Oh, dear! don't you wish 'twould come true ?" 
 
 The next spring time, when the robins came home. 
 
 They sang over grasses and flowers 
 That grew where the foot of the ladder stood. 
 
 Whose top reached the heavenly bowers. 
 
 And the parents had dressed the pale, still child, 
 
 For her flight to the summer land. 
 In a fair white robe, with one snow white rose 
 
 Folded tight in her pulseless hand. 
 
 And now at the foot of the ladder they sit. 
 
 Looking upward with quiet tears. 
 Till the beckoning hand and the fluttering robe 
 
 Of the child at the top appears. 
 
 Mrs. L. M. Blinn. 
 
 GOOD-BYE.' 
 
 Did you ever hear two married women take leave of 
 each other at the gate on a mild evening ? This is how 
 they do it : — " Good-bye ! " " Good-bye ! Come down and 
 
238 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 see us soon." " I will. Good-bye." " Good-bye ! Don't 
 forget to come soon." '' No, I won't. Don't you forget to 
 come up." " I won't. Be sure and bring Sarah Jane with 
 you the next time." " I will. I'd have brought her this 
 time, but she wasn't very well. She wanted to come 
 awfully." " Did she now ? That was too bad ! Be sure and 
 bring her next time." " I will ; and you be sure and bring 
 baby." " I will ; I forgot to tell you that he's cut another 
 tooth." " You don't say so ! How many has he now ? " 
 " Five. It makes him awfully cross." " I dare say it does 
 this hot weather. Well, good-bye ! Don't forget to come 
 down." " No, I won't. Don't you forget to come up. Good- 
 bye ! " And they separate. 
 
 THE WEDDING FEE. 
 
 One morning, fifty years ago, — 
 
 When apple trees were white with snow 
 
 Of fragrant blossoms, and the air 
 
 Was spell-bound with the perfume rare — 
 
 Upon a farm horse, large and lean, 
 
 And lazy with its double load, 
 
 A sun-browned youth, and maid were seen 
 
 Jogging along the winding road. 
 
 Blae were the arches of the skies ; 
 
 But bluer were that maiden's eyes. 
 
 The dew-drops on the grass were bright ; 
 
 But brighter was the loving light 
 
 That sparkled 'neath the long-fringed lid. 
 
 Where those bright eyes of blue were hid ; 
 
 Adown the shoulders brown and bare 
 
 Rolled the soft waves of golden hair, 
 
 Where, almost strangled with the spray, 
 
 The sun, a willing sufferer lay. 
 
Selections. 239 
 
 It was the fairest sight, I ween, 
 That the young man had ever seen ; 
 And with his features all aglow , 
 The happy fellow told her so ! 
 And she without the least surprise 
 Looked on him with those heavenly eyes ; 
 Saw underneath that shade of tan 
 The handsome features of a man ; 
 And with a joy but rarely known 
 She drew that dear face to her <5wn, 
 And by her bridal bonnet hid — 
 I shall not tell you what she did ! 
 
 So, on they ride until among 
 
 The new-bom leaves with dew-drops hung, 
 
 The parsonage, arrayed in white, 
 
 Peers out, — a more than welcome sight. 
 
 Then, with a cloud upon his face, 
 
 " What shall we do," he turned to say, 
 
 " Should he refuse to take his pay 
 
 From what is in the pillow-case ? " 
 
 And glancing down his eyes surveyed 
 
 The pillow-case before him laid, 
 
 Whose contents reaching to its hem, 
 
 Might purchase endless joy for them. 
 
 The maiden answers, " Let us wait ; 
 
 To borrow trouble where's the need ? " 
 
 Then, at the parson's squeaking gate 
 
 Halted the more than willing steed. 
 
 Down from the horse the bridegroom sprung ; 
 
 The latchless gate behind him swung ; 
 
 The knocker of that startled door. 
 
 Struck as it never was before. 
 
 Brought the whole household pale with fright ; 
 
 And there, with blushes on his cheek, 
 
 So bashful he could hardly speak. 
 
 The farmer met their wondering sight. 
 
240 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 The groom goes in, his errand tells, 
 
 And, as the parson nods, he leans 
 
 Far o'er the window-sill and yells, 
 
 " Come in ! He says he'll take the beans ! " 
 
 Oh ! how she jumped ! With one glad bound 
 
 She and the bean-bag reached the ground. 
 
 Then, clasping with each dimpled arm 
 
 The precious product of the farm. 
 
 She bears it through the open door ; 
 
 And, down upon the parlour floor, 
 
 Dumps the best beans vines ever bore. 
 
 Ah ! happy were their songs that day, 
 
 When man and wife they rode away. 
 
 But happier this chorus still 
 
 Which echoed through those woodland scenes : 
 
 " God bless the priest of Whitinsville ! 
 
 God bless the man who took the beans ! " 
 
 R. M. Streeter. 
 
 THE FIREMAN. 
 
 'Tis a cold bleak night ! with angry roar 
 The north winds beat and clamour at the door ; 
 The drifted snow lies heaped along the street, 
 Swept by a blinding storm of hail and sleet ; 
 The clouded heavens no guiding starlight lend. 
 But o'er the earth in gloom and darkness bend ; 
 Gigantic shadows, by the night lamps thrown, 
 Dance their weird revels fitfully alone. 
 
 In lofty halls, where fortune takes its ease, 
 Sunk in the treasures of all lands and seas ; 
 In happy homes where warmth and comfort meet. 
 The weary traveller with their smiles to greet ; 
 
Selections. 241 
 
 . In lowly dwellings, where the needy swarm 
 Round starving embers, chilling limbs to warm, 
 Rises the prayer that makes the sad heart light — 
 " Thank God for home, this bitter, bitter night ! " 
 
 But hark ! above the beating of the storm 
 Peals on the startled ear the fire alarm ! 
 Yon gloomy heaven's aflame with sudden light. 
 And heart-beats quicken with a strange affright ; 
 From tranquil slumbers springs, at duty's call, 
 The ready friend no danger can appal ; 
 fierce for the conflict, sturdy, true, and brave. 
 He hurries forth to battle and to save. 
 
 From yonder dwelling, fiercely shooting out. 
 Devouring all they coil themselves about, 
 The flaming furies, mounting high and higher. 
 Wrap the frail structure in a cloak of fire. 
 Strong arms are battling with the stubborn foe 
 In vain attempts their power to overthrow ; 
 With mocking glee they revel with their prey, 
 Defying human skill to check their way. 
 
 And see ! far up above the flames hot breath. 
 Something that's human waits a horrid death ; 
 A little child, with waving golden hair, 
 Stands, like a phantom, 'mid the horrid glare, 
 Her pale, sweet face against the window pressed, 
 While sobs of terror shake her tender- breast. 
 And from the crowd beneath, in accents wild, 
 A mother screams, " 0, God ! my child ! my child ! " 
 
 Up goes a ladder. Through the startled throng 
 A hardy fireman swiftly moves along ; 
 Mounts sure and fast along the slender way, 
 Fearing no danger, dreading but delay. 
 The stifling smoke-clouds lower in his path. 
 Sharp tongues of flame assail him in their wrath ; 
 o 
 
242 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But up, still up he goes ! the goal is won ! 
 
 His strong arm beats the sash, and he is gone ! 
 
 Gone to his death. The wily flames surround 
 And burn and beat his ladder to the ground, 
 In flaming columns move with quickened beat 
 To rear a massive wall 'gainst his retreat. 
 Courageous heart, thy mission was so pure, 
 Suffering humanity must thy loss deplore ; 
 Henceforth with martyred heroes thou shalt live. 
 Crowned with all honours nobleness can give. 
 
 Nay, not so fast ; subdue these gloomy fears ; 
 Behold ! he quickly on the roof appears. 
 Bearing the tender child, his jacket warm 
 Flung round her shrinking form to guard from harm. 
 Up with your ladders ' Quick ! 'tis but a chance ! 
 Behold how fast the roaring flames advance ! 
 Quick ! quick ! brave spirits to his rescue fly ; 
 Up ! up ! by heavens ! this hero must not die ' 
 
 Silence ! he comes along the burning road. 
 
 Bearing, with tender care, his living load ; 
 
 Aha ! he totters ! Heaven in mercy save 
 
 The good, true heart that can so nobly brave. 
 
 He's up again ! and now he's coming fast ! 
 
 One moment, and the fiery ordeal's passed ! 
 
 And now he's safe ! Bold flames, ye fought in vain ! 
 
 A happy mother clasps her child again ! 
 
 George M. Baker. 
 
 THE LAUNCH OF THE SHIP. 
 
 " Build me straight, worthy Master ! 
 Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel. 
 That shall laugh at all disaster, 
 And with wave and whirlwind wrestle ! " 
 
Selections. 243 
 
 The merchant's word 
 
 Delighted the Master heard ; 
 
 For his heart was in his ■work, and the heart 
 
 Givefch grace unto every art. 
 
 And with a voice that was full of glee, 
 
 He answered, " Ere long we will launch 
 
 A vessel as goodly, and strong, and staunch 
 
 As ever weathered a wintry sea ! " 
 
 All is finished ! and at length 
 
 Has come the bridal day 
 
 Of beauty and of strength. 
 
 To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 
 
 With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched ; 
 
 And o'er the bay. 
 
 Slowly, in all his splendours dight. 
 
 The great sun rises to behold the sight. 
 
 The ocean old 
 
 Centuries old, 
 
 Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled. 
 
 Paces restless to and fro. 
 
 Up and down the sands of gold. 
 
 His beating heart is not at rest ; 
 
 And far and wide. 
 
 With ceaseless flow. 
 
 His beard of snow 
 
 Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 
 
 He waits impatient for his bride. 
 
 There she stands, 
 
 With her foot upon the sands, 
 
 Decked with flags and streamers gay, 
 
 In honour of her marriage-day, 
 
 Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 
 
 Round her like a veil descending, 
 
 Ready to be 
 
 The bride of the gray old sea. 
 
244 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Then the Master, 
 
 With a gesture of command, 
 
 Waved his hand ; 
 
 And at the word, 
 
 Loud and sudden there was heard. 
 
 All around them and below, 
 
 The sound of hammers, blow on blow. 
 
 Knocking away the shores and spurs. 
 
 And see ! she stirs ! 
 
 She starts, — she moves, — she seems to feel 
 
 The thrill of life along her keel, 
 
 And, spurning with her foot the ground, 
 
 With one exulting, joyous bound. 
 
 She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 
 
 And lo ! from the assembled crowd 
 
 There rose a shout, prolonged and loud. 
 
 That to the ocean seemed to say, — 
 
 " Take her, O bridegroom, old and gray ; 
 
 Take her to thy protecting arms, 
 
 With all her youth, and all her charms ! " 
 
 How beautiful she is ! how fair 
 
 She lies within those arms that press 
 
 Her form with many a soft caress 
 
 Of tenderness and watchful care ! 
 
 Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 
 
 Through wind and wave, tight onward steer ! 
 
 The moistened eye, the trembling lip. 
 
 Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 
 
 Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State ! 
 Sail on, Union, strong and great ! 
 Humanity, with all its fears. 
 With all the hopes of future years, 
 Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 
 We know what Master laid thy keel. 
 What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
 
Selections. 245 
 
 Who made each mast and sail and rope, 
 What anvils rang, what hammers beat. 
 In what a forge, and what a heat. 
 Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 
 
 Fear not each sudden sound and shock ; 
 
 'Tis of the wave, and not the rock ; 
 
 'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 
 
 And not a rent made by the gale ! 
 
 In spite of rock and tempest's roar. 
 
 In spite of false lights on the shore, 
 
 Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ; 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee : 
 
 Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears. 
 
 Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 
 
 Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 JIOCK OF AGES. 
 
 " Roch of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! " 
 
 Sang the lady, soft and low, 
 And her voice's gentle flow 
 Rose upon the evening air 
 With the sweet and solemn prayer : 
 " Eock of Ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! " 
 
 Yet she sang as oft she had 
 When her heart was gay and glad. 
 Sang because she felt alone, 
 Sang because her soul had grown 
 Weary with the tedious day, 
 Sang to while the hours away : 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! " 
 
246 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Where the fitful gaslight falls 
 On her father's massive walls. 
 On the chill and silent street 
 Where the lights and shadows meet, 
 There the lady's voice was heard, 
 As the breath of night was stirred 
 With her tones so sweet and clear, 
 Wafting up to God that prayer : 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! " 
 
 Wandering, homeless thro' the night, 
 Praying for the morning light. 
 Pale and haggard, wan and weak. 
 With sunken eye and hollow cheek 
 Went a woman, one whose life 
 Had been wrecked in sin and strife ; 
 One, a lost and only child. 
 One by sin and shame defiled ; 
 And her heart with sorrow wrung, 
 Heard the lady when she sung : 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! " 
 
 Pausing, low her head she bent. 
 And the music as it went 
 Pierced her blackened soul, and brought 
 Back to her (as lost in thought 
 Tremblingly she stood) the past, 
 And the burning tears fell fast. 
 As she called to mind the days 
 When she walked in virtue's ways. 
 When she sang that very song 
 With no sense of sin or wrong : 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! " 
 
Selections. 247 
 
 On the marble steps she knelt, 
 And her soul that moment felt 
 More than she could speak, as there 
 Quivering, moved her lips in prayer, 
 And the God she had forgot 
 Smiled upon her lonely lot ; 
 Heard her as she murmured oft, 
 With an accent sweet and soft : 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! " 
 
 Little knew the lady fair, 
 
 As she sung in silence there, 
 
 That her voice had pierced a soul 
 
 That had lived 'neath sin's control ! 
 
 Little knew, when she had done, 
 
 That a lost and erring one 
 
 Heard her — as she breathed that strain — 
 
 And returned to God again ! 
 
 F. L. Stanton. 
 
 BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA. 
 
 It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's even- 
 ing I called on Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a 
 walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing through 
 some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. " Hush ! " 
 he said, " what sound is that ? It is from my symphony 
 in F," he said eagerly. " Hark, how well it is played ! " 
 
 It was a little, mean dwelling ; and we paused outside 
 and listened. The player went on ; but in the midst of 
 the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice sob- 
 bing : " I can not play any more — it is so beautiful, it is 
 so utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh ! what 
 would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne ? " 
 
 " Ah, my sister," said her companion, " why create re- 
 
248 'I'he Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 grefcs when there is no remedy ? We can scarcely pay 
 our rent." 
 
 "You are right ; and yet I wish, for once in my life, 
 to hear some really good music. But it is of no use." 
 
 Beethoven looked at me. " Let us go in," he said. 
 
 " Go in ! " I exclaimed. " What can we go in for ? " 
 
 " I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. " Here 
 is feeling — genius — understanding. I will play to her, 
 and she will understand it ! " And before I could prevent 
 him his hand was upon the door. 
 
 A pale young man was sitting by the table, making 
 shoes ; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old- 
 fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion 
 of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly 
 out very poorly dressed, and both started and turned 
 towards us as we entered. 
 
 " Pardon me," said Beethoven, " but I heard music and 
 was tempted to enter. I am a musician." 
 
 The girl blushed and the young man looked grave — 
 somewhat annoyed. 
 
 " I — I also overheard something of what you said," 
 continued my friend. " You wish to heax — that is, you 
 would like — that is — shall I play for you ? " 
 
 There was something so odd in the whole affair, and 
 something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the 
 speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all 
 smiled involuntarily. 
 
 "Thank you," said the shoemaker; "but our harpsi- 
 chord is so wretched, and we have no music.'' 
 
 " No music ! " echoed my friend. " How, then, does 
 the fraulein " 
 
 He paused and coloured up, for the girl looked full at 
 him, and he saw that she was blind. 
 
 " I — I entreat your pardon," he stammered ; " but I 
 had not perceived before. Then you play from ear ? " 
 
 " Entirely." 
 
 " And where do you hear the music ; since you frequent 
 no concerts ? " 
 
Selections. 249 
 
 " I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we 
 lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings 
 her windows were generally open, and I walked to and 
 fro outside to listen to her." 
 
 She seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more, but seated 
 himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He 
 had no sooner struck the first chci'd than I knew what 
 would follow — how grand he would be that night ! And 
 I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew 
 him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind 
 girl and her brother. He was inspired ; and from the 
 instant that his fingers began to wander along the keys, 
 the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter 
 and more equal. 
 
 The brother and sister were silent with wonder and 
 rapture. The former laid aside his work ; the latter, 
 with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands 
 pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the 
 end of the harpsichord as if fearful lest even the beating 
 of her heart should break the flow of those magical sweet 
 sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange 
 dream, and only feared to wake. 
 
 Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sunk, 
 flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw 
 open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moon- 
 light. The room was almost as light as before, and the 
 illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. 
 But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken 
 by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast ; his 
 hands rested upon his knees ; he seemed absorbed in 
 meditation. It was thus for some time. 
 
 At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached 
 him eagerly, yet reverently — " Wonderful man ! " he said, 
 in a low tone, " who and what are you ? " 
 
 The composer smiled as he only could smile, benevo- 
 lently, indulgently, kingly. " Listen," he said, and he 
 played the opening bars of the symphony in F. 
 
250 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, 
 and exclaiming, "Then, you are Beethoven !" they covered 
 his hands with tears and kisses. 
 
 He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties. 
 '' Play to us once more — only once more ! " 
 
 He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. 
 The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit 
 up his glorious rugged head and massive figure. " I will 
 improvise a sonata to the moonlight !" looking up thought- 
 fully to the sky and stars — then his hands dropped on 
 the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely 
 movement, which crept gently over the instrument like 
 the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This 
 was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time — a 
 sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon 
 the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale — a breath- 
 less, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight, 
 and uncertainty, and vague impulsive terror, which car- 
 ried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all emotion 
 and wonder. 
 
 " Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pushing back his 
 chair, and turning towards the door ; " farewell to you." 
 
 '' You will come again ? " asked they, in one breath. 
 
 He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, 
 at the face of the blind girl. " Yes, yes," he said, hurriedly, 
 " I will come again, and give the fraulein some lessons. 
 Farewell ! I will soon come again!" 
 
 They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, 
 and stood at their door till we were out of sight and 
 hearing. 
 
 " Let us make haste back,'' said Beethoven, " that I 
 may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it ! " 
 We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. 
 And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with 
 which we are all so fondly acquainted. 
 
Selections. 251 
 
 OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. 
 
 I, who was always counted, they say, 
 Rather a bad stick any way, 
 Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, 
 Known as " the worst of the Deacon's six ;'" 
 I, the truant, saucy and bold, 
 The one black sheep in my father's fold, 
 " Once on a time," as the stories say. 
 Went over the hill on a winter's day — 
 Over the hill to the poor-house. 
 
 Tom could save what twenty could earn ; 
 But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn ; 
 Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak — 
 Committed a hundred verses a week ; 
 Never forgot, an' never slipped ; 
 But " Honour thy father and mother " he skipped ; 
 So over the hill to the poor-house ! 
 
 As for Susan, her heart was kind 
 An' good — what there was of it, mind ; 
 Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, 
 Nothin' she would'nt sacrifice 
 For one she loved ; an' that 'ere one. 
 Was herself, when all was said an' done ; 
 An' Charley, an' Becca meant well, no doubt. 
 But any one could pull 'em about ; 
 
 An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, 
 Save one poor fellow, and that was me ; 
 An' when, one dark an' rainy night, 
 A neighbour's horse went out o' sight. 
 They hitched on jne, as the guilty chap 
 That carried one end o' the halter-strap. 
 An' I think, myself, that view of the case 
 Wasn't altogether out o' place ; 
 
252 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 My mother denied it, as mothers do, 
 
 But I'm inclined to believe 'twas true. 
 
 Though for me one thing might be said — 
 
 That I, as well as the horse, was led ; 
 
 And the worst of whiskey spurred me on. 
 
 Or else the deed would have never been done. 
 
 But the keenest grief I ever felt 
 
 Was when my mother beside me knelt, 
 
 An' cried and prayed, till I melted down. 
 
 As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. 
 
 I kissed her fondly, then an' there. 
 
 An' swore henceforth to be honest and square. 
 
 I served my sentence — a bitter pill 
 
 Some fellows .should take who never will ; 
 
 And then I decided to go " out West," 
 
 Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best ; 
 
 Where, how I prospered, I never could tell. 
 
 But Fortune seemed to like me well, 
 
 An' somehow every vein I struck 
 
 Was always bubbling over with luck. 
 
 An' better than that, I was steady an' true. 
 
 An' put my good resolutions through. 
 
 But I wrote to a trusty old neighbour, an' said, 
 
 " You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead. 
 
 An' died a Christian ; 'twill please 'em more. 
 
 Than if I had lived the same as before." 
 
 But when this neighbour he wrote to me, 
 
 " Your mother's in the poor house," says he, 
 
 I had a resurrection straightway. 
 
 An' started for her that very day. 
 
 And when I arrived where I was grown, 
 
 I took good care that I shouldn't be known ; 
 
 But I bought the old cottage, through and through, 
 
 Of some one Charley had sold it to ; 
 
Selections. 253 
 
 And held back neither work nor gold, 
 To fix it up as it was of old. 
 The same big fire-place, wide and high, 
 Flung up its cinders toward the sky ; 
 The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf — 
 I wound it an' set it agoin' myself ; 
 And if everything wasn't just the same, 
 Neither I nor money was to blame ; 
 
 Then — over the hill to the poor-house ! 
 
 One blowin', blusterin', winter's day. 
 With a team an' cutter I started away ; 
 My fiery nags was as black as coal ; 
 (They some'at resembled the horse I stole) ; 
 I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door — 
 A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor ; 
 She rose to her feet in great surprise. 
 And looked, quite startled, into my eyes ; 
 I saw the whole of her trouble's trace 
 In the lines that marred her dear old face ; 
 " Mother ! " I shouted, " your sorrows is done ! 
 You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son. 
 Come over the hill from the poor-house ! 
 
 She didn't faint ; she knelt by my side. 
 An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. 
 An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, 
 An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day ; 
 An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright. 
 An'" maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight. 
 To see her a-gettin the evenin's tea. 
 An' frequently stoppin' an' kissin' me ; 
 An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, 
 In spite of my brothers and sisters' sneers. 
 Who often said, as I have heard. 
 That they wouldn't own a prison-bird ; 
 (Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, 
 For all of them owe me more or less ;) 
 
254 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But I've learned one thing ; an' it cheers a man 
 
 In always a-doin' the best he can ; 
 
 That whether on the big book, a blot 
 
 Get's over a fellow's name or not, 
 
 Whenever he does a deed that's white, 
 
 It's credited to him fair and right. 
 
 An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, 
 
 An' the Lord divides his sheep and goats ; 
 
 However they may settle my case. 
 
 Wherever they may fix my place, 
 
 My good old Christian mother, you'll see, 
 
 Will be sure to stand right up for me, 
 
 With over the hill from the poor-house. 
 
 Will Garleton. 
 
 THE WORLD FROM THE SIDEWALK. 
 
 Did you ever stand in the crowded street. 
 
 In the glare of a city lamp. 
 And list to the tread of the millions feet 
 
 In their quaintly musical tramp ? 
 As the surging crowd go to and fro, 
 
 'Tis a pleasant sight, I ween. 
 To mark the figures that come and go 
 
 In the ever-changing scene. 
 
 Here the publican walks with the sinner proud. 
 
 And the priest in his gloomy cowl. 
 And Dives walks in the motley crowd 
 
 With Lazarus, cheek by jowl : 
 And the daughter of toil with her fresh young heart 
 
 As pure as her spotless fame. 
 Keeps step with the woman who makes her mart 
 
 In the haunts of sin and shame. 
 
 How lightly trips the country lass 
 In the midst of the city's ills, 
 
Selections. 255 
 
 As freshly pure as the daisied grass 
 
 That grows on her native hills ; 
 And the beggar, too, with his hungry eye, 
 
 And his lean, wan face and crutch. 
 Gives a blessing the same to the passer-by 
 
 As they give him little or much. 
 
 Ah me ! when the hours go joyfully by. 
 
 How little we stop to heed 
 Our brothers' and sisters' despairing cry 
 
 In their woe and their bitter need ! 
 Yet such a world as the angels sought 
 
 This world of ours we'd call. 
 If the brotherly love that the Father taught 
 
 Was felt by each for all. 
 
 Yet a few short years and this motley throng 
 
 Will all have passed away, 
 And the rich and the poor and the old and the young 
 
 Will be undistinguished clay. 
 And lips that laugh and lips that moan. 
 
 Shall in silence alike be sealed. 
 And some will lie under stately stone, 
 
 And some in the Potter's Field. 
 
 But the sun will be shining just as bright, 
 
 And so will the silver moon. 
 And just such a crowd will be here at night. 
 
 And just such a crowd at noon ; 
 And men will be wicked and women will sin, 
 
 As ever since Adam's fall, 
 With the same old world to labour in. 
 
 And the same God over all. 
 
256 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes. 
 
 And there the langest tarry ! 
 For there I took the last farewell 
 
 0' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk ! 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom ! 
 As, underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasped her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours, on angel wings, 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender ; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again. 
 
 We tore ourselves asunder ; 
 But oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sae early ! 
 Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay. 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary ! 
 
 pale, pale now, those rosy lips 
 
 I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
 And mouldering now, in silent dust 
 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
 But still, within my bosom's core, 
 
 Shall live my Highland Mary. 
 
 Robert Burns. 
 
Selections. 257 
 
 CALLING A BOY IN THE MOKNING. 
 
 Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed 
 under the head of " pastimes," especially if the boy is fond 
 of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that 
 the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is get- 
 ting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a suc- 
 cess at rousing a boy. All mothers know this ; so do 
 their boys. And yet the mother seems to go at it in the 
 right way. She opens the stair door and insinuatingly 
 observes, " Johnny." There is no response. " Johnni/." 
 Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, " John," 
 followed a moment later by a long and emphatic " John 
 Henry." A grunt from the upper regions signifies that 
 an impression has been made ; and the mother is encou- 
 raged to add, "You'd better begetting down here to your 
 breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give 
 you something you'll feel." This so startles the young 
 man that he immediately goes to sleep again ; and the 
 operation has to be repeated several times. A father 
 knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his 
 mouth as a soda-water bottle ejects its cork, and the 
 " John Henry " that cleaves the air of that stairway 
 goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deep- 
 est recesses of his nature, and he pops out of that bed, 
 and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a prompt- 
 ness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows him- 
 self to disregard the paternal summons. About once a 
 year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the 
 rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps 
 by his thoughtfulness. 
 
258 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 AN ORDER FOE A PICTURE. 
 
 good painter, tell me true, 
 
 Has your hand the cunning to draw 
 Shapes of things that you never saw ? 
 
 Aye ? Well, here is an order for you. 
 
 Woods and cornfields a little brown, — 
 The picture must not be over bright, — 
 Yet all in the golden and gracious light 
 
 Of a cloud when the summer sun is down. 
 
 Alway and alway, night and morn. 
 Woods upon woods, with fields of corn 
 
 Lying between them, not quite sere, 
 And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. 
 When the wind can hardly find breathing room 
 
 Under their tassels, — cattle near. 
 Biting shorter the short green grass, 
 And a hedge of sumach and sassafras. 
 With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
 Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound ! 
 
 These and the little house where I was born, 
 
 Low, and little, and black, and old, 
 
 With children, many as it can hold. 
 
 All at the windows, open wide, — 
 
 Heads and shoulders clear outside. 
 
 And fair young faces all ablush ; 
 
 Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
 Roses crowding the self-same way, 
 
 Out of a wilding, way-side bush. 
 
 Listen closer. When you have do»e 
 
 With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 
 A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
 Looked down upon, you must paint for me ; 
 Oh, if I only could make you see 
 
Selections. 259 
 
 The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
 The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 
 The woman's soul and the angel's face 
 
 That are beaming on me all the while ! 
 
 I need not speak these foolish words ; 
 Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 
 
 She is my mother : you will agree 
 That all the rest may be thrown away. 
 
 Two little urchins at her knee 
 You must paint, sir ; one like me, — 
 
 The other with a clearer brow, 
 And the light of his adventurous eyes 
 Flashing with boldest enterprise ; 
 
 At ten years old he went to sea, — 
 God knoweth if he be living now, — 
 He sailed in the good ship " Commodore," 
 
 Nobody ever crossed her track 
 
 To bring us news, and she never came back. 
 Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
 Since that old ship went out of the bay 
 
 With my great-hearted brother on her deck ; 
 
 I watched him till he shrank to a speck. 
 And his face was toward me all the way. 
 
 Bright his hair was, a golden brown. 
 
 The time we stood at our mother's knee; 
 
 That beauteous head, if it did go down, 
 Carried sunshine into tlie sea ! 
 
 Out in the fields one summer night 
 
 We were together, half afraid, 
 Of the corn leaves' rustling, and of the shade 
 
 Of the high hills, stretching so still and far, — 
 Loitering till after the low little light 
 Of the candle shone through the open door. 
 
 And, over the hay-stack's pointed top. 
 
 All of a tremble and ready to drop 
 
260 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 The first half hour the great yellow star 
 That we, with staring, ignorant eyes. 
 Had often and often watched to see 
 
 Propped and held in its place in the skies 
 By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree. 
 Which close in the edge of our flax field grew, — 
 Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
 Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool, 
 From which it tenderly shook the dew 
 Over our heads, when we came to play 
 In its handbreath of shadow, day after day, — 
 Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore 
 A nest full of speckled and thin -shelled eggs, — 
 The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
 Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
 The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat. 
 But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
 So slim and shining, to keep her still. 
 
 At last we stood at our mother's knee. 
 Do you think, sir, if you try. 
 You can paint the look of a lie ? 
 If you can, pray have the grace 
 To put it solely in the face 
 Of the urchin that is likest me ; 
 I think 'twas solely mine indeed ; 
 But that's no matter, — paint it so ; 
 
 The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — 
 Looking not on the nest-full of eggs. 
 Nor the fiuttering bird held so fast by the legs. 
 But straight through our faces, down to our lies. 
 And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise, 
 I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, as 
 though 
 A sharp blade struck through it. 
 
 You, sir, know 
 That you on the canvas are to repeat 
 Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
 
Selections. 261 
 
 Woods, and cornfields, and mulberry tree, — 
 The mother, - the lads with their birds at her knee ; 
 But, oh, the look of reproachful woe ! 
 High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
 If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 
 
 Alice Gary. 
 
 ■ CHRIST TURNED AND LOOKED UPON PETER." 
 
 I think that look of Christ might seem to say — 
 " Thou, Peter ! art thou then a common stone. 
 Which I at last must break my heart upon. 
 For all God's charge to His high angels may 
 Guard my foot better ? Did I yesterday 
 Wash thy feet, my beloved, that they should run 
 Quick to deny me, 'neath the morning sun ? 
 And do thy kisses, like the rest, betray ? 
 The cock crows coldly-. Go and manifest 
 A late contrition, but no bootless fear ! 
 For when thy deadly need is bitterest. 
 Thou shall not be denied as I am here ; 
 My voice, to God and angels, shall attest — 
 Because I knew this man let him be clear !" 
 
 Elizabeth B. Browning. 
 
 THE JESTER'S CHOICE. 
 
 One of the kings of Scanderoon, 
 
 A royal jester, 
 Had in his train, a gross buffoon, 
 
 Who used to pester 
 The Court with tricks inopportune. 
 Venting on the highest of folks his 
 Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. 
 
262 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 It needs some sense to play the fool, 
 Which wholesome rule 
 
 Occurred not to our jackanapes, 
 Who consequently found his freaks 
 
 Lead to innumerable scrapes. 
 And quite as many kicks and tweaks, 
 Which only seemed to make him faster 
 Try the patience of his master'. 
 
 Some sin, at last, beyond all measure. 
 Incurred the desperate displeasure 
 
 Of his serene and raging highness : 
 Whether he twitched his most revered 
 And sacred beai-d, 
 
 Or had intruded on the shyness 
 Of the seraglio, or let Q.y 
 An epigram at royalty, 
 None knows : his sin was an occult one, 
 But records tell us that the Sultan, 
 Meaning to terrify the knave. 
 
 Exclaimed, " 'Tis time to stop that hieath : 
 Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave ! 
 
 Thou stand'st condemned to certain death : 
 Silence, base rebel ! no replying ! 
 
 But such is m)- indulgence still, 
 
 That, of my own free grace and will, 
 I leave to thee the mode of dying." 
 " Thy royal will be done — 'tis just," 
 Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust; 
 
 " Since my last moments to assuage, 
 Your majesty's humane decree 
 Has deigned to leave the choice to rac, 
 
 I'll die, so please you, of old age !" 
 
 Horace Smith. 
 
Selections. 2G3 
 
 THE OPENING OF THE PIANO. 
 
 In the little southern parlour of the house you may have 
 
 seen 
 With the gambrel-roof, and the gable looking westward 
 
 to the green, 
 At the side toward the sunset, with the window on its 
 
 right, 
 Stood the London-made piano I am dreaming of to-night. 
 
 Ah me ! how I remember the evening when it came ! 
 What a cry of eager voices, what a group of cheeks in 
 
 flame, 
 When the wondrous box was opened that had come from 
 
 over seas, 
 With its smell of mastic- varnish and Its flash of ivory keys ! 
 
 Then the children all grew fretful in the restlessness of joy. 
 For the boy would push his sister, and the sister crowd 
 
 the boy. 
 Till the father asked for quiet in his grave paternal way, 
 But the mother hushed the tumult with the words, " Now, 
 
 Mary, play." 
 
 For the dear soul knew that music was a A'ery sovereign 
 
 balm ; 
 She had sprinkled it over sorrow and seen its brow grow 
 
 calm, 
 In the days of slender harpsichords with tapping tinkling 
 
 quiUs 
 Or carolling to her spinet with its thin metallic trills. 
 
 So Mary, the household minstrel, who always loved to 
 please, 
 
 Sat down to the new " dementi," and struck the glitter- 
 ing keys. 
 
264 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Hushed were the children's voices, and every eye grew 
 
 dim, 
 As, floating from lip and finger, arose the "Vesper Hymn." 
 
 ■ — ^Catherine, child of a neighbour, curly and rosy-red, 
 (Wedded since, and a widow, — something like ten years 
 
 dead,) 
 Hearing a gush of music such as none before, 
 Steals from her mother's chamber and peeps at the open 
 
 door. 
 
 Just as the '-'Jubilate" in threaded whisper dies, 
 
 — " Open it, open it, lady !" the little maiden cries, 
 
 (For she thought 'twas a singing creature caged in a box 
 
 she heard,) 
 "Open it, open it, lady! and let me see the bird!" 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 THE HIRED SQUIRREL. 
 
 (a RUSSIAN FABLE.) 
 
 A Lion to the Squirrel said : 
 
 " Work faithfully for me, 
 And when your task is done, my friend. 
 
 Rewarded you shall bo 
 With barrel-full of finest nuts, 
 
 Fresh from my own nut-tree.'' 
 " My Lion King," the Squirrel said, 
 
 " To this I do agree." 
 
 The Squirrel toiled both day and night. 
 Quite faithful to his hire ; 
 So hungry and so faint sometimes 
 
 He thought he should expire. 
 
Selections. 26^ 
 
 But still he kept his courage up, 
 
 And tugged with might and main. 
 
 " How nice the nuts will taste," he thought, 
 " When I my barrel gain." 
 
 At last, when he was nearly dead. 
 And thin and old and grey, 
 Quoth Lion : " There's no more hard work 
 
 You're fit to do. I'll pay." 
 A barrel-full of nuts he gave — 
 
 Ripe, rich, and big ; but oh ! 
 The Squirrel's tears ran down his cheeks. 
 He'd lost his teeth, you know! 
 
 Laura Sanford. 
 
 THE DEATH-BED. 
 
 We watched her breathing through the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seemed to speak, 
 
 So slowly moved about, 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 
 Our fears our hopes belied — 
 We thought her dying when she slept. 
 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came, dim and sad, 
 
 And chill with early showers. 
 Her quiet eyelids closed^ — she had 
 
 Another morn than ours. 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
266 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 LANDING OF OOLUMBGS. 
 
 The sails were furl'd ; with many a melting close, 
 Solemn and slow the evening anthem rose, — 
 Rose to the Virgin. 'Twas the hour of day 
 When setting suns o'er summer seas display 
 A path of glory, opening in the west 
 To golden climes and islands of the blest; 
 And human voices on the silent air 
 Went o'er the waves in songs of gladness there ! 
 Chosen of men ! 'Twas thine at noon of night 
 First from the prow to hail the glimmering light ? 
 (Emblem of Truth divine, whose secret ray 
 Enters the soul and makes the darkness day !) 
 " Pedro ! Rodiigo ! there methought it shone ' 
 There — in the west ! and now, alas, 'tis gone ! — 
 'Twas all a dream ! we gazei and gaze in vain ! 
 But mark and speak not, there it comes again ! 
 It moves ! — what form unseen, what being there 
 With torch-like lustre fires the murky air ? 
 His instincts, passions, say, how like our own ' 
 Oh, when will day reveal a world unknown ? " 
 Long on the deep the mists of morning lay ; 
 Then rose, revealing as they rolled away 
 Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods 
 Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods : 
 And say, when all, to holy transport given, 
 Embraced and wept as at the gates of heaven, — 
 When one and all of us, repentant, ran, 
 And, on our faces, bless'd the wondrous man, — 
 Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies 
 Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies ? 
 " Glory to God ! " unnumber'd voices sung, — 
 " Glory to God ! " the vales and mountains rung, 
 Voices that hail'd creation's primal morn. 
 And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. 
 
Selections. 2(57 
 
 Slowly, bareheaded, through the surf we bore 
 The sacred cross, and kneeling kiss'd the shore. 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 THREE WORDS OF STRENGTH. 
 
 There are three lessons I would write — 
 Three words as with a burning pen, 
 
 In tracings of eternal light 
 Upon the hearts of men. 
 
 Have Hope. Though clouds environ round 
 And gladness hides her face in scorn. 
 
 Put off the shadow from thy brow — 
 No night but hath its morn. - 
 
 Have Faith. Where'er thy bark is driven — 
 The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth — 
 
 Know this ; God rules the hosts of heaven — 
 The inhabitants of the earth. 
 
 Have Love. Not love alone for one, 
 
 But man, as man, thy brother call ; 
 And scatter like the circling sun, 
 
 Thy charities on all. 
 
 Thus grave these lessons on thy soul — 
 
 Hope, Faith, and Love — and thou shalt find 
 
 Strength, when life's surges rudest roll, 
 Light, when thou else wert blind. 
 
 Schiller. 
 
 BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF C^SAR. 
 
 Romans, countrymen, and lovers ! Hear me for my 
 cause ; and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for 
 mine honour ; and have respect to mine honour that you 
 
268 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 may believe. Censure me in your wisdom ; and awake 
 your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be 
 any in this assembly — any dear friend of Caesar's — to 
 him I say, that Brutus' love to Csesar was no less than 
 his. If, then, that friend demand why Brutus rose against 
 Csesar, this is my answer : — Not that I loved Csesar less, 
 but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Csesar 
 were living, and die all slaves,than that Csesar were dead, 
 to live all freemen ? As Csesar loved me, I weep for him ; 
 as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I 
 honour him ; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him. There 
 are tears, for his love ; joy, for his fortune ; honour, for his 
 valour ; and death for his ambition ! Who is here so base, 
 that would be a bondman ? If any, speak ; for him have 
 I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a 
 Roman ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended. Who 
 is here so vile that will not love his country ? If any, 
 speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. 
 
 None ? Then none have I offended. I have done no 
 more to Csesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question 
 of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not ex- 
 tenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor his offences en- 
 forced, for which he suffered death. 
 
 Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony ; who, 
 though he had no hand in his death,shall receive the bene- 
 fit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth : as which 
 of you shall not ? With this I depart : — that, as I slew 
 my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same 
 dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to 
 need my death. Shakespeare. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 A youth went out to serenade 
 
 The lady whom he loved the best. 
 
 And passed beneath the mansion's shade. 
 Where erst his charmer used to rest. 
 
Selections. 269 
 
 He warbled till the morning light 
 Came dancing o'er the hill-tops' rim, 
 
 But no fair maiden blessed his sight, 
 And all seemed dark and drear to him. 
 
 With heart aglow and eyes ablaze, 
 He drew much nearer than before, 
 
 When, to his horror and amaze. 
 He saw " To Let " upon the door. 
 
 GINEVRA. 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come, by choice or chance, 
 To Modena, where still religiously 
 Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
 Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
 Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine), 
 Stop at a Palace near the Reggio-gate. 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 Its sparkling fountains, statues, cypresses,. 
 Will long detain thee ; through their arched walks. 
 Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse 
 Of knights and dames, such as in old romance. 
 And lovers, such as in heroic song, 
 Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, 
 That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, 
 Venturing together on a tale of love, 
 Read only part that day. A summer sun 
 Sets ere one-half is seen ; but, ere thou go, 
 Enter the house — prithee, forget it not — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, 
 The very last of that illustrious race. 
 Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care -not. 
 
270 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 He who observes it^ — ^ere.he passes on, 
 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. 
 
 That he may call it up, when far away. 
 
 She sits, inclining forward as to speak. 
 
 Her lips half open, and her finger up. 
 
 As though she said, " Beware !" Her vest of gold 
 
 Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 
 
 An emerald stone in every golden clasp ; 
 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 
 A coronet of pearls. But then her face. 
 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, 
 
 The overflowings of an innocent heart — 
 
 It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
 
 Like some wild melody ! 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion. 
 An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm. 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With Scripture stories from the Life of Christ ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old ancestor. 
 That by the way — it may be true or false — 
 But don't forget the picture : and thou wilt not, 
 When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. 
 
 She was an only child ; from infancy 
 The joy, tlie pride of an indulgent sire. 
 Her mother dying of the gift she gave. 
 That precious gift, what else remained to him ? 
 The young Ginevra was his all in life. 
 Still as she grew, for ever in his sight ; 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride. 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
 She was all gentleness, all gaiety ; 
 Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. 
 But now the day was come, the day, the hour ; 
 
Selections. 271 
 
 Now frowning, siniling, for the hundredth time, 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; 
 And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 Great was the joy ; but at the bridal feast. 
 When all sat down, the bride was wanting there, 
 Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried, 
 " 'Tis but to make a trial of our love 1" 
 And filled his glass to all ; but his hand shook. 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back and flying still. 
 Her ivory-tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas ! she was not to be found ; 
 Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, 
 But that she was not ! 
 
 "Weary of his life, 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Orsini lived ; and long mightst thou have .«ieen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of something. 
 Something he could not find — he knew not what. 
 When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tenantless — then went to strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were past, and all forgot. 
 When on an idle day, a day of search 
 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, 
 That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
 " Why not remove -it from its lurking place ? " 
 'Twas done as soon as said ; but on the way 
 It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton. 
 With here and there a pearl, an emerald-stone, 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. 
 All else had perished — save a nuptial ring. 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
 " Ginevra." 
 
272 The GanaOian Elocutionist. 
 
 There, then, had she found a grave ! 
 Within that chest had she concealed herself. 
 Fluttering with joy the happiest of the happy ; 
 When a spring lock that lay in ambush there, 
 Fastened her down for ever ! 
 
 Samiiel Rogers. 
 
 THE LAST STATION. 
 
 He had been sick at one of the hotels for three or four 
 weeks, and the boys on the road had dropped in daily to see 
 how he got along, and to learn if they could render him any 
 kindness. The brakeman was a good fellow, and one and 
 all encouraged him in the hope that he would pull through. 
 The doctor didn't regard the case as dangerous ; but the 
 other day the patient began sinking, and it was seen that 
 he could not live the night out. A dozen of his friends 
 sat in the room when night came, but his mind wandered 
 and he did not recognize them. 
 
 It was near one of the depots, and after the great trucks 
 and noisy drays had ceased rolling by, the bells and the 
 short,sharp whistles of the yard-engines sounded painfulljr 
 loud. The patient had been very quiet for half an hour, 
 when he suddenly unclosed his eyes and shouted : 
 
 " Kal-a-ma-zoo ! " 
 
 One of the men brushed the hair back from the cold 
 forehead, and the brakeman closed his eyes and was quiet 
 for a time. Then the wind whirled around the depot and 
 banged the blinds on the window of his room, and he 
 lifted his hand and cried out : 
 
 " Jack-son ! Passengers going north by the Saginaw 
 Road change cars ! " 
 
 The men understood. The brakeman thought he was 
 coming east on the Michigan Central. The effort seemed 
 to have greatly exhausted him, for he lay like one dead for 
 the next five minutesj and a watcher felt for his pulse to 
 
Selections. 273 
 
 see if life had not gone out. A tug going down the river 
 sounded her whistle loud and long, and the dying brake- 
 man opened his eyes and called out : 
 
 "Ann Arbor!" 
 
 He had been over the road a thousand times, but had 
 made his last trip. Death was drawing a spectral train 
 over the old track, and he was brakeman, engineer, and 
 conductor. 
 
 One of the yard-engines uttered a shrill whistle of 
 warning, as if the glare of the headlight had shown to the 
 engineer some stranger in peril, and the brakeman called 
 out : 
 
 " Yp-silanti ! Change cars here for the Eel River 
 Road ! " 
 
 " He's coming in fast,'' whispered one of the men. 
 
 " And the end of his ' run ' will be the end of his life," 
 said a second. 
 
 The dampness of death began to collect on the patient's 
 forehead, and there was that ghastly look on the face that 
 death always brings. The slamming of a door down the 
 hall startled him again, and he moved his head and 
 faintly said : 
 
 " Grand Trunk Junction ! Passengers going east by the 
 Grand Trunk change cars ! " 
 
 He was so quiet after that, that all the men gathered 
 around the bed, believing that he was dead. His eyes 
 closed, and the brakeman lifted his hand, moved his head, 
 and whispered : 
 
 " De— " 
 
 Not " Detroit," but Death ! He died with the half- 
 uttered whisper on his lips. And the headlight on death's 
 engine shone full in his face, and covered it with such 
 pallor as naught but death can bring. 
 
 Detroit Free Press. 
 
274 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH. 
 
 St. Philip Nevi, as old readings say, 
 
 Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day ; 
 
 And being ever courteousl}^ inclined 
 
 To give young folks a sober turn of mind, 
 
 He fell into discourse with him ; and thus 
 
 The dialogue they held comes down to us. 
 
 St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome ? 
 
 Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come. 
 
 St. And when you are one, what do you intend ? 
 
 Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end. 
 
 St. Suppose it so, — what have you next in view ? 
 
 Y. That I may get to be a canon, too. 
 
 St. Well ; and how then ? 
 
 Y. VVhy, then, for aught I know 
 
 1 may be made a bishop. 
 
 St. Be it so — 
 
 What then ? 
 
 Y. Why, cardinal's a high degree — 
 
 And yet my lot it possibly may be. 
 
 St. Suppose it was, what then ? 
 
 Y. Why, who can say 
 
 But I've a chance of being pope one day ? 
 
 St. Well, having worn tlie mitre and red hat. 
 An , triple crown, what follows after that ? 
 
 Y. Nay, there is nothing fufther, to be sure, 
 Upon this earth thnt wishing can procure ; 
 When I've enjoyed a dignity so hi^di, 
 As long as G )d s lall please, tlien I must die. 
 
 St. Wh it ' must you die ? fond youth ! and at the best 
 But wish, and hupe, a'ld miyhe all the rest ! 
 Take my advice — whatever may betide. 
 For that which must be, first of all provide ; 
 
Selection!^. 275 
 
 Then think of that which may be, and indeed, 
 When well prepared, who knows what may siicceed? 
 But you may be, as you are pleased to hope, 
 Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope. 
 
 Dr. Byrom. 
 
 NO KISS, 
 
 " Kiss me, Will," sang Marguerite, 
 
 To a pretty little tune, 
 Holding up her dainty mouth. 
 
 Sweet as roses born in June. 
 Will was ten years old that day, 
 
 And he pulled her golden curls 
 Teasingly, and answer made — 
 
 " I'm too old — I don't kiss girls." 
 
 Ten years pass, and Marguerite 
 
 Smiles as Will kneels at her feet, 
 Gazing fondly in her eyes, 
 
 Praying, " Won't you kiss me, sweet ? " 
 'Rite is seventeen to-day, 
 
 With her birthday ring she toys 
 For a moment, then replies : 
 
 " I'm too old — I don't kiss boys." 
 
 KEYS. 
 
 Long ago in the old Granada, when the Moors were forced 
 
 to flee, 
 Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight 
 
 the key. 
 
 Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come 
 
 when they 
 Should return from their long exile to those homes so far 
 
 away< 
 
276 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their 
 
 prime 
 Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling 
 
 touch of time. 
 
 Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly 
 
 long to be, 
 And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold 
 
 the key. 
 
 Our fair country lies behind us ; we are exiles, too, in 
 
 truth. 
 For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name 
 
 is Youth. 
 
 We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now 
 
 and then, 
 Some old heartstring stirs within us and we feel our 
 
 youth again. 
 
 " We are young," we cry triumphant, thrilled with old- 
 time joy and glee. 
 Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but 
 
 the key ! Bessie Chandler. 
 
 DRIFTING. 
 
 My soul to-day is far away 
 Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 
 My winged boat, a bird afloat, 
 skims round the purple peaks remote. 
 
 Round purple peaks it sails and seeks 
 
 Blue inlets and their crystal creeks. 
 
 Where high rocks throw, through deeps below, 
 
 A duplicated golden glow. 
 
Selections. 277 
 
 Far, vague, and dim the mountains swim ; 
 While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 
 With outstretched hands, tlic gray smoke stands 
 O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 
 
 Here Ischia smiles o'er liquid miles, 
 And yondei-, bluest of the isles. 
 Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates 
 Beguiling to her bright estates. 
 
 I heed not, if my rippling skiff 
 Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff: 
 With di'eamful eyes my spirit lies 
 Under the walls of Paradise. 
 
 Under the walls where swells and falls 
 The Bay's deep breast at intervals. 
 At peace I lie, blown softly by 
 A cloud upon this liquid sky. 
 
 The day so mild is heaven's own child. 
 With earth and ocean I'econciled : 
 The airs I feel around me steal 
 Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 
 
 Over the rail my hand I trail. 
 Within the shadow of the sail ; 
 A joy intense, the cooling sense, 
 Glides down my drowsy indolence. 
 
 With dreamful eyes my spirit flies 
 Where summer sings and never dies — 
 O'erveiled with vines, she glows and shines 
 Among her future oils and wines. 
 
 Her children, hid the cliffs amid. 
 
 Are gamboling with the gamboling kid ; 
 
278 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Or down the walls, with tipsy calls, 
 Laugh on the rock like waterfalls. 
 
 The fisher's child, with tresses wild, 
 Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 
 With glowing lips sings as she skips. 
 Or gazes at the far-off ships. 
 
 Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows, 
 From lands of sun to lands of snows ; 
 This happier one its course has run, 
 From lands of snow to lands of sun. 
 
 Oh ! happy ship, to rise and dip, 
 With the blue crystal at your lip ' 
 Oh ! happy crevr, my heart with you 
 Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 
 
 No more, no more the worldly shore 
 Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! 
 With dreamful eyes my spirit lies 
 Under the walls of Paradise 1 
 
 T. Buchanan Read. 
 
 ELIZABETH. 
 
 Now was the winter gone, and the snow ; and Robin the 
 
 Red-breast 
 Boasted on bush and tree it was he, it was he and no 
 
 other 
 That had covered with leaves the Babes in the Wood, and 
 
 blithely 
 All the birds sang with him, and little cared for his boast- 
 
 inff, 
 Or for his Babes in the Wood, or the Cruel Uncle, and 
 
 only 
 
Selections. 279 
 
 Sang for the mates they had chosen, and cared for the 
 
 nests they were building. 
 With them, but more sedately and meekly, Elizabeth 
 
 Hadden 
 Sang in her inmost heart, but her lips were silent and 
 
 songless. 
 Thus came the lovely spring, with a rush of blossoms and 
 
 music, 
 Flooding the earth with flowers, and the air with melo- 
 dies vernal. 
 Then it came to pass, one pleasant morning, that slowly 
 Up the road there came a cavalcade, as of pilgrims. 
 Men and women, wending their way to the Quarterly 
 
 Meeting 
 In the neighbouring town ; and with them came riding, 
 
 John Estaugh. 
 At Elizabeth's door they stopped to rest, and alighting 
 Tasted the currant wine, and the bread of rye, and the 
 
 honey 
 Brought from the hives, that stood by the sunny wall of 
 
 the garden. 
 Then re-mounted their horses, refreshed, and continued 
 
 their journey, 
 And Elizabeth with them, and Joseph, and Hannah the 
 
 housemaid. 
 But, as they started, Elizabeth lingered a little, and lean- 
 ing 
 Over her horse's neck, in a whisper said to John Estaugh : 
 " Tarry awhile behind, for I have something to ti^U thee. 
 Not to be spoken lightly, nor in the presence of others ; 
 Them it concerneth not, only thee and me it concerneth." 
 And thev rode slowly along through the woods, c. nvers- 
 
 ing together. 
 Il was a ])leasure to breathe the fragrant air of the forest ; 
 It was a pleasure to live on that bright and happy May 
 
 morning ! 
 
280 The' Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Then Elizabeth said, though still with a certain reluc- 
 tance, 
 
 As if impelled to reveal a secret she fain would have 
 guarded : 
 
 " i will no longer conceal what is laid upon me to tell 
 thee ; 
 
 I have received from the Lord a charge to love thee, 
 John Estnugh." 
 
 And John Estaugh made answer, surprised \'j the wurds 
 she had spoken : 
 
 " Pleasant to me are thy converse, thy ways, thy meek- 
 ness of spirit ; 
 
 Pleasant thy frankness of speech, and thy soul's imma- 
 culate whiteness, 
 
 Love without dissimulation, a holy and inward adorning. 
 
 But I have yet no light to lead me, no voice to direct me. 
 
 When the Lord's work is done, and the toil and the labour 
 completed 
 
 Ho hath appointed to me, 1 will gather into the stillness 
 
 Of my own heart awhile, and listen and wait lor His 
 guidance." 
 
 Then ElizaV)eth said, not troubled nor wounded in spirit, 
 " So is it best, John Estaugh, we will not speak of it 
 
 further, 
 It hath Ijeen laid on me to tell thee this, for to-morrow 
 Thou art going away, across the sea, and I know not 
 When I shall see thee more ; but if the Lord hath de- 
 creed it. 
 Thou wilt return again to seek me here, and to hnd me." 
 And they rode onward in silence, and entered the town 
 with the otheis. 
 
 Lo'iuifdlow. 
 
Selections. 281 
 
 " ASK MAMMA." 
 
 A bachelor squire of no great possession, long come to 
 what should have been years of discretion, determined to 
 change his old habits of life, and comfort his days by tak- 
 ing a wife. He had long been the sport of the girls in the 
 place, — they liked his good, simple, quiet, cheery, fat face ; 
 and whenever he went to a tea-drinking party, the flirts 
 wei e in raptures — our friend was so hearty ! They'd 
 fasten a cord near the foot of the door, and bring down 
 the jolly old chap on the floor ; they'd pull oflF his wig 
 while he floundered about, and hide it, and laugh till he 
 hunted it out ; they would tie his coat-tails to the back 
 of his seat, and scream with delight when he rose to his 
 feet ; they would send him at Christmas a box full of 
 bricks, and play on his temper all manner of tricks. One 
 evening they pressed him to play on the flute, and he blew 
 in his eyes a rare scatter of soot ! He took it so calmly, 
 and laughed while he spoke, that they hugged him to 
 pardon their nasty "black joke." One really appeared so 
 sincere in her sorrow, that he vowed to himself he would 
 ASK her to-morrow, — and not one of the girls but would 
 envy her lot, if this jolly old bachelor's ofl'er she got; for 
 they never had dreamed of his playing the beau, or doubt- 
 less they would not have treated him so. However, next 
 day to fair Fanny's amazement, she saw him approach as 
 she stood at the casement ; and he very soon gave her to 
 know his desire, that she should become the dear wife of 
 the squire. " La! now, Mr. Friendly, what would they all 
 say ?" but she thought that not one of them all would say 
 nay: she was flustered with pleasure, and coyness, and 
 pride to be thus unexpectedly sued for a bride. She did 
 not refuse him, but yet did not like, to sa^' " Yes," all at 
 once — the hot iron to strike; so to give the proposal the 
 greater eclat, she said, " Dear Mr. J^'riendly, — you'd best 
 ask mamma !" Good morning, then, Fanny, I'll do what 
 
282 Tlie Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 you say; as she's out, I shall call in the course of the day. 
 Fanny blushed as she gave him her hand for good-bye, 
 and she did not know which to do first — laugh or cry ; to 
 wed such a dear darling man, nothing loth ; for variety's 
 sake in her joy, she did both ! " 0, what will mamma say, 
 and all the young girls ?" she thought as she played with 
 her beautiful curls. " I wish I had said Yes at once, — 
 'twas too bad — not to ease his dear mind — 0, 1 wish that I 
 had ! I wish he had asked me to give him a kiss, — but he 
 can't be in doubt of my feeling — that's bliss ! 0, 1 wish 
 that mamma would come for the news : such a good dear 
 kind soul, she will never refuse ! There's the bell — here 
 
 she is 0, mamma ! " — " Child, preserve us ! What ails 
 
 you, dear Fanny ? What makes you so nervous ?" " I really 
 can't tell you just now, — bye and bye " Mr. Friendly will 
 call — and he'll tell you — not 1." " Mr. Friendly, my child ' 
 what about him, pray ?" "0, mamma, — he's to call — in the 
 course of the day. He was here just this minute, — and 
 shortly you'll see he'll make you as happy as he has made 
 me. I declare he has seen you come home — that's his 
 ring; I will leave you and him, now to settle the thing." 
 Fanny left in a flutter : her mother — the gipsy — she'd 
 made her as giddy as though she'd been tipsy ! Mr. Friendly 
 came in, and the widow and he, were soon as delighted as 
 Fanny could be ; he asked the dear widov: to change her 
 estate ; — she consented at once, and a kiss sealed her fate. 
 Fanny came trembling in — overloaded with pleasure — 
 but soon she was puzzled in as great a measure. " Dear 
 Fanny," said Friendly, " I've done what you said," but 
 what he had done, never entered her head — " I've asked 
 your mamma, and she's given her consent ;" Fanny flew to 
 his arms to express her content. He kissed her and said, 
 — as he kissei-l her mamma, — " I'm so glad, my dear Fan, 
 that you like your papa !" Poor Fanny now found out 
 the state of the case, and she blubbered outright with a 
 pitiful face; it was all she could do, under heavy constraint, 
 to preserve herself conscious, and keep off a faint ! She 
 
Selections. 283 
 
 determined, next time she'd a chance, you may guess, not 
 to say, " Ask mamma," but at once to say "Yes ! " 
 
 A. M. Bell. 
 
 GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. 
 
 She stood at the bar of justice, 
 
 A creature wan and wild. 
 In form too small for a woman, 
 
 In features too old for a child, 
 For a look so worn and pathetic 
 
 Was stamped on her pale young face, 
 It seemed long years of suffering 
 
 Must have left that silent trace. 
 
 " Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her 
 
 With kindly look yet keen, 
 " Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir," 
 
 '' And your age ?" — " I am turned fifteen." 
 " Well, Mary," and then from a paper 
 
 He slowly and gravely read, 
 " You are charged here — I'm sorry to say it — 
 
 With stealing three loaves of bread." 
 
 " You look not like an offender. 
 
 And I hope that you can show 
 The charge to be false. Now, tell me, 
 
 Are you guilty of this, or no ?" 
 A passionate burst of weeping 
 
 Was at first her sole reply. 
 But she dried her tears in a moment, 
 
 And looked in the judge's eye. 
 
 " I will tell you just how it was, sir. 
 My father and mother are dead, 
 
 And my little brother and sisters 
 Were hungry and asked me for bread. 
 
284 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 At first I earned it for them 
 
 By working hard all day, 
 But somehow times were bad, sir. 
 
 And the work all fell away. 
 
 " I could get no more employment ; 
 
 The weather was bitter cold, 
 The young ones cried and shivereil — 
 
 (Little Johnny's but four years old ;)— 
 So, what was I to do, sir ? 
 
 I am guilty, but do not condenui, 
 I took — oh, was it stealing ? — 
 
 The bread to give to them." 
 
 Every man in the court-room — 
 
 Giey-beard and thoughtless youth — 
 Knew, as he looked upon her, 
 
 That the prisonei- spoke the truth, 
 Out from their pockets came kerchiefs. 
 
 Oat from theii- eyes sprung tears, 
 And out from ohl faded wallets 
 
 Treasures hoarded for years. 
 
 The judge's face was a study — 
 
 The strangest you ever saw, 
 As he cleaied his throat and murmured 
 
 Something about the Imu. 
 For one so learned in such matteis. 
 
 So wise in dealing with men. 
 He seemed, on a simple question, 
 
 Sorisly puzzled just then. 
 
 But no one blamed him or wondered 
 When at last these words they heard, 
 
 " The sentence of this young prisoner 
 Is, for the present, deferred." 
 
Selections. 28a 
 
 And no one blamed him or wondered 
 When he went to her and smiled, 
 
 And tenderly led from the court-room, 
 Himself the " guilty " child. 
 
 MEMOKY'S PICTURES. 
 
 Among the beautiful pictures 
 
 That hang on Memory's wall. 
 Is one of a dim old forest, 
 
 That seemeth best of all ; 
 Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 
 
 Dark with the mistletoe ; 
 Not for the violets golden 
 
 That sprinkle the vale below ; 
 Not for the milk-white lilies 
 
 That lean from the fragrant ledge. 
 Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 
 
 And stealing their golden edge ; 
 Not for the vines on the upland. 
 
 Where the bright red berries rest ; 
 Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslips, 
 
 It seemeth to me the best. 
 
 I once had a little brother 
 
 With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
 In the lap of that old dim forest 
 
 He lieth in peace asleep; 
 Light as the down of the thistle, 
 
 Free as the winds that blow. 
 We roved there the beautiful summers. 
 
 The summers of long ago ; 
 But his feet on the hills grew weary. 
 
 And one of the autumn eves 
 I made for my little brother 
 
 A bed of the yellow leaves. 
 
286 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Sweetly his pale arms folded 
 
 My neck in a meek embrace, 
 As the light of immortal beauty 
 
 Silently covered his face ; 
 And when the arrows of sunset 
 
 Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
 He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
 
 Asleep, by the gates of light. 
 Therefore, of all the pictures 
 
 That hang on Memory's wall, 
 The one of the dim old forest 
 
 Seemeth the best of all. 
 
 Alice Gary. 
 
 PAPA CAN'T FIND ME. 
 
 No little step do I hear in the hall, 
 Only a sweet little laugh, that is all. 
 No dimpled arms round my neck hold me tight, 
 I've but a glimpse of two eyes very bright. 
 Two little hands a wee face try to screen, 
 Baby is hiding, that's plain to be seen. 
 "Where is my precious I've missed so all day?" 
 "Papa can't find me !" the pretty lips say. 
 
 " Dear me, I wonder where baby can be !" 
 Then I go by, and pretend not to see. 
 " Not in the parlour, and not on the stairs? 
 Then I must peep under sofas and chairs." 
 The dear little rogue is now laughing outright. 
 Two little arms round my neck clasp me tight. 
 Home will indeed be sad, weary and lone. 
 When papa can't find you, my darling, my own. 
 
Selections. 5J87 
 
 THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 
 
 Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the 
 Mulatto of Murillo, was one of the most celebrated 
 painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in the churches 
 of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found 
 painting, by his master, a St. Anne, and a holy Joseph, 
 which are extremely beautiful, and others of the highest 
 merit. The incident related occurred about the year 
 1630: 
 
 'Twas morning in Seville ; and brightly beamed 
 
 The earlj»sunlight in one chamber there ; 
 Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed. 
 
 Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where 
 Murillo, the famed painter, came to share 
 
 With young aspirants his long-cherished art, 
 To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, 
 
 Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart 
 
 The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. 
 
 The pupils came and glancing round, 
 Mendez upon his canvas found, 
 Not his own work ,of yesterday, 
 But glowing in the morning ray, 
 A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, 
 
 It f.lmost seemed that there were given 
 To glow before his dazzled sight. 
 
 Tints and expression warm from heaven. 
 
 'Twas but a sketch — the Tirgin's head — 
 Yet was unearthly beauty shed 
 Upon the mildly beaming face ; 
 The lip, the eye, the tiowing hair, 
 Had separate, yet blended grace — 
 A poet's brightest dream was there 1 
 
288 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Murillo entered, and amazed, 
 
 On the mystei'ious painting gazed ; 
 
 " Whose work is this ? — speak, tell me !- — he 
 
 Who to his aid such power can call," 
 Exclaimed the teacher eagerl}', 
 
 " Will yet be master of us all ; 
 Would I had done it ! — Ferdinand ! 
 Isturitz ! Mendez ! — say, whose hand 
 Among ye all ? " — With half-breathed sigh, 
 Each pupil answered, — " 'Twas not I ! " 
 
 " How came it then ? " impatiently 
 Murillo cried ; " but we shall see, • 
 Ere long into this mystery. • 
 
 Sebastian ! " 
 
 At the summons came 
 
 A bright-eyed slave. 
 Who trembled at the stern rebuke 
 
 His master gave. 
 For ordered in that room to sleep. 
 And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
 Murillo bade him now declare 
 What rash intruder had been there, 
 And threatened — if he did not tell 
 The truth at once — the dungeon-cell. 
 
 " Thou answerest not," Murillo said ; 
 (The boy had stood in speechless fear.) 
 
 " Speak on ! " — At last he raised his head 
 And murmured, " No one has been here." 
 " 'Tis false ! " Sebastian bent his knee, 
 
 And clasped his hands imploringly, 
 And said. " I swear it, none but me ! " 
 
 " List 1 " said his master. " I would know 
 Who enters here — there have been found 
 Before, rough sketches strewn around. 
 
 By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show ; 
 
Selections. 289 
 
 See that to-night strict watch you keep, 
 
 Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. 
 If on to-morrow morn you fail 
 
 To answer what I ask, 
 The lash shall force you — do you hear ? 
 
 Hence ! to your daily task." 
 
 'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone 
 
 From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray 
 Within Murillo's study — all were gone 
 
 Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, 
 Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 
 
 'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, 
 That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, 
 
 One bright- eyed boy was there — ^Murillo's little slave. 
 
 Almost a child—that boy had seen 
 
 Not thrice five summers yet. 
 But genius marked the lofty brow. 
 
 O'er which his locks of jet 
 Profusely curled ; his cheek's dark hue 
 Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through 
 Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, 
 To Africa and Spain allied. 
 
 " Alas ! what fate is mine ! " he said. 
 
 " The lash, if I refuse to tell 
 Who sketched those figures — if I do. 
 
 Perhaps e'en more — ^the dungeon-cell ! " 
 He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid ; 
 It came — for soon in slumber laid. 
 He slept, until the dawning day 
 Shed on his humble couch its ray. _ 
 
 " I'll sleep no more ! " he cried ; " and now 
 Three hours of freedom I may gain, 
 
 Before my master comes, for then 
 I shall be but a slave again. 
 B 
 
290 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Three blessed hours of freedom ! how 
 Shall I employ them? — ah ! e'en now 
 The figure on that canvas traced 
 Must be — yes, it must be effaced." 
 
 He seized a brush — the morning light 
 Gave to the head a softened glow ; 
 
 Gazing enraptured on the sight, 
 He cried, " Shall I efface it ?— No ! 
 
 That breathing lip ! that beaming eye 
 
 Efface them ? — I would rather die \ " 
 
 The terror of the humble slave 
 
 Gave place to the o'erpowering flow 
 
 Of the liigh feelings Nature gave — 
 Which only gifted spirits know. 
 
 He touched the brow — the lip — it seemed 
 
 His pencil had some magic power ; 
 The eye with deeper feeling beamed — 
 
 Sebastian then forgot the hour ! 
 Forgot his master, and the threat 
 
 Of punishment still hanging o'er him ; 
 For, with each touch, new beauties met 
 
 And mingled in the face before him. 
 
 At length 'twas finished ; rapturously 
 He gazed — could aught more beauteous be !- 
 Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood, 
 Then started — horror chilled his blood ! 
 His master and the pupils all 
 
 Were there e'en at his side ! 
 The terror-stricken slave was mute — 
 
 Mercy would be denied. 
 E'en could he ask it — so he deemed. 
 And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. 
 
Selections. 291 
 
 Speechless, bewildered — for a space 
 They gazed upon that perfect face, 
 
 Each with an artist's joy ; 
 At length Murillo silence broke, 
 And with affected sternness spoke — 
 
 " Who is your master, boy ? " 
 " You, Senor,'' said the trembling slave. 
 " Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, 
 Before that Virgin's head j'ou drew ? " 
 Again he answered, " Only you." 
 " 1 gave you none," Murillo cried ! 
 " But I have heard," the boy replied, 
 
 " What you to others said." 
 " And more than heard," in kinder tone, 
 The painter said ; " 'tis plainly shown 
 
 That you have profited." 
 
 " What (to his pupils) is his meed ? 
 
 Reward or punishment ? " 
 " Reward, reward ! " they warmly cried, 
 
 (Sebastian's ear was bent 
 To catch the sounds he scarce believed, 
 But with imploring look received.) 
 " What shall it be ? " They spoke of gold 
 
 And of a splendid dress ; 
 But still unmoved Sebastian stood. 
 
 Silent and motionless. 
 " Speak ! " said Murillo kindly ; " choose 
 
 Your own reward — what shall it be ? 
 Name what you wish, I'll not refuse : 
 
 Then speak at once and fearlessly." 
 " Oh ! if I dared ! "—Sebastian knelt 
 
 And feelings he could not control, 
 (But feared to utter even then) 
 
 With strong emotion, shook his soul. 
 
 " Courage ' " his master said, and each 
 Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, 
 
292 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 To soothe his overpow'ring dread. 
 He scarcely heard, till some one said, 
 
 " Sebastian — ask — you have your choice, 
 Ask for your freedom ! " — At the word, 
 
 The suppliant strove to raise his voice : 
 At first but stifled sobs were heard, 
 And then his prayer — breathed fervently — 
 
 " Oh ! master, make my father free ! " 
 '' Him and thyself, my noble boy ! " 
 
 Warmly the painter cried ; 
 Raising Sebastian from his feet, 
 
 He pressed him to his side. 
 " Thy talents rare, and filial love, 
 
 E'en more have fairly won ; 
 Still be thou mine by other bonds — 
 
 My pupil and my son," 
 
 Murillo knew, e'en when the words 
 
 Of generous feeling passed his lips, 
 Sebastian's talents soon must lead 
 
 To fame that would his own eclipse ; 
 And, constant to his purpose still, 
 
 He joyed to see his pupil gain. 
 Beneath his care such matchless skill 
 
 As made his name the pride of Spain. 
 
 Susan Wilson. 
 
 ONLY SIXTEEN. 
 
 Only sixteen, so the papers say. 
 Yet there, on the cold, stony ground he lay ; 
 'Tis the same sad story, we hear every day — - 
 He came to his death in the public highway. 
 Full of promise, talent and pride ; 
 Yet the rum fiend conquered him — so he died. 
 Did not the angels weep over the scene ? 
 For he died a drunkard — and only sixteen, — 
 
 Only sixteen. 
 
Selections. 293 
 
 Oh ! it were sad he must die all alone ; 
 That of all his friends, not even one 
 Was there to list to his last faint moan, 
 Or point the suffering soul to the throne 
 Of grace. If, perchance, God's only Son 
 Would say, " Whosoever will may come — " 
 But we hasten to draw a veil over the scene. 
 With his God we leave him — only sixteen, — 
 
 Only sixteen. 
 
 Rumseller, come view the work you have wrought ! 
 Witness the suffering and pain you have brought 
 To the poor boy's friends. They loved him well. 
 And yet you dared the vile beverage to sell 
 That beclouded his brain, did his reason dethrone. 
 And left him to die out there all alone. 
 What, if 'twere your son, instead of another ? 
 What if your wife were that poor boy's mother, — 
 And he only sixteen ? 
 
 Ye freeholders, who signed the petition to grant 
 The license to sell, do you think you will want 
 That record to meet in that last great day. 
 When heaven and earth shall have passed away. 
 When the elements, melting with fervent heat. 
 Shall proclaim the triumph of Right complete ? 
 Will you wish to have his blood on your hand 
 When before the great throne you each shall stand,- 
 And he only sixteen ? 
 
 Christian men ! rouse ye to stand for the light. 
 To action and duty ; into the light 
 Come with your banners, inscribed, " Death to rum ! 
 Let your conscience speak. Listen, then, come ; 
 Strike killing blows ; hew to the line ; 
 Make it a felony even to sign 
 A petition to license, you would do it, I ween. 
 If that were your son, and he only sixteen. 
 
 Only sixteen. 
 
294 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 THE RETORT. 
 
 Old Birch, who taught the village school, 
 
 Wedded a maid of homespun habit ; 
 He was stubborn as a mule, 
 
 And she was playful as a rabbit. 
 Poor Kate had scarce become a wife 
 
 Before her husband sought to make her 
 The pink of country polished life, 
 
 And prim and formal as a Quaker. 
 
 One day the tutor went abroad, 
 
 And simple Katie sadly missed him ; 
 When he returned, behind her lord 
 
 She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him. 
 The husband's anger rose, and red 
 
 And white his face alternate grew : 
 " Less freedom, ma'am ! " Kate sighed and said 
 
 " O, dear, I didn't know 'twas you." 
 
 " LITTLE BENNIE." 
 
 A CHRISTMAS STORY. 
 
 I had told hirn, Christmas morning, 
 
 As he sat upon my knee, 
 Holding fast his little stockings, 
 
 Stufied as full as full can be. 
 And attentive listening to me 
 
 With a face demure and mild. 
 That old Santa Glaus, who filled them, 
 
 Did not love a naughty child. 
 
 ' But we'll be good, won't wc, nioder," 
 And fiom off my lap he slid. 
 
 Digging deep among the goodies 
 In his crimson stockings hid, 
 
Selections. 295 
 
 While I turned me to my table, 
 
 Where a tempting goblet stood 
 Brimming high with dainty ciidtarJ 
 
 Sent me by a neighbour good. 
 
 But the kitten, there before lue, 
 
 With his white paw, nothing loth, 
 Sat, by way of entertainment. 
 
 Lapping off the shining froth ; 
 And, in not the gentlest humour 
 
 At the loss of such a treat, 
 I confess, I rather rudely 
 
 Thrust him out into the street. 
 
 Then, how Bennie's blue eyes kindled ; 
 
 Gathering up the precious store 
 He had busily been pouring 
 
 In his tiny pinafore, 
 With a generous look that shamed me 
 
 Sprang he from the carpet bright, 
 Showing by his mien indignant. 
 
 All a baby's sense of right. 
 
 " Come back, Harney," called he loudly. 
 
 As he held his apron white, 
 ■' You shall have my candy wabbit,'' 
 
 But the door was fastened tight. 
 So he stood abashed "and silent. 
 
 In the centre of the floor. 
 With defeated look alternate 
 
 Bent on me and on the door. 
 
 Then, as by some sudden impulse. 
 
 Quickly ran he to the fire, 
 And while eagerly his bright eyes 
 
 Watched the flames grow higher and higher, 
 In a brave, c'ear key, he shouted, 
 
 Jjike some lordly little elf, 
 
296 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 " Santa Kaus, come down the chimney, 
 Make m}' Mudder 'have herself." 
 
 '' I will be a good girl, Bennie," 
 
 Said I, feeling the reproof ; 
 And straightway recalled poor Harriey, 
 
 Mewing on the gallery roof. 
 Soon the anger was forgotten, 
 
 Laughter chased away the frown, 
 And they gamboled round the fireside, 
 
 Till the dusky night came down. 
 
 In my dim, fire- lighted chamber, 
 
 Harney purred beneath my chair. 
 And my playworn boy beside me 
 
 Knelt to say his evening prayer ; 
 " God bess Fader, God bess Moder, 
 
 God bess Sister," then a pause, 
 And the sweet young lips devoutly 
 
 Murmured, " God bess Santa Kaus." 
 
 He is sleeping ; brown and silken 
 
 Lie the lashes, long and meek. 
 Like caressing, clinging shadows. 
 
 On his plump and peachy cheek. 
 And I bend above him, weeping 
 
 Thankful tears, undefiled ! 
 For a woman's crown of glory, 
 
 For the blessing of a child. 
 
 Annie G. Ketchum. 
 
 SLANDER. 
 
 'Twas but a breath — 
 And yet a woman's fair fame wilted. 
 And friends once fond, grew cold and stilted ; 
 And life was worse than death. 
 
Selections. 297 
 
 One venomed word, 
 That sti'uck its coward, poisoned blow, 
 In craven whispers, hushed and low, — 
 And yet the wide world heard. 
 
 'Twas but one whispei' — one — 
 That muttered low, for very shame, 
 That thing the slanderer dare not name,- 
 And yet its work was done. 
 
 A hint so slight. 
 And yet so mighty in its power, — 
 A human soul in one short hour, 
 Lies crushed beneath its blight. 
 
 THE HYPOCHONDKIAC. 
 
 Good morning, Doctor; how do you do ? I haint quite 
 so well as I have been; but I think I'm some better than 
 I was. I don't think that last medicine you gin me did 
 me much good. I had a terrible time with the ear-ache 
 last night; my wife got up and drapt a few draps of 
 walnut sap into it, and that relieved it some ; but I didn't 
 get a wink of sleep till nearly daylight. For nearly a 
 week, Doctor, I have had the worst kind of a narvous 
 head-ache ; it has been so bad sometimes that I thought 
 my head would bust open. Oh, dear ! I sometimes think 
 that I'm the most afflictedest human that ever lived. 
 
 Since this cold weather sot in, that troublesome cough, 
 that I have had every winter for the last fifteen year, has 
 began to pester me agin. (Coughs.) Doctor, do you think 
 you can give me anything that will relieve this desprit 
 pain I have in my side ? 
 
 Then I have a crick, at times, in the back of my neck, 
 so that I can't turn my head without turning the hull of 
 my body. (Coughs.) 
 
298 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Oh, dear ! What shall I do ! I have consulted almost 
 every doctor in the country, but they don't any of them 
 seem to understand tny case. I have tried everything 
 that I could think of; but I can't find anything that 
 does me the leastest good. {Coughs.) 
 
 Oh, this cough — it will be the death of me yet ! \ou 
 know I had my right hip put out last fall at the rising 
 of Deacon Jones' saw mill ; its getting to be very trouble- 
 some just before we have a change of weather. Then 
 I've got the sciatica in my right knen, and sometimes I'm 
 so crippled up that I can hardly crawl round in any 
 fashion. 
 
 What do you think that old white mare of ours did 
 while I was out ploughing last week ? Why, the weacked 
 old critter, she kept backing and backing on, till she 
 back'd me right up agin the coulter, and knocked a piece 
 of skin off my shin nearly so big. (Coughs.) 
 
 But I had a worse misfortune than that the other day, 
 Doctor. You see it was washing-day — and my wife 
 wanted me to go out and bring in a little stove-wood — 
 you know we lost our help lately, and my wife has to 
 wash and tend to everything about the house herself. 
 
 I knew it wouldn't be safe for me to go out — as it was 
 a raining at the time — but I thought I'd I'isk it any how. 
 So I went out, pick'd up a few chunks of stove-wood, and 
 was a coming up the steps into the house, when my feet 
 slipp'd from under me, and 1 fell down as sudden as if I'd 
 been shot. Some of the wood lit upon my face, broke 
 down the bridge of my nose, cut my upper lip, and 
 knocked out three of my front teeth. I suffered dread- 
 fully on account of it, as you may suppose, and my face 
 aint well enough yet to make me fit to be seen, specially 
 by the women folks. {Coughs.) Oh, dear ! but that 
 aint all. Doctor, I've got fifteen corns on my toes — and 
 I'm feared I'm going to have the " yallar janders," 
 {Coughs^ 
 
Selections. 299 
 
 YOUR MISSION. 
 
 If you cannot on the ocean 
 
 Sail among the swiftest iieet, 
 Rocking on the highest billows, 
 
 Laughing at the storms you meet. 
 You can stand among the .jailois, 
 
 Anchor'd yet within the bay, 
 You can lend a hand to help them. 
 
 As they launch their boats away. 
 
 If you are too weak to journey. 
 
 Up the mountain steep and high, 
 You can stand within the valley. 
 
 While the multitudes go by. 
 You can chant in happy measure. 
 
 As they slowly pass along ; 
 Though they may forget the singer, 
 
 They will not forget the song. 
 
 If you have not gold and silver 
 
 Ever ready to command, 
 If you cannot towards the needy 
 
 Reach an ever open hand, 
 You can visit the afflicted, 
 
 O'er the erring you can weep. 
 You can be a true disciple, 
 
 Sitting at the Saviour's feet. 
 
 If you cannot in the conflict. 
 
 Prove yourself a soldier true 
 If where fire and bmoke are thickest 
 
 There's no work for you to do, 
 "When the battle-field is silent. 
 
 You can go with careful tread, 
 You can bear away the wounded, 
 
 You can cover up the dead. 
 
300 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Do not, then, stand idly waiting 
 
 For some greater work to do. 
 Fortune is a lazy goddess, 
 
 She will never come to you. 
 Go and toil in any vineyard, 
 
 Do not fear to do or dare, 
 If you want a held of labour, 
 
 You can find it anywhere. 
 
 SATISFACTION. 
 
 They sent him round the circle fair, 
 To bow before the prettiest there ; 
 I'm bound to say the choice he made 
 A creditable taste displayed; 
 Although I can't see what it meant, 
 The little maid looked ill-content. 
 
 His task was then anew begun, 
 To kneel before the wittiest one. 
 Once more the little maid sought he 
 And bent him down upon his knee ; 
 She turned her e3'es upon the floor ; 
 I think she thought the game a bore. 
 
 He circled then his sweet behest 
 To kiss the one he loved the best ; 
 For all she frowned, for all she chid. 
 He kissed that little maid — he did. 
 And then — though why I can't decide- 
 The little maid looked satisfied. 
 
 MY TRUNDLE BED. 
 
 As I rummaged through the attic, 
 List'ning to the falling rain, 
 
Selections. 801 
 
 As it pattered on the shingles 
 And against the window pane ; 
 
 Peeping over chests and boxes, 
 
 Which with dust were thickly spread ; 
 
 Saw I in the farthest corner 
 What was once my trundle bed. 
 
 So 1 drew it from the recess, 
 
 Where it had remained so long, 
 Hearing all the while the music 
 
 Of my mother's voice in song ; 
 As she sung in sweetest accents, 
 
 What 1 since have often read — 
 " Hush, my babe, lie still and slumber. 
 
 Holy angels guard thy bed." 
 
 As I listened, recollections. 
 
 That I thought had been forgot, 
 Came with all the gush of memory, 
 
 Rushing, thronging to the spot ; 
 And I wandered back to childhood. 
 
 To those merry days of yore. 
 When I knelt beside my mother, 
 
 By this bed upon the floor. 
 
 Then it was with hands so gently 
 
 Placed upon my infant head, 
 That she taught my lips to utter 
 
 Carefully the words she said ; 
 Never can they be forgotten. 
 
 Deep are they in mem'ry riven — 
 '• Hallowed be thy name, Father ! 
 
 Father ! thou who art in heaven." 
 
 Years have passed, and that dear mother 
 Long has mouldered 'neath the sod. 
 
 And I trust her sainted spirit 
 Rests within the home of God ; 
 
302 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 But that scene at summer twilight 
 Never has from memory fled, 
 
 And it comes in all its freshness 
 When I see my trundle bed. 
 
 This she taught me, then she told me 
 Of its impoi't great and deep — 
 
 After which I learned to ntter 
 "Now I lay me down to sleep :" 
 
 Then it was with hands uplifted, 
 And in accents soft and mild. 
 
 That my mother asked — " Our Father- 
 Father ; do thou bless mv child !" 
 
 THE RIFT OF THE ROCK. 
 
 In the rift of the rock He has covered my head, 
 
 When the tempest was wild in the desolate land. 
 Through a pathway uncertain my steps He has led, 
 
 And I felt in the darkness the touch of His hand 
 Leading on, leading over the slippery steep, 
 
 Where came but the echoing sound of the shock, 
 And, clear through the sorrowful moan of the deep, 
 
 The singing of birds in the rift of the rock. 
 
 In the rift of the rock He has sheltered my soul 
 
 When at noonday the toilers grew faint in the heat 
 Where the desert rolled far like a limitless .scroll 
 
 Cool waters leaped up at the touch of His feet. 
 And the flowers that lay with pale lips to the sod 
 
 Bloom softly and fair from a holier stock ; 
 Winged home by the winds to the mountains of God, 
 
 They bloom evermore in the rift of the rock. 
 
 In the rift of the rock Thou wilt cover me still. 
 When the glow of the sunset is low in the sky, 
 
Selections. 303 
 
 When the forms of the reapers are dim on the hill, 
 And the sons; dies awaj', and the end draweth nigh ; 
 
 It will be but a dream of the ladder of light, 
 
 And heaven drawing near without terror or shock, 
 
 For the angels, descending by day and by night, 
 Will open a door through the rift of the rock. 
 
 Annie Herbert. 
 
 THE SFOUX CHIEF'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Two gray hawks ride the rising blast; 
 Dark cloven clouds drive to and fro 
 By peaks pre-eminent in snow ; 
 A sounding river rushes past, 
 So wild, so vortex-like, and vast. 
 
 A lone lodge tops the windy hill ; 
 A tawny maiden, mute and still, 
 Stands waiting at the river's brink, 
 As wierd and wild as 3'ou can think. 
 
 A mighty chief i-- at her feet ; 
 She does not heed him wooing so — 
 She hears the dark, wild waters flow ; 
 She waits her lover, tall and fleet, 
 From far gold fields of Idaho, 
 Beyond the beaming hills of snow. 
 
 He comes ! The grim chief springs in air — 
 
 His brawny arm, his blade is bare. 
 
 She turns ; she lifts her round, dark hand ; 
 
 She looks him fairly in the face ; 
 
 She moves her foot a little pace 
 
 And says, with coldness and command, 
 
 " There's blood enough in this lorn land. 
 
 But see ! a test of strength and skill, 
 
304 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Of courage and fierce fortitude ; 
 
 To breast and wrestle with the rude 
 
 And storm-born waters, now I will 
 
 Bestow you both. . . Stand either side 
 
 Take you my left, tall Idaho ; 
 
 And you, my burly chief, I know 
 
 Would choose my right. Now peer you low 
 
 Across the waters wild and wide. 
 
 See ! leaning so this morn, I spied 
 
 Red berries dip yon farther side. 
 
 See, dipping, dripping in the stream. 
 
 Twin boughs of autumn berries gleam ! 
 
 " Now this, brave men, shall be the test : 
 Plunge in the stream, bear knife in teeth 
 To cut yon bough for bridal wreath. 
 Plunge in ! and he who bears him best, 
 And brings yon ruddy fruit to land 
 The first, shall have both heart and hand.' ' 
 
 Then one threw robes with sullen air. 
 And wound red fox tails in his hair. 
 But one with face of proud delight 
 Entwined a crest of snowy white. 
 
 She sudden gave 
 The sign, and each impatient brave 
 Shot sudden in the sounding wave ; 
 The startled waters gurgled round. 
 Their stubborn strokes kept sullen sound. 
 
 then awoke the love that slept ! 
 
 then her heart beat loud and strong ! 
 
 then the proud love pent up long 
 
 Broke forth in wail upon the air ; 
 
 And leaning there she sobbed and wept. 
 
 With dark face mantled in her hair. 
 
Selections. 305 
 
 Now side by side the rivals plied, 
 Yet no man wasted word or breath ; 
 All was as still as stream of death. 
 Now side by side their strength was tried, 
 And now they breathless paused and lay 
 Like brawny wrestlers well at bay. 
 
 And now they dived, dived long, and now 
 The black heads lifted from the foam, 
 And shook aback the dripping brow. 
 Then shouldered sudden glances home. 
 And then with burly front the brow 
 And bull-like neck shot sharp and blind, 
 And left a track of foam behind. . . . 
 They near the shore at last ; and now 
 The foam flies spouting from a face 
 That laughing lifts from out the race. 
 
 The race is won, the work is done ! 
 She sees the climbing crest of snow ; 
 She knows her tall, brown Idaho. 
 
 She cries aloud, she laughing cries, 
 
 And tears are streaming from her eyes : 
 
 " O splendid, kingly Idaho, 
 
 I kiss his lifted crest of snow ; 
 
 I see him clutch the bended bough ! 
 
 'Tis cleft — he turns ! is coming now ! 
 
 " My tall and tawny king, come back ! 
 
 Come swift, O sweet ; why falter so 1 
 
 Come ! Come ! What thing has crossed your track 
 
 I kneel to all the gods I know. 
 
 come, my manly Idaho ! 
 
 Great Spirit, what is this I dread ? 
 
 Why there is blood ! the wave is red ! 
 
 That wrinkled Chief, outstripped in race, 
 
 Dives down, and hiding from my face, 
 
306 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Strikes underneath ! . . . He rises now ! 
 Now plucks my hero's berry bough, 
 And lifts aloft his red fox head, 
 And signals he has won for me. . . . 
 I Hist softly ! Let him come and see. 
 
 " come ! my white-crowned hero, come ! 
 come ! and I will be your bride, 
 Despite yon chieftain's craft and might. 
 Come back to me ! my lips are dumb, 
 My hands are helpless with despair ; 
 The hair you kissed, my long, strong hair, 
 Is reaching to the ruddy tide, 
 That you may clutch it when you come. 
 
 " How slow he buffets back the wave ! 
 God, he sinks ! heaven ! save 
 My brave, brave boy. He rises ! See ! 
 Hold fast, my boy ! Strike ! strike for me. 
 Strike straight this way ! Strike firm and strong ! 
 Hold fast your strength. It is not long — 
 O God, he sinks ! He sinks ! Is gone ! 
 His face has perished from my sight. 
 
 " And did I dream, and do I wake ? 
 
 Or did I wake and now but dream ? 
 
 And what is this crawls from the stream ? 
 
 O here is some mad, mad, mistake ! 
 
 What you ! The red fox at my feet ? 
 
 You first and failing from a race ? 
 
 What ! you have brought me berries red ? 
 
 What ! You have brought your bride a wreath ? 
 
 You sly red fox with wrinkled face — 
 
 That blade has blood, between your teeth ! 
 
 " Lie still ! lie still ! till I lean o'er 
 
 And clutch your red blade to the shore. . . . 
 
Selections. 307 
 
 Ha ! Ha ! Take that ! and that ! and that ! 
 Ha ! Ha ! So through your coward throat 
 The full day shines ! . . . Two fox tails float 
 And drift and drive adown the stream. 
 
 " But what is this ? What snowy crest 
 
 Climbs out the willows of the west, 
 
 All weary, wounded, bent, and blow. 
 
 And dripping from his streaming hair ? 
 
 It is ! it is my Idaho ! 
 
 His feet are on the land, and fair 
 
 His face is lifting to my face. 
 
 For who shall now dispute the race ? 
 
 " The gray hawks pass, love ! two doves 
 O'er yonder lodge shall coo their loves. 
 My love shall heal your wounded breast. 
 And in yon tall lodge two shall rest." 
 
 Joaquin Miller. 
 
 I'LL TAKE WHAT FATHER TAKES. 
 
 'Twas in the flow'ry month of June, 
 
 The sun was in the west, 
 When a merry, blithesome company 
 
 Met at a public feast. 
 
 Around the room rich banners spread. 
 
 And garlands fresh and gay ; 
 Friend greeted friend right joyously 
 
 Upon that festal day. 
 
 The board was filled with choicest fare ; 
 
 The guests sat down to dine ; 
 Some called for "bitter," some for "stout," 
 
 And some for rosy wine. 
 
308 The Canadian Elocutionist, 
 
 Among this joyful company, 
 
 A modest youth appeared ; 
 Scarce sixteen summers had he seen, 
 
 No specious snare he feared. 
 
 An empty glass before the youth 
 
 Soon drew the waiter near ; 
 " What will you take, sir ?" he inquired, 
 
 " Stout, bitter, mild, or clear ? 
 
 " We've rich supplies of foreign port, 
 We've first-class wine and cakes." 
 
 The youth with guileless look replied, 
 " I'll take what father takes." 
 
 Swift as an arrow went the words 
 
 Into his father's ears, 
 And soon a conflict deep and strong 
 
 Awoke terrific fears. 
 
 The father looked upon his son. 
 
 Then gazed upon the wine. 
 Oh, God ! he thought, were he to taste, 
 
 Who could the end divine ? 
 
 Have I not seen the strongest fall. 
 
 The fairest led astray ? 
 And shall I on my only son 
 
 Bestow a curse this day ? 
 
 No ; heaven forbid ! "Here, waiter, bring 
 
 Bright water unto me ; 
 My son will take what father takes, 
 
 My drink shall water be." 
 
 W. Eoyle. 
 
Selections. 309 
 
 THE LITTLE HERO. 
 
 From Liverpool 'cross the Atlantic, 
 
 The good ship floating o'er the deep, 
 The skies bright with sunshine above us, 
 
 The waters beneath us asleep ; 
 Not a bad-temper'd mariner 'mongst us, 
 
 A jollier crew never sail'd, 
 'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage. 
 
 But good seaman as ever was hail'd. 
 One day he comes up from below deck, 
 
 A-graspin' a lad by the arm, 
 A poor little ragged young urchin. 
 
 As ought to bin home with his marm. 
 An' the mate asks the boy pretty roughly 
 
 How he dared for to be stow'd away ? 
 A-eheating the owners and captain, 
 
 Sailin', eatin', and all without pay. 
 
 The lad had a face bright and sunny. 
 
 An' a pair of blue eyes like a girl's, 
 An' looks up at the scowling first mate, boys, 
 
 An' shakes back his long shining curls. 
 An' says he in a voice clear and pretty, 
 
 " My stepfather brought me a-board. 
 And hid me away down the stairs there. 
 
 For to keep me he could not afford. 
 And he told me the big ship would take me 
 
 To Halifax town, oh, so far ; 
 An' he said, ' Now the Lord is your Father, 
 
 Who lives where the good angels are ! ' " 
 " It's a lie," says the mate, — " Not your father. 
 
 But some o' these big skulkers here. 
 Some milk-hearted, soft-headed sailor, 
 
 Speak up ! tell the truth ! d'ye hear ? " 
 
310 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Then that pair o' blue eyes bright and winn'n', 
 
 Clear and shining with innocent youth, 
 Looks up at the mate's bushy eyebrows, 
 
 An' says he, " Sir, I've told you the truth ! " 
 Then the mate pull'd his watch from his pocket. 
 
 Just as if he'd bin drawing his knife, 
 " If in ten minutes more you don't tell, lad. 
 
 There's the rope ! and good-bye to dear life ! " 
 Eight minutes went by all in silence. 
 
 Says the mate then, " Speak, lad, say your say ! " 
 His eyes slowly filling with tear-drops, 
 
 He falteringly says, " May I pray ? " 
 An' the little chap kneels on the deck there, 
 
 An' his hands he clasps o'er his breast. 
 As he must ha' done often at home, lads. 
 
 At night time when going to rest. 
 
 And soft came the first words, " Our Father," 
 
 Low and clear from that dear baby-lip, 
 But low as they were, heard like trumpet 
 
 By each true man aboard o' the ship. 
 Every bit o' that pray'r then he goes through, 
 
 To " for ever and ever. A-men ! " 
 An' for all the bright gold in the Indies, 
 
 I wouldn't ha' heard him agen ! 
 Off his feet was the lad sudden lifted. 
 
 And clasp'd to the mate's rugged breast, 
 An' his husky voice muttered, " God bless you," 
 
 As his lips to his forehead he press'd. 
 " You believe me now ? " then said the youngster, 
 
 " Believe you ! " he kissed him once more, 
 " You'd have laid down 3'our life for the truth, lad ; 
 
 I believe you ! from now, ever-more." 
 
Selections. 311 
 
 WANTED. 
 
 The world wants men — light-hearted, manly men — 
 Men who shall join its chorus and prolong 
 The psalm of labour and the song of love. 
 
 The times wants scholars — scholars who shall shape 
 The doubtful destinies of dubious years, 
 And land the ark that bears our countr3'-'s good, 
 Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last. 
 
 The age wants heroes — heroes who shall dare 
 To struggle in the solid ranks of truth ; 
 To clutch the monster error by the throat ; 
 To bear opinion to a loftier seat ; 
 To blot the era of oppression out, 
 And lead a universal freedom in. 
 
 And heaven wants souls — fresh and capacious souls, 
 To taste its raptures, and expand like flowers 
 Beneath the glory of its central sun. 
 It wants fresh souls — not lean and shrivelled ones ; 
 It wants fresh souls, my brother — give it thine ! 
 
 If thou, indeed, wilt act as man should act ; 
 If thou, indeed, wilt be what scholars should ; 
 If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive 
 To help thy fellow and exalt thyself. 
 Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors, 
 Thy heart at last shall seem a thousand hearts. 
 Each single heart with myriad raptures filled — 
 While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings, 
 Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul. 
 
312 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 GOD, THE TRUE SOURCE OF CONSOLATION. 
 
 Thou, who driest the mourner's tear, 
 
 How dark this world would be. 
 If, when deceived and wounded here, 
 
 We could not fly to Thee ! 
 The friends who in our sunshine live. 
 
 When winter comes, are flown ; 
 And he who has but tears to give. 
 
 Must weep those tears alone. 
 But Thou wilt heal the broken heart, 
 
 Which, like the plants that throw 
 Their fragrance from the wounded part. 
 
 Breathes sweetness out of woe. 
 
 When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 
 
 And e'en the hope that threw 
 A moment's sparkle o'er our tears. 
 
 Is dimmed and vanished, too! 
 Oh ! who would bear life's stormy doom, 
 
 Did not Thy wing of love 
 Come brightly wafting through the gloom 
 
 Our peace-branch from above ! 
 Then, sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright 
 
 With more than rapture's ray, 
 As darkness shews us worlds of light. 
 
 We never saw by day. Moore. 
 
 SANTA CLAUS IN THE MINES. 
 
 In a small cabin in a Californian mining town, away up 
 amid the snow-clad, rock-bound peaks of the Sierra Nev- 
 ada Mountains, sat a woman, in widow's weeds, holding 
 upon her knee a bright-eyed, sunny-faced little girl, 
 about five years old, while a little cherub of a boy lay 
 
Selections. 313 
 
 upon a bear-skin before the open fireplace. It was 
 Christmas Eve, and the woman sat gazing abstractedly 
 into the fireplace. She was yet young, and as the glow- 
 ing flames lit up her sad face they invested it with a 
 wierd beauty. 
 
 Mary Stewart was the widow of Aleck Stewart, and 
 but two years before they had lived comfortably and 
 happy, in a camp on the American River. Aleck was a 
 brawny miner ; but the premature explosion of a blast in 
 an exploring tunnel had blotted out his life in an instant, 
 leaving his family without a protector, and in straitened 
 circumstances. His daily wages had been their sole sup- 
 port, and now that he was gone, what could they do ? 
 
 With her little family Mrs. Stewart had emigrated to 
 the camp in which we find them, and there she earned a 
 precarious livelihood by washing clothes for the miners. 
 Hers was a hard lot ; but the brave little woman toiled 
 on, cheered by the thought that her daily labours stood 
 between her darling little ones and the gaunt wolf of 
 starvation. 
 
 Jack Dawson, a strong, honest miner, was passing the 
 cabin this Christmas Eve, when the voice of the little 
 girl within attracted his attention. Jack possessed an 
 inordinate love for children, and although his manly 
 spirit would abhor the sneaking practice of eavesdrop- 
 ping, he could not resist the temptation to steal up to the 
 window just a moment to listen to the sweet, prattling 
 voice. The first words he caught were : 
 
 " Before papa died we always had Christmas, didn't 
 we, mamma ?" 
 
 " Yes, Totty, darling ; but papa earned money enough 
 to afibrd to make his little pets happy at least once a 
 vear. You must remember, Totty, that we are very 
 poor, and although mamma works very, very hard, she 
 can scarcely earn enough to supply us with food and 
 clothes," 
 
314 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Jack Dawson still lingered upon the outside. He 
 could not leave, although he felt ashamed of himself for 
 listening. 
 
 " We hung up our stockings last Christmas, didn't we, 
 mamma V continued the little girl. 
 
 " Yes, Totty ; but we were poor then, and Santa Glaus 
 never notices real poor people. He gave you a little 
 candy then, just because you were such good children." 
 
 '' Is we any poorer now, mamma ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, much poorer. He would never notice us at 
 all now." 
 
 Jack Dawson detected a tremor of sadness in the 
 widow's voice as she uttered the last words, and he 
 wiped a suspicious dampness from his eyes. 
 
 " Where's our clean stockings, mamma ? I'm going to 
 hang mine up anyhow ; maybe he will come like he did 
 before , just because we try to be good children," said 
 Totty. 
 
 " It will be no use, my darling, I am sure he will not 
 come," and tears gathered in the mother's eyes as she 
 thought of her empty purse. 
 
 " I don't care, I'm going to try, anyhow. Please get 
 one of my stockings, mamma." 
 
 Jack Dawson's generous heart swelled until it seemed 
 bursting from his bosom. He heard the patter of little 
 bare feet upon the cabin floor as Totty ran about hunting 
 hers and Benny's stockings, and after she had hung them 
 up, heard her sweet voice again as she wondered over and 
 over if Santa really would forget them. He heard the 
 mother, in a choking voice, tell her treasures to get ready 
 for bed ; heard them lisp their childish prayers, the little 
 girl concluding : " And, 0, Lord ! please tell good Santa 
 Glaus that we are very poor ; but that we love him as 
 much as rich children do, for dear Jesus' sake — Amen !" 
 
 After they were in bed, through a small rent in the 
 plain white curtain he saw the widow sitting before the 
 fire, her face buried in her hands, and weeping bitterly. 
 
Selections. 315 
 
 On a peg, just over the fire-place, hung two little 
 patched and faded stockings, and then he could stand it 
 no longer. He softly moved away from the window to 
 the rear of the cabin, where some objects fluttering in 
 the wind met his eye. Among these he searched until 
 he found a little blue stocking which he removed from the 
 line, folded tenderly, and placed in his overcoat pocket, 
 and then set out foi- the main street of the camp. He 
 entered Harry Hawk's gambling hall, the largest in the 
 place, where a host of miners and gamblers were at play. 
 Jack was well known in the camp, and when he got up on 
 a chair and called for attention, the hum of voices and 
 clicking of ivory checks suddenly ceased. Then in an 
 earnest voice he told what he had seen and heard, repeat- 
 ing every word of the conversation between the mother 
 and her children. In conclusion he said : 
 
 " Boys, I think I know you, every one of you, an' I know 
 jist what kind o' metal yer made of. I've an idee that 
 Santy Glaus knows jist whar thet cabin's sitiwated, an' 
 I've an idee he'll find it afore mornin'. Hyar's one of the 
 little gal's stock'n's thet I hooked ofF'n the line. The 
 daddy o' them little ones was a good, hard-working miner, 
 an' he crossed the range in the line o' duty, jist as any one 
 of us is liable to do in our dangerous business. Hyar goes 
 a twenty-dollar piece right down in the toe, and hyar I 
 lay the stockin' on this card table — ^now chip in much or 
 little, as ye kin afford." 
 
 Brocky Clark, a gambler, left the table, picked the little 
 stocking up carefully, looked at it tenderly, and when he 
 laid it down another twenty had gone into the toe to keep 
 company with the one placed there by Dawson. 
 
 Aiiother and another came up until the foot of the stock 
 ing was well filled, and then came the cry from the gamb- 
 ling table : 
 
 " Pass her around, Jack." 
 
 At the word he lifted it from the table and started 
 around the hall. Before he had circulated it at half a dozen 
 
316 The Canadian Elocutionist.^ 
 
 tables it showed signs of bursting beneath the weight of 
 gold and silver coin, and a strong coin bag, such as is used 
 for sending treasure by express, was procured, and the 
 stocking placed inside of it. The round of the large hall 
 was made, and in the meantime the story had spread all 
 over the camp. From the various saloons came messages 
 saying : 
 
 " Send the stockin' 'round the camp ; boys are a-waitin' 
 for it ! " 
 
 With a party at his heels. Jack went from saloon to 
 saloon. Games ceased and tipplers left the bax-s as they 
 entered each place, and miners, gamblers, speculators, 
 everybody, crowded up to tender their Christmas gift to 
 the miner's widow and orphans. Any one who has lived 
 in the far Western camps and is acquainted with the 
 generosity of Western men, will feel no surprise or doubt 
 my truthfulness, when I say that after the round had 
 been made, the little blue stocking and the heavy canvas 
 bag contained over eight thousand dollars in gold and 
 silver coin. 
 
 Horses were procured, and a party despatched to the 
 larger town down on the Consumnes, from which they re- 
 turned near daybreak with toys, clothing, provisions, etc., 
 in almost endless variet3^ Arranging their gifts in proper 
 shape, and securely tying the mouth of the bag of coin, the 
 party noiselessly repaired to the widow's humble cabin. 
 The bag was first laid on the steps, and other articles piled 
 up in a heap over it. On the top was laid the lid of a 
 large pasteboard box, on which was written with a piece 
 of charcoal : 
 
 " Santy Clause doesn't all ways Giv poor Folks The Cold 
 Shoulder in This camp." 
 
 Christmas day dawned bright and beautiful. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart arose, and a shade of pain crossed her hand- 
 some face as the empty little stockings caught her maternal 
 eye. She cast a hurried glance toward the bed where her 
 darlings lay sleeping, and whispered : 
 
 " God ! how dreadful is poverty!" 
 
Sdeotiotis. 317 
 
 She built a glowing fire, set about prepaiing the frugal 
 breakfast, and when it was almost ready she approached 
 the bed, kissed the little ones until they were wide awake, 
 and lifted them to the floor. With eager haste Totty ran 
 to the stockings, only to turn away sobbing as though 
 her heart would break. Tears blinded the mother, and 
 clasping her little girl to her heart, she said in a choking 
 voice : 
 
 " Never mind, my darling ; next Christmas I am sure 
 mamma will be richer, and then Santa Glaus will bring us 
 lots of nice things." 
 
 " mamma ! " 
 
 The exclamation came from little Benny, who had opened 
 the door and was standing gazing in amazement upon the 
 wealth of gifts there displayed. 
 
 Mrs. Stewart sprang to his side and looked in speechless 
 astonishment. She read the card, and then, causing her 
 little ones to kneel down with her in the open doorway, 
 she poured out her soul in a torrent of praise and thanks- 
 giving to God. 
 
 Jack Dawson's burly form moved from behind a tree a 
 short distance away, and sneaked off up the gulch, great 
 crystal tears chasing each other down his face. 
 
 The family arose from their knees, and began to move 
 the stores into the room. There were several sacks of 
 flour, hams, canned fruit, pounds and pounds of cofiee, tea 
 and sugar, new dress goods, and a handsome, warm woollen 
 shawl for the widow, shoes, stockings, hats, mittens, and 
 clothing for the children, a great big wax doll that could • 
 cry and move its eyes for Totty, and a beautiful red sled 
 for Benny. All were carried inside amidst alternate laughs 
 and tears. 
 
 " Bring in the sack of salt, Tottj', and that is all," said 
 the mother. " Is not God good to us ? " 
 
 " I can't lift it, mamma, it's frozen to the step ! " 
 
 The mother stooped and, took hold of it, and lifted harder 
 and harder, until she raised it from the step. Her cheek 
 
318 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 blanched as she noted its great weight, and breathlessly 
 she carried it in and laid it upon the breakfast table. 
 With trembling fingers she loosened the string and emptied 
 the contents upon the table. Gold and silver — more than 
 she had ever thought of in her wildest dreams of comfort, 
 and almost buried in the pile of treasure lay Totty's little 
 blue stocking. 
 
 We will not intrude longer upon such happiness ; but 
 leave the joyful family sounding praises to Heaven and 
 Santa Glaus. Anon. 
 
 A LEGEND OF BREGENZ. 
 
 Girt round with rugged mountains 
 
 The fair Lake Constance lies ; 
 In her blue heart reflected 
 
 Shine back the starry skies ; 
 And, watching each white cloudlet 
 
 Float silently and slow, 
 You think a piece of Heaven 
 
 Lies on our earth below ! 
 
 Midnight is there : and Silence, 
 
 Enthroned in Heaven, looks down 
 Upon her own calm mirror, 
 
 Upon a sleeping town : 
 For Bregenz, that quaint city 
 
 Upon the Tyrol shore. 
 Has stood above Lake Constance 
 
 A thousand years and more. 
 
 Her battlements and towers. 
 From ofl" their rocky steep, 
 
 Have cast their trembling shadow 
 For ages on the deep : 
 
Selections. 319 
 
 Mountain, and lake, and valley, 
 
 A sacred legend know, 
 Of how the town was saved, one night, 
 
 Three hundred years ago. 
 
 Far from her home and kindred, 
 
 A Tyrol maid had fled, 
 To serve in the Swiss valleys, 
 
 And toil for daily bread ; 
 And every year that fleeted 
 
 So silently and fast. 
 Seemed to bear farther from her 
 
 The memory of the Past. 
 
 She served kind, gentle masters. 
 
 Nor asked for rest or change ; 
 Her friends seemed no more new ones, 
 
 Their speech seemed no more strange 
 And when she led her cattle 
 
 To pasture every day, 
 She ceased to look and wonder 
 
 On which side Bregenz lay. 
 
 She spoke no more of Bregenz, 
 
 While longing and with tears ; 
 Her Tyrol home seemed faded 
 
 In a deep mist of years ; 
 She heeded not the rumours 
 
 Of Austrian war and strife ; 
 Each day she rose, contented. 
 
 To the calm toils of life. 
 
 Yet, when her master's children 
 Would clustering round her stand, 
 
 She sang them ancient ballads 
 Of her own native land ; 
 
320 The Ganadian ^tocutio7iist. 
 
 And when at morn and evening 
 She knelt before God's throne, 
 
 The accents of her childhood 
 Rose to her lips alone. 
 
 And so she dwelt : the valley 
 
 More peaceful year by year ; 
 When suddenly strange portents 
 
 Of some great deed seemed near. 
 The golden corn was bending 
 
 Upon its fragile stalk, 
 While farmers, heedless of their fields, 
 
 Paced up and down in talk. 
 
 The men seemed stern and altered — 
 
 With looks cast on the ground ; 
 With anxious faces, one by one, 
 
 The women gathered round ; 
 All talk of flax, or spinning. 
 
 Or work, was put away ; 
 The very children seemed afraid 
 
 To go alone to play. 
 
 One day, out in the meadow 
 
 With strangers from the town, 
 Some secret plan discussing. 
 
 The men wa,lked up and down. 
 Yet now and then seemed watching 
 
 A strange uncertain gleam. 
 That looked like lances 'mid the trees 
 
 That stood below the stream. 
 
 At eve they all assembled, 
 
 Then care and doubt were fled ; 
 
 With jovial laugh they feasted ; 
 The board was nobly spread. 
 
Selections. 321 
 
 The elder of the village 
 Rose up, his glass in hand, 
 
 And cried, " We drink the downfall 
 Of an accursed land ! 
 
 " The night is growing darker, 
 
 Ere one more day is flown, 
 Bregenz, our foemens' stronghold, 
 
 Bregenz shall be our own !" 
 The women shrank in terror 
 
 (Yet Pride, too, had her part), 
 But one poor Tyrol maiden 
 
 Felt death within her heart. 
 
 Before her stodd fair Bregenz ; 
 
 Once more her towers arose ; 
 What were the friends beside her ? 
 
 Only her country's foes ! 
 The faces of her kinsfolk. 
 
 The days of childhood flown, 
 The echoes of her mountains. 
 
 Reclaimed her as their own. 
 
 Nothing she heard around her 
 
 (Though shouts rang forth again), 
 Gone were the green Swiss valleys. 
 
 The pasture, and the plain ; 
 Before her eyes one vision. 
 
 And in her heart one cry. 
 That said, " Go forth, save Bregenz, 
 
 And then, if need be, die !" 
 
 With trembling haste, and breathless. 
 With noiseless step, she sped ; 
 
 Horses and weary cattle 
 Were standing in the shed ; 
 
322 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 She loosed the strong, white charger, 
 That fed from out her hand. 
 
 She mounted, and she turned his head 
 Toward her native land. 
 
 Out — out into the darkness — 
 
 Faster, and still more fast ; 
 The smooth grass flies behind her. 
 
 The chestnut wood is past ; 
 She looks up ; clouds are heavy ; 
 
 Why is her steed so slow ? 
 Scarcely the wind beside them 
 
 Can pass them as they go. 
 
 " Faster !" she cries, " faster !" 
 
 Eleven the church-bells chime : 
 " God," she cries, " help Bregenz, 
 
 And bring me there in time !" 
 But louder than bells' ringing. 
 
 Or lowing of the kine. 
 Grows nearer in the midnight 
 
 The rushing of the Rhine. 
 
 Shall not the roaring waters 
 
 Their headlong gallop check ? 
 The steed draws back in terror — 
 
 She leans upon his neck 
 To watch the flowing darkness ; 
 
 The bank is high and steep ; 
 One pause — he staggers forward. 
 
 And plunges in the deep. 
 
 She strives to pierce the blackness. 
 And looser throws the rein ; 
 
 Her steed must breast the waters 
 That dash above his mane, 
 
SelectioTis. 323 
 
 How gallantly, how nobly, 
 
 He struggles through the foam, 
 
 A.nd see — in the far distance 
 Shine out the lights of home ! 
 
 Up the steep bank he bears her, 
 
 And now, they rush again 
 Towards the heights of Bregenz, 
 
 That tower above the plain. 
 They reach the gate of Bregenz 
 
 Just as the midnight rings, 
 And out come serf and soldier 
 
 To meet the news she brings. 
 
 Bregenz is saved ! Ere daylight 
 
 Her battlements are manned ; 
 Defiance greets the army 
 
 That marches on the land. 
 And if to deeds heroic 
 
 Should endless fame be paid, 
 Bregenz does well to honour 
 
 That noble Tyrol maid. 
 
 Three hundred years are vanished, 
 
 And yet upon the hill 
 An old stone gateway rises. 
 
 To do her honour still. 
 And there, when Bregenz women 
 
 Sit spinning in the shade. 
 They see in quaint old carving 
 
 The Charger and the Maid. 
 
 And when, to guard old Bregenz, 
 By gateway, street, and tower, 
 
 Thewarder paces all night long 
 And calls each passing hour : 
 
324 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 " Nine," " ten," " eleven,'' he cries aloud, 
 
 And then (0 crown of Fame !) 
 When midnight pauses in the skies, 
 
 He calls the maiden's name ! 
 
 Adelaide A. Procter. 
 
 A TARRYTOWN ROMANCE. 
 
 'Twas in ye pleasant olden time, 
 
 Oh ! many years ago. 
 When husking bees and singing-schools 
 
 Were all the fun, you know. 
 
 The singing-school in Tarrytown, 
 
 A quaint old town in Maine — 
 Was wisely taught and grandly led 
 
 By a young man named Paine. 
 
 A gallant gentleman was Paine, 
 
 Who liked the lasses well ; 
 But best he liked Miss Patience White, 
 
 As all his school could tell. 
 
 One night the singing-school had met ; 
 
 Young Paine, all carelessly, 
 Had turned the leaves and said : " We'll sing 
 
 On page one-seventy." 
 
 " ' See gentle patience smile on pain.' " 
 
 On Paine they all then smiled. 
 But not so gently as they might ; 
 
 And he, confused and wild, 
 
 Searched quickly for another place, 
 
 As quickly gave it out ; 
 The merriment, suppressed before. 
 
 Rose now into a shout. 
 
Selections. 325 
 
 These were the words that met his eyes 
 
 (He sank down with a groan) ; 
 " Oh ! give me grief for others' woes, 
 
 And patience for my own ! " 
 
 Good Cheer. 
 
 THE BISHOP'S VISIT. 
 
 Tell you about it ? Of course, I will ! 
 
 I thought 'twould be dreadful to have him come, 
 For Mamma said I must be quiet and still, 
 
 And she put away my whistle and drum — 
 
 And made me unharness the parlour chairs. 
 And packed my cannon and all the rest 
 
 Of my noisiest playthings off up stairs, 
 
 On account of this very distinguished guest. 
 
 Then every room was turned upside down, 
 And all the carpets hung out to blow ; 
 
 For when the Bishop is coming to town, 
 The house must be in order you know. 
 
 So out in the kitchen I made my lair, 
 And started a game of hide-and-seek ; 
 
 But Bridget refused to have me there. 
 
 For the Bishop was coming — to stay a week — 
 
 And she must make cookies and cakes and pies. 
 And fill every closet and platter and pan, 
 
 Till I thought this Bishop so great and wise. 
 Must be an awfully hungry man. 
 
 Well, at last he came ; and I do declare, 
 Dear grandpapa, he looked just like you. 
 
 With his gentle voice and his silvery hair, 
 And eyes with a smile a-shining through. 
 
326 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 And whenever he read, or talked, or prayed, 
 
 I understood every single word ; 
 And I wasn't the leastest bit afraid, 
 
 Though I never once spoke or stirred ; 
 
 Till, all of a suden, he laughed right out 
 
 To see me sit quietly listening so ; 
 And began to tell us stories about 
 
 Some queer little fellows in Mexico. 
 
 All about Egypt and Spain — and then 
 He wasn't disturbed by a little noise. 
 
 But said that the greatest and best of men 
 Once were rollicking, healthy boys. 
 
 And he thinks it no great matter at all ■ 
 If a little boy runs and jumps and climbs ; 
 
 Ajid Mamma should be willing to let me crawl 
 Through the bannister-rails, in the hall, sometimes. 
 
 And Bridget, she made a great mistake, 
 In stirring up such a bother, you see. 
 
 For the Bishop — he didn't care for cake. 
 And really liked to play games with me. 
 
 But though he's so honoured in words and act — 
 (Stoop down, for this is a secret now) — 
 
 He couldn't spell Boston ! That's a fact ! 
 But whispered to me to tell him how. 
 
 Emily Huntington Miller. 
 
 HANNAH BINDING SHOES. 
 
 Poor lone Hannah, 
 Sitting at the window, binding shoes ! 
 
 Faded, wrinkled, 
 Sitiing, stitching, in a mournful muse. 
 
Selections. 327 
 
 Bright-eyed beauty once was she, 
 When the bloom was on the tree; — 
 Spring and winter, 
 Hannah's at the windo(y, binding shoes. 
 
 Not a neighbour 
 Passing, nod or answer will refuse 
 
 To her whisper, 
 " Is there from the fishers any news ?" 
 Oh, her heart's adrift with one 
 On an endless voyage gone ; — 
 Night and morning, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Fair young Hannah, 
 Ben the sunburnt fisher, gaily woos ; 
 
 Hale and clever, 
 For a willing heart and hand he sues 
 May-day skies are all aglow. 
 And the waves are laughing so I 
 For her wedding 
 Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. 
 
 May is passing ; 
 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos ; 
 
 Hannah shudders, 
 For the wild south-wester mischief brews. 
 Round the rocks of Marblehead, 
 Outward bound a schooner sped ; 
 Silent, lonesome, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 'Tis November : 
 Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, 
 
 From Newfoundland 
 Not a sail returning will she lose, 
 
32S The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Whispering hoarsely : " Fishermen, 
 Have you, have you heard of Ben ?" 
 Old with watching, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Twentys winters 
 Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views. 
 
 Twenty seasons ! 
 Never one has brought her any news. 
 Still her dim eyes silently 
 Chase the white sails o'er the sea ; — 
 Hopeless, faithful, 
 Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. 
 
 Lucy Larcom. 
 
 BELLS ACROSS THE SNOW. 
 
 O Christmas, merry Christmas ! 
 
 Is it really come again ? 
 With its memories and greetings, 
 
 With its joy and with its pain 
 There's a minor in the carol, 
 
 And a shadow in the light, 
 And a spray of cypress twining 
 
 With the holly wreath to-night. 
 And the hush is never broken, 
 
 By the laughter light and low, 
 As we listen in the starlight 
 
 To the bells across the snow ! 
 
 Christmas, merry Christmas ! 
 
 'Tis not so very long 
 Since other voices blended 
 
 With the carol and the sonof ! 
 If we could but hear them singing. 
 
 As they are singing now, 
 If we could but see the radiance 
 
 Of the crown on each dear brow : 
 
Selections. 329 
 
 There would be no sigh to smother, 
 
 No hidden tear to flow, 
 As we listen in the starlight 
 
 To the bells across the snow ! 
 
 Christmas, merry Christinas ! 
 
 This never more can be ; 
 We cannot bring again the days 
 
 Of our unshadowed glee. 
 But Christmas, happy Christmas ! 
 
 Sweet herald of good-will. 
 With holy songs of glory 
 
 Brings holy gladness still. 
 For peace and hope may brighten. 
 
 And patient love may glow, 
 As we listen in the starlight 
 
 To the bells across the snow ! 
 
 Frances Ridley If aver gal. 
 
 A MODEST WIT. 
 
 A supercilious nabob of the East — 
 
 Haughty, being great — purse-proud, being rich- 
 A governor, or general, at the least, 
 
 I have forgotton which — 
 Had in his family a humble youth, 
 
 Who went from England in his patron's suite, 
 An unassuming boy, and in truth 
 
 A lad of decent parts, and good repute. 
 
 This youth had sense and spirit ; 
 But yet, with all his sense. 
 Excessive diffidence 
 Obscured his merit. 
 
330 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, 
 
 His honour, proudly free, severely merry. 
 Conceived it would be vastly fine 
 To crack a joke upon his secretary. 
 
 " Young man," he said, " by what art, craft, or trade, 
 Did your good father gain a livelihood ? " 
 
 " He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, 
 " And in his time was reckon'd good." 
 
 " A saddler, eh ! and taught you Greek, 
 
 Instead of teaching you to sew ! 
 Pray, why did not your father make 
 
 A saddler, sir, of you ? " 
 
 Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, 
 
 The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. 
 
 At length Modestus, bowing low. 
 Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), 
 
 " Sir, by your leave, I fain would know 
 Your father's trade ! " 
 
 " My father's trade ! by heaven, that's too bad ! 
 My father's trade ? Why, blockhead, are you mad ? 
 My father, sir, did never stoop so low — 
 He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." 
 
 " Excuse the liberty I take," 
 
 Modestus said, with archness on his brow, 
 " Pray, why did not your father make 
 
 A gentleman of you ? " 
 
 " NAY, I'LL STAY WITH THE LAD." 
 
 Six hundred souls one summer's day, 
 Worked in the deep, dark Hutton seams ; 
 
 Men were hewing the coal away. 
 
 Boys were guiding the loaded teams. 
 
Selections. 331 
 
 Horror of darkness was everywhere ; 
 
 It was coal above, and coal below, 
 Only the miner's guarded lamp 
 
 Made in the gloom a passing glow. 
 
 Down in the deep, black Hutton seams 
 
 There came a flowery, balmy breath ; 
 Men dropped their tools, and left their teams, 
 
 They knew the balmy air meant death, 
 And fled before the earthquake shock. 
 
 The cruel fire-damp's fatal course, 
 That tore apart the roof and walls. 
 
 And buried by fifties, man and horse. 
 
 " The shaft ! the shaft ! " they wildly cried ; 
 
 And as they ran they passed a cave. 
 Where stood a father by his son — 
 
 The child had found a living grave. 
 And lay among the shattered coal, 
 
 His little life had almost sped. 
 " Fly ! fly ! For there may yet be time ! " 
 
 The father calmly, firmly said : 
 " Nay ; I'll stay with the lad." 
 
 He had no hurt ; he yet might reach 
 
 The blessed sun and light again. 
 But at his feet his child lay bound. 
 
 And every hope of help was vain. 
 He let deliverance pass him by ; 
 
 He stooped and kissed the little face ; 
 " I will not leave thee by thyself, 
 
 Ah ! lad ; this is thy father's place." 
 
 So Self before sweet Love lay slain. 
 
 In the deep mine again was told 
 The story of a father's love. 
 
 Older than mortal man is old ; 
 
332 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 For though they urged him o'er and o'er, 
 
 To every prayer he only had 
 The answer he had found at first, 
 
 " Nay ; I'll stay with the lad." 
 
 And when some weary days had passed. 
 
 And men durst venture near the place, 
 They lay where Death had found them both. 
 
 But hand in hand, and face to face. 
 And men were better for that sight. 
 
 And told the tale with tearful breath ; 
 There was not one but inly felt, 
 
 The man had died a noble death, 
 And left this thought for all to keep — 
 
 If earthly fathers can so love. 
 Ah, surely, we may safely lean 
 
 Upon the Fatherhood above ! 
 
 Lillie E. Barr. 
 
 MARY MALONEY'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 " What are you singing for ? " said I to Mary Maloney. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, ma'am, without it's because my heart 
 feels happy." 
 
 " Happy are you, Mary Maloney ? Let me see ; you 
 don't own a foot of land in the world ? " 
 
 " Foot of land, is it ? " she cried, with a hearty Irish 
 laugh ; " oh, what a hand ye be after joking ; why I 
 haven't a penny, let alone the land." 
 
 " Your mother is dead ! " 
 
 " God rest her soul, yes," replied Mary Maloney, with a 
 touch of genuine pathos ; " may the angels make her bed 
 in heaven." 
 
 " Your brother is still a hard case, I suppose." 
 
 " Ah, you may well say that. It's nothing but drink, 
 
Selections. 333 
 
 drink, drink, and beating his poor wife, that she is, the 
 creature." 
 
 You have to pay your little sister's board." 
 
 " Sure, the bit creature, and she's a good little girl, is 
 Hinny, willing to do whatever I axes her. I don't grudge 
 the money what goes for that." 
 
 " You haven't many fashionable dresses, either, Mary 
 Maloney." 
 
 " Fashionable, is it ? Oh, yes, I put a piece of whale- 
 bone in m}'^ skirt, and me calico gown looks as big as the 
 great ladies. But then ye says true, I hasn't but two 
 gowns to me back, two shoes, to me feet, and one bonnet 
 to me head, barring the old hood you gave me." 
 
 " You haven't any lover, Mary Maloney." 
 
 " Oh, be off wid ye — ketch Mary Maloney getting a 
 lover these days, when the hard times is come. No, no, 
 thank Heaven I haven't got that to trouble me yet, nor I 
 don't want it." 
 
 " What on earth, then, have you got to make you happy ? 
 A drunken brother, a poor helpless sister, no mother, no 
 father, no lover ; why, where do you get all your happi- 
 ness from ? " 
 
 " The Lord be praised, Miss, it growed up in me. Give 
 me a bit of sunshine, a clean flure, plenty of work, and a 
 sup at the right time, and I'm made. That makes me 
 laugh and sing, and then if deep trouble comes, why, God 
 helpin' me, I'll try to keep my heart up. Sure, it would 
 be a sad thing if Patrick McGrue should take it into his 
 head to come an ax me, but, the Lord willin', I'd try to 
 bear up under it." Philadelphia Bulletin. 
 
 THE POLISH BOY. 
 
 Whence came those shrieks, so wild and shrill. 
 That like an arrow cleave the air. 
 
 Causing the blood to creep and thrill 
 With such sharp cadence of despair ? 
 
3 3 4 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Once more they come ! as if a heart 
 Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, 
 
 And every string had voice apart 
 To utter its peculiar woe ! 
 
 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. 
 The dim funereal tapers throw 
 
 A holy lustre o'er his brow. 
 And burnish with their rays 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. 
 
 They leave the pavement. Flowers that spread 
 
 Their beauties by the path they tread 
 
 Are crushed and broken. Crimson hands 
 
 Rend brutally their blooming bands. 
 
 Now whispered curses, low and deep, 
 
 Around the holy temple creep. 
 
Selections. 335 
 
 The gate is burst. A ruffian band 
 Rush 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 the 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. 
 
 I cheered my lord to join the band 
 
 Of those who swore to free our land. 
 
 Or fighting, die ; and when he pressed 
 
 Me for the last time to his breast, 
 
 I knew that soon his form would be 
 
 Low as it is, or Poland free. 
 
 He went and grappled with the foe, 
 
 Laid many a haughty Russian low ; 
 
 But he is dead— the good — the, brave — 
 
 And I, his wife, am worse — a slave ! 
 
 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 ; 
 Can land or gold redeem my son ? 
 
386 ) The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 If so, I bend my Polish knee. 
 
 And, Russia, ask a boon of thee. 
 
 Take palaces, take lands, 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 star-light there ; 
 
 Unclasped the brilliant coronal 
 
 And carcanet of orient pearl ; 
 
 Her cross of blazing rubies last 
 
 Down to the Russian's feet she cast. 
 
 He stooped to seize the glittering store ; 
 Upspringing 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 mother's agony. 
 
 But the brave child 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. 
 
 Proudly he towers, his flashing eye. 
 
 So blue and fiercely bright, 
 
 Seems lighted from the eternal sky, 
 
 So brilliant is its light. 
 
 His curling lips and crimson cheeks 
 
 Foretell the thought before he speaks. 
 
 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. 
 
Selections. 33^ 
 
 The world shall witness that one soul 
 Fears not to prove itself a Pole. 
 
 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 now 
 
 My noble mother on her knee, 
 
 Has done the work of years for me. 
 
 Although in this small tenement 
 
 My soul is cramped — unbowed, unbent, 
 
 I've still within me ample power 
 
 To free myself this very hour. 
 
 This dagger in my heart ! and then. 
 
 Where is your boasted power, base men ?" 
 
 He drew aside his broidered vest, 
 
 And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, 
 
 The jewelled haft of a poinard bright, 
 
 Glittered a moment on the sight. 
 
 "Ha! start ye back? Fool! coward! knave! 
 
 Think ye my noble father's glaive. 
 
 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 thy tyrant's chain, 
 
 And fling him back a boy's disdain !" 
 
 A moment, and the funeral light 
 Flashed on the jewelled 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 : 
 
338 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 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 have done, 
 No look ! No word ! Canst thou not feel 
 My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ? 
 Speak, mother, speak — lift up thy head. 
 What, silent still ? Then thou art 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. 
 
 Mrs. Anil S. Stephens. 
 
 THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEMORY DEAR. 
 
 Sweetheart, good-bye ! the flutt'ring sail 
 
 Is spread to waft me far from thee, 
 Ani 1 soon before the favouring gale 
 
 My ship shall bound upon the sea. 
 Perchance, all desolate and forlorn. 
 
 These eyes shall miss thee many a year ; 
 But unforgotten every charm — 
 
 Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 
 
 Sweetheart, good-bye ! one last embrace ; 
 
 0, cruel fate, two souls to sever ! 
 Yet in this heart's most sacred place 
 
 Thou, thou alone shalt dwell forever ; 
 And still shall recollection trace 
 
 In fancy's mirror, ever near, 
 Each smile, each tear — that form, that face — 
 
 Though lost to sight, to memory dear. 
 
 Ruthven Jenkyns. 
 
Selections. 339 
 
 THE AGUE. 
 
 Once upon an evening bleary, 
 While I sat me dreaming, dreary, 
 In the parlour thinking o'er 
 
 Things that passed in days of yore, 
 While I nodded, nearly sleeping, 
 Gently came something creeping. 
 
 Creeping upward from the floor. 
 " 'Tis a cooling breeze," I muttered, 
 
 " From the regions 'neath the floor : 
 
 Only this and nothing more." 
 
 Ah ! distinctly I remember — 
 It was in that wet September, 
 When the earth and every member 
 
 Of creation that it bore, 
 Had for weeks and months been soaking 
 In the meanest, most provoking, 
 Foggy rain, that without joking, 
 
 We had ever seen before. 
 So I knew it must be very 
 
 Cold and damp beneath the floor. 
 
 Very cold beneath the floor. 
 
 So I sat me, nearly napping, 
 
 In the sunshine, stretching, gaping. 
 
 With a- feeling quite delighted 
 
 With the breezes 'neath the floor. 
 Till I felt me growing colder. 
 And the stretching waxing bolder, 
 And myself now feeling older. 
 
 Older than I felt before ; 
 Feeling that my joints were stiff er 
 
 Than they were in days of yore, 
 
 Stifier than they'd been before. 
 
340 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 All along my back, the creeping 
 Soon gave place to rustling, leaping, 
 As if countless frozen demons 
 
 Had concluded to explore 
 All the cavities — ^the varmints ! — 
 'Twixt me and my nether garments, 
 
 Through my boots into the floor : 
 Then I found myself a shaking, 
 
 Gently shaking more and more, 
 
 Every moment more and more. 
 
 'Twas the ague ; and it shook me 
 Into heavy clothes, and took me 
 Shaking to the kitchen, every 
 
 Place where there was warmth in store, 
 Shaking till the china rattled. 
 Shaking till the morals battled ; 
 Shaking, and with all my warming, 
 
 Feeling colder than before ; 
 Shaking till it had exhausted 
 
 All its powers to shake me more. 
 
 Till it could not shake me more. 
 
 Then it rested till the morrow, 
 When it came with all the horror 
 That it had the face to borrow. 
 
 Shaking, shaking as before. 
 And from that day in September — 
 Day which I shall long remember — 
 It has made diurnal visits. 
 
 Shaking, shaking, oh ! so sore. 
 Shaking off my boots, and shaking 
 
 Me to bed if nothing more. 
 
 Fully this if nothing more. 
 
 And to-day the swallows flitting 
 Bound my cottage see me sitting 
 
Selections. 341 
 
 Moodily within the sunshine 
 Just inside my silent door. 
 Waiting for the ague, seeming 
 Like a man forever dreaming, 
 And the sunlight on me streaming, 
 
 Casts no shadow on the floor, 
 For I am too thin and sallow 
 To make shadows on the floor. 
 Never a shadow any more. 
 
 THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH. 
 
 Well, wife, I've found the model church ! I worshipped 
 
 there to-day ! 
 It made me think of good old times before my hairs were 
 
 gray ; 
 The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were 
 
 years ago. 
 But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. 
 
 The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door ; 
 
 He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor ; 
 
 He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly 
 
 through 
 The long aisle of that crowded chui'ch to find a pleasant 
 
 pew. 
 
 I wish you'd heard the aingin' ; it had the old-time ring ; 
 The preacher said, with trumpet voice : " Let all the 
 
 people sing ! " 
 The tune was " Coronation," and the music upward rolled. 
 Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps 
 
 of gold, 
 
342 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 My deafness seemed to melt away ; my spirit caught the 
 
 fire ; 
 I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious 
 
 choir, 
 And sang as in my youthful days : " Let angels prostrate 
 
 fall ; 
 Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown Him Lord of all." 
 
 I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once 
 
 more ; 
 I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of 
 
 shore ; 
 I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form. 
 And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm. 
 
 The prech'en ? Well, I can't just tell all that the preach- 
 er said ; 
 I know it wasn't written ; I know it wasn't read ; 
 He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye 
 Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner 
 
 by. 
 
 The sermon wasn't flowery ; 'twas simple gospel truth ; 
 It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth ; 
 'Twas full of consolation, for weary hearts that bleed ; 
 'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed. 
 
 How swift the golden moments fled, within that holy 
 
 place ; 
 How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every 
 
 happy face ; 
 Afifain I longed for that sweet time, when friend shall 
 
 meet with friend, 
 " When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no 
 
 end." 
 
 I hope to meet that minister — that congregation, too— 
 In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from 
 heaven's blue : 
 
Selections. 34S 
 
 I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, 
 The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day. 
 
 Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought — the victory soon 
 
 be won ; 
 The shinin' goal is just ahead ; the race is nearly run ; 
 O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the 
 
 shore. 
 To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. 
 
 John H. Yates. 
 
 THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD. 
 
 I'm thinking that to-night, if not before, 
 There'll be wild work. Dost hear old Ohewton roar. 
 It's brewmg up, down westward ; and look there ! 
 One of those sea-gulls ! ay, there goes a pair ; 
 And such a sudden thaw ! If rain comes on 
 As threats, the water will be out anon. 
 That path by the ford is a nasty bit of way, 
 Best let the young ones bide from school to-day. 
 
 The children join in this request; but the mother 
 resolves that they shall set out — the two girls, Lizzie and 
 Jenny, the one five, the. other seven. As the dame's will 
 was law, so — 
 
 One last fond kiss — 
 
 " God bless my little maids," the father said. 
 
 And cheerily went his way to win their bread. 
 
 Prepared for their journey they depart, with the 
 mother's admonition to the elder — 
 
 " Now mind and bring 
 
 Jenny safe home," the mother said. " Don't stay 
 
 To pull a bough or berry by the way ; 
 
 And when you come to cross the ford hold fast 
 
 Your little sister's hand til) you're quite past ; 
 
344 The Canadian Elocutionht 
 
 That plank is so crazy, and so slippery 
 
 If not overflowed the stepping stones will be ; 
 
 But you're good children — steady as old folk, 
 
 I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzie's cloak 
 
 (A good gray dufile) lovingly she tied, 
 
 And amply little Jenny's lack supplied 
 
 With her own warmest shawl. " Be sure," said she, 
 
 " To wrap it round, and knot it carefully, 
 
 (Like this) when you come home — just leaving free 
 
 One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away — 
 
 Good will to school, and then good right to play." 
 
 The mother watches them with foreboding, though she 
 knows not why. In a little while the threatened storm 
 sets in. Night comies, and with it comes the father from 
 his daily toil. — There's a treasure hidden in his hat — 
 
 A plaything for the young ones he has found — 
 
 A dormouse nest ; the living ball coil'd round 
 
 For its long winter sleep ; all his thought 
 
 As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught 
 
 But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes. 
 
 And graver Lizzie's quieter surprise. 
 
 When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, 
 
 Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. 
 
 No little faces greet him as wont at the threshold ; and 
 to his hurried question — 
 
 " Are they come ? " — t'was, " No," 
 
 To throw his tools down, hastily unhook 
 
 The old crack'd lantern from its dusky nook 
 
 And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word 
 
 That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, — 
 
 Was but a moment's act, and he was gone 
 
 To where a fearful foresight led him on. 
 
 A neighbour goes with him, and the faithful dog fol- 
 lows the children's tracks. 
 
Selections. S45 
 
 " Hold the light 
 
 Low down, he's making for the water. Hark ! 
 
 I know that whine ; the old dog's found them, Mark ; " 
 
 So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on 
 
 Toward the old crazy foot bridge. It was gone ! 
 
 And all his dull contracted light could show 
 
 Was the black void, and dark swollen stream below ; 
 
 " Yet there's life somewhere — more than Tinker's whine — 
 
 That's sure," said Mark, " So, let the lantern shine 
 
 Down yonder. There's the dog and — hark ! " 
 
 "Odear!" 
 
 And a low sob came faintly on the ear. 
 
 Mocked by the sobbing gxist. Down, quick as thought, 
 
 Into the stream leaped Ambrose, where he caught 
 
 Fast hold of something — a dark huddled heap — 
 
 Half in the water, where 'twas scarce knee deep 
 
 For a tall man : and half above it propped 
 
 By some old ragged side piles that had stop't 
 
 Endways the broken plank when it gave way 
 
 With the two little ones, that luckless day ! 
 
 " My babes ! my lambkins 1 " was the father's cry. 
 
 One little voice made answer, " Here am I ; " 
 
 'Twas Lizzie's. There she crouched with face as white, 
 
 More ghastly, by the flickering lantern light. 
 
 Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight. 
 
 Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, 
 
 And eyes on some dark object underneath. 
 
 Washed by the turbid waters, fix'd like stone — 
 
 One aim and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, 
 
 Grasping, as in the death-grip, Jenny's frock. 
 
 There she lay, drown'd. 
 
 They lifted her from out her watery bed — 
 
 Its covering gone, the lovely little head 
 
 Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside. 
 
 And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied 
 
 Leaving that free about the child's small form. 
 
 As was her last injunction — " fast and warm," 
 
346 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Too well obeyed — too fast! A fatal. hold, 
 Affording to the scrag, by a thick fold 
 That caught and pinned her to the river's bed. 
 While through the reckless water overhead, 
 Her life breath bubbled up. 
 " She might have lived. 
 
 Struggling like Lizzie," was the thought that rived 
 The wretched mother's heart when she heard all, 
 " But for my foolishness about that shawl." 
 "Who says I forgot ? 
 Mother ' indeed, indeed I kept fast hold. 
 And tied the shawl quite close — she 
 Can't be cold — 
 
 But she won't move — we slept — I don't know how — 
 But T held on, and I'm so weary now — 
 And its so dark and cold ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! 
 And she won't move — if father were but here ! " 
 All night long from side to side she turn'd, 
 Piteously plaining like a wounded dove. 
 With now and then the murmur, " She won't move," 
 And lo ! when morning, as in mockery, bright 
 Shone on that pillow — passing strange the sight, 
 The young head's raven hair was streaked with white ! 
 
 Mrs. Southey. 
 
 SCENE AT NIAGARA FALLS. 
 
 It is summer. A party of visitors are just crossing the 
 iron bridge that extends from the American shore to 
 Goat's Island, about a quarter of a mile above the Falls. 
 Just as they are about to leave, while watching the 
 stream as it plunges and dashes among the rocks below, 
 the eye of one fastens on something clinging to a rock, 
 caught on the very verge of the i'alls. Scarcely willing 
 to believe his own vision, he directs the attention of his 
 companions. The terrible news spreads like lightning, 
 
Selections. 847 
 
 and in a few minutes the bridge and the surrounding shore 
 are covered with thousands of spectators. " Who is he ?" 
 "How did he get there?" are questions every person 
 proposed, but answered by none. No voice is heard above 
 the awful flood, but a spy-glass shows frequent efforts to 
 speak to the gathering multitude. Such silent appeals 
 exceed the eloquence of words; they ai'e irresistible, and 
 something must be done. A small boat is soon upon the 
 bridge, and with a rope attached sets out upon its fearless 
 voyage, but is instantly sunk. Another and another are 
 tried, but they are all swallowed up by the angry waters. 
 A large one might possibly survive ; but none is at hand. 
 Away to Buffalo a car is despatched, and never did the 
 iron horse thunder along its steel-bound track qn such a 
 godlike mission. Soon the most competent life-boat is 
 upon the spot. All eyes are fixed upon the object, as 
 trembling and tossing amid the boiling white waves it 
 survives the roughest waters. One breaker past and it 
 will have reached the object of its mission. But being 
 partly filled with water and striking a sunken rock, that 
 next wave sends it hurling to the bottom. An involun- 
 tary groan passes through the dense multitude, and hope 
 scarcely nestles in a single bosom. The sun goes down 
 in gloom, and as darkness comes on and the crowd begins 
 to scatter, methinks the angels looking over the battle- 
 ments on high drop a tear of pity on the scene. The 
 silvery stars shine dimly through their curtain of blue. 
 The multitude are gone, and the sufferer is left with his 
 God. Long before morning he must be swept over that 
 dreadful abyss ; he clings to that rock with all the ten- 
 acity of despair, and as he surveys the horrors of his 
 position strange visions in the air come looming up be- 
 fore him. He sees his home, his wife and children there ; 
 he sees the home of his childhood ; he sees that mother 
 as she used to soothe his childish fears upon her breast ; 
 he sees a watery grave, and then the vision closes in tears.. 
 In imagination he hears the hideous yells of demons, and 
 mingled prayers and curses die upon his lips. 
 
S48 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 No sooner does morning dawn than the multitude again 
 rush to the scene of horror, Soon a shout is heard : he 
 is there ; he is still alive. Just now a carriage arrives 
 upon the bridge, and a woman leaps from it and rushes 
 to the most favourable point of observation. She had 
 driven from Chippewa, three miles above the Falls ; her 
 husband had crossed the river night before last, and had 
 not returned, and she fears he may be clinging to that 
 rock. All eyes are turned for a moment toward the anx- 
 ious woman, and no sooner is a glass handed to her fixed 
 upon the object than she shrieks, " Oh, my husband ! " 
 and sinks senseless to the earth. The excitement, before 
 intense, seems now almost unendurable, and something 
 must again be tried. A small raft is constructed, and, to 
 the surprise of all, swings up beside the rock to which the 
 sufferer had clung for the last forty-eight hours. He in- 
 stantly throws himself full length upon it. Thousands 
 are pulling at the end of the rope, and with skillful man- 
 agement a few rods aie gained toward the nearest shore. 
 What tongue can tell, what pencil can paint, the anxiety 
 with which that little bark is watched as, trembling and 
 tossing amid the roughest waters, it nears that rock-bound 
 coast ? Save Niagara's eternal roar, all is silent as the 
 grave. His wife sees it and is only restrained by force 
 from rushing into the river. Hope instantly springs into 
 every bosom, but it is only to sink into deeper gloom. 
 The angel of death has spread his wings over that little 
 bark ; the poor man's strength is almost gone ; each wave 
 lessens his grasp more and more, but all will be safe if 
 that nearest wave is past. But that next surging billow 
 breaks his hold upon the pitching timbers, the next mo- 
 ment hurling him to the awful verge, where, with body 
 erect, hands clenched, and eyes that are taking their last 
 look of earth, he shrieks, above Niagara's eternal roar, 
 "Lost!" and sinks forever from the gaze of man. 
 
 Charles Tarson. 
 
Selections. S49 
 
 " CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT." 
 
 Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far 
 away, 
 
 Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad 
 day, 
 
 And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and 
 maiden fair, — 
 
 He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, float- 
 ing hair ; 
 
 He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips 
 all 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 turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, 
 
 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 lips grew 
 
 strangely white 
 As she breathed the husky whisper, — 
 
 " Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 
 " Bessie," calmly ' spoke the sexton, every word pierced 
 
 her young heart 
 Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly, poisoned 
 
 dart. 
 " Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, 
 
 shadowed tower ; 
 Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight 
 
 hour; 
 
850 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, 
 Now I'm old I still must do it, 
 
 Curfew it must ring to-night." 
 
 Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her 
 
 thoughtful brow, 
 And within her secret bosom 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 — 
 In an undertone she murmured,- — 
 
 " Curfew must not ring to-night." 
 
 She with quick steps bounded forward, sprung within the 
 
 old church door. 
 Left the old man treading slowly paths so oft he'd trod 
 
 before ; 
 Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and 
 
 cheek aglow. 
 Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to 
 
 and fro; 
 And she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray 
 
 of light, 
 Up and up — her white lips saying — 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
 She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the 
 
 great dark bell ; 
 Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to 
 
 hell. 
 Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of 
 
 curfew now. 
 And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, 
 
 and paled her brow. 
 
Selections. SSI 
 
 Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! Flash her eyes with 
 
 sudden light, 
 And she springs and grasps it firmly — 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
 Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light 
 
 below, 
 'Twixt heaven and earth her form suspended, as the bell 
 
 swung to and fro. 
 And the sexton at the bell rope, old and deaf, beard not 
 
 the bell, 
 But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's 
 
 funeral knell. 
 Still the maiden clung most firmly, and with trembling 
 
 lips and white. 
 Said to hush her heart's wild beating, — 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
 
 It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden 
 
 stepped once more 
 Firmly on the dark old ladder, where for hundred years 
 
 before. 
 Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that 
 
 she had done 
 Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun 
 Should illume the sky with beauty; aged sires with 
 
 heads of white, 
 Long should tell the little children, 
 
 Curfew did not ring that night. 
 
 O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie sees him' 
 
 and her brow. 
 Full of hope and full of gladness, has no anxious traces 
 
 now. 
 At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised 
 
 and torn ; 
 And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale 
 
 and worn, 
 
o52 The Canadian Elocutionisi. 
 
 Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eye with 
 
 misty light : 
 " Go, your lover lives," said Cromwell, 
 
 " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " 
 
 GERTRUDE OF WYOMING. 
 
 Here were not mingled, in the city's pomp, 
 
 Of life's extremes the grandeur and the gloom ; 
 Judgment awoke not here her dismal trump, 
 
 Nor sealed in blood a fellow-creature's doom ; 
 
 Nor mourned the captive in a living tomb. 
 One venerable man, beloved of all. 
 
 Sufficed, where innocence was yet in bloom. 
 To sway the strife, that seldom might befall ; 
 And Albert was their judge in patriarchal hall. 
 
 How reverend was the look, serenely aged. 
 
 He bore, this gentle Pennsylvauian sire. 
 Where all but kindly fervours were assuaged, 
 
 Undimmed by weakness' shade, or turbid ire ! 
 
 And though, amidst the calm of thought, entire, 
 Some high and haughty features might betray 
 
 A soul impetuous once, 'twas earthly fire 
 That fled composure's intellectual ray. 
 As ^Etna's tires grow dim before the rising day. 
 
 I boast no song in magic wonders rife ; 
 
 But yet, O Nature ! is there naught to prize, 
 Familiar in thy bosom scenes of life ? 
 
 And dwells in daylight truth's salubrious skies 
 
 No form with which the soul may sympathize ? — 
 Young, innocent, on whose sweet forehead mild 
 
 The parted ringlet shone in sweetest guise. 
 An inmate in the home of Albert smiled. 
 Or blessed his noonday walk ; — she was his only child. 
 
Selections. 353 
 
 The rose of England bloomed on Gertrude's cheek : — 
 "What though these shades had seen her birth, her sire 
 
 A Briton's independence taught to seek 
 
 Far western worlds ; and there his household fire 
 The light of social love did long inspire ; 
 
 And many a halcyon day he lived to see, 
 Unbroken but by one misfortune dire, 
 
 When fate had reft his mutual heart — but she 
 "Was gone; — and Gertrude climbed a widowed father's 
 knee, 
 
 A loved bequest ; — and I may half impart 
 
 To them that feel the strong paternal tie, 
 How like a new existence to his heart 
 
 That living flower uprose beneath his eye. 
 
 Dear as she was from cherub infancy, 
 From hours when she would round his garden play. 
 
 To time when, as the ripening years went by, 
 Her lovely mind could culture well repay. 
 And more engaging grew, from pleasing day to day. 
 
 I may not paint those thousand infant charms ; 
 
 (Unconscious fascination, undesigned !) 
 The orison repeated in his arms, 
 
 For God to bless her sire and all mankind ; 
 
 The book, the bosom on his knee reclined ; 
 Or how sweet fairy-lore he heard her con, 
 
 (The playmate ere the teacher of her mind :) 
 All uncompanioned else her heart had gone. 
 Till now, in Gertrude's eyes, their ninth blue summer 
 
 shone. Campbell. 
 
 AN AUTUMN DAY. 
 
 But now a joy too deep for sound, 
 
 A peace no other season knows. 
 Hushes the heavens, and wraps the ground, — 
 
 The blessing of supreme repose. 
 
354 7'he Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Away ! I will not be, to-day, 
 
 The only slave of toil and care ; 
 Away ! from desk and dust, away ! 
 
 I'll be as idle as the air. 
 Beneath the open sky abroad. 
 
 Among the plants and breathing things, 
 The sinless, peaceful works of God, 
 
 I'll share the calm the season brings. 
 Come thou, in whose soft eyes I see 
 
 The gentle meaning of the heart, — 
 One day amid the woods with thee, 
 
 From men and all their cares apart ; — 
 And where, upon the meadow's breast. 
 
 The shadow of the thicket lies, 
 The blue wild flowers thou gatherest 
 
 Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. 
 Come, — and when 'mid the calm profound, 
 
 I turn those gentle eyes to seek. 
 They, like the lovely landscape round. 
 
 Of innocence and peace shall speak. 
 Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade ; 
 
 And on the silent valleys gaze. 
 Winding and widening, till they fade 
 
 In yon soft ring of summer haze. 
 The village trees their summits rear 
 
 Still as its spire ; and yonder flock. 
 At rest in those calm fields, appear 
 
 As chiselled from the lifeless rock. 
 One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks, 
 
 Where the hushed winds their Sabbath keep. 
 While a near lium from bees and brooks, 
 
 C'omes faintly like the breath of sleep. — 
 Well might the gazer deem, that when. 
 
 Worn with the struggle and the strife. 
 And heart-sick at the sons of men, 
 
 The good forsake the scenes of life, — 
 
Selections. 355 
 
 Like the deep quiet, that awhile 
 Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, 
 
 Shall be the peace whose holy smile 
 Welcomes them to a happier shore ! 
 
 Bryant. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Our love is not a fading earthly flower : 
 Its winged seed dropped down from Paradise, 
 Aud, nursed by day and night, by sun and shower 
 Doth momently to fresher beauty rise. 
 To us the leafless autumn is not bare. 
 Nor winter's rattling boughs lack lusty green : 
 Our summer hearts make summer's fullness where 
 No leaf or bud or blossom may be seen : 
 For nature's life in love's deep life doth lie. 
 Love,- — whose forgetfulness is beauty's death. 
 Whose mystic key these cells of Thou and I 
 Into the infinite freedom openeth. 
 And makes the body's dark and narrow grate 
 The wide-flung leaves of Heaven's palace-gate. 
 
 James Russell Lozvrll. 
 
 BABY'S VISITOR. 
 
 My baby boy sat on the floor ; 
 
 His big blue eyes were full of wonder 
 For he had never seen before 
 That baby in the mirror door — 
 
 What kept the two, so near, asunder ? 
 He leaned toward the golden head 
 
 The mirror border framed within. 
 Until twin cheeks, like roses red, 
 Lay side by side ; then softly said, 
 
 " I can't get out ; can you come in ? " 
 
 Atlanta Constitution, 
 
356 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 God ! do not let my loved one die, 
 
 But rather wait until the time 
 That I am grown in purity 
 
 Enough to enter Thy pure clime 
 Then take me, I will gladly go, 
 So that my love remain below ! 
 
 Oh, let her stay ! She is by birth 
 
 What I through death must learn to be, 
 
 We need her more on our poor earth 
 
 Than Thou canst need in heaven with Thee ; 
 
 She hath her wings already : I 
 
 Must burst this earth-shell ere 1 fly. 
 
 Then, God, take me I we shall be near, 
 More near than ever, each to each : 
 
 Her angel ears will find more clear 
 My earthly than my heavenly speech ; 
 
 And still, as I draw nigh to Thee, 
 
 Her soul and mine shall closer be. 
 
 James Russell Lowell. 
 
 THERE'S NOTHING TRUE BUT HEAVEN. 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show. 
 
 For man's illusion given; 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe. 
 Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 
 
 There's nothing tvii't but Heaven. 
 
 And false the light on glory's plume, 
 
 As fading hues of even ; 
 And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom. 
 Are blossoms gathered for the tomb — 
 
 There's nothing hrigJil but Heaven. 
 
Selections. S5? 
 
 Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 
 
 From wave to wave we're driven ; 
 And fancy's flash, and reason's ray, 
 Serve but to light the troubled way — 
 There's nothing calm but Heaven. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 HOME SONG. 
 
 Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest ; 
 Home-keeping hearts are happiest. 
 For those that wander they know not where 
 Are full of trouble and full of care ; 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 Weary and homesick and distressed. 
 They wander east, and they wander west. 
 And are baffled and beaten and blown about 
 By the winds of the wilderness of doubt ; 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 Then stay at home, my heart, and rest ; 
 The bird is safest in its nest ; 
 O'er all that flutter their wings and fly 
 A hawk is hovering in the sky ; 
 To stay at home is best. 
 
 H. W. Longfellow. 
 
 SAVED. 
 
 Crouching in the twilight gray. 
 Like a hunted thing at bay. 
 In his brain one thought is rife : 
 Why not end the bootless strife ? 
 
•J58 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Who in God's wide world would weep, 
 Should he brave death's dreamless sleep ? 
 Hark ! a child's voice, soft and clear, 
 Pulsing througl) the gloaming drear ; 
 
 And the word the singer brings 
 Like a new evangel rings : 
 " Jesus loves me ! this I know," 
 Swift his thoughts to childhood go. 
 
 Memories of a mother's face 
 Bending to her boy's embrace, 
 And the boy at eventide 
 Kneeling by the mother's side. 
 
 Like "sweet visions of the night" 
 Fill the lonesome place with light, 
 "While the singer's tender trill — 
 " Jesus loves me ! loves me still " — 
 
 Hovers in the dreamlit air 
 Like an answer to the prayer. 
 Offered in those happy days 
 When he walked in sinless ways. 
 
 " Jesus loves me ! " Can it be 
 His, this benedicite? 
 Is there One who knows and cares ? 
 One who all his sorrow shares ? 
 
 " Jesus loves me ! " While the song 
 Guileless lips with joy prolong, 
 Lo ! a soul has ceased its strife, 
 Leconciled to God and life. 
 
 Mary B. Sleight. 
 
Selections. 359 
 
 SONG OF BIRDS. 
 
 Did you ne'er think what wondrous beings these ? 
 
 Did you ne'er think who made them, and who taught 
 The dialect they speak, where melodies 
 
 Alone are the interpreters of thought ? 
 Whose household words are songs in many keys, 
 
 Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught ; 
 Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 
 Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 
 
 Think, every morning, when the sun peeps through 
 The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove. 
 
 How jubilant the happy birds renew 
 Their old melodious madrigals of love ! 
 
 And, when you think of this, remember, too, 
 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 
 
 The awakening continents, from shore to shore, 
 
 Somewhere the birds are singing evermore ! 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 JIMMY BUTLER AND THE OWL. 
 
 'Twas in the summer of '46 that I landed at Hamilton, 
 fresh as a new pratie just dug from the " old sod," and wid 
 a light heart and a heavj^ bundle I sot off for the town- 
 ship of Buford, tiding a taste of a song, as merry a 
 young fellow as iver took the road. Well, I trudged on 
 and on, past many a plisint place, pleasin' myself wid 
 the thought that some day I might have a place of my 
 own, wid a world of chickens and ducks and pigs and 
 childer about the door ; and along in the afternoon of the 
 sicond day I got to Buford village. A cousin of me 
 mother's, one Dennis O'Dowd, lived about sivin miles 
 from there, and I wanted to make his place that night, 
 so I enquired the way at the tavern, and was lucky to 
 
o60 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 find a man, who was goin' part of the way an' would 
 show me the way to find Dennis. Sure, he was very 
 kind indade, and when I got out of his wagon, he pointed 
 me through the wood and told me to go straight south a 
 mile an' a half, and the first house would bo Dennis's. 
 
 " An' you have no time to lose now," said he, " for the 
 sun is low, and mind you don't get lost in the woods." 
 . " Is it lost now," said I, " that I'd be gittin, an' roe 
 uncle as great a navigator at iver steered a ship across 
 the thrackless say ! Not a bit of it, though I'm obleeged 
 to ye for your kind advice, an thank yez for the ride." 
 
 An' wid that he drove oflT an' left me alone. I 
 shouldered ray bundle bravely, an' whistling a bit of tune 
 for company like, I pu.shed into the bu.sh. Well, I went 
 a long way over bogs, and turnin' round among the bush 
 and trees till I began to think I must be well nigh to 
 Dennis's. But, bad cess to it ! all of a sudden, I came 
 out of the woods at the very identical spot where I 
 started in, which I knew by an ould crotched tree that 
 seemed to be standin' on its head an' kicking up its heels 
 to make divarsion of me. By this time it was growing 
 dark, and as there was no time to lose, I started in a 
 second time, determined to keep straight south this time 
 and no mistake. I got on bravely for awhile, but och 
 hone! och hone ! it got so dark I couldn't see the trees, 
 and I bumped me nose and barked me shins, while the 
 miskaties bit me hands and face to a blister ; and after 
 tumblin' and stumblin' around till I was fairly bam- 
 foozied, I sat down on a log, all of a trimble, to think 
 that I was lost intirely, and that maybe a lion or some 
 other wild craythur would devour me before morning. 
 
 Just then I heard somebody a long way off say, " Whip 
 poor Will ! " " Bedad ! " sez I, "I'm glad it isn't Jamie 
 that's got to take it, though it seems its more in sorrow 
 than in anger they're doin' it, or why should they say, 
 ' poor Will ? ' and sure they can't be Injin, haythen, or 
 naygur, for its plain English they're afther spakin ? ' 
 
Selections. 3G 1 
 
 Maybe they might help me out o' this, so I shouted at 
 the top of my voice, " A lost man ! " Thin I listened. 
 Prisintly an answer came. 
 
 "Who! Whoo! Whooo!" 
 
 " Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez T, as loud as I could 
 roar, an' snatchin' up me bundle an' stick, I started in 
 the direction of the voice. Whin I tho'ught I had got 
 near the place I stopped and shouted again, "A lost 
 man ! " 
 
 '■ Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " said a voice right over my 
 head. 
 
 " Sure," thinks I, " it's a quare place for a man to be at 
 this time of night ; maybe it's some settler scrapin' sut;ur 
 off a sugar bush for the childher's breakfast in the 
 mornin.' But where's Will and the rest of them ? " All 
 this wint through me head like a flash, an' thin I 
 answered his enquiry. 
 
 "Jamie Butler, the waiver," sez I; "and if it wouldn't 
 inconvanience your honour, would yei« be kind enough to 
 step down and show me the way to the house of Dennis 
 O'Dowd ? " 
 
 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he. 
 
 " Dennis O'Dowd !" sez I, civil enough, " and a dacent 
 man he is, and first cousin to me own mother." 
 
 " Who !~ Whoo ! Whooo ! " sez he again. 
 
 "Me mother!" sez T, "and as fine a woman as iver 
 peeled a biled pratie wid her thumb nail, and her maiden 
 name was Molly McFiggin." 
 
 •'Who ! Whoo! Whooo!" 
 
 " Paddy McFiggin ! bad luck to your deaf ould head, 
 Paddy McFiggin, T say — do you hear that? And he 
 was the tallest man in all the county Tipperary, excipt 
 Jim Doyle, the blacksmith." 
 
 " Who ! Whoo ! Whooo ! " 
 
 " Jim Doyle the blacksmith," sez I, " ye good for 
 nothin' naygur, and if yez don't come down and show me 
 the way this min't I'll climb up there and break ivery 
 
862 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 bone in your own skin, ye spalpeen, so sure as me name 
 is Jimmy Butler ! " 
 
 " Who ! Whoo ' Whooo ! " sez he, as impident as iver. 
 
 I said niver a word, but Javin' down me bundle, and 
 takin' me stick in me teeth, I began to climb the tree. 
 Whin I got among the branches I looked quietly round 
 till I saw a pair of big eyes just forninst me. 
 
 " Wliist," sez I, " and I let him have a taste of an 
 Irish stick,'' an' wid that I let drive an' lost me balance 
 an' came tumblin' to the ground, nearly breaking me 
 neck wid the fall. Whin I came to me sinsis I had a 
 very sore head wid a lump on it like a goose egg, and 
 half me Sunday coat-tail tore off intirely. I spoke to the 
 chap in the tree, but could get niver an answer at all, at 
 all. 
 
 Sure, thinks I, he must have gone home to rowl up his 
 head, for I don't throw me stick for nothin'. 
 
 Well, by this time the moon was up and I could see a 
 little, and I detarmined to make one more effort to reach 
 Dennis's. 
 
 I went on cautiously for awhile, an' thin I heard a bell. 
 " Sure," sez I, " I'm comin' to a settlement now, for I 
 hear the church bell." I kept on toward the sound till I 
 came to an ould cow wid a bell on. She started to run, 
 but I was too quick for her, and got her by the tail and 
 hung on, thinkin' that maybe she would take me out of 
 the woods. On we wint, like an ould country steeple 
 chase, till, sure enough, we came out to a clearin' and a 
 house in sight wid a light in it. So leavin' the ould cow 
 pufi'in and blowin' in a shed, I wint to the house, and as 
 luck would have it, whose should it be but Dennis's ? 
 
 He gave me a raal Irish welcome, and introduced me 
 to his two daughters — as purty a pair of girls as iver ye 
 clapped an eye on. But whin I tould him me adventure in 
 the woods, and about the fellow who made fun of me, they 
 all laughed and roared, and Dennis said it was an owl. 
 
 " An ould what," sez I. 
 
 <' Why, au owl, a bird," sez he. 
 
Selections. 363 
 
 " Do you tell me now ! " sez I. " Sure it's a quare 
 country and a quare bird." 
 
 And thin they all laughed again, till at last I laughed 
 myself, that hearty like, and dropped right into a chair 
 between the two purty girls, and the ould chap winked 
 at me and roared again. 
 
 Dennis is me father-in-law now, and he often yet de- 
 lights to tell our children about their daddy's adventure 
 wid the owl. 
 
 THE QUAKER WIDOW. 
 
 Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come in ! 'Tis 
 kind of thee 
 
 To wait until the Friends were gone, who came to com- 
 fort me. 
 
 The still and quiet company a peace may give indeed, 
 
 But blessed is the single heart that comes to us in need. 
 
 Gome, sit thee down ' Here is the bench where Benjamin 
 
 would sit 
 On First-day afternoons in spring, and watch the swallows 
 
 flit: 
 He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear the pleasant 
 
 bees 
 Go humming round the lilacs and through the apple-trees. 
 
 I think he loved the spring : not that he cared for flowers : 
 most men 
 
 Think such things foolishness, — but we were first ac- 
 quainted then, 
 
 One spring : the next he spoke his mind : the third I was 
 his wife, 
 
 And in the spring (it happened so) our children entered 
 life. 
 
364 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 — — g 
 
 He was but seventy-five ! I did not think to lay him yet 
 In Kennett graveyard, vfhere at Monthly Meeting first we 
 
 met. 
 The Father's mercy shows in this : 'tis batter I should be 
 Picked out to bear the heavy cross^alone in age — than 
 
 he. 
 
 We've lived together fifty years. It seems but one long 
 
 day, 
 One quiet Sabbath of the heart, till he was called away ; 
 And as we bring from meeting-time a sweet contentment 
 
 home, 
 So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the days to come. 
 
 I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it was to know 
 If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I should go ; 
 For father had a deep concern upon his mind that day. 
 But mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew what best to 
 say. 
 
 Then she was still ; they sat awhile : at last she spoke 
 
 again, 
 " The Lord incline thee to the right !" and " Thou shalt 
 
 have him, Jane !" 
 My father said. I cried. Indeed 't was not the least of 
 
 shocks, 
 For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Orthodox. 
 
 I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter Ruth we 
 lost; 
 
 Her husband's of the world, and yet I could not see her 
 crossed. 
 
 She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she hears a hire- 
 ling priest ! 
 
 Ah, dear ! the cross w^as ours ; her life's a happy one, at 
 least. 
 
Selections. 3()5 
 
 Perhaps she '11 wear a plainer dress when she's as old 
 
 as I, — 
 Would thee believe it, Hannah ? once I felt temptation 
 
 nigh ! 
 My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple for my taste: 
 I wanted lace ai-ound the neck, and ribbon at the waist. 
 
 How strange it seemed to sit with him upon the women's 
 
 side ! 
 I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more fear than pride ; 
 Till, " in the presence of the Lord," he said, and then 
 
 there came 
 A holy strength upon my heart, and I could say the same. 
 
 I used to blush when he came near, but then I showed no 
 
 sign; 
 With all the meeting looking on, I held his hand in mine. 
 It seemed mv hashfulness was gone, now I was his for 
 
 life : 
 Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, hast been a 
 
 wife. 
 
 As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so green as 
 
 ours ; 
 The woods were coming to leaf, the meadows full of 
 
 floweis ; 
 The neighbours met us in the lanp, and every face was 
 
 kind, — 
 'Tis strange how lively everything comes back upon my 
 
 mind. 
 
 I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding-dinner spread ; 
 At our own table we were guests, with father at the head, 
 And X)inah Passmore helped us both, — 'twas she stood 
 
 up with me. 
 And Abner Jones with Benjamin, — and now they're gone, 
 
 all three ! 
 
366 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 It is not right to wish for death, the Lord disposes best. 
 His spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His 
 
 rest; 
 And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see : 
 For Benjamin has two in heaven and two are left with 
 
 me. 
 
 Eusebius never cared to farm, — 'twas not his call, in truth. 
 And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter 
 
 Ruth. 
 Thee'U say her ways are not like mine, — young people 
 
 now-a-days 
 Have fallen sadly oft", I think, from all the good old ways. 
 
 But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps the simple 
 
 tongue. 
 The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was young; 
 And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of 
 
 late. 
 That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too 
 
 much weight. 
 
 I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a " spirit clothed with 
 
 grace. 
 And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. 
 And dress may lie of less account; the Loixl will look 
 
 within : 
 The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin." 
 
 Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth : she's anxious I should 
 
 go, 
 And she will do her duty as a daughtsr should, I know. 
 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be resigned ; 
 The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. 
 
 Bayard Taylor. 
 
Selections. 3G7 
 
 CUDDLE DOON. 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, 
 
 Wi' mickle faucht an' din ; 
 " Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrife rougues. 
 
 Your faither's comin' in." 
 They never heed a word I speak ; 
 
 I try to gie a froon, 
 But aye I hap them up, an' cry, 
 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 Wee Jamie wi' the curly head — 
 
 He aye sleeps next the wa', 
 Bangs up an' cries, " I want a piece" — 
 
 The rascal starts them a'. 
 I rin' an' fetch them pieces, drinks ; 
 
 Thej'^ stop awee the soun', 
 Then draw the blankets up an' crj;-, 
 
 " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." 
 
 But ere five minutes gang, wee Eab 
 
 Cries out frae' neath the claes, 
 "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance, 
 
 He's kittlin wi' his taes." 
 The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, 
 
 He'd bother half the toon, 
 But aye I hap them up an' cry, 
 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 At length they hear their faither's fit. 
 
 An' as he steeks the door 
 They turn their faces to the wa'. 
 
 While Tam pretends to snoie. 
 " Hae a' the weans been gude ?" he asks 
 
 As he pits off his shoon, 
 " The bairnies, John, are in their beds, 
 
 An' lang since cuddle doon." 
 
3G8 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 An' just afore we bed oursel's, 
 
 We look at oor wee lambs ; 
 Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, 
 
 An' Rab his airm roun' Tarn's. 
 I lift wee Jamie up the bed, 
 
 An' as I straik each croon 
 I whisper, till my heart fills up, 
 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht. 
 
 Wi' mirth that's dear to me ; 
 But sune the big warl's cark an' care 
 
 Will quaten doon their glee. 
 Yet come what will to ilka ane. 
 
 May He who sits aboon. 
 Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, 
 
 " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon." 
 
 Alexander Anderson. 
 
 PER PACEM AD LUCEM. 
 
 I do not ask, Lord ! that life may be 
 
 A pleasant road ; 
 I do not ask that Thou wouldst take from me 
 
 Aught of its load : 
 I <lo not ask that flowers should always spring 
 
 Beneath my feet; 
 I know too well the poison and the sting 
 
 Of things too sweet. 
 For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord ! I plead : 
 
 Lead me aright — • 
 Though strength should falter, and though heart should 
 bleed — 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
Selections. 369 
 
 I do not ask, O Lord ! that Thou shouldst shed 
 
 Fall radiance here ; 
 Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 
 
 Without a fear. 
 I do not ask my cross to understand, 
 
 My way to see, — 
 Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand, 
 
 And follow Thee. 
 Joy is like restless day, but peace divine 
 
 Like quiet night. 
 Lead me, O Lord ! till perfect day shall shine, 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 Adelwide Anne Procter. 
 
 THE NEWSBOY'S DEBT. 
 
 Only last year, at Christmas time, while pacing down the 
 
 city street, 
 I saw a tiny, ill clad boy — one of the many that we meet — - 
 As ragged as a boy could be, with half a cap, with one 
 
 good shoe, 
 Just patches to keep out the wind — I know the wind blew 
 
 keenly too : • 
 
 A newsboy, with a newsboy's lungs, a square Scotch face, 
 an honest brow, 
 
 And eyes that liked to smile so well, they had not yet 
 forgotten how : 
 
 A newsboy, hawking his last sheets with loud persistence ; 
 now and then 
 
 Stopping to beat his stiffened hands, and trudging brave- 
 ly on again. 
 
 Dodging about among the crowd, shouting his " Extras " 
 
 o'er and o'er ; 
 Pausing by whiles to cheat the wind within some alley, 
 
 by some door, 
 w 
 
370 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 At last he stopped — six papers left, tucked hopelessly be- 
 neath his arm — 
 
 To eye a fruiterer's outspread store ; here, products from 
 some country farm ; 
 
 And there, confections, all adorned with wreathed and 
 
 clustered leaves and flowers. 
 While little founts, like frosted spires, tossed up and down 
 
 their mimic showers. 
 He stood and gazed with wistful face, all a child's longing 
 
 in his eyes ; 
 Then started as I touched his arm, and turned in quick, 
 
 mechanic wise, 
 
 Raised his torn cape with purple hands, said, " Papers, sir ? 
 
 The Evening News ! " 
 He brushed away a freezing tear, and shivered, " Oh, sir 
 
 don't refuse ! " 
 " How many have you ? Never mind — don't stop to count 
 
 — I'll take them all ; 
 And when you pass my office here, with stock on hand, 
 
 give me a call. " 
 
 He thanked me with a broad Scotch smile, a look half 
 
 wondering and half glad. 
 I fumbled for the proper " change, " and said, " You seem 
 
 a little lad 
 To rough it in the streets like this. " "I'm ten years old 
 
 on Christmas-day ! " 
 " Your name ? " " Jim Hanley. " " Here's a crown, you'll 
 
 get change there across the way. 
 
 " Five shillings. When you get it changed come to my 
 
 office — that's the place. 
 Now wait a bit, there's time enough ; you need not run a 
 
 headlong race. 
 
Selections. 371 
 
 Where do you live ? " " 'Most anywhere. We hired a 
 
 stable-loft to day. 
 Me and two others. " " And you thought, the fruiterer's 
 
 window pretty, hey ? " 
 
 " Or were you hungry ? " " Just a bit, " he answered 
 
 bravely ap he might. 
 " I couldn't buy a breakfast, sir, and had no money left 
 
 last night. " 
 " And you are cold ? " " Ay, just a bit ; I don't mind cold. " 
 
 " Why, that is strange ! " 
 He smiled and pulled his ragged cap, and darted oflF to get 
 
 the "change." 
 
 So, with a half unconcious sigh, I sought my office desk 
 
 again ; 
 An hour or more my busy wits found work enough with 
 
 book and pen. 
 But when the mantel clock struck six I started with a 
 
 sudden thought. 
 For there beside my hat and cloak lay those six papers I 
 
 had bought. 
 
 Why Where's the boy ? and where's the ' change ' he 
 
 should have brought an hour ago ? 
 Ah, well ! ah, well ! they're all alike ! I was a fool to tempt 
 
 him so. 
 Dishonest ! WeU, I might have known ; and yet his face 
 
 seemed candid too. 
 He would have earned the difference if he had brought 
 
 me what was due. 
 
 " But caution often comes too late. " And so I took my 
 
 homeward way. 
 Deeming distrust of human kind the only lesson of the 
 
 day. 
 
372 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Just two days later, as I sat, half dozing, in my office chair, 
 I heard a timid knock, and called in my brusque fashion, 
 " Who is there ? " 
 
 An urchin entered, barely seven — the same Scotch face, 
 
 the same blue eyes — 
 And stood, half doubtful, at the door, abashed at my for- 
 bidding guise. 
 " Sir, if you please, my brother Jim — the one you give 
 
 the crown, you know- 
 He couldn't bring the money, sir, because his back was 
 hurted so. 
 
 " He didn't mean to keep the ' change. ' He got runned 
 over, up the street ; 
 
 One wheel went right across his back, and t'other fore- 
 wheel mashed his feet. 
 
 They stopped the horses just in time, and then they took 
 him up for dead. 
 
 And all that day and yesterday he wasn't rightly in his 
 head. 
 
 " They took him to the hospital — one of the new.sboys 
 knew 'twas Jim — 
 
 And I went, too, because, you see, we two are brothers, I 
 and him. 
 
 He had that money in his hand, and never saw it any 
 more. 
 
 Indeed, he didn't mean to steal ! He never stole a pin be- 
 fore. 
 
 " He was afraid that you might think, he meant to keep 
 
 it, anyway ; 
 This morning when they brought him to, he cried because 
 
 he couldn't pay. 
 
Selections. 373 
 
 He made me fetch his jacket here ; it's torn and dirtied 
 
 pretty bad ; 
 It's only fit to sell for rags, but then, you know, it's all 
 
 he had. 
 
 " When he gets weU — it won't be long — if you will call 
 
 the money lent. 
 He says he'll work his fingei's off but what he'll pay you 
 
 every cent. " 
 And then he cast a rueful glance at the soiled jacket 
 
 where it lay, 
 " No, no, my boy ! take back the coat. Your brother's 
 
 badly hurt you say ? 
 
 " Where did they take him ? Just run out and hail a 
 
 cab, then wait for me. 
 Why, I would give a thousand coats, and pounds, for such 
 
 a boy as he ! " 
 A half-hour after this we stood together in the crowded 
 
 wards, 
 And the nurse checked the hasty steps that fell too loudly 
 
 on the boards. 
 
 I thought him smiling in his sleep, and scarce believed 
 
 her when she said, 
 Smoothing away the tangled hair from brow and cheek, 
 
 " The boy is dead." 
 Dead ? dead so soon ? How fair he looked ! One streak 
 
 of sunshine on his hair. 
 Poor lad ! Well it is warm in Heaven : no need of 
 
 " change " and jackets there. 
 
 And something rising in my throat made it so hard for 
 
 me to speak, 
 I turned away, and left a tear lying upon his sunburned 
 
 cheek. 
 
 Anon. 
 
374 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 SANDALPHON. 
 
 Have you read in the Talmud of old, 
 In the Legends the Kabbins have told, 
 
 Of the limitless realms of the air, — 
 Have you read it, — the marvellous story 
 Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, 
 
 Saudalphon, the Angel of Prayer 1 
 
 How erect, at the outermost gates 
 Of the City Celestial he waits, 
 
 With his feet on the ladder of light, 
 That, crowded with angels unnumbered, 
 By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered 
 
 Alone in the desert at night ? 
 
 The Angels of Wind and of Fire 
 Chant only one hymn, and expire 
 
 With the song's irresistible stress ; 
 Expire in their rapture and wonder. 
 As harp strings are broken asunder 
 
 By music they throb to express. 
 
 But serene in the rapturous throng, 
 Unmoved by the rush of the song, 
 
 With eyes unimpassioned and slow. 
 Among the dead angels, the deathless 
 Sandalphon stands listening breathless 
 
 To sounds that ascend from below ; — 
 
 From the spirits on earth that adore. 
 From the souls that entreat and implore; 
 
 Id the fervour and passion of prayer ; 
 From the hearts that are broken with losses, 
 And weary with dragging the crosses 
 
 Too heavy for mortals to bear. 
 
Selections. 376 
 
 And he gathers the prayers as he stands, 
 And they change into flowers in his hands, 
 
 Into garlands of purple and red ; 
 And beneath the great arch of the portal, 
 Through the streets of the City Immortal, 
 
 Is wafted the fragrance they shed. 
 
 It is but a legend I know, — 
 A fable, a phanton, a show. 
 
 Of the ancient Rabbinical lore ; 
 Yet the old mediaeval tradition. 
 The beautiful, strange superstition. 
 
 But haunts me and holds me the more. 
 
 When I look from my window at night, 
 And the welkin above is all white, 
 
 All throbbing and panting with stars. 
 Among them majestic is standing, 
 Sandalphon, the angel, expanding 
 
 His pinions in nebulous bars. 
 
 And the legend, I feel, is a part 
 
 Of the hunger and thirst of the heart. 
 
 The frenzy and fire of the brain. 
 That grasps at the fruitage forbidden. 
 The golden pomegranates of Eden, 
 
 To quiet its fever and pain. 
 
 Longfdlow. 
 
 HAGAR IN THE WILDERNESS. 
 
 The morning broke. — Light stole upon the clouds 
 With a strange beauty. — Earth received aga,in 
 Its garment of a thousand dyes ; and leaves. 
 And delicate blossoms, and the painted flowers. 
 And every thing that bendeth to the dew, 
 And stirreth with the daylight, lifted up 
 Its beauty to the breath of that sweet morn. 
 
3 3J76 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 All things are dark to sorrow ; and the light 
 And loveliness, and fragrant air, were sad 
 To the dejected Hagar. The moist earth 
 Was pouring odours from its spicy pores ; 
 And the young birds were singing as if life 
 Were a new thing to them : but oh ! it came 
 Upon her heart like discord ; and she felt 
 How cruelly it tries a broken heart. 
 To see a mirth in any thing it loves. 
 
 The morning passed ; and Asia's sun rode up 
 In the clear heaven, and every beam was heat. 
 The cattle of the hills were in the shade. 
 And the bright plumage of the Orient lay 
 On beating bosoms, in her spicy trees. 
 It was an hour of rest ! — But Hagar found 
 No shelter in the wilderness ; and on 
 She kept her weary way, until the boy 
 Hung down his head, and opened his parched lips 
 For water ; but she could not give it him. 
 She laid him down beneath the sultry sky; — 
 For it was better than the close, hot breath 
 Of the thick pines, — and tried to comfort him ; 
 But he was sore athirst ; and his blue eyes 
 Were dim and bloodshot ; and he could not know 
 Why God denied him water in the wild. — 
 She sat a little longer ; and he grew 
 Ghastly and faint, as if he would have died. 
 It was too much for her. She lifted him, 
 And bore him farther on, and laid his head 
 Beneath the shadow of a desert shrub ; 
 And, shrouding up her face, she went away, 
 And sat to watch, where he could see her not, 
 Till he should die ; and watching him, she mourned : 
 
 " God stay thee, in thine agony, my boy 
 I cannot see thee die ; I cannot brook 
 Upon thy brow to look. 
 
Selections. 377 
 
 And see death settle on my cradle joy. 
 How have I drunk the light of thy blue eye ! 
 And could I see thee die ? 
 
 " I did not dream of this, when thou wast straying 
 Like an unbound gazelle, among the flowers ; 
 
 Or wiliDg the soft hours, 
 By the rich gush of water-sources playing, 
 Then sinking weary to thy smiling sleep, 
 
 So beautiful and deep. 
 
 " Oh no ! and when I watched by thee, the while, 
 And saw thy bright lip curling in thy dream. 
 
 And thought of the dark stream 
 In my own land of Egypt, the far Nile, 
 How prayed I that my fathers' land might be 
 
 A heritage for thee ! 
 
 " And now the grave for its cold breast hath won thee. 
 And thy white delicate limbs the earth will press ; 
 
 And oh ! my last caress 
 Must feel thee cold, for a chill hand is on thee. — 
 How can I leave my boy, so pillowed there 
 
 Upon his clustering hair !" 
 
 She stood beside the well her God had given 
 To gush in that deep wilderness, and bathed 
 The forehead of her child until he laughed 
 In his reviving happiness, and lisped 
 His infant thought of gladness at the sight 
 Of the cool plashing of his mother's hand. 
 
 If. P. Willis. 
 
 THE MODEL WIFE. 
 
 His house she enters there to be a light, 
 Shining within when all around is night, 
 
378 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, 
 Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing : 
 Winning him back when mingling with the throng 
 Of this vain world we love, alas, too long, 
 To fireside's happiness and hours of ease, 
 Blest with that charm, the certainty to please ; 
 How oft her eyes read his ! Her gentle mind 
 To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ; 
 Still subject — ever on the watch to borrow 
 Mirth of his mirth and sorrow of his sorrow. 
 
 Ruskin. 
 
 " GOODBYE." 
 
 Falling leaf and fading tree. 
 Lines of white in a sullen sea. 
 Shadows rising on you and me — 
 
 The swallows are making them ready to fly. 
 
 Goodbye, Summer ! Goodbye ' 
 Goodbye ! 
 
 Hush ! A voice from the far away ! — 
 " Listen and learn," it seems to say, 
 " All the to-morrows shall be as to-day." 
 The cord is frayed and the cruse is dry. 
 The ink must break and the lamp must die. 
 Goodbye, Hope ! Goodbye ! 
 Goodbye ! 
 
 What are we waiting for ? Oh ! my heart, 
 Kiss me straight on the brows and part ' 
 Again ! again ! My heart ! my heart ! 
 What are we waiting for, you and I ? 
 A pleading look — a stifled cry — 
 Goodbye forever ! Goodbye ! 
 Goodbye ! 
 
 Whyte Melville. 
 
Selections. 379 
 
 MAKIN' AN EDITOE OUTEN 0' HIM. 
 
 " Good morning, sir, Mr. Printer ; how is your body to- 
 day ? 
 
 I'm glad you're to home, for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' 
 away. 
 
 But layin' aside pleasure for business, I've brought you 
 my little boy, Jim ; 
 
 And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor 
 outen o' him. 
 
 " He aint no great shakes for to labour, though I've la- 
 boured with him a good deal. 
 
 And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he 
 couldn't help but to feel ; 
 
 But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' 
 about him is big, 
 
 Exceptin' his appetite only, and there he's as good as a 
 
 I keep him a carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' 
 
 the jugs, 
 And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin, 
 
 the bugs ; 
 And then there is things to be doin' a helpin' the women 
 
 indoors ; 
 There's chumin' and washin' o' dishes, and other descrip- 
 tions of chores ; 
 But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never 
 
 be much, I'm afraid. 
 So I thought it would be a good notion to lam him the 
 
 editor's trade. 
 His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather 
 
 too slim, 
 But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor 
 
 outen o' him ! 
 
380 7%e Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 " It aint much to get up a paper, it wouldn't take him 
 
 long for to learn ; 
 He could feed the machine, I am thinkin', with a good 
 
 strappin' fellow to turn. 
 And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough 
 
 now to do ; 
 Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your 
 
 arrangements right through. 
 I used for to wonder at readin', and where it was got up, 
 
 and how ; 
 But 'tis most of it made by machinery, I can see it all 
 
 plain enough now. 
 And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different 
 
 designs. 
 Each one with a gauge and a chopper, to see to the length 
 
 of the lines ; 
 An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be 
 
 easy enough, I've a whim. 
 If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen o' 
 
 Jim ! " 
 
 The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in 
 the eye. 
 
 Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mourn- 
 fully made a reply : 
 
 " Is your .son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solo- 
 mon both ? 
 
 Can he compass his spirit with meekness, and strangle a 
 natural oath ? 
 
 Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his 
 heart in his cheek ? 
 
 Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a six- 
 pence a week ? 
 
 Can he courteously talk to an equal, and brow-beat an 
 impudent dunce ? 
 
 Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half-a- 
 dozen at once ? 
 
Selections. 381 
 
 Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and 
 reliable touch ? 
 
 And be sure that he knows how much to know, and 
 knows how not to know too much ? 
 
 Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check- 
 rein on his pride ? 
 
 Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros 
 hide? 
 
 Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, 
 courage, and vim ? 
 
 If so, we, perhaps, can be ' makin' an editor outen o' 
 him.' " 
 
 The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his 
 
 visage o'erspread, 
 A.nd he said : " Jim, I guess we'll be goin', he's probably 
 
 out of his head." 
 
 ' Will M. Carleton. 
 
 THE ARMADA. 
 
 Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise ; 
 I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient 
 
 days. 
 When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain. 
 The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. 
 
 It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, 
 There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth 
 
 Bay; 
 Her crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny s 
 
 isle, 
 At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a 
 
 mile. 
 
382 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; 
 And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in 
 
 chase. 
 Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the 
 
 wall ; 
 The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty 
 
 hall; 
 Many a light fishing bark put out to pry along the coast; 
 And with loose rein, and bloody spur, rode inland many a 
 
 post. 
 
 With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff 
 comes. 
 
 Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the 
 drums ; 
 
 The yeomen, round the market cross, make clear an am- 
 ple space, 
 
 For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace ; 
 
 And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, 
 
 As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. 
 
 Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, 
 
 And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies 
 down ! 
 
 So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed 
 Picard field, 
 
 Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Csesar's eagle 
 shield : 
 
 So glared he when at Agincourt, in wrath he turned to 
 
 And crushed and torn, beneath his claws, the princely 
 hunters lay. 
 
 Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight ! Ho ! scatter flow- 
 ers, fair maids ! 
 
 Ho, gunners ! tire a loud salute ! Ho, gallants ! draw your 
 blades ! 
 
 Thou, sun, shine on her joyously ; ye breezes, waft her 
 wide ; 
 
 Our glorious semper eadem, the banner of our pride. 
 
Selections. 383 
 
 The fresh'nmg breeze of eve unfurled that banner's 
 
 massy fold — 
 The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll 
 
 of gold : 
 Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea ; 
 Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again 
 
 shall be. 
 From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Mil- 
 ford bay. 
 That time of slumber was as bright, as busy as the day ; 
 For swift to east, and swift to west the warning radiance 
 
 spread — 
 High on St. Michael's Mount it shone — it shone on Beachy 
 
 Head : 
 Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern 
 
 shire, 
 Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points 
 
 of fire. 
 The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves. 
 The rugged miners poured to war, from Mendip's sunless 
 
 caves ; 
 O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery 
 
 herald flew, 
 And roused the shepherds of Stonehenge — the rangers of 
 
 Beaulieu. 
 Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from 
 
 Bristol town ; 
 And, ere the day, three hundred horse had met on Clifton 
 
 Down. 
 
 The sentinel on "Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, 
 
 And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood- 
 red light : 
 
 Then bugle's note, and cannon's roar, the death-like silence 
 broke, 
 
 And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke ; 
 
384 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 At once, on all her stately gates, arose the answering fires ; 
 
 At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires ; 
 
 From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice 
 of fear. 
 
 And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder 
 cheer ; 
 
 And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurry- 
 ing feet, 
 
 And the broad streams of pikes and flags dashed down 
 each roaring street : 
 
 And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din. 
 As fast from every village round the horse came spur- 
 ring in ; 
 And eastward straight, from wild Blackheath, the warlike 
 
 errand went ; 
 And roused, in many an ancient hall, the gallant squires 
 
 of Kent : 
 Southward, from Surrey's pleasant hills, flew those bright 
 
 couriers forth ; 
 High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor, they started 
 
 for the north ; 
 And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still ; 
 All night from tower to tower they sprang, they sprang 
 
 from hill to hill ; 
 Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Derwent's rocky 
 
 dales ; 
 Till like volcanoes, flared to heaven the stormy hills of 
 
 Wales ; 
 Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely 
 
 height ; 
 Till streamed in crimson on the wind, the Wrekin's crest 
 
 of light ; 
 Till broad and fierce, the star came forth, on Ely's stately 
 
 fane. 
 And town and hamlet rose in arms, o'er all the boundless 
 
 plain ; 
 
Selections. 385 
 
 Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, 
 
 And Lincoln sped the message on, o'er the wide vale of 
 Trent : 
 
 Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's em- 
 battled pile, 
 
 And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of 
 Carlisle. 
 
 Lord Macaulay. 
 
 TRIAL SCENE FROM THE MERCHANT OF 
 VENICE. 
 
 Duke. You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes ; 
 And here, I take it, is the doctor come. — 
 
 Enter Portia, dressed like a doctor of laws. 
 
 Give me your hand : Came you from old Bellario ? 
 
 PoR. I did, my lord. 
 
 Duke. You are welcome: take your place. 
 
 Are you acquainted with the difference 
 That holds this present question in the court ? 
 
 PoR. I am informed thoroughly of the cause. 
 Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew ? 
 
 Duke. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth, 
 
 PoK. Is your name Shylock ? 
 
 Shylock. Shylock is my name. 
 
 Po3,. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow ; 
 Yet in such rule that the Venetian law 
 Cannot impugn you, as you do proceed. — 
 You stand within his danger, do you not ? [To Ant, 
 
 Antonio. Ay, so he says. 
 
 PoR. Do you^confess the bond ? 
 
 Ant. I do. 
 
 PoR. Then must the Jew be merciful. 
 
 Sht. On what compulsion must 1 1 tell me that, 
 
 PoR, The quality of mercy is not strain'd ; 
 X 
 
386 The Canadian Elocutionist., 
 
 It. droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven 
 
 Upon the place beneath : it is twice bless'd ; 
 
 It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes : 
 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes 
 
 The throned monarch better than his crown ; 
 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; 
 
 But mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
 
 It is enthroned in the heart of kings, 
 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's 
 
 When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
 
 Though justice be thy plea, consider this — 
 
 That in the course of justice, none of us 
 
 Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy ; 
 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render 
 
 The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much. 
 
 To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; 
 
 Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice 
 
 Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. 
 
 Shy. My deeds upon my head ! I crave the law, 
 The penalty and forfeit of my bond. 
 
 POB. Is he not able to discharge the money ? 
 
 Bassanio. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court ; 
 Yea, twice the sum : if that will not suffice, 
 I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er. 
 On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart; 
 If this will not suffice, it must appear 
 That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you. 
 Wrest once the law to your authority ; 
 To do a great right do a little wrong : 
 And curb this cruel devil of his will. 
 
 POR. It must not be ; there is no power in Venice 
 Can alter a decree established : 
 'Twill be recorded for a precedent ; 
 And many an error, by the same example. 
 Will rush into the state : it cannot be. 
 
Selections. 387 
 
 Shy. a Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
 O wise young judge, how do I honour thee ! 
 
 PoR. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. 
 
 Shy. Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. 
 
 PoR. Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee. 
 
 Shy. An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven : 
 Shall! lay perjury upon my soul ? 
 No, not for Venice. 
 
 PoR. Why, this bond is forfeit ; 
 
 And lawfully by this the Jew may claim 
 A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off 
 Nearest the merchant's heart : — be merciful ; 
 Take thrice thy money ; bid me tear the bond. 
 
 Shy. When it is paid according to the tenour. 
 It doth appear you are a worthy judge ; 
 You know the law, your exposition 
 Hath been most sound : I charge you by the law 
 Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar. 
 Proceed to judgment : by my soul I swear 
 There is no power in the tongue of man 
 To alter me : I stay here on my bond. 
 
 Ant. Most heartily I do beseech the court 
 To give the judgment. 
 
 PoR. Why then, thus it is : 
 
 You must prepare your bosom for his knife. 
 
 Shy. noble judge ! excellent young man ! 
 
 PoR. For the intent and purpose of the law 
 Hath full relation to the penalty, 
 Which here appeareth due upon the bond. 
 
 Shy. 'Tis very true : O wise and upright judge ! 
 How much more elder art thou than thj' looks ! 
 
 PoR. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. 
 
 Shy. Ay, his breast. 
 
 So says the bond ; — Doth it not, noble judge ? 
 Nearest his heart, those are the very words. 
 
 PoR. It is so. Are there balance here, to weigh 
 The flesh ? Shy. I have them ready. 
 
388 The Canadian Elocutiomst. 
 
 POR. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge 
 To stop his wounds, lest he should bleed to death. 
 
 Shy. Is it so nominated in the bond ? 
 
 PoR. It is not so express'd ; but what of that ? 
 'Twere good you do so much for charity. 
 
 Shy. I cannot find it ; 'tis not in the bond. 
 
 PoR. Come, merchant, have you anything to say ? 
 
 Ant. But little ; I am arm'd, and well prepar'd. — 
 Give you your hand, Bassanio ; fare you well ! 
 Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you ; 
 For herein fortune shows herself more kind 
 Than is her custom : it is still her use, 
 To let the wretched man outlive his wealth. 
 To view with hollow eye, and wrinkled brow, 
 An age of poverty ; from which lingering penance 
 Of such a misery doth she cut me off. 
 Commend me to your honourable wife ; 
 Tell her the process of Antonio's end, 
 Say, how I lov'd you, speak me fair in death ; 
 And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge 
 Whether Bassanio had not once a love. 
 Repent not you that you shall lose your friend, 
 And he repents not that he pays your debt ; 
 For, if the Jew do cut but deep enough, 
 I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. 
 
 Bass. Antonio, I am married to a wife, 
 "Which is as dear to me as life itself; 
 But life itself, my wife, and all the world, 
 Are not with me esteem'd above thy life ; 
 I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all 
 Here to this devil, to deliver you. 
 
 PoR. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, 
 If she were by, to hear you make the offer. 
 
 Gratiano. I have a wife, whom I protest I love ; 
 I would she were in heaven, so she could 
 Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. 
 
 Ner. 'Tis well you ofier it behind her back ; 
 The wish would make else an unquiet house. 
 
Selections. 389 
 
 Shy. These be the Christian husbands : I have a 
 daughter ; 
 Would any of the stock of Barrabas 
 Had been her husband, rather than a Christian ! [Aside. 
 We trifle time : I pray thee pui-sue sentence. 
 
 PoE. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine ; 
 The court awards it, and the law doth give it. 
 
 Shy. Most rightful judge. 
 
 PoR. And you must cut this flesh from off' his breast ; 
 The law allows it, and the court awards it. 
 
 Shy. Most learned judge ! — A sentence ; come, prepare. 
 
 PoR. Tarry a little ; — there is something else. — 
 This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood ; 
 The words expressly are a pound of flesh : 
 Then take thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh ; 
 But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed 
 One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods 
 Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate 
 Unto the state of Venice. 
 
 Gra. upright judge ! — Mark, Jew ! — learned judge ! 
 
 Shy. Is that the law ? 
 
 Por. Thyself shall see the act : 
 
 For as thou urgest justice, be assur'd 
 Thou shait have justice, more than thou desirest. 
 
 Gra. learned judge ! — mark, Jew ; a learned judge ! 
 
 Shy. I take this offer then, — pay the bond thrice. 
 And let the Christian go. 
 
 Bass. Here is the money. Por. Soft. 
 
 The Jew shall have all justice ; — soft ; — no haste ; — 
 He shall have nothing but the penalty. 
 
 Gra. Jew ! an upright judge, a learned judge 1 
 
 Por. Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh. 
 Shed thou no blood ; nor cut thou less nor more, 
 But just a pound of flesh ; if thou tak'st more, 
 Or less, than just a pound, — be it so much 
 As makes it light, or heavy, in the substance. 
 Or the division of the twentieth part 
 
390 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Of one poor scruple, — nay, if the scale do turn 
 
 But in the estimation of a hair, — 
 
 Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. 
 
 Gra. a second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew ! 
 Now, infidel, I have thee on the hip. 
 
 POR. Why doth the Jew pause ? take thy forfeiture. 
 
 Shy. Give me my principal, and let me go. 
 
 Bass. I have it ready for thee ; here it is. 
 
 PoR. He hath refus'd it in the open court ; 
 He shall have merely justice, and his bond. 
 
 Gra. a Daniel, still say I ; a second Daniel !— 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. 
 
 Shy. Shall I not have barely my principal ? 
 
 PoR. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture, 
 To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. 
 
 Shy. Why then the devil give him good of it ! 
 I'll stay no longer question. 
 
 PoR. Tarry, Jew ; 
 
 The law hath yet another hold on you. 
 It is enacted in the laws of Venice, — 
 If it be proved against an alien, 
 That by direct or indirect attempts 
 He seeks the life of any citizen, 
 The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive 
 Shall seize one half his goods : the other half 
 Comes to the privy coffer of the state ; 
 And the offender's life lies in the mercy 
 Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice. 
 In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st : 
 For it appears by manifest proceeding, 
 That, indirectly, and directly too, 
 Thou hast contriv'd against the very life 
 Of the defendant ; and thou hast incurr'd 
 The danger formerly by me rehears'd. 
 Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the duke. 
 
 Gra. Beg that thou may'st have leave to hang thyself : 
 And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state. 
 Thou hast not left the value of a cord ; 
 
Selections. 391 
 
 Therefore, thou must be hanged at the state's charge. 
 
 Duke. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, 
 I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it : 
 For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's ; 
 The other half comes to the general state, 
 Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. 
 
 PoR. Ay, for the state ; not for Antonio. 
 
 Shy. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that : 
 You take my house, when you do take the prop 
 That doth sustain my house ; you take my life, 
 When you do take the means whereby I live. 
 
 PoR. What mercy can you render him, Antonio ? 
 
 Gra. a halter gratis ; nothing else, for God's sake. 
 
 Ant. So please my lord the duke, and all the court. 
 To quit the fine for one half of his goods ; 
 I am content, so he will let me have 
 The other half in use, to render it. 
 Upon his death, unto the gentleman 
 That lately stole his daughter ; 
 Two things provided more, — That for this favour. 
 He presently become a Christian ; 
 The other, that he do record a gift 
 Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd 
 Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. 
 
 Duke. He shall do this ; or else I do recant 
 The pardon that I late pronounced here. 
 
 PoR. Art thou contented, Jew; what dost thou ..say ? 
 
 Shy. I am content. 
 
 PoR. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. 
 
 Shy. I pray you give me leave to go from hence : 
 I am not well ; send the deed after me. 
 And I will sign it. 
 
 Duke. Get thee gone, but do it. 
 
 Gra. In christening, thou shalt have two godfathers; 
 Had I been judge, thou should'st have had ten more. 
 To bring thee to the gallows, not the font. 
 
 [Exit Shylock. 
 Shakespeare, 
 
392 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 THE FAITHFUL HOUSEWIFE. 
 
 I see her in her home content, 
 
 The faithful housewife, day by day, 
 
 Her duties seem like pleasures sent. 
 And joy attends her on her way. 
 
 She cares not for the loud acclaim 
 That goes with rank and social strife. 
 
 Her wayside home is more than fame ; 
 She is its queen — the faithful wife. 
 
 When summer days are soft and fair, 
 And bird-songs fill the cottage trees. 
 
 She reaps a benison as rare. 
 As her own gentle ministries. 
 
 Peace shrines itself upon her face. 
 And happiness in every look ; 
 
 Her voice is full of charm and grace, 
 Like music of the summer brook. 
 
 In winter when the days are cold. 
 And all the landscape dead and bare, 
 
 How well she keeps her little fold, 
 How shines the fire beside her chair ! 
 
 The children go with pride to school, 
 The father's toil half turns to play ; 
 
 So faithful is her frugal rule. 
 So tenderly she moulds the day. 
 
 Let higher stations vaunt their claim, 
 Let others sing of rank and birth ; 
 
 The faithful housewife's honest fame 
 Is linked to the best joy on earth. 
 
Selections. 393 
 
 SCENE FROM RICHELIEU. 
 Enter julie de mortemar 
 
 Richelieu. That's my sweet Julie ! why, upon this 
 face 
 Blushes such daybreak, one might swear the morning 
 Were come to visit Tithon. 
 
 Julie (placing Jterself at his feet). Are you gracious ? 
 May I say " Father ? " 
 
 Rich. Now and ever ! 
 
 Julie. Father ! 
 A sweet word to an orphan.. 
 
 Rich. No ; not orphan 
 While Richelieu lives ; thy father loved me well ; 
 My friend, ere I had flatterers (now I'm great, 
 In other phrase, I'm friendless) — he died young 
 In years, not service, and bequeathed thee to me ; 
 And thou shalt have a dowry, girl, to buy 
 Thy mate amid the mightiest. Drooping ? — sighs ? — 
 Art thou not happy at the court ? 
 
 Julie. Not often. 
 
 Rich, (aside). Can she love Baradas ? Ah ' at thy 
 heart 
 There's what can smile and sigh, blush and grow pale, 
 All in a breath ! Thou art admired — art joung ; 
 Does not his Majesty commend thy beauty — 
 Ask thee to sing to him ? — and swear such sounds 
 Had smoothed the brow of Saul ? 
 
 Julie. He's very tiresome. 
 Our worthy King. 
 
 Rich. Fie ! Kings are never tiresome 
 Save to their ministers. What courtly gallants 
 Charm ladies most ? — De Sourdioc' Longueville, or 
 The favorite Baradas ? 
 
 Julie. A smileless man — 
 I fear and shun him. 
 
394 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Rich. Yet he courts thee ! 
 
 JUUE. Then 
 He is more tiresome than his Majesty. 
 
 Rich. Right, girl, shun Baradas. Yet of these flowers 
 Of France, not one, in whose more honeyed breath 
 Thy heart hears Summer whisper ? 
 
 Enter Huguet. 
 
 HuGUET. The Chevalier 
 De Mauprat waits below. 
 
 Julie, {starting up). De Mauprat ! 
 
 Rich. Hem ! 
 He has been tiresome too ! — Anon. \_Exit Huguet. 
 
 Julie. What doth he ? 
 
 I mean — I -Does your Eminence — that is — 
 
 Know you Messire de Mauprat ? 
 
 Rich. Well ! — and you — 
 Has he addressed you often ? 
 
 Julie. Often ? No — 
 Nine times : nay, ten ; — the last time by the lattice 
 Of the great staircase. {In a melancholy tone) The 
 Court sees him rarely. 
 
 RjCH. A bold and forward royster ! 
 
 Julie. He'i nay, modest, 
 Gentle and sad, methinks. 
 
 Rich. Wears gold and azure ? 
 
 Julie. No ; sable. 
 
 Rich. So you note his colours, Julie ? 
 Shame on you, child, look loftier. By the mass, 
 I have business with this modest gentleman. 
 
 Julie. You're angry with poor Julie. There's no 
 cause. 
 
 Rich, No cause — you hate my foes ? 
 
 Julie. I do ! 
 
 Rich. Hate Mauprat ? 
 
 Julie. Not Mauprat. No, not Adrien, father. 
 
Selections. 395 
 
 Rich. Adrien ! 
 Familiar ! — Go, child ; no, — not that way ; — wait 
 In the tapestry chamber ; I will join you, — go. 
 
 Julie. His brows are knit ; I dare not call him 
 father ! 
 But I must speak. Your Eminence — ■ 
 
 Rich, {sternly). "Well, girl ! 
 
 Julie. Nay, 
 Smile on me — one smile more ; there, now I'm happy. 
 Do not rank Mauprat with your foes ; he is not, 
 I know he is not ; he loves France too well. 
 
 Rich. Not rank De Mauprat with my foes ? 
 So be it. 
 I'll blot him from that list. 
 
 Julie. That's my own father. [Exit Julie. 
 
 Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer. 
 
 "DIGS TE GUARDE." 
 
 FROM THE SPANISH. 
 
 God keep thee safe, my dear. 
 
 From every harm, 
 Close in the shelter of 
 
 His mighty arm ! 
 So, when thou must look out 
 Over earth's noise and rout 
 May thy calm soul be free 
 
 From all alarm. 
 
 Or if He shall ordain. 
 He, the Most Wise, 
 
 That woe shall come, that tears 
 Shall dim thine eyes. 
 
3896 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 May He still hold thee near, 
 Dispelling doubt and fear, 
 Giving thy prostrate heart 
 Strength to arise. 
 
 And when His night comes, love, 
 
 And thou must go. 
 May He still call to thee, 
 
 Tenderly, low, 
 Cradled upon His breast 
 Sinking to sweetest rest, 
 God have thee safe, my dear. 
 And keep thee so. 
 
 TO HER HUSBAND ; 
 Written in the prospect of death, 1640. 
 
 How soon, my dear, death may my steps attend. 
 How soon't may be thy lot to lose thy friend. 
 We both are ignorant. Yet love bids me 
 These farewell lines to recommend to thee. 
 That, when that knot's untied that made us one, 
 I may seem thine, who in effect am none. 
 And, if I see not half my days that's due. 
 What Nature would God grant to yours and you. 
 The many faults that well you know I have 
 Let be interred in my oblivious grave ; 
 If any worth or virtue is in me ; 
 Let that live freshly in mj^ memory. 
 And when thou feel'st no grief, as I no harms. 
 Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms ; 
 And, when thy loss shall be repaid with gains, 
 Look to my little babes, my dear remains. 
 And, if thou lov'st thyself or lovest me. 
 These oh, protect from stepdame's injury ! 
 
Selections. 397 
 
 And, if chance to thine eyes doth bring this verse, 
 With some sad sighs honour my absent hearse ; 
 And kiss this paper, for thy love's dear sake. 
 Who with salt tears this last farewell doth take. 
 
 Anne Bradstreet. 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 Was it the chime of a tiny bell. 
 
 That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, 
 Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell. 
 
 That he winds on the beach so mellow and clear. 
 When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 
 And the moon and the fairy are watching the deep. 
 She dispensing her silvery light, 
 And he his notes as silvery quite. 
 While the boatman listens and ships his oar. 
 To catch the music that comes from the shore ? — 
 Hark ! the notes on my ear that play. 
 Are set to words : as they float, they say, 
 "Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
 But, no ; it was not a fairy's shell. 
 
 Blown on the beach so mellow and clear : 
 Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell 
 
 Striking the hours that fell on my ear, 
 As I lay in my dream : yet was it a chime 
 That told of the flow of the stream of Time ; 
 For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung. 
 And a plump little girl for a pendulum, swung; 
 (As you've sometimes seen, in a little ring 
 That hangs in his cage, a canary bird swing :) 
 And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, 
 And as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
398 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 Oh, how bright were the wheels, that told 
 
 Of the lapse of time as they moved round slow ! 
 And the hands as they swept o'er the dial of gold 
 
 Seemed to point to the girl below. 
 And lo ! she had changed ;- — in a few short hours, 
 Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers. 
 That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung 
 This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
 In the fullness of grace and womanly pride. 
 That told me she soon was to be a bride ; 
 
 Yet then, when expecting her happiest day. 
 In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 
 " Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
 While I gazed on that fair one's cheek, a shade 
 
 Of thought, or care, stole softly over. 
 Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, 
 
 Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. 
 The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush 
 Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
 
 And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, 
 That marched so calmly round above her. 
 
 Was a little dimmed — as when evening steals 
 Upon noon's hot face : — yet one couldn't but love her ; 
 For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay 
 Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ; 
 And she seemed in the same silver tone to say, 
 " Passing awa}^ ! passing away !" 
 
 While yet I looked, what a change there came ! 
 
 Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan ; 
 Stooping and staffed was her withered frame. 
 
 Yet just as busily swung she on : 
 The garland beneath her had fallen to dust ; 
 The wheels above her were eaten with rust ; 
 The hands, that over the dial swept. 
 Grew crook'd and tarnished, but on they kept ; 
 
Selections. 399 
 
 And still there came that silver tone 
 Frotn the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone, 
 (Let me never forget, to my dying day, 
 The tone or the burden of that lay) — 
 " Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
 Pierpont. 
 
 FROM THE FIRST ORATION AGAINST 
 CATILINE. 
 
 How far wilt thou, Catiline, abuse our patience ? 
 How long shall thy madness outbrave our justice ?^ To 
 what extremities art thou resolved to push thy unbridled 
 insolence of guilt ! Canst thou behold the nocturnal arms 
 that watch the palatium, the guards of the city, the con- 
 sternation of the citizens ; all the wise and worthy clus- 
 tering into consultation ; this impregnable situation of the 
 seat of the senate, and the reproachful looks of the fatheis 
 of Rome ? Canst thou, I say, behold all this, and jet 
 remain undaunted and unabashed? Art thou sensible 
 that thy measures are detected ? 
 
 Art thou sensible that this senate, now thoroughly 
 informed, comprehend the full extent of thy guilt ? Point 
 me out the senator ignorant of thy practices, during the 
 last and the preceeding night : of the place where you met, 
 the company you summoned, and the crime you concerted. 
 The senate is conscious, the consul is witness to this : yet 
 mean and degenerate — the traitor lives ! Lives ! did I say ? 
 He mixes with the senate ; he shares in our counsels ; with 
 a steady eye he surveys us ; he anticipates his guilt ; he 
 enjoys his murderous thoughts, and coolly marks us out 
 for bloodshed. Yet we, boldly passive in our country's 
 cause, think we act like Romans if we can escape his fran- 
 tic rage. 
 
 Long since, Catiline ! ought the consul to have 
 doomed thy life a forfeit to thy country; and' to have di- 
 
400 The Canadian Elocutionist. 
 
 rected upon thy own head the mischief thou hast long 
 been medita.ting for ours. Could the noble Scipio, when 
 sovereign pontiff, as a private Roman kill Tiberius Grac- 
 chus for a slight encroachment upon the rights of this 
 country ; and shall we, her consuls, with persevering 
 patience endure Catiline, whose ambition is to desolate a 
 devoted world with fire and sword ? 
 
 There was — there was a time, when such was the 
 spirit of Rome, that the resentment of her magnanimous 
 sons more sternly crushed the Roman traitor, than the 
 most inveterate enemy. Strong and weighty, Catiline ! 
 is the decree of the senate we can now produce against 
 you ; neither wisdom is wanting in this state, nor author- 
 ity in this assembly ; but we, the consuls, we are defective 
 in our duty. 
 
 Cicero. 
 
 THE INEXPERIENCED SPEAKER. 
 
 The awkard, untried speaker rises now, 
 
 And to the audience makes a jerking bow. 
 
 He staggers — almost falls — -stares — strokes his chin — 
 
 Clears out his throat, and . . ventures to begin. 
 
 " Sir, I am . . sensible" — (some titter near him) — 
 
 " I am, .sir, sensible" — " Hear ! hear ! " (they cheer him). 
 
 Now bolder grown — for praise mistaking pother — 
 
 He pumps first one arm up, and then the other. 
 
 " I am, sir, sensible — I am indeed — 
 
 That, . . though — I should — want — words — I must proceed 
 
 And . . for the first time in my life, I think^ 
 
 I think — that — no great — orator — should — shrink — 
 
 And therefore, — Mr. Speaker, — I, for one — 
 
 Will . . speak out freely. — Sir, I've not yet done. 
 
 Sir, in the name of those enlightened men 
 
 Who sent me here to . . speak for them — why, then . . 
 
 To do my duty — as I said before — 
 
 To my constituency — I'll... say no more." 
 
SKETCHES OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Addison, Joseph, bnm May ]at, 1672, at Milston, Wiltshire, 
 son of the Rev. Lancelot Addison, was educated at the Charter- 
 house and at Magdalen College, Oxford. He was destined for the 
 church, but turned his attention to political life, and became even- 
 tually a member of parliament, and in 1717, one of the principal 
 Secretaries of State. He first rose into public notice, through his 
 poem on the battle of Blenheim, written in 1 704, and entitled. The 
 Campaign. He was chief contributor to The Spectator. His tragedy 
 of Cato, produced in 1713, achieved a great popularity, which, how- 
 ever, has not been permanent. He died on June l7th, 1719. As 
 an observer of life, of manners, of all shades of human character, he 
 stands in the first class. 
 
 Aldrtch, Thomas Bailey, an American poet, born at Ports- 
 mouth, New Hampshire, 1836. He has been an industrious worker 
 on the newspaper press, and is the author of Baby Bell, a beautiful 
 poem of child-death. He has published his collected poems under 
 the title of Cloth of Gold, and of Flower and Thorn. He is also a 
 prose writer of considerable note, having an exquisite humour. His 
 published novels are Prudence Palfrey, The Queen of Sheba, The Still- 
 water Tragedy, etc. 
 
 Aytoun, William Edmondsiottne, an eminent critic and poet, 
 born in Fifeshire, Scotland, in 1813. He studied law, and was ap- 
 pointed Professor of Bhetoric in Edinburgh University in 1845, and 
 was closely connected with Blackwood's Magazine for many years. 
 He was a poet of the highest order, and his Execution of Montrose, 
 and the Burial March'of Dundee, are two noble historical ballads. 
 He was author of the celebrated Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers, Bon 
 Gaultier Ballads, Firmilian, a Spasmodic Tragedy, Bothwell, Poland, 
 and other Poems, The Life and Times of Richard Cwur de Lion, etc. 
 Died August 4th, 1865. 
 
 Bbeohbk, Heney Waud, a celebrated author and divine, born at 
 Litchfield, Connecticut, on the 24th of January, 1813. He studied 
 at Amherst College, where he graduated in 1834. In 1847, he be- 
 came pastor of Plymouth Church (Congregational), Brooklyn. He 
 is one of the most popular writers, and [most successful lecturers of 
 Y 
 
402 Sketches of Authors. 
 
 the day in the United States. He has published, Lechires to Young 
 Men, Life Thoughts, a novel entitled Norwood, etc. 
 
 Bronte, Charlotte (Currer Bell). A popular English novelist, 
 born at Thornton, Yorkshire, April 21st, 1816, was a; daughter of 
 the Rev. Patrick Bronte. In 1846, in conjunction with her sisters 
 — Anne and Emily^published a small volume of poems. It was as 
 a writer of fiction, however, that Charlotte achieved her great suc- 
 cess, and in 1848, her novel of Jane Eyre, obtained great popularity, 
 and brought the talented author well mertted fame. She after- 
 wards published Shirley and Villette, both very successful works. In 
 June, 1854, she married the Rev. Arthur B. NichoUs, but after a 
 brief taste of domestic happiness, she died at Haworth, March 31st, 
 1855. The Professor, her first production (written in 1846), was pub- 
 lished in 1856, after her death. 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, one of the most gifted female 
 poets that have ever lived, the daughter of Mr. Barrett, an opulent 
 London merchant, born near Ledbury, Herefordshire, about 1807. 
 She began to write verse when only ten years of age, and gave early 
 proofs of great poetical genius. At the age of seventeen, she pub- 
 lished An Essay on Mind, with other Poems, and her reputation was 
 widely extended by The Seraphim and other Poems, published in 
 1838. In 1846, she was married to Robert Browning, the poet, and 
 they lived for many years in Italy. In 1851, she published Casa 
 Guidi Windows, the impressions of thewriter upon events in Tus- 
 cany, and in 1856, appeared ^iirora Leigh, a poem, or novel inverse, 
 which is greatly admired. " The poetical reputation of Mrs. Brown- 
 ing," says the North British Review (February, 1857), "has been 
 growing slowly, until it has reached a height which has never before 
 been attained by any modern poetess." She died at Florence, June 
 29th, 1861, 
 
 Browning, Robert, a distinguished English poet, born at Cam- 
 berwell, London, in 1812. He was educated at the University of 
 London, and in 1836 published his first poem, Paracelsus, which at- 
 tracted much attention by its originality. He has been a volumin- 
 ous writer, and of all his works, Pippa Passes, and The Blot in the 
 Scutcheon, are perhaps the best. The Ring and the Book appeared 
 in 1868. He is considered by some critics as one of the greatest 
 English poets of his time, but is not very popular. 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen, an American poet, born at Cum- 
 mington, Massachusetts, November 3rd, 1794. At the age of ten 
 years he made very creditable translations from the Latin poets, 
 which were printed, and at thirteen he wrote The' Embargo, a political 
 satire which was never surpassed by any poet of that age. He 
 
Sketches of Authors. 403 
 
 wrote Thanatopsis when but little more tlia:i eighteen, and it is by 
 many considered as his finest poem. In 1826 he became one of the 
 editors of the Evening Post, which he continued to edit until 
 his death. He published a complete collection of his poems in 
 1832, and in 1864 Among his prose works are, Letters of a Tra- 
 veller, and in 1869 he published a translation of Homer's Iliad, 
 which is an excellent work. Washington Irving says of Bryant : 
 " That his close observation of the phenomena of nature, and the 
 graphic felicity of his details, prevent his descriptions from becom- 
 ing commonplace." He died June 12th, 1878. 
 
 Burns, Robb?,t, the national poet of Scotland, was the son of a 
 small farmer, and was born near the town of Ayr, on January, 25th, 
 1759. His early life was spent in farming, but he was about emi- 
 grating to the West Indies, when the publication of a volume of his 
 poems, in 1786, which were very favourably received, determined 
 him on remaining in his native land, and he proceeded to Edin- 
 burgh, where he made the acquaintance of the distinguished men 
 of letters of that famous city. His reception was triumphant, and 
 a new edition of his poems was issued, by which he realised more 
 than £500. In 1788 he was married to Miss Jean Armour (Bonnie 
 Jean), and soon after obtained a place in the excise, and in 1791 
 he removed to Dumfries, where he spent the remainder of his life. 
 He died on July 21st, 1796. Nature had made Burns the greatest 
 among lyric poets ; the most striking characteristics of his poetry 
 are simplicity and intensity, in which qualities he is scarcely, if at 
 all, inferior to any of the greatest poets that have ever lived. " No 
 poet except Shakespeare," says Sir Walter Scott, " ever possessed 
 the power of exciting the most varied and discordant emotions with 
 such rapid transitions." 
 
 Bykom, Dr. John, an English poet, born at Kersal, near Man- 
 chester, in 1691. He contributed several pieces to the Spectator, 
 of which the beautiful pastoral of Colin and Phoebe, in No. 603, is 
 the most noted. He invented a system of shorthand, which is still 
 known by his name. Died at Manchester in 1763. 
 
 Byron, Gbobgb Gordon Noel (Lord), an English poet and 
 dramatist of rare genius, was born in London, January 22nd, 1788. 
 He was educated partly 'at Harrow, and in 1805 proceeded to Trinity 
 College, Cambridge. While at College he published, in 1807, 
 his Hours of Idleness, a volume of juvenile poems, which was 
 severely criticised in the Edinhwrgh Review. Two years later he 
 published his reply, English Bards and Scotch Btviewers, a satire 
 which obtained immediate celebrity. In 1812 he gave the world the 
 fruits of his travels on the continent, in the first two Cantos of 
 
404 Sketches of Authors. 
 
 Ghilde Harola's Pilgrimage. The success of this was so extraordinary 
 that, as he tells us, "he awoke one morning and found himself 
 famous." He then took his seat in the House of Lords, but soon 
 lost his interest in politics. In 1813 he published The Oiaour, and 
 Tlie Bridle of Abydos, and in 1814, The Corsair. In January, 1815, 
 he married Anne Isabella Milbank, only daughter of Sir Ralph 
 Milbank, but the marriage was an unhappy one, and she returned 
 to her father's in the January of 1816. In April, 1816, Byron left 
 his country with the avowed intention of never seeing it again, and 
 during his absence he published, in rapid succession, the remaining 
 cantos of Childe Harold, Mazeppa, Manfred, Gain, Sardanapalus, 
 Marino Faliero, The Two Foscari, Werner, and Don Juan, besides 
 many other smaller poems. During his residence on the Continent, 
 his sympathies for Grecian liberty became strongly excited, and he 
 resolved to devote all his energies to the cause, and left Italy in the 
 summer of 1823. He arrived in Missolonghi on January 10th, 1824. 
 On February 15th he was seized with a convulsive fit, which ren- 
 dered him senseless for some time. On April 9th he got wet, took 
 cold and a fever, on the 11th he grew worse, and on the 19th he 
 died, inflammation of the brain having set in. Among the most re- 
 markable characteristics of Byron's poetry, two are deserving of 
 particular notice. The first is his power of expressing intense emo- 
 tion, especially when it ia associated with the darker passions of 
 the soul. "Never had any writer," says Macaulay, " so vast a 
 command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy and des- 
 pair Prom maniac laughter to piercing lamentation, 
 
 there is not a single note of human anguish of which he was not 
 master." 
 
 Campbell, Thomas, an eminent British poet, born at Glasgow 
 in 1777. In 1799 he published Tlie Pleasures of Hope, of which the 
 success has perhaps had no parallel in English literature. He 
 visited the continent in 1800 and witnessed the battle of Hohen- 
 linden, which furnished the subject of one of his most exquisite 
 lyrics. Gertrude of Wyoming, published in 1809, is one of his 
 finest poems. He wrote several spirited odes, etc., and other 
 literary work, 1 as placed his fame on an enduring basis. He died 
 at Boulogne, in 1844, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 Gary, Altce, an American author, born near Cincinnati, Ohio, 
 about 1822. She first attracted attention by her contributions to 
 the National Era, under the name of Patty Lee ; she afterwards 
 published several volumes of poems and other works, including 
 Hagar, Bollywood, etc. Her sketches of Western Life, entitled 
 Olovemook, have obtained extensive popularity. She died, Febru- 
 ary 12th, 1871. 
 
Sketches of Authors. 405 
 
 Caky, Phcebe, a sister of Alice, has also contributed to periodical 
 literature and in 1854 published a volume entitled Poems and 
 Parodies. She died July 31st, 1871. 
 
 CoLEEiDGE, Samuel Tayloe, an eminent English poet and critic, 
 born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, October 21st, 3772. In 
 1796, he published a small volume of poems and in 1797, in con- 
 junctioi) with Mr. Wordsworth, he formed the plan of the Lyrical 
 Ballads, for which he wrote the Ancient Ma/riner. In 1800 he re- 
 moved to Keswick, where he resided in company with Wordsworth 
 and Southey, the three friends receiving the appellation of the Lake 
 Poets. He wrote several excellent works, of which Christabel is 
 the best. He led a somewhat wandering life and died on July 
 2oth, 1834. As a poet, he was one of the most imaginative of 
 modern times, and as a critic his merits were of the highest order. 
 
 Collins, William, an eminent English lyric poet, born at 
 Chichester, in 1720. He was a friend of Dr. Johnson, who speaks 
 well of him. His best known work is his excellent ode on, The 
 Passions, which did not receive the fame its merits deserve. Be- 
 fore his death, which occurred in 1756, he was for some time an in- 
 mate of a lunatic asylum. 
 
 CowPEK, William, a celebrated English poet, originally intended 
 for a lawyer, and appointed as Clerk of the Journals in the House 
 of Lords at the age of 31 years, but his constitutional timidity 
 prevented him from accepting it. He had to be placed in a lunatic 
 asylum for some time. He was bornat Berkhampstead in 1731. In 
 1767 he took up his abode at Olney, in Buckinghamshire, where he 
 devoted himself to poetry, and in 1782 published a volume uf 
 poems, which did not excite much attention, but a second volume, 
 published in 1785, stamped his reputation as a true poet. His 
 Task, Sofa, John Gilpin, are works of enduring excellence. In 1794 
 his intellect again gave way, from which he never recovered, and 
 he died at Dereham, in Norfolk, April 23th, 1800. 
 
 Croly, Rev. Gbobge, a popular poet, born in Dublin in 1780. 
 He was for many years rector of St. Stephen's, Wallbrook, Lon- 
 don, and was eminent as a pulpit orator. His principal works are: 
 The Angel of the World ; a tragedy, entitled Cataline, Salathiel, 
 etc. He died November 24th, 1860. 
 
 Dickens, Charles, one of the most successful of modern novel- 
 ists, was born at Landport, Portsmouth, February 7th, 1812. In- 
 tended for the law, he became a most successful reporter for the 
 newspapers, and was employed on the Morning Chronicle, in which 
 paper first appeared the famous Sketches by Bot, his first work. The 
 
406 Sketches of Authors. 
 
 Pickwick Papers which followed, placed him at once in the foremost 
 rank of popular writers of fiction. His novels are so well known 
 that any list of their titles is superfluous. In 1850 he commenced 
 the publication of Household Words, which he carried on until 1859 
 when he established All the Year Round, with which he was con- 
 nected until his death, which occurred very suddenly at his resi- 
 dence. Gad's Hill, Kent, on June 9th, 1870. He left his latest 
 work. The Mystery of Mdwid Drood, unfinished, and it remains a 
 fragment. 1 1 was not merely as a humorist, though that was his 
 great distinguishing characteristic, that Dickens obtained such un- 
 exampled popularity. He was a public instructor, a reformer and 
 moralist. Whatever was good and amiable, bright and joyous in 
 our nature, he loved, supported and augmented by his writings ; 
 whatever was false, hypocritical and vicious, he held np to ridicule, 
 scorn and contempt. 
 
 Dryden, John, a celebrated English poet, born at Aldwinckle, 
 Northamptonshire, August 9th, 1631. He was educated at Trinity 
 College, Cambridge, where he received his degree of M.A. He re- 
 moved to London iu 1657, and wrote many plays, and on the death 
 of Sir William Davenport he was made poet laureate. On the 
 accession of James 11. Dryden became a Roman Catholic and en- 
 deavoured to defend his new faith at the expense of the old one, in 
 a poem entitled The Bind and the Panther. At the Revolution he 
 lost his post, and in 1697 his translation of Virgil appeared, which, 
 of itself alone is suflicient to immortalize his name. His ode, 
 Ale.'xuider's Feast, is esteemed by some critics as the finest in the 
 English language. He died May 1st, 1700. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver, one of the most distinguished ornaments of 
 English literature, born at Pallas, Ireland, in 1728. He studied at 
 Trinity College, Dublin and afterward at Edinburgh. He traveled 
 over Europe, on foot, and returned to England in 175G, and settled 
 ill London. It was not until 1764 that he emerged from obscurity 
 by the publication of his poem entitled The Traveller. In the 
 following year appeared his beautiful novel of the Vicar of Wake- 
 field. In 1770 he published The Deserted Village, a poem, which in 
 point of description and pathos, is beyond all praise. As a drama- 
 tist he was very successful and he produced many prose works. 
 He died in London on the 4th of April, 1774. 
 
 Gray, Thomas, an English poet of great merit, born in London 
 in 1716. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge and in 1738 en- 
 tered the Inner Temple, but never engaged much in the study of 
 the law. In 1742 he took up his residence in Cambridge, where, 
 in 1768, he became professor of modern history. The odes of Gray 
 
Sl'ctchcs of Authors. 407 
 
 are of uncommon merit, and his Elegy in a Country Churchyardhaa 
 long been considered as one of the finest poems in the English lan- 
 guage. He died in July, 1771. He occupied a very high rank in 
 English literature, not only as a poet, but as an accomplished prose 
 writer. 
 
 Halieck, Fitz-Greenb, an American poet, born at Guildford, 
 Conn., July 8th, 1790. He became a clerk in the office of J, J. 
 Astor, and employed his leisure moments in the service of the 
 Muses. In ] 819, in conjunction with his friend, Joseph R. Drake, 
 he wrote the celebrated Croaker Papers, a series of satirical poems 
 which brought him into public notice. On his martial poem, 
 Marco Bozzaris, published in 1827, his fame principally rests, 
 although he has written other pieces of great merit. He died 
 November 19th, 1867. 
 
 Haete, Francis Bret, a native of Albany, N.Y., has written 
 short stories and sketches of Californian life, aad several poems in 
 dialect, of which The Heathen Chinee, is the most celebrated. He 
 possesses great wit and pathos, and has been very successful in 
 novel writing, and also in writing for the stage. 
 
 Hemans, Felicia Dorothea, an excellent English poet, born at 
 Liverpool, September 25th, 1794, was the daughter of a merchant 
 named Browne. Her first volume of poems was published in 1808. 
 In 1812 she married Capt. Hemans, but the marriage was a very 
 \iQhappy one and they separated in 1818. She is the most touch- 
 ing and accomplished writer of occasional verse that our literature 
 has yet to boast of. " Religious truth, moral purity and intellectual 
 beauty, ever meet together in her poetry." She died in Dublin, in 
 1835. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell, M.D., a distinguished American 
 poet, author and wit, was born at Cambridge, Mass., August 29tb, 
 1809. He studied law, but soon left it for medicine, and took his 
 degree of M.D. in 1836. In 1847, he was appointed Professor of 
 Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard University. He early began 
 writing poetry, publishing a collected edition of his poems in 1836. 
 He is a genuine poet, and as a song writer, has few if any superiors 
 in America, excelling in the playful vein. He is best known by his 
 series of excellent papers, contributed to the Atlantic Monthly, 
 under the title of The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, published 
 in 1857-8 ; The Professor at the Breakfast Table and the Poet at the 
 Breakfast Table. He has also written some successful novels, one 
 of which, The Guardian Angel, is one of the best American novels 
 yet produced. He has also written able works on subjects con- 
 nected with his profession. 
 
408 Sketches of Author's. 
 
 Hood, Thomas, a famous poet, humorist and popular author, 
 born in London in 1798. He was the son of a bookseller, served 
 an apprenticeship as an engraver, but soon betook himself to litera- 
 ture. In 1821 he was sub-editor of the Lo7idon Marjcvdne. His 
 novels and tales were less successful than his humorous works. 
 Among his most popular poems are : — The tSong of the Shirt, The 
 Bridge of Highs and the Dream of Eugene Aram. In the latter 
 years of his life — which was one of prolonged suffering — he was edi- 
 tor of The New Monthly Magazine. As a punster he is unrivalled, 
 and some of his serious poems are exquisitely tender and pathetic. 
 In all his works a rich current of genial humour runs, and his pleas- 
 ant wit, ripe observation and sound sense have made him an orna- 
 ment to English literature. He died March 3rd, 1845. 
 
 Hunt, J. H. Leiuh, a popular English poet, born at Southgate, 
 near London, October 19th, 1784. He early turned his attention 
 to literature, and obtained a clerkship in the War Office, which he 
 resigned in 1808, to occupy the joint editorship (along with his 
 brother John) of the Examiner. Their boldness in conducting 
 this paper led to their being imprisoned for two years and fined 
 £500 each, for some strictures on the Prince Regent which appear- 
 ed in its columns. He was a copious writer and his productions 
 occupy a wide range. Rimini, written while in prison, is one of his 
 best poems. Prof. Wilson styles Hunt " as the most vivid of poets 
 and the most cordial of critics." He died August 28th, 1859. 
 
 Ingeiow, Jean, a native of Ipswich, Suffolk, born about 182C, is 
 the author of several volumes of poems, the first of which ran 
 through 14 editions in five years. She wrote A Story of Doom and 
 other poems, published in 1867, Mopsa the I airy in 1869, and seve- 
 ral prose stories, etc. 
 
 Ikving, Washington, a distinguished American author and 
 humorist, born in New York City, April 3rd, 1783. He studied law 
 and was admitted to the bar, but soon abandoned the legal pro- 
 fession for literature. In 1809 he published his Knickerbocker's 
 Histoni of Ne%o York, a, humorous work which was very success- 
 ful. His works are very numerous, including the famous Sketch 
 Book, The Alhambra, Conquest of Gh-anada, Life of Columbus, Life 
 of Washington, etc. , etc. For easy elegance of style, Irving has no 
 superior, perhaps no equal, among the prose writers of America. 
 If Hawthorne excels him in variety, in earnestness and in force, 
 he is, perhaps, inferior to Irving in facility and grace, while he 
 can make no claim to that genial, lambent humour which beams 
 in almost every page of Geoffrey Crayon.- He died November 28th, 
 1859. 
 
SJcctc]ies of Authors. 409 
 
 Lamb, Chakles, a distinguished essayist and humorist, born in 
 London, Feby. 18th, 1775, and. educated at Christ's Hospital. In 
 1792 he became a clerk in the India House, a post he retained 
 for 33 years. He was a genial and captivating essayist and his fame 
 mainly rests on his delightful Mssays of Elia, which were first 
 printed in the London Magazine. His complete works include two 
 volumes of verse, the Essays of Elia, Specimens of the English 
 Dramatic Poets, etc., etc. For quaint, genial and unconventional 
 humour, Lamb has, perhaps, never been excelled. He died Decem- 
 ber 27th, 1834. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadswoeih, the most popular and artistic 
 of all American poets, was born in Portland, Maine, Feby. 27th, 
 1807. He graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825, and one year 
 afterwards was offered the professorship of Modern Languages at 
 that Institution, which he occupied until 1835, when he accepted 
 that of professor of Modern Languages at Harvard, which he con- 
 tinued to hold until 1854, when he resigned the chair. His poetical 
 works are well known and are very numerous, the most noted of 
 his longer pieces being Evangeline, The Golden Legend, Hiawatha, 
 Courtship of Miles Standish, etc. All his poetical works are dis- 
 tinguished by grace and beauty, warmed by a greater human 
 sympathy than is displayed in the writings of the majority of emi- 
 nent poets. He relies chiefly for his success on a simple and di- 
 rect appeal to those sentiments which are common to all mankind, 
 to persons of every rank and of every clime. He wrote only three 
 prose works, Outre-Mer, Hyperion and Kavanagh, and a few 
 dramas, all of which deserve to rank with the best American pro- 
 ductions. Evangeline is considered " to be the most jierfect speci- 
 men of the rhythm and melody of the English hexameter." He 
 died at Cambridge, Mass., March 24th 1882. 
 
 LovFELL, James EussBLL,a distinguished American poet, critic 
 and scholar, born in Cambridge, Mass., February 22nd, 1819. He 
 graduated from Harvard, in 1838, and was admitted to the bar, 
 but soon abandoned law as a profession and devoted himself to 
 literature. His Bigloiv Papers first made him popular, in 1848. 
 In 1857, on the establishment of the Atlantic Monthly, he was 
 made editor of that popular magazine. His prose works consist- 
 ing chiefly of critical and miscellaneous essays, " show their author 
 to be the leading American critic, are a very agreeable union of 
 wit and wisdom, and are the result of extensive reading, illuminated 
 by excellent critical insight." His humour is rich and unrivalled 
 and he seems equally at home in the playful, the pathetic, or the 
 meditative realms of poetry. In 1880, he was appointed Envoy 
 Extraordinary to Great Britain, which office he held until 1885. 
 
410 Sketches of Authors. 
 
 Lytton, Lord. Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer Lytton, a, 
 distinguished novelist, poet, dramatist and politician, was born 
 May, 1805. He was the son of William Earle Bulwer, and owes 
 his chief fame to his novels, some of which are among the best in 
 the English language, notably Tlie Caxtons, My Novel, What will He 
 do with It? and A Strange Stoi-y." As a playwright he was equally 
 successful ; he was the author of The Lady of Lyons — the most popu- 
 lar play of modern days ; — Richelieu, Not so Bad as we Seem, the 
 admirable comedy of Money, etc. A man of prodigious industry he 
 showed himself equal to the highest eflbrts of literature ; fiction, 
 poetry, the drama, all were enriched by bis labours. As a politician 
 he was not quite so successful. In 1866 he was raised to the peerage 
 as Baron Lytton. He assumed the name of Lytton, his mother's 
 maiden name, in 1844, on succeeding to the Knebworth estates. 
 He died January 18th, 1873, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 LyiTOif, Edward Robert Btjlwer. The son of the preceding 
 author, better known perhaps by his nom de plume, Owen Mere- 
 dith, born November 8th, 1831. He entered the diplomatic ser- 
 vice in 1849, and has represented the British Government with 
 great distinction. His chief works are Clytemnestra, Lucile, The 
 Wanderer, Fables in Song , The King of Amasis, a prose romance, etc. 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, a celebrated historian, oratorj 
 essayist and poet, was born at Rothley Temple, Lincolnshire, Octo" 
 ber 2oth, 1800. From his earliest years he exhibited signs of 
 superiority and genius, and earned a great reputation for his 
 verses and oratory. He studied law and was called to the Bar, 
 commencing his political career in 1830, and in 1834 he went to 
 India, as a member of the Supreme Council, returning in 1838 to 
 England, where for a few years he pursued politics and letters, 
 representing Edinburgh in the House of Commons, but being re- 
 jected, on appearing for re-election, he devoted himself to litera- 
 ture. During the last twelve years of his life his time was almost 
 wholly occupied with his History (if England, four volumes of which 
 he had completed and published, and a fifth left partly ready for 
 the press when he died. Besides the History and Essays, he wrote 
 a collection of beautiful ballads, including the well-known Lays of 
 Ancient Rome. In 1849 he was elected Lord Rector of the Univer- 
 sity of Glasgow, and in 1857, his honours culminated in his eleva- 
 tion to the peerage as Baron Macaulay. He died on the 28th of 
 December, 1859. 
 
 Milton, John. — An immortal poet, and with the exception of 
 Shakespeare, the most illustrious name in English Literature, was 
 born in Bread Street, London, on December 9th, 1608. He graduated 
 
Shetches of Authors. 411 
 
 at Cambridge, and was intended for the law or the Church, but 
 did not enter either calling. He settled at Horton in Buckingham- 
 shire, where he wrote his Comns, L' Allegro, II Penseroso, and Ly- 
 cidas. He took the side of the Parliament in the dispute with 
 King Charles I. and rendered his party efficient service with his 
 pen. About 1654 he became totally blind, and after serving the 
 Protector as Latin Secretary for four or five years, he retired from 
 public life in 1657. In 1665, the time of the Great Plague, he first 
 showed the finished manuscript of his great poem, Paradise Lost, 
 which was first printed in 1667, this immortal work being sold to a 
 book.seller for £5 ! He afterwards wrote Paradise Regained, but it 
 is, in all respects, quite inferior to Paradise Lost. He died in Lon- 
 don, on the 8th of November, 1674. 
 
 Moore, Thomas, a celebrated poet, born in Dublin, May 28th, 
 1779, and was educated at Trinity College in that city. He studied 
 law but never practised. He published two volumes of poems pre- 
 vious to the production of Lalla Rookh, his masterpiece, which 
 was highly successful and was published in ] 817. His works are 
 very numerous and some of them are extremely popular, the best 
 being Lalla Bookh and Irish Melodies. As a poet he displays 
 grace, pathos, tenderness and imagination, but is deficient in 
 power and naturalness. He died February 26th, 1852. 
 
 PoB, Edgar Allan, a distinguished American poet and prose 
 writer, born in Baltimore in 1809 . He was an entirely original 
 figure in American literature, his temperament was melancholy, he 
 hated restraint of every kind and he gave way to dissipation, and 
 his life is a wretched record of poverty and sufiering. But the 
 Bells, The Haven and Annabel Lee, his principal poetical works, are 
 wonderfully melodious, constructed with great ingenuity, and 
 finished with consummate art. He wrote several weird prose tales 
 and some critical essays. He died at Baltimore, under circum- 
 stances of great wretchedness, October 7th, 1849. 
 
 Pope, Alexander, a popular English poet and critic, bcrn in 
 London, May 22nd, 1688. During his childhood he displayed great 
 ability and resolved to be a poet. His Pastorals were written at 
 the age of sixteen. He wrote a large number of poems, the most 
 celebrated being the Essay on Criticism, The Rape of the Loch and 
 the Essay on Man. He also published translations of Homer's 
 Iliad and Odyssey. His talent for satire is conspicuous in the Uun- 
 caid. He possessed little originality or creative imagination, but 
 he had a vivid sense of the beautiful, and an exquisite taste. He 
 owed much of his popularity to the easy harmony of his verse, the 
 keenness of his satire, and the brilliancy of his antithesis. He has. 
 
412 Sketches of Authors. 
 
 with the exception of Shakespeare, added more phrases to the En- 
 glish language than any other poet. He died on the 30th of May, 
 1744. 
 
 Procter, Adelaide Anne, an English poet, bom in London, 
 October 30th, 1825. She was a daughter of Bryan Waller Procter 
 (Barry Cornwall). She was a contributor to Household Words and 
 All the Year Bound, and published in 1858, a volume of poetry, 
 Legends and Lyrics. A second volume was issued in 1861. She 
 died February '3rd, 1864. 
 
 Read, Thomas Buchanan, a distinguished American artist and 
 poet, born in Pennsylvania, March 12th, 1822. He visited Eng- 
 land and also spent several years in Florence and Rome. He wrote 
 several good poems, but his Sheridan's Bide, brought him more 
 popularity than any of his previous works. He died May 11th, 
 1872. 
 
 Rogers, Samuel, an eminent English poet, born in London, 
 July 30th, 1763. He was a rich banker and enabled to devote 
 much leisure time to literature, of which he was a munificent 
 patron. His best works are Pleasnres of Memory, Human Life, and 
 Italy, the last appeared in a magnificent form, having cost £10,000 
 in illustrations alone. Died December 18th, 1855. 
 
 Saxe, Jozn Godfrey, u, humorous American poet, born in Ver- 
 mont, in 1816. He has been most successfiil in classical travesties 
 and witty turns of language, and he has won a good place as it, 
 sonneteer. A complete edition of his poems (the 42nd) was publish- 
 ed in 1881. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter. An illustrious Scotch author, novelist and 
 poet, born in Edinburgh, August 15th, 1771. He was called to the 
 bar in 1792, and being in circumstances favourable for the pursuit 
 of literature, he commenced his poetical career, by translating 
 several poems from the German. In 1805, he published the Lay 
 of the Last Minstrel, and became at once one of the most distin- 
 tinguished poets of the age. It was speedily followed by Marmion 
 and ihe Lady of the Lake (1810), and many other poems, all of which 
 added to his fame. In August, 1813, he wa.s offered the position of 
 poet-laureate, which he declined. But he was descined to add to 
 his already great reputation as a poet, by a success equally as great 
 in the realms of prose fiction. In 1814 appeared Waterley, pub- 
 lished anonymously, and its success was enormous. It was quickly 
 followed by the other volumes of the " Great Unknown," as Scott 
 was now designated, amounting in all to twenty-seven volumes. In 
 1820 he was created a baronet and his degree of success had been 
 
SJirtcJtcs of Authors. 413 
 
 unparallelled and had raised him to apparent affluence, but, in 
 1826, by the failure of two publishing houses with which he was 
 connected, he was reduced to bankruptcy. He set himself reso- 
 lutely to redeem himself from the load of debt (£147,000) but, al- 
 though successful, his faculties gave way before the enormous 
 mental toil to which they were subjected. He died at Abbotsford, 
 Sept. 21st, 1832. In addition to the poetical works and the Waverly 
 Novels, Scott was the author of many other popular works, too well 
 known to need mentioning here. 
 
 Shakespbakb, William. — The greatest poet of England, born at 
 Stratford-on-Avon, Warwickshire, April 23rd, 1564. Unfortunate- 
 ly the materials for a biography of the poet are very meagre, and 
 are principally derived from tradition. He appears to have been 
 well educated, married very early, when about nineteen years of 
 age, his wife, Anne Hathaway, being then twenty-six. Shortly 
 after this he left Stratford for London, where he became an actor 
 and eventually a writer of plays. His first printed drama (Henry 
 VI., pait II.) was issued in 1594. In 1597, he purchased the best 
 house in his native town, and about 1604 he retired to Stratford, 
 where he spent the last twelve years of life, and where he is 
 supposed to have written many of his plays, but we have no means 
 of determining the exact order in which they were composed. He 
 died April 23rd, 1616. His works are of world-wide fame, and need 
 not be enumerated here. The name is often spelled Shakspeabe. 
 
 Shbllbt, Peecy Bysshe. — An eminent English poet, born near 
 Horsham, Sussex, August 4th, 1792. He stiidied at Oxford, from 
 whence he was expelled for publishing a Defence of Atheism. He 
 made an unhappy marriage and soon separated from his wife. He 
 published Queen Mah, Alsator, and in 1817 the Revolt of Islam. In 
 1818 he left England, to which he was destined never to return. 
 In July, 1822, (July 8th), while residing at Leghorn, he went out 
 on the Gulf of Spezzia, in a sail boat, which was upset in a squall, 
 and the poet perished. In addition to the poems already men- 
 tioned he wrote The Genci, Adonais, Prometheus, and a number of 
 smaller pieces. As a poet he was gifted with genius of a very high 
 order, with richness and fertility of imagination, but of a vague 
 and partly unintelligible character. 
 
 Shekidan, Kichard Bkinslby Butler. — A celebrated Irish 
 orator and dramatist, born in Dublin in 1751. He directed his 
 attention to literature, and in 1775 produced the comedy of The 
 Rivals, and several other pieces. In 1777, his celebrated comedy of 
 The School for Scandal, established his reputation as a dramatic 
 genius of the highest order. He managed Drury Lane Theatre for 
 
414 Sketches of Authors. 
 
 some time, and also entered Parliament. His speech on the im- 
 peachment of Warren Hastings is regarded as one of the most 
 splendid displays of eloquence in ancient or modern times. He 
 died in London, in July, 18.16. 
 
 SoDTHBY, Robert. — An eminent author and poet, born at Bris- 
 tol, August 12th, 1774. Intended for the church, he studied at 
 Oxford, but abandoned divinity for literature. His first poem was 
 Juan of Arc, published in 1796. He was a most voluminous writer, 
 being the author of more than 100 volumes of poetry, history, 
 travels, etc., and also of 126 papers, upon history, biography, poli- 
 tics and general literature. His principal works are Modoc, Tha- 
 laba the Destroyer, The Curse of Kehama, lives of Nelson, Bunymi, 
 John Wesley, etc., etc. He was appointed poet laureate in 1813. 
 He died at Keswick, Cumberland, March 21st, 1843. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred (Lord Tennyson), a distinguished and the 
 most popular English poet, born at Someraby, Lincolnshire, August 
 5th, 1809. He early displayed poetic genius, his first volume 
 (written in conjunction with his brother Charles) entitled. Poems 
 by Tivo Brothers, having been issued in 1827. In 1842, a volume of 
 his poems was published and was most enthusiastically received, 
 since which period his well-known productions have been issued at 
 intervals. We need only mention The Princess, In Memoriani, (a 
 record of the poet's love for Arthur Hallam), Maud, Idyls of the 
 King, .Enoch Arden, and the dramas of Queen Mary, Harold, etc. 
 In 1833 he was appointed poet-laureate. Refined taste and exqui- 
 site workmanship are the characteristics of all he has written. His 
 range of poetic power is very wide, and as a describer of natural 
 scenery he is unequalled, while his rich gift of imagination, his pure 
 and elevated diction, and his freedom from faults of taste and man- 
 ner, give him a high place amongst those who are the great masters 
 of song. He was elevated to the peerage in January, 1884, as Baron 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Thackeray, William Makepeace.— A distinguished English 
 novelist and humourist, was born in Calcutta, July 18th, 1811. He 
 was educated at Cambridge, and at first inclined to be an artist, but 
 after a few years, devoted himself to literature. He gained popu- 
 larity as a contributor to Punch, but his progress in popular favour 
 was not rapid, until in 1846, when he published his Vanity Fair, 
 one of his laest works, which raised him into the first rank of Eng- 
 lish novelists. His subsequent works all tended to enhance his 
 popularity. We need only mention Pendennis, the Newcomes, His- 
 tory of Henry Esmond, the Virginians, etc. He was also a popular 
 lecturer, and his lectures on the Four Georges, and The English 
 
Sketches of Authors. 415 
 
 Humourists of the Eighteenth Century, were very successful. He 
 edited the Cornhill Magazine from 1860 until April, 1862, when he 
 relinquished it, continuing however to write for the Magazine. He 
 died somewhat suddenly on December 24th, 1863, leaving a novel, 
 Deids Duval, unfinished. His inimitably graceful style, in which 
 he has been excelled by no novelist, may be in part due to his 
 familiarity with Addison, Steele, Swift and their contemporaries. 
 His pathos is as touching and sincere as his humour is subtle and 
 delit ate. His fame as a novelist has caused his poems to be some- 
 what neglected, but his admirable ballads and society verses, attain 
 a degree of excellence rarely reached by such performances. 
 
 Thomson, James. — A celebrated poet, born in Roxburghshire, 
 Scotland, September 11th, 1700. He went to London to seek his 
 fortune in 1725, and his poem of The Seasons, published in 1726-30, 
 was an important era in the history of English poetry, as it marked 
 the revival of the taste for the poetry of nature. Besides the 
 Seasons, Thomson wrote some tragedies, which were failures, also 
 what some critics consider his best work, The- Gastle of Indoleiice, 
 published in 1748. He is often careless and dull, his poetry dis- 
 figured by classic allusions to Ceres, Pomona, Boreas, etc., but he 
 had a genuine love of nature, and his descriptions, despite their 
 artificial dress, bear the stamp of reality. He was successful in 
 obtaining a comfortable competence by his literary exertions, and 
 died August 27th, 1748. 
 
 Twain, Maek (Samuel Langhome Clemens.) An American 
 humourist, who has achieved great popularity, was born in Florida, 
 Missouri, in 1835, and after an apprenticeship on the "Press," 
 sprang into notice on the publication of his Innocents Abroad, pub- 
 lished in 1869, a semi-burlesque account of the adventures of a 
 party of American tourists in Europe and the East. Roughing Tt, 
 and other works of his published subsequently, have been equally 
 successful. The qualities of his style are peculiar, slyness and 
 cleverness in jesting being his predominant qualities. 
 
 Whittier, John Greenleaf. — The Quaker Poet of America, 
 born December 17th, 1807, near Haverhill, Mass. He passed his 
 early years on his father's farm, but in 1829 he began to be con- 
 nected with the "Press" and edited newspapers until 1839. He 
 early identified himself with the Anti-Slavery movement and ren- 
 dered it noble service by his pen and influence. His first work. 
 Legends of New England, viras published in 1831. His works are 
 very numerous, Maud Miiller being the best known of his poems, 
 and Barbara Frietchie of his poeuis connected with the Civil War. 
 As a writer of prose he unites strength and grace in an unusual de- 
 
416 Sketches of Authors. 
 
 gree, and his poetic effusions are characterized by intense feeling 
 and by all the spirit of the true lyric poet. 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel Parker. — A distinguished American poet 
 and writer, born at Portland, Maine, January 20th, 1806. He 
 graduated from Yale in 1827 and devoted himself to literature, 
 publishing a volume in that year which was well received. He 
 wrote between thirty and forty separate publications, in addition 
 to editing the Emidng Mirror and other periodicals including the 
 Home Journal. Though marred by occasional affectation, the 
 sketches of Willis are light, graceful compositions, but the arti- 
 ficiality of hia poems have caused them to be neglected. He died 
 at Idlewild, New York, January 20th, 1867. 
 
 Wordsworth, William. — An illustrious English poet, bom at 
 Cockermouth, Cumberland, April 7th, 1770. He studied at Cam- 
 bridge and took his B. A. degree in 1791. In 1793 (after a residence 
 for a short time in France) he produced his first verses, entitled An 
 Evening Wall;. In 1798, a small volume entitled Lijrical Ballads, 
 was published in conjunction with S. T. Coleridge, but was not a 
 success. In 1800, he settled in Grasmere, Westmoreland, where 
 also resided Southey, Coleridge, de Quincy, and Wilson, to whom 
 the critics applied the term " Lake School." In 1813 he removed 
 to Bydal Mount, where he published The Excursion in 1814, The 
 jriiite Doe of Rylston, Peter Bell, The. Waggoner, The Prelude, etc. 
 In 1843 he was appointed to succeed Southey as poet-laureate. He 
 is undoubtedly a poet of the first rank. Regarding Nature as a 
 living and mysterious whole, constantly acting on humanity, the 
 visible universe and its inhabitants were alike to him full of wonder, 
 awe and mystery. His influence on the literature and poetry of 
 Britain and America has been immense, and is yet far from being 
 exhausted. He died April 23rd, 1850. 
 
 Young, Edward. An English divine and poet, born at Upham, 
 Hampshire, in 1684. He was educated at Oxford, and in 1727 was 
 ordained and appointed to the living of Welwyn, Hertfordshire. 
 As a poet he excels most in his Night Thotights, which abound with 
 ornate images, but are often very obscure. He wrote several other 
 works. Died in 1765.